SECRETS MOMENTS IN A CROWDED PLACE - Harry x Reader
𖤐 SUMMARY . . After years of toeing the line between friendship and something more, Harry and Reader finally confront their feelings for each other, but not without misunderstandings, jealousy, and a party that changes everything. From rooftop confessions to a passionate shift in their relationship, this is a friends-to-lovers story with all the fluff, angst, and spice you’ve been waiting for.
𖤐 WORD COUNT . . 6.0k words (I gotta stop writing, like I’m running out of time 😉)
𖤐 WARNINGS . . Friends-to-lovers tension, Emotional angst, Mild language, Oral sex (f. receiving), Rooftop smut (explicit, 18+), Light alcohol mention, One (1) useless man named Paul
𖤐 A/N . . First off, a HUGE thank you to everyone who showed love for the first fic. Y’all really had me smiling like a fool reading the comments 🥹🫶
Second of all… I might be ovulating because the way I was writing this?? Mess. And then I was scrolling and saw those Harry pics—the hair, the face, the hands?? And I said, “Yeah. You’re mine now.” 🤭 Divider Creds - @enchanthings
Night time. 6:30 pm.
“How the fuck did you manage to break your cable?” Harry grunted from beneath the TV stand.
You looked up from your phone, legs curled under you on the couch. “It wasn’t connecting, so I was trying to fix it… then it wouldn’t, and I panicked, so I called you.”
Harry slid his head out just enough to glance up at you, giving you a tired, unamused look. “Brilliant,” he muttered, and rolled his eyes before ducking back under.
You snorted and went back to your phone. Just as you were aimlessly scrolling, a message lit up your screen from Hermione:
Hermione: It’s my birthdayyy, and you’re invited to the party this Saturday! Bring a date 💋🪩🎉
You perked up instantly. “Hermione’s throwing a party,” you announced, smiling. “And she said to bring a date.”
“Mhm,” Harry mumbled, fiddling with the cables.
You paused, staring at the screen thoughtfully. “Maybe I should finally think about dating. Like… getting a boyfriend.”
THUNK.
“Ow—fuck,” Harry cursed sharply, smacking his head against the bottom of the TV stand. He scooted out, rubbing his temple and looking at you with wide eyes. “What?”
You blinked. “What?”
He blinked back. “You said—never mind.”
“Yes, I need a date. Which means,” you paused dramatically, “I need a boyfriend.”
Harry raised an eyebrow, still rubbing the spot where he hit his head. “Or… you could just go by yourself.”
You gave him a look. “I go by myself all the time. That’s exactly the problem.”
He leaned against the wall now, arms crossed, watching you too intently. “So what, you’re suddenly allergic to independence?”
You rolled your eyes. “I’m allergic to showing up alone every damn year while everyone else has arm candy and I have—” You gestured at him. “—you.”
He smirked. “Ouch.”
“No offense.”
“None taken,” he said casually, but there was something tight in his voice.
You went on, “I can’t bring you again, Harry. You always act like my bodyguard-slash-human lie detector and glare at any man who looks at me for more than two seconds.”
His smirk grew wider, cockier. “Maybe I’m just being protective.”
You snorted. “Protective of what? My single streak?”
“I just think most of those guys were losers,” he shrugged.
“Right,” you said, deadpan. “Totally coincidental that you think every single one of them was a loser.”
He didn’t say anything for a second. Just looked at you. “Maybe you just have bad taste.”
You gasped. “Wow. Rude.”
He gave a lopsided grin. “I’m just saying. Maybe you should raise your standards.”
“Right now my standards are anyone with a pulse who won’t ghost me.”
“Sounds promising,” he muttered.
You ignored him. “I’ll either go by myself and flirt my way to a date or scroll on Tinder until I find someone decent. It’s Hermione’s birthday—we’re grown now, I need to stop being the single friend who brings her roommate every year.”
He flinched. “Ouch. Roommate?”
You snickered. “You know what I mean.”
“I don’t, actually,” he said, and you didn’t notice the way his jaw clenched slightly as he turned back toward the TV. “Guess I’ll finish fixing this and then leave you to your swiping.”
You tilted your head, noticing the sudden change in his voice. “You good?”
“Peachy.”
He definitely wasn’t.
“Okay then…” you muttered, thumbing open the Tinder app again. After a few minutes of swiping left on guys holding fish and mirror selfies with sunglasses, you sighed dramatically.
“There’s no good person on here. They either fish or look like they cheat.”
Harry didn’t respond right away. He was still crouched by the TV stand, but you noticed the glitching had stopped. “That’s nice,” he mumbled, not even looking at you.
You frowned a little but didn’t push it.
“Done,” he finally announced, standing up and brushing imaginary dust off his jeans. He grabbed the remote, clicked it, and the screen lit up perfectly.
“Boom. Fixed. Don’t break it again,” he said, handing it over.
You grinned, standing to give him a hug. “You’re like my own little Bob the Builder.”
He gave a small chuckle as you snatched the remote from him and plopped back on the couch. “We could—or should—watch a movie or something,” you offered, patting the spot next to you.
But he didn’t sit.
Instead, he looked at you for a moment, something unreadable flickering in his expression; before glancing at the wall clock.
“I think I should get going.”
You blinked. “It’s… seven?”
“Yeah, I know,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just have a few things to do. I’ll see you tomorrow at the party.”
You tilted your head. “You never leave this early.”
He forced a smile. “Yeah, well. First time for everything.”
You sat there, remote in hand, still watching him.
“Alright then…” you said slowly, standing back up and walking him to the door. “You’re not mad at me or something, right?”
Harry shook his head. “No. Just tired.”
“Okay… well, thanks for fixing my TV.”
“Anytime,” he said, already stepping outside. “Night.”
And just like that, he was gone.
You stared at the door for a second, feeling that weird twist in your stomach. Something wasn’t right. But before you could really place it, your phone buzzed.
A Tinder match.
You sighed and flopped back on the couch.
You looked at the match—Paul.
“He’s cute,” you muttered to yourself, studying his profile.
He had warm brown eyes, a scruffy little beard, and a smile that looked permanently crooked, like he was always up to something.
5’8, loves dogs, horror movies, and making a mean carbonara. Fluent in sarcasm. Probably not a murderer.
You snorted, then tapped Message.
You: hi Paul: hey hey :) Paul: what’s your favorite color You: purple Paul: solid choice. I’m a forest green guy myself. dark n mysterious, y’know Paul: what about food? You: popcorn chicken or chipotle Paul: lmaoo you’re either 12 or elite no in-between You: I contain multitudes 💅
You smiled, kicking your legs a little on the couch. It had been a while since flirting felt easy. He was quick, funny, and cute. This was good.
Paul: so what’s a pretty girl like you doing on tinder? 👀
You blinked.
Before you could answer, the TV unmuted itself.
The volume wasn’t loud, but it was enough to pull you completely out of the moment. You stared at it, heartbeat skipping. That was weird… it had been off.
You reached under you and realized the remote had been sitting beneath your thigh the whole time. Still, the glitch made your mind flash back to earlier—
Harry. Crawling under your TV. His hands. His stupid little smirk when you hugged him. His mood shift when you mentioned getting a boyfriend.
Your stomach did that annoying thing again.
You shook your head. No. Stop.
You grabbed the remote and muted the TV again, then refocused on the app.
You: I need a date to my best friend’s birthday party. Paul: oh snap Paul: 👀 maybe you’d like to go with me?
Your eyebrows lifted in surprise.
You: first date at a birthday party? bold move Paul: was thinking of dinner first but hey, if you’re inviting me to a party full of strangers, who am I to say no?
You bit your lip, smiling to yourself.
You got a date.
He’s cute. He’s funny. He’s 5’8.
(He’s not 6’0 like Harry.)
You paused.
Why did that matter?
You frowned and tossed your phone on the cushion beside you.
Your mind felt too busy. Like it wouldn’t shut up.
“Whatever,” you muttered aloud, standing to go shower.
Maybe tomorrow would be better.
Maybe Paul would be good.
But that little knot in your chest?
It didn’t go anywhere.
Party time.
Harry hadn’t texted you since last night, and the silence was loud. You tried reaching out this morning, casually letting him know you’d found a date for the party. His reply? A single thumbs up.
A thumbs up.
Something was definitely off. For a man who swore communication was key, he was doing an awful job of it lately.
You sighed and pushed the thought away. Paul was picking you up soon, and you were determined to have a great time. The party started in less than an hour—you just needed to finish getting ready. You’d debated wearing jeans and a corset top, something flirty but casual… but your hands kept drifting to the red dress hanging by your closet door.
You didn’t overthink it. Not too much, anyway.
Your makeup was done—warm tones, nothing too heavy. A few swipes of mascara. Lip gloss. A little blush across your nose because why not. You spritzed your perfume—his favorite, but whatever and took one last look in the mirror.
Ding.
You grabbed your bag, assuming it was Paul waiting outside, but froze when you saw the name on your screen.
Harry.
“Hey, sorry for not texting. Happy you got a date. Hermione wanted to know what color you’re wearing for your flower crown.”
Your heart stalled.
Why was your heart stalling?
You stared at the message longer than necessary, then quickly typed back: “Oh um, it’s okay. I’m wearing red.”
He started typing.
Stopped.
Then sent another thumbs up.
You blinked down at your screen, heart sinking. Harry liked red on you. Always did. He was the one who told you to buy that red sweater in winter, the one who said the color “did something insane to your skin tone,” whatever that meant.
You shook your head.
No. It’s just a color. It’s what you had clean. It didn’t mean anything.
The sound of a car horn snapped you out of it. You moved toward the door, peeking out the peephole—Paul.
He was real. And not an old man catfish like your worst fear suggested. You let out a tiny breath of relief, grabbed your keys, bag, and coat, and headed outside, locking the door behind you.
You stepped outside, tugging your coat tighter as the early evening breeze caught the hem of your dress. Paul leaned out the window of his car and waved with that same crooked grin from his profile.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he called, unlocking the doors.
You smiled, grateful for something normal. “Hey yourself.”
Sliding into the passenger seat, you smoothed the skirt of your red dress over your thighs. Not too short, not too formal. Soft satin, a little off-shoulder.
“Wow,” Paul said as he gave you a once-over. “Red suits you.”
You forced a small laugh. “Thanks. It’s the only thing clean.”
“Liar,” he smirked, pulling onto the road.
The ride was fine. Paul talked—about a dumb horror movie he watched last night, about his job at the bike shop, about how this was his first time crashing someone else’s friend party. He was easy to talk to, in that way people are when you don’t know them well enough to be hurt by them.
You arrived at Hermione’s house just after seven. Fairy lights blinked around the porch, music thumped inside, and a few people were already out front with red solo cups. You spotted a girl in a sunflower dress waving at someone, and another with glitter on her cheeks walking barefoot through the grass.
“I feel underdressed,” Paul joked, eyeing the casual chaos.
“No such thing. She said ‘vibes,’ not ‘theme.’”
You stepped out of the car, tugging your dress down as the breeze threatened to introduce your thighs to the universe. Paul offered his hand. You hesitated—but took it.
Inside was warmer. Louder. Lavender-scented candles competed with the smell of pizza and perfume. You spotted Ron handing out shots in the kitchen. Hermione was laughing in the living room, a flower crown already tangled in her curls.
She ran up when she saw you, arms open. “You’re here!! And you look so good—oh my god!! I made your crown already!”
You hugged her, feeling that familiar comfort only best friends can give.
“Hey, happy birthday, ‘Mione. This is Paul.”
Paul gave a wave. “Hey. I’ve heard nothing but great things.”
Hermione blinked. “Who…?”
“Long story,” you whispered, smiling.
Then, you felt it. That slow prickle down your spine. That feeling of being watched. Your head turned on instinct.
And there he was.
Harry. By the drink table, dressed in his usual black button-up and dark jeans, sleeves rolled up. A little gold chain at his throat. He had a drink in his hand but wasn’t sipping it. He was looking right at you.
And not at you. At Paul.
Your stomach twisted.
Paul leaned into your ear, “Is that… him?”
You nodded, too quickly. “Yeah.”
“He doesn’t look thrilled.”
You forced a smile. “He’s just dramatic.”
You turned back to Hermione. “I’ll grab a drink and meet you in a sec?”
She nodded, clearly picking up on the tension but not pushing it.
Paul wandered off toward the snacks.
You made a beeline for the drinks—but Harry beat you to it.
“Hey,” he said, voice calm, eyes unreadable.
“Hey,” you echoed, grabbing a plastic cup and pretending you weren’t flustered.
“You look nice,” he said, like he meant it. Like it hurt him to say it.
“Thanks. So do you.”
He looked over your shoulder briefly, then back to you. “So… Tinder worked fast, huh?”
You froze.
“Harry—”
“I’m just saying. You found a whole date overnight. Efficient.”
You blinked. “Why are you acting like this?”
“Like what?” he said, casually sipping from his cup. “I’m being supportive. Gave a thumbs up and everything.”
“That thumbs up felt like a middle finger.”
He shrugged. “Sorry. I must’ve hit the wrong emoji.”
You stared at him, jaw tight. “You know, if you have something to say, you could just say it.”
He looked down at his cup. “You wouldn’t like what I have to say.”
“Try me.”
His eyes lifted back to yours, and for a second—just a split second—it looked like he might. Like everything was going to spill out right here, between the tequila bottles and the tacky flower garlands.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he just said, “Your crown’s on the table,” and walked away.
You stood there and sighed, smoothing down the fabric of your dress. The music was loud, people were laughing, the lights were dimmed and golden—but your nerves were annoyingly sharp.
“Hey, gorgeous.”
You turned, and there was Paul, smiling with a little bag of chips and a cup of punch in his hands. He handed you the chips with a dramatic bow.
“I figured a queen deserves a snack.”
You laughed, “Wow, chivalry isn’t dead after all.”
You and Paul chatted for a while, bouncing between dumb party games, his disastrous last Tinder date, and whether pineapple belonged on pizza. He was easy to talk to, funny in a dorky way. You felt calm, even happy.
But the whole time, you felt it, that unmistakable sensation of eyes on you.
You knew exactly who it was.
You didn’t look. Didn’t give him the satisfaction. You focused on Paul. Smiled at his jokes. Nodded when he leaned in a little too close. Pretended you didn’t feel the heat of that stare burning through you like a damn laser beam.
“Hi Paul,” came a familiar voice.
Hermione.
She slid into the conversation effortlessly, wearing a sparkly pink two-piece and a smile that could shatter diamonds. “Lovely name, by the way. Mind if I steal my friend for just a sec?”
Paul smiled politely. “Yeah, of course. See you on the dance floor, gorgeous.”
You giggled despite yourself, nodding at him before letting Hermione grab your wrist and tug you toward the gift table in the corner.
“You look fucking gorgeous,” she said, stopping in front of the glittering display of presents and cupcakes.
You smiled, “So do you, birthday girl.”
“No, like seriously. Do a little spin for me,” she said, twirling her finger like she meant business.
You twirled once, the hem of your red dress flaring slightly as you both giggled like middle schoolers at prom.
“Damn,” she muttered, grabbing your arm again. “That man’s gonna lose his mind.”
You frowned. “What man?”
“Paul?” came a voice from behind you.
You froze.
You turned slowly, already feeling the heat creep up your neck.
Harry stood there, casually holding two drinks like he hadn’t just materialized out of nowhere and dropped a bomb on your chest.
“The one you brought as your date,” he said, nodding toward Paul across the room.
Your heart thudded.
“Oh,” you managed, a little too quickly. “Right. Yeah. I mean—of course. He’s my date.”
Harry’s gaze was unreadable. Calm, cool, frustratingly neutral. His curls were messier than usual, a thin chain peeking out from the collar of his black button-down. He looked like trouble. Like secrets. Like late-night conversations you weren’t ready to unpack.
“Here,” he said, holding out one of the drinks. “Hermione said you like these. Sparkling apple with a splash of cranberry.”
You took it before you could say no. “Thanks…”
“Thought I’d try being the nice friend today,” he added lightly, but there was something sharp under his words. Almost teasing. Almost not.
Hermione raised her brows slightly, then cleared her throat. “I’m gonna…go make sure no one’s lighting sparklers inside again.”
She disappeared without another word, leaving you alone with him.
You took a sip of the drink, mostly to avoid having to look at him for a second too long. He didn’t move.
“So…” you said finally. “Nice party, huh?”
“Yeah,” Harry replied, eyes flicking over your dress just for a second before he looked away. “Red suits you.”
You swallowed. Hard.
You should’ve changed.
“Well, your date’s flirting with another woman,” Harry said, his tone flat.
Your stomach twisted as you followed his gaze across the room. Sure enough, Paul was at the drinks table, leaned in close to some pretty girl in a low-cut dress, both of them giggling. You watched as he touched her arm lightly—then disappeared with her toward the hallway.
“What the fuck…” you muttered, your throat tightening. You blinked hard, anger and embarrassment bubbling under your skin. Paul, really? He couldn’t just be decent for one night?
Harry didn’t even look at him. He leaned casually against the gift table, sipping from his drink like this wasn’t a bomb he just dropped. “Maybe I should’ve picked your date for you.”
You snapped. Not loud. Not dramatic. But sharp.
“Oh, fuck off, Harry,” you said, finally turning to face him fully. “You’ve been acting like a fucking child since yesterday, and I still don’t know what the hell is wrong with you.”
He straightened a bit, surprised by the shift in your voice.
“Nothing’s wrong with me,” he said tightly.
“You’re such a fucking liar,” you scoffed. “You fixed my TV, then ghosted me all day. No texts, no calls, no snarky morning meme…nothing. I had to text you. Do you not want to be my friend anymore or something?”
He took a deep breath, chest rising slow. His eyes were on yours now. No smile. No smirk. Just that look—the one he gets when he’s about to say something irreversible.
“Yes,” he said.
Your heart stopped.
“What?” you whispered.
“I don’t want to be your friend anymore.”
The words were quiet, but they hit like a slap.
You blinked, stunned. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I can’t do this—be your best friend and watch you go on dates with guys like him, or flirt with strangers in front of me, or pretend like I don’t—”
He cut himself off.
You stared. “Like you don’t what?”
He looked away, shaking his head like the words were trying to escape on their own.
“Harry,” you said, voice low. “Say it.”
He looked at you, just for a second, then over your shoulder at the wall like it suddenly held all the answers.
His eyes flicked away again, and his shoulders slumped.
“You wouldn’t understand,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Didn’t mean all that. I think I’m just going through some… mood swings or something.”
Before you could say anything, he set his drink down on the table with a quiet clink and turned away.
“Harry—”
But he was already walking off, disappearing out the front door without a glance back.
You stood there in stunned silence, chest burning.
What the actual fuck is wrong with this man?
Your date ditched you for another girl. Your best friend just told you he didn’t want to be your friend—and then acted like it never happened. And you were standing at a party alone, spinning in the wreckage of it all.
You swallowed a lump in your throat, blinking fast, but it was no use. The tears were coming. You felt the pressure build until your chest ached.
Grabbing your bag, you turned and walked away—pushing past guests, music, and laughter like it was all happening in a different world. You climbed the narrow stairs to the rooftop, your only refuge.
The sky greeted you like a quiet friend—dark, speckled with stars. It should’ve made you feel better.
It didn’t.
You tossed your bag onto a cushioned lounge chair, kicked off your shoes, and plopped down hard. The tears broke loose, fast and hot. Your face was already wet before you could stop them, your breath catching on each sob.
“Stupid,” you whispered. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”
You curled into yourself, hands fisting the edge of the cushion, heart raw.
Then—shuffling.
You froze.
The rooftop was supposed to be empty. You wiped at your eyes, trying to blink through the blurry streaks.
A figure stepped closer, and you couldn’t quite see—until he spoke.
“I left to get some snacks for one second,” Harry’s voice said softly, “and you were gone.”
You sniffled. “What do you want, Harry.”
He didn’t say anything at first. You heard the sound of napkins rustling—then felt the cushion dip slightly under his weight.
“I just…” he let out a sigh, kneeling down in front of you. “Look at me.”
You didn’t want to.
But you did.
And the moment your eyes met his, his whole face softened—his brows knitting, his jaw twitching like he hated seeing you like this.
He reached up with the napkins and gently patted your tear-streaked cheeks, slow and careful.
You hated that it felt so good.
“You didn’t deserve tonight,” he murmured. “None of it.”
You laughed bitterly. “Yeah, no shit.”
“I mean it.”
You stared at him, blinking as more tears welled up despite yourself. “You said you didn’t want to be my friend anymore.”
He hesitated. Then, barely above a whisper: “I lied.”
You exhaled sharply, a small sob hitching in your throat. “You’re so fucking confusing, Harry.”
“I know.”
“Why’d you say it?”
He dropped his eyes for a second before looking back up at you, like he was tired of hiding. “Because being just your friend hurts.”
The air between you shifted again—like it was heavy with everything unspoken.
You let the silence stretch.
“Then what are we?” you finally asked, voice cracking.
He reached out slowly, brushing his thumb beneath your eye to catch another tear. “But I know I can’t be your friend anymore.”
You blinked at him. “If we’re not friends… do you hate me?”
He let out a quiet chuckle. “I could never hate you. Quite the opposite, actually.”
You stared at him, eyes narrowing just a bit as the puzzle started coming together. The staring. The attitude. The sudden distance. The heartbreak in his voice. And then—
“You… you like me,” you said, confused, the words barely above a whisper.
Harry looked at you for a long second, his face unreadable.
“I don’t like you,” he said.
The breath you were holding dropped from your chest, and for a moment, you thought—thank goodness. Until—
“I love you.”
The words landed like a sucker punch. He got up slowly, walking toward the edge of the rooftop, where the stone barrier overlooked the street below. He leaned his hands against it, head tilted back toward the sky. The moonlight painted him silver and soft.
“I love you a lot, actually,” he continued, voice low and steady. “I love your smile. Your voice. Your Chipotle obsession. The way you sing in the car, even when you’re offbeat as hell. I love the color red on you. I love how you rub your necklace when you’re nervous. And how you play with your fingers when you’re lying.”
Your breath hitched.
“I love the way you always say you’re fine when you’re absolutely not. And the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention. You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to say this. But I can’t just be your friend anymore. Not when I feel like this.”
You sat there frozen, the breeze sweeping your curls across your face, heart racing so loud it drowned out the city noise below. You didn’t know what to say. Your body hadn’t caught up to your mind yet. Harry. Potter. Loves. You.
You didn’t know what to say. Or what to do. You just stared at him, lips parted, heart thudding like a war drum in your chest. The air felt heavier now, like it was holding its breath right alongside you.
Harry turned to face you slowly, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “It’s okay if you don’t—”
“No. Stop it.” The words left your mouth sharp and fast. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
He blinked, confused. You stepped forward, your voice soft but shaking with the force of everything you hadn’t said until now.
“I’m sorry I never realized. I liked you too, Harry. I liked you so much, but you were always so serious—so hard to read. I couldn’t tell. I didn’t want to ruin what we had, so I said nothing. I should’ve known. I should’ve done something.”
You were standing now, barefoot on the rooftop, walking toward him with each word. The breeze danced around you, catching the hem of your dress, the streetlights below casting golden shadows.
He looked at you like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You do?” he asked.
“I do,” you said, nodding once. “I don’t show it because you never showed it. But I do love you. So much. You make me feel like the happiest girl on earth, even when you’re just existing in the same room as me—”
You didn’t get to finish.
Harry stepped forward in a rush and grabbed your waist, pulling you into him, his hands warm and certain, and kissed you.
His lips crashed into yours with the urgency of someone who had waited years. It wasn’t soft or tentative, it was messy and real and overflowing with everything he had held back.
You kissed him back with just as much force, your hands sliding up into his hair, his fingers digging into your waist like he was afraid to let go.
The kiss slowed after a moment, turning tender. He pulled back just a little, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he whispered, his thumb brushing your cheek again, softer this time.
You smiled, breathless, dazed. “Then do it again.”
You weren’t sure who leaned in first this time. Maybe it was both of you, pulled together like magnets after years of pretending you weren’t completely drawn to each other.
His lips were back on yours, slower now, deeper, like he wanted to memorize the shape of your mouth. His hands gripped your waist again, pulling you impossibly closer, until there was no space left between you.
You gasped a little when his mouth trailed from your lips to your jaw, then lower—his breath hot against your neck. “Harry,” you whispered, barely recognizing your own voice.
He hummed, a sound that vibrated against your skin. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmured, his hand gently running down your spine.
You shook your head. “Don’t stop.”
That was all it took.
He kissed you again, more urgently this time, walking you backwards until the back of your knees hit the lounge chair. You sank into it, your fingers tugging him down with you. He didn’t hesitate—settling between your legs, his mouth never leaving yours, like he was starved for this. For you.
“Been thinking about this,” he muttered between kisses, his voice thick. “For so long.”
You couldn’t even speak. Your mind was all heat and motion and him. His hands roamed your sides, slow at first, testing, then with more confidence as you arched into his touch. Every brush of his fingers sent sparks racing under your skin.
He pulled back just slightly, looking down at you eyes dark, pupils blown wide. “Are you sure?” he asked, breathing heavy. “Because if we do this… it’s not casual. Not for me.”
You reached up, cupping his cheek. “I don’t want casual, Harry. I want you.”
His eyes dropped to your lips, then down further—to the way your dress clung to your curves in the soft rooftop light. His voice came out low, almost like a growl. “You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to rip this fucking dress off you.”
You giggled, heat rising to your cheeks. “It was either red or purple.”
He smirked, brushing his fingers lightly down your arm. “Red does something to me when it’s on you.”
Before you could reply, his lips were on yours again—hot, claiming. His hand slid down your back, fingers finding the zipper of your dress. He moved slowly, deliberately, tugging it down inch by inch while his mouth never left yours. The soft sound of the zipper felt loud in your ears, your heart beating faster with every second.
As the fabric loosened around your shoulders, you shivered, not from the cool air, but from his touch. His hands were steady, reverent, like he’d been dreaming of this moment for years and wasn’t about to rush a second of it.
He pulled back just enough to slip the straps off your shoulders, the dress falling down your body like water. His breath hitched when you stood there in nothing but your underwear and bra, chest rising and falling, cheeks flushed under the moonlight.
“Fuck,” he whispered, eyes raking over every inch of you. “You’re unreal.”
You suddenly felt shy under his gaze, arms instinctively crossing over your chest, but he stepped forward and gently pulled your hands away. “Don’t hide from me. Not tonight.”
Your lips parted to say something, but he was already kissing you again—this time slower, deeper, like he was trying to memorize how you tasted. He lowered you back onto the lounge chair, his body pressed against yours, warm and solid.
His hands explored your body like he’d been waiting for permission, like he was finally allowed to touch where he always wanted but never dared. He kissed your collarbone, your shoulders, the swell of your chest, his mouth painting a trail of fire down your skin.
You gasped when he dropped to his knees in front of you, eyes never leaving yours as he pressed a kiss to your stomach, then another just below your navel. He hooked his fingers into the fabric at your hips, pausing—waiting for any sign you didn’t want this.
But you didn’t stop him. You couldn’t.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, like it hurt to say it out loud. Like he’d been holding it in for too long.
He leaned in slowly, kissing the inside of your thigh, then the other, drawing a shaky breath from your lips. You grabbed the edge of the lounge chair behind you for balance, heart racing as he nudged your legs apart and settled between them.
The first brush of his tongue was soft. Careful. Testing. Your breath hitched, eyes fluttering shut. But then he did it again, with more pressure, more purpose, and you let out a soft, broken sound you didn’t know you could make.
Harry groaned against you like the taste of you was something he’d craved for years. His hands slid up your thighs, gripping your hips gently but firmly, keeping you steady as he worked—slow at first, letting you feel every flick, every swirl, every kiss he gave you there.
It wasn’t just lust. It was worship.
He paid attention to every gasp, every shift of your hips, learning what made you tremble, what made you whisper his name like a prayer. When you reached down, fingers tangling in his hair, he moaned again, like he was the one unraveling.
“You’re doing so good, baby,” he murmured between kisses, lips slick and voice wrecked. “You taste so fucking sweet.”
Your knees nearly gave out. He pulled you closer, mouth greedy now, devouring you like he couldn’t get enough—like he never would. Stars spun in your vision, and you could feel your release building fast, overwhelming and warm and all-consuming.
“Harry,” you gasped, your voice high and desperate.
He only hummed in response, sucking gently, just right, and your whole body seized with pleasure. You came with a cry, clinging to him, breath shattered, vision blurred. He held you through it, slow and tender, kissing your thighs as you came down, whispering something soft you couldn’t make out over the pounding of your heart.
When you finally opened your eyes, he was looking up at you with a crooked, dazed smile, like you’d just made his entire world spin.
“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “And I’d do it a hundred times over, if you’ll let me.”
You pulled him up and kissed him like your life depended on it.
Because maybe, in a way, it did.
His head dropped to your neck, lips pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your skin like he couldn’t stop touching you just yet—like he needed this part too, the quiet after. You sighed, fingers combing gently through his messy hair.
Ding.
You both flinched. Your phone lit up with a notification on the table behind you.
Harry turned his head just enough to glance at the screen, already knowing.
Paul.
He groaned, dramatically loud this time, flopping back on the lounge chair like the mere mention of that man physically pained him. “He sucks,” he grumbled, dragging a hand over his face.
You let out a breathless laugh, still catching your bearings. “He wasn’t even my real date,” you said, rolling your eyes. “Just filler. Should’ve brought you instead.”
Harry looked at you then, really looked. “You can’t say shit like that unless you mean it.”
“I do mean it.” You smiled, leaning over him, fingers tracing lazy shapes across his bare chest. “You were the only person I wanted to bring.”
His lips quirked into that familiar smirk, the one that always made your stomach flip. “Guess I’ll be your date to everything now. Family weddings, dentist appointments, midnight Taco Bell runs—locked in.”
You laughed again, then sighed, quietly. “So… what are we now?”
He sat up slightly, cupping your cheek and brushing his thumb across your jaw. “We’re whatever you want us to be.”
Your heart squeezed.
“Are we… boyfriend and girlfriend now?” you asked softly, searching his face.
Harry leaned in, kissed you slow and sweet, lips still tasting like the night you just shared. Then he pulled back just enough to whisper, “We’re whatever you want to be.”
He reached down, found your dress on the ground, and zipped it back up for you with slow, careful fingers. When he finished, he kissed your shoulder.
You smiled, heart full.
And under the stars, on that quiet rooftop, you knew there was no turning back.
Not with Harry.
Not anymore.
