“Surrender Donald” – Gay activists rally outside Trump Tower in New York, protesting the city’s tax breaks for luxury real estate developers while thousands of people with AIDS sleep in the streets. Oct. 31, 1989
from an irritated "oh, fuck!" to a confident "fuck it", your entire relationship with John Logan can be mapped out in seven specific exclamations of his favorite four-letter word.
word count : 6.1k (sorry) — enemies to lovers, kind of — logan is moody — SMUT, minors DNI — Enjoy and please tell me what you think !
One — "Oh, fuck!"
The music wasn’t just loud; it was vibrating through the old floorboards and thumping directly against your ribs. You’d only been there for twenty minutes, entirely dragged along by Hannah, who was currently tucked under Garrett’s arm near the doorway. Watching them was sweet—almost nauseatingly so—but it left you feeling like a ghost drifting through a sea of oversized jerseys, loud hockey players, and the thick scent of cheap beer. For the most part, the rest of the boys were incredibly welcoming; even though you'd just met them tonight, they were already loud, inherently kind and easy to be around.
Except for John Logan.
You hadn’t actually been introduced to him yet, but you’d felt his suffocating vibe the moment he walked through the door. He looked like absolute thunder. Briar had dropped a frustrating, tight game that evening, and while Garrett was channeling his nervous energy into playing the charismatic host, Logan was wearing his irritation like armor. Leaning against the kitchen counter with a dark scowl that practically screamed at people to stay away, his knuckles were white around his glass, his eyes scanning the room as if looking for a reason to snap.
Navigating that crowded, chaotic kitchen with a brim-filled, sticky mixed drink was your first mistake. Your second was catching the rubber toe of your sneaker on the lifting edge of a rogue anti-fatigue mat near the sink.
You stumbled forward, your arms flailing wildly in a desperate, ungraceful bid for balance. You didn’t fall, but your cup did a violent, mid-air flip, slipping from your fingers. A torrential wave of sticky, dark rum and cola splashed directly across the pristine gray fabric of Logan’s Henley shirt, soaking through the chest, darkening the material instantly and dripping down the front of his dark jeans.
Logan froze. His head snapped down slowly, looking at the huge, dark stain spreading across his clothes, and then his gaze lifted to yours. His eyes were blazing, a dangerous brown, entirely unamused and dripping with venom. "Oh, fuck!" he snapped, his voice cutting right through the ambient noise like a knife. He pulled the wet, heavy fabric away from his skin with two fingers, a look of pure annoyance twisting his features. "Are you serious right now? Watch where the hell you're going."
The sheer aggression in his tone caught you completely off guard, instantly sparking your own deeply ingrained, stubborn nature. You had been about to apologize profusely, the words of remorse already forming on your tongue, but the bite in his words choked them right out of your throat. You squared your shoulders, refusing to back down under his glare. "It was an accident," you retorted, pulling a few crumpled, napkins from the counter and shoving them toward his chest. "You don't have to be a complete dick about it. It’s just a shirt, I'm pretty sure you'll survive."
"It's a wet, sticky shirt at the end of a terrible, exhausting fucking day," he growled, his voice dropping an octave as he batted your hand away with a harsh flick of his wrist. He didn't take the napkins; they fluttered uselessly to the floor. Instead, he leaned down slightly, giving you a long, icy glare that made you feel about two inches tall, his jaw clenching so hard you could see the muscle tick. "Next time, look up from your feet." Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and storming down the hallway toward the stairs, muttering curses under his breath.
You stood there rooted to the spot, your cheeks burning with a toxic mixture of intense embarrassment and sudden, deep-seated dislike. Garrett materialized at your side a split second later, a sympathetic, slightly apologetic grimace on his face as he patted your shoulder gently. "Hey, don't sweat it," Garrett reassured you quietly, glancing warily toward the stairs where Logan had disappeared. "Logan’s just in a brutal mood because of the game, and he hates losing more than anyone. He's usually a great guy, I swear. He’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow morning."
You forced a tight, fake smile and nodded, but as you looked down at your empty, sticky hands, a bitter taste lingered in your mouth. Spoiler alert: he wouldn't forget. and neither would you.
Two — "Fuck you"
A few weeks later, the initial friction hadn’t dissolved; it had hardened into a permanent, icy chill. You tried your best to play nice for the sake of Hannah and Allie, but Logan made it incredibly difficult. You saw how he was with the rest of their circle—fiercely loyal, easygoing, and warm. He was the kind of guy who quietly made sure Allie and Hannah got home safe from their late shifts and spent his free afternoons helping Jules with media stuff. He was patient with the entire world. But the exact millisecond you walked into a room, his posture stiffened and his jaw set. You hated being the sole exception to his good nature, so you simply stayed out of his way.
The breaking point came on a gray, rainy Tuesday afternoon. You and Hannah had walked over to the hockey house to help Tucker untangle a massive, soul-crushing history assignment he was drowning in. The three of you were spread across the dining table, surrounded by a chaotic mess of highlighters, laptop cords, and heavy library textbooks.
The back door clicked open, and Logan walked in. He was wearing his Briar athletic gear, a damp towel slung over his shoulders from a post-practice shower, his hair messy and wet. He looked exhausted, his shoulders tense, carrying the unmistakable hangover of a brutal morning practice. Instead of walking past to the kitchen, he paused by the table, leaning over Tucker’s shoulder to scan the open pages. He let out a heavy, deliberate sigh. "You’re using the wrong primary sources for that era, Tuck," Logan said, his voice dropping into that effortless, uninvited authority. "You need the economic logs from the eastern front, not these political manifestos. You’re going to tank your thesis statement with those."
Tucker blinked up, looking miserable. "Wait, really? I thought—"
"We checked those, Logan," you interrupted, keeping your voice level and calm as you kept your eyes on your notebook. "We've got it handled," you smiled, trying to remain polite.
Logan didn't move. His eyes slid slowly down to the side of your face, unamused. "Right. Because you're an expert on 20th-century economic trade?"
"No," you said, your pen pausing on the page. "But I can read a syllabus. If you're so worried about Tucker's academic results, you could have sat down and helped him yourself already."
Logan’s jaw tightened, a sharp spike of tension instantly replacing his usual easygoing demeanor. He took his hands out of his pockets and leaned forward, bracing his palms on the edge of the table, firmly invading your space. Tucker shot Hannah a wide-eyed, panicked look across the textbooks, both of them suddenly bracing for impact.
"I gave him my old notes weeks ago," Logan shot back, his voice dropping into something smaller, tighter. "But sure, ignore the guy who actually passed the class because you're too stubborn to take a note from me."
"I'm not being stubborn, you're just being a patronizing prick," you retorted, leaning back in your chair. "You’ve been hovering over this table for five minutes just looking for a problem because you had a bad day and want to take it out on someone."
Logan let out a harsh, dry laugh, though there was a flicker of genuine frustration in his eyes—the look of a good guy who couldn't understand why he kept letting you bait him. "Take it out on someone? Trust me, if I wanted to take anything out on someone, I wouldn't waste my time on you. I'm trying to keep my friend from bombing a midterm because he made the mistake of letting you organize his thoughts."
"My thoughts are perfectly fine, Logan," Tucker muttered quietly under his breath, his eyes glued to his laptop screen, desperately trying to dissolve into the background.
"They're fine when you're left alone, Tuck," Logan said, keeping his eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring his teammate's plea. "Not when you're letting someone drag their own contrarian agenda into your coursework."
"A contrarian agenda?" You stood up, your chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. Hannah flinched at the sharp noise, withdrawing her hands from the table and motioning for Tucker to leave the potential future crime scene. They both complied quickly, knowing you both well enough to understand that trying to reason with you in that moment would be pointless. "Are you actually insane? I'm sorry that anyone else having a brain in this house threatens your need to micromanage every single thing that happens under this roof."
"It doesn't threaten me at all," Logan said, standing up straight and towering over you, using his height to crowd your space until his shadow completely blocked out the light from the window. The sheer, uncharacteristic anger rolling off him was suffocating; Tucker actually slid his chair back a few inches, completely done with trying to intervene at this point. "It annoys me. You annoy me, actually. I'm not going to walk on eggshells in my own dining room because you can't handle a basic correction."
"I can handle a correction if it's respectful," you shot back, your heart hammering against your ribs, but you refused to take a step away from him. "You don't want to help Tucker. You just want to feel like the smartest guy in the room and that is annoying."
"I dont—," Logan started, a nervous scoff escaping his lips. "You don't know anything about me. Please let's keep it this way, since you clearly can't stand me anyway."
"You're the one who treats me like an absolute inconvenience the second I breathe in your direction!" you yelled, the weeks of being ignored, brushed off, and glared at finally boiling over into raw, unadulterated anger. "If you hate me being here so much, just say it. But stop acting like I'm the one bringing the venom into this house when you're the one dripping it."
The air between you turned completely volatile, thick enough to choke on. A strange, angry electricity snapped between you, the argument completely detached from history or homework now, exposed and raw. Logan stared down at you, his breathing heavy and uneven as he tried to swallow down the sheer frustration rolling off him in waves. He leaned down slightly, bringing his face inches from yours, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle violently ticked in his cheek.
"Fuck you," he whispered.
The words hit with a cold, deliberate weight that vibrated in the dead-silent room. Before you could fire back, Tucker's voice boomed from the kitchen archway, stern and completely done with both of you. "Enough! Both of you, cut it the hell out."
But the damage was done. The look in Logan's eyes made something tight and painful twist in your chest. You refused to sit there and breathe the same air as him for another second. Blindly turning around, you grabbed your laptop and notebook, shoving them into your backpack with rigid, uncooperative hands.
"I'm leaving," you muttered, keeping your eyes glued firmly to the floor as you pushed past Hannah’s reaching hand on the way out. You grabbed your jacket from the hook and left through the front door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the frame, stepping out into the pouring, cold rain with the echo of his voice looping in your head like a curse.
Three — "Fuck off"
For the next month, you became an absolute expert at avoiding John Logan. You turned it into an art form. If he was at a crowded house party, you stayed firmly in the kitchen or on the opposite porch. If the entire group gathered at Malone's, you ensured you sat on the exact opposite end of the long table, hidden behind Dean's loud gestures.
Because of this, you never saw the way his eyes silently followed you when you entered a room, or the almost guilty look that crossed his face whenever your name came up in conversation. He knew he'd crossed a line by cursing at you like that—but your unbreakable silence gave him absolutely no room to apologize, and his own stubborn pride kept him from forcing the issue.
There were small signs of his guilt, though. One random Thursday afternoon, he showed up at the place you shared with Hannah and Allie, claiming he was just dropping off a spare hockey hoodie Garrett had left in his truck. You had stayed in your room with the door cracked just an inch, watching through the tiny gap as he lingered by the entrance, his eyes constantly drifting toward your door, silently checking to see if you'd come out. You hadn't moved an inch, holding your breath until he finally left.
Eventually, Hannah and Allie staged a full-blown intervention. A brand-new club had opened downtown, and they absolutely refused to let you stay home and rot in your room, even though they openly admitted the boys were all coming along. You finally relented, numbing your spiking anxiety by pouring yourself two heavy pre-game vodka crans before leaving the house.
The club was a massive sensory overload—flashing neon lights, artificial fog, and heavy, chest-thumping bass that made communication impossible. By midnight, everyone was comfortably, heavily drunk. You were leaning your back against the sticky mahogany bar, sipping a gin and tonic, when you finally caught sight of him through the pulsing crowd.
Logan was laughing at something Beau said, a dark red bandana tied tightly around his messy hair, looking effortlessly, devastatingly handsome in a black fitted t-shirt. As if sensing the weight of your gaze, his head turned. His dark eyes locked directly onto yours across the smoky crowded room. He didn’t look away. He held your stare for a second, then two, then three — a strange, intense, unreadable heat settling over his features before a group of dancers blocked your view.
A few minutes later, a guy from one of the campus fraternities slithered up next to you on the edge of the dance floor. He was loud, sweaty, and smelled entirely too much like cheap cologne and whiskey — but a little bit of dancing could help taking your mind off of a certain hockey player, you thought. You enjoyed it at first, moving along, focusing on the music, the stranger getting closer and closer as the playlist progressed. But then, just as you started to feel good - just the right amount of alcohol in your veins to feel lighter and relaxed - he tried to grind his hips against yours. You tried to step back, laughing it off politely at first, pushing his hands away, but he didn't take the hint. His hands came down on your waist, his fingers digging into your hips, pulling you flush against him with a grip that was far too tight and aggressive.
Before you could even raise your hands to shove his chest, a massive shadow loomed over both of you.
A now familiar hand gripped the frat guy’s shoulder, spinning him around with enough force to make his sneakers squeak on the floor.
"Fuck off," Logan snarled, his voice a low, lethal vibration that cut right through the heavy bass of the music. He leaned in until he was nose-to-nose with the guy. "Get your fucking hands off her and fuck off right now."
The guy looked at Logan and wisely raised his hands in surrender, backing away rapidly into the foggy crowd without throwing a single punch.
Logan’s breathing was heavy, his chest heaving, his fists still clenched tightly at his sides as his eyes scanned the immediate area like a wild animal looking for another threat. He looked ready to tear the entire club apart with his bare hands. Anxious that he might actually chase the guy down for a fight, you stepped directly into his line of sight, capturing his attention.
"Logan," you breathed, your voice soft and entirely stripped of its usual sarcasm. Without thinking about the consequences, you reached out, your bare fingers wrapping around his forearm.
The exact millisecond your skin met the warm, rock-hard muscle of his arm, Logan froze entirely. It was the first time the two of you had ever willingly, gently touched, and the effect was instantaneous. The blinding anger seemed to drain out of him in a single breath, replaced by a sudden, sharp intake of air. He looked down at your small hand resting on his arm, his skin tingling where you touched him, and then he slowly, deliberately lifted his gaze to your eyes.
The noisy club, the flashing strobe lights, the roaring bass, the alcohol—it all faded into irrelevant background noise. You stood face-to-face on the crowded dance floor, completely motionless, just looking into each other's eyes. Your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, not from fear of the frat guy, but from a sudden, dizzying, terrifying realization. Looking into his wide, intensely focused eyes, you realized you didn't hate him. Not even close. And from the soft, almost vulnerable parting of his lips, he didn't hate you either. You weren't close to being friends yet, but the ice had officially shattered into a million pieces.
Four — "What the fuck"
The shift between you was subtle, but it was absolutely undeniable. The sharp hostility was gone, completely replaced by a quiet, lingering, heavy awareness that neither of you knew quite what to do with.
A week later, you were sitting in a sunlit corner booth at Malone’s. You were completely, entirely absorbed in a brutal, multi-chapter study session for your finals, a pair of heavy over-ear headphones clamped securely over your ears. The sweet, nostalgic melody of American Pie was playing through the speakers, and without even realizing it, you were softly humming along to the chorus, tapping the cap of your yellow highlighter rhythmically against the open pages of your textbook.
You were so deeply focused on your notes that you didn't hear the diner's front door chime, nor did you see Logan walk in. He was there to finalize the last-minute details for the upcoming Hockey Fundraiser with Hannah and Della. But the exact moment his eyes scanned the room and spotted you sitting alone in the corner booth, he stopped dead in his tracks.
He didn’t approach right away. He just stood near the counter, watching you. A soft, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he listened to your faint, slightly off-key humming.
Prickled by the sudden, distinct sensation of eyes on you, you blinked and lifted your head from your textbook. Logan instantly wiped the smile from his face, clearing his throat roughly and pretending to read a missing cat flyer on the bulletin board.
You pulled your headphones down, a small smirk playing on your lips. "You know, if you stare any harder, you're going to burn a hole right through my skull, Logan."
Instead of snapping back with a sarcastic, biting retort like he used to, Logan let out a soft chuckle. He walked over to your booth and, to your surprise, slid into the bench by your side, his knee almost touching yours.
"Just making sure you weren't torturing the rest of the innocent customers with your singing," he teased gently, his shoulder brushing against yours in the tight space.
You rolled your eyes, but there was no spite left in your expression. "I happen to have the voice of a literal angel, thank you very much. You're just jealous."
The playful banter slowly subsided into a comfortable silence. Logan looked at you, his expression turning a little more serious, his eyes softening as his voice dropped to a much quieter register. "Hey… are you doing okay?" Since what happened the other night, obviously implied by the way he looked at you right now, concern written all over his face.
You felt a warm flush creep up your neck and settle into your cheeks. "I'm okay, thank you" you smiled and he nodded, both silently agreeing not to discuss this unpleasant event anymore. You paused, looking down at his large hands resting on the table before forcing yourself to look back up. "How are you doing ? With the fundraiser and everything, I mean. You look like you haven't slept in a week."
He seemed genuinely surprised that you were asking about him. Really, truly asking. He leaned back against the vinyl booth, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he completely opened up to you. He talked about the immense stress of managing the team's high expectations, his constant worries about Jules’ upcoming exams, and the suffocating pressure of the NHL scouts attending the next three games. You listened intently, never interrupting, offering gentle encouragement and a few dry, sarcastic jokes that had him laughing quietly into his palms. For a full hour, the two most stubborn, argumentative people at Briar University just… talked.
"Well," you finally said, checking the diner clock and reluctantly packing your laptop into your bag. "I have to get to my shift at the library. Don't let Della bully you into paying extra for the tableware."
"I won't," Logan said, his eyes tracking your every movement, lingering on your face. "See you around?"
"See you around." You gave him a small, genuine smile—the first real one he'd ever received from you—and walked out into the crisp afternoon air, your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks.
Inside the booth, Logan sat completely still for a long, agonizing moment. He watched your retreating figure through the glass window until you turned the corner and disappeared from view. Slowly, he let out a shaky exhale, burying his face entirely in his hands. He rubbed his palms over his eyes, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
"What the fuck," he whispered into the empty diner booth, his voice laced with a mixture of absolute awe and sheer, unadulterated panic. He was screwed. He was completely, utterly, hopelessly screwed, and he knew there was no turning back.
Five — "Well, fuck"
The night of the Briar Hockey Fundraiser at Malone’s was a chaotic, high-energy, glittering success. The entire diner had been completely transformed for the evening—the regular tables had been pushed to the far perimeter to create a makeshift dance floor, strings of warm fairy lights hung across the ceiling, and a massive turnout of wealthy alumni, boosters, and students kept the bar utterly slammed.
You had dressed up significantly for the occasion, wearing a form-fitting, emerald green silk dress that Allie let you borrow from her closet - of course. You spent the first half of the night talking to Hannah near the punch bowl, but your eyes kept unconsciously tracking a certain someone across the room.
Logan was entirely in his element—charming the older donors, laughing easily with his teammates, and looking entirely too edible for your own good.
Around midnight, the formal event finally dissolved into a proper, rowdy college party. The DJ cranked up a heavy, slow, rhythmic pop song, the bass echoing through the floor, and the dance floor filled up with couples. You were navigating the edge of the sweaty crowd, trying to find Allie when a sudden, firm, yet gentle pull on your wrist guided you backward.
You spun around on your heels, your chest bumping right into Logan’s broad torso. "You've been actively dodging me all night," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating right against your skin as his large hand settled naturally around yours. The casual, unhesitating intimacy of the gesture sent a fierce, blinding jolt of electricity straight down your spine.
"I wasn't dodging you, I was letting you do your official host duties," you shot back, a wicked, playful smile spreading across your lips. The alcohol gave you a surge of confidence, and you looped your arms slowly around his neck, stepping closer into his personal space until there was absolutely no air left between you. "Besides, I didn't think you could actually handle me dancing with you."
Logan’s dark eyes lit up instantly, a dangerous, competitive challenge flaring in his pupils. He pulled you a fraction of an inch closer. "Oh, really? Try me, sweetheart."
You didn't hesitate. As the heavy beat of the music dropped, you shifted your weight, rolling your hips slowly, deliberately, and sinfully against his. You leaned in close, your lips brushing the warm shell of his ear as you whispered, "You're all talk, John Logan. Let's see if you can actually keep up with me."
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands sliding down his chest to grip the crisp fabric of his shirt, tugging him rhythmically, tightly against your body. The friction was immediate, heavy, and intoxicating. Logan’s breath hitched audibly in his throat. A dark, intense flush crept up his neck, coloring his sharp cheekbones as his hands settled on your waist, his fingers digging firmly into your skin through the thin fabric of your dress. He swallowed hard, his eyes dropping helplessly to your parted lips, entirely overwhelmed and undone by the sudden confidence of your movements. He could feel exactly how much you were affecting him, his body reacting instantly to the touch of your hips.
A breathless, desperate laugh escaped him. He jerked his head back for a split second, fighting a losing battle for self-control. "Well, fuck," he muttered, his voice raw, completely devoid of its usual composure.
"Did I break the big, tough hockey player already?" you cooed, tilting your chin up tauntingly, your noses almost touching as you continued to sway against him.
"You wish," he groaned, his thumbs stroking the bare skin of your lower back where your dress dipped low. He didn't pull away. Instead, he pulled you even tighter against his lower body, matching your sinful rhythm perfectly, his dark eyes locked onto yours with a burning intensity that made it very clear the playful teasing was rapidly turning into something much more dangerous and inevitable. When the night finally forced you apart, it didn't feel like a goodbye — it was a promise.
Six — "Fuck"
Some things are bound to reach a breaking point, and the agonizing tension building between you for months was no exception. Three nights later, Briar won a massive game and the ensuing after-party at the boys' house was pure chaotic madness. The house was packed to maximum capacity, a sweaty, pulsing mass of drunken celebration, loud music, and screaming students.
But you and Logan weren't paying any attention to the party. For the past two hours, you had been moving around the house like two high-powered magnets — constantly drawing closer, stealing long, heated glances across the crowded rooms, the unspoken, heavy weight of the fundraiser hanging between you.
Seeking a brief moment of quiet to cool down your flushed skin, you headed down the dark back hallway toward the upstairs bathroom. Just as you reached out for the brass doorknob, the door swung open from the inside.
Logan stepped out.
You nearly crashed straight into his chest, cutting your breath short as you ground to a halt mere inches from him. The hallway was swallowed by shadows, save for the frantic strobe lights bleeding in from the living room. Logan stared down at you, wide-eyed, his chest rising and falling in sync with the thick, suffocating heat pulsing through the house.
Neither of you said a single word. The months of toxic banter, the vicious, screaming arguments, the desperate avoidance, and the agonizing teasing all converged into a single, breathless, breaking second.
Logan reached out with lightning speed, his large hand wrapping around your waist, and shoved you backward into the bathroom, slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind you and twisting the lock with a sharp, echoing click.
Before the sound of the lock could even fade, his mouth crashed onto yours.
It was an absolute explosion. The kiss was passionate, borderline feral, a violent release of pure, pent-up, crazy frustration. You let out a muffled gasp against his lips, your hands flying up to rip into his dark hair, pulling him down toward you out of sheer desperation. He groaned deep in his throat, a sound of pure hunger, pinning your body flat against the heavy wooden door, his thick thighs crowding tightly between yours. His hands were absolutely everywhere—clutching your face, tracing the line of your throat, gripping your hips with a bruising, desperate force that felt incredibly, entirely right.
"Logan," you whimpered against his mouth as he tore his lips away to kiss your jawline, your neck - his hands sliding down to frantically bunch up the silk fabric of your dress.
With a sudden burst of strengh, he hooked his large hands under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly into the air. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist as he deposited you onto the cold marble edge of the bathroom sink counter. He didn't waste a single second. His hands slid all the way up the bare, warm skin of your thighs, finding the edge of your underwear. His fingers quickly found your slick, burning, over-sensitized core, rubbing against you through the damp fabric with a rhythm that made your head tilt back and earned a large grin from him.
You arched your back off the counter, a loud sob escaping your lips, your fingers digging deep into his shoulders.
"You like that?" Logan growled against your neck, his voice dripping with lust. His fingers moved faster, driving you up a steep, agonizing cliff. "Tell me you want it."
"Logan," you breathed out, "please," you cried out, your head tossing back against the large bathroom mirror. Your hands flew down to his waist, frantically, blindly fumbling with the button of his jeans. You shoved the denim down his hips until his length snapped free—thick, heavy, and pulsing with heat. The moment your fingers wrapped tightly around him, moving in a fast, desperate stroke, Logan’s eyes rolled back.
His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently in his neck. He couldn't endure the exquisite torture for long, his quiet moans matching your own, before his large hand clamped over yours, freezing your movement. "Stop, stop," he panted, his chest wild, his forehead pressing against yours. "I'm going to come right now if you keep doing that. I need to feel you, right now."
With trembling, frantic hands, he reached into the small drawer next to the sink—Dean’s emergency stash—and ripped open a foil condom wrapper, spitting the plastic away and rolling it onto himself in one fluid, desperate motion.
Then he stepped back between your open thighs. His hands gripped your hips with an iron hold, dragging you to the very edge of the marble counter. He aligned himself against you, waiting just long enough for your frantic nod of approval. With one heavy, unyielding, possessive thrust, he buried himself completely inside you.
The sheer, overwhelming pleasure of that sudden fullness hit you both at once, fracturing the quiet of the bathroom with a sharp, mutual gasp. Instead of slowing down, the friction only stoked the fire, drawing a long, ragged, shattered exhale from deep in Logan's chest. His pupils were completely dilated, dark and wild with pure lust as his forehead dropped heavily against your shoulder.
"Fuck," he groaned into the crook of your neck, his voice a raw, visceral prayer vibrating against your collarbone.
His hands tightened on your hips, his fingers digging into your skin like an anchor as he immediately established a rhythm. The restraint dissolved into pure instinct. He pulled you flush against him, his thrusts becoming powerful, deep, and utterly relentless from the very start. Every heavy drive forced a breathless cry from your lips, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. You rocked together on the cold edge of the marble sink, your bodies generating a feverish heat that defied the chilly stone beneath you.
The bass from the after-party still thudded through the floorboards, a distant, muffled reminder of the chaotic world outside, but within the locked walls of the bathroom, that world was entirely forgotten. There was only the slick, friction-heavy slide of skin against skin, the frantic tangle of your fingers in his hair, and the hot, primal rhythm consuming you both.
The friction was dizzying, driving you both toward a precipice that neither of you could fight anymore. Logan’s pace turned frantic, his breath coming in harsh, ragged stabs against your ear as his hips slammed against yours with an undoing, desperate urgency. Every stroke sent a white-hot wave of pleasure straight to your core, tightening the coil inside you until it was agonizing.
You choked out a breathless, broken sound, your hands clamping onto his biceps as your head thrashed back against the mirror once more.
He didn't need words to know you were right there. He buried his face in your hair, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he delivered three more devastatingly deep, relentless thrusts.
That was the final breaking point. Your walls clamped down around him tight and pulsing, fracturing your breath into a loud, ruined cry as your entire body shattered into a blinding, head-to-toe release.
Hearing you break completely ruined him. Logan let out a guttural, unhinged groan that vibrated deep in his chest. His jaw locked, his body rigid and trembling as he gave one last, deeply possessive shove, throwing his weight into you as he came violently inside the condom. He held himself deep within you, his hips shuddering against yours as he rode out the waves of his own release, the two of you panting heavily in the quiet aftermath, entirely spent.
Seven — "Fuck it"
Roughly thirty minutes later, the two of you finally emerged from the bathroom. You had tried your absolute best to fix your chaotic appearance in the mirror—re-applying a bit of smudge-proof lip gloss, smoothing down the wrinkled fabric of your dress, and trying to tame your wildly tangled hair with your fingers—but the physical evidence of what had just occurred was written all over your faces. Your skin was flushed a deep unmistakable pink, your lips were incredibly swollen and red, and Logan was walking with a loose, stupidly contented, proud stride, his hair completely disheveled and sticking up in directions where your fingers had repeatedly torn through it.
The exact moment you stepped back onto the floor of the crowded living room, a loud, piercing whistle cut through the air.
Dean was leaning against the back of the sofa, a beer dangling from his fingers and a knowing smirk plastered across his face. His eyes darted from you to Logan, zeroing in instantly on the faint trace of your lip gloss smeared along Logan’s jawline.
"Well, well, well," he said, loud enough to be heard over the music. "Must have been a pretty intense plumbing emergency in there. Either that, or you two just went ten rounds with a blender. You might want to wipe your face, Logan."
Your cheeks instantly burned. You took a step back. "Dean, shut up, we were just—"
But Logan didn't let you finish the lie. He looked down at you, catching the slight panic in your eyes, and then looked over at Dean, who was practically vibrating with smug satisfaction.
Instead of getting defensive, Logan just let out a short, quiet laugh. The stubbornness, the secrecy, the remnants of your old feud—it all suddenly felt completely irrelevant. He was tired of hiding it.
"You know what? Fuck it," Logan muttered.
Before you could process the words, his hand slid around the back of your neck, his thumb resting against your jaw as he pulled you flush against his chest. Right there by the sofa, he leaned down and kissed you.
Dean threw his arms up in a dramatic, sweeping gesture. "About damn fucking time! Graham, you owe me twenty bucks!"
When Logan finally pulled back, his eyes were bright, a relaxed, genuinely happy smile playing on his lips as his thumb brushed your cheek. You looked up at him, the noise of the party fading into the background, finally realizing that the long, argumentative journey of seven dirty words had brought you exactly where you were supposed to be.
A/N: just like probably half the female population, im obsessed with the new off campus series so i just had to write something inspired by that and who doesn't love a good college au with the fake dating trope??
WORD COUNT: 10.7k
SUMMARY: After an unfortunate game of truth or dare you're faced with a problem you weren't expecting. What you were also not expecting was Harry Styles offering to fake date you to solve your situation. But how are you gonna survive pretending to date the guy you've been crushing on since basically day one of college?
MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!
Every time you go to a party you have a certain excitement rushing through your veins for some reason. Something always happens, there’s not a dull night when a party is happening somewhere on campus.
With your roommate, Noor by your side and a few other girls from your dorm you walk into the frat house, where the party is fully raging, music is thumping through the walls, laughter and screaming is heard from somewhere practically all the time, the house is packed. You squeeze through the crowd carefully, trying not to spill the drink Noor practically forced into your hand the second you walked in. Someone is already dancing on the kitchen counter, a couple is aggressively making out against the fridge and one of the frat brothers runs past you wearing nothing but swim trunks and cowboy boots, though that’s nothing surprising.
“I aspire to be him!” Noor shouts through the music, pointing towards Cowboy Boots guy and you just laugh.
She grabs your wrist and pulls you deeper into the house where a bunch of people you know from the dorm next to yours already claimed a spot in the living room. Most of these faces you only see at parties, but you always greet each other like old friends. Frat parties surely bring people together.
As you squeeze into their circle you spot an even more familiar face and your stomach immediately tightens.
Harry is sitting on the couch, like always, he somehow looks completely effortless in the middle of chaos, one arm lazily stretched across the back of the couch, messy curls bouncing with each head movement he makes.
His eyes lift, meeting yours and suddenly, you feel way too aware of your own presence. Thinking of it, the excitement you feel before parties is most likely because of him, rather than the party itself. He is a well-known name around campus, as captain of the hockey team he is definitely a star athlete girls swoon after, understandably. He’s got that boyish charm mixed with something mysterious and his good looks are definitely helping his case, they have you in a chokehold since freshman year. The two of you have been running in the same circles, thanks to Noor and her popularity, but it’s not like you’ve been best of friends.
Harry’s expression brightens slightly in recognition and he lifts his cup toward you in greeting.
“Hey,” he says when you settle in the circle.
“Hey,” you breathe out, like you’re talking to a celebrity or something.
Pathetic, you think to yourself and look away before your staring could turn awkward. Then Noor throws in her favorite game she always makes people play at parties, mostly because she likes when things get messy.
“Okay!” she claps loudly. “We’re playing truth or dare because I’m bored.”
A chorus of approval rises around the group.
“Maybe we could play something else,” you suggest, hoping to save yourself from public humiliation. Unfortunately for you, Noor never considers that.
“Nope, this will be perfect,” she grins proudly.
Naturally, she likes to encourage a heavily alcoholic version of the game, where basically everyone has to drink for practically everything. So ten minutes later you’re sitting on the carpet with your legs crossed, an empty beer bottle in the middle of the circle and a worrying amount of alcohol in your system as the game goes on. Dares have been a popular choice so far, a girl has kissed her ex, a guy has given a lapdance to a girl he didn’t know, but truths are making rounds as well and the game gets dirtier with every round.
Then the bottle spins again and this time it lands on you.
“Nooo,” you groan, dropping your head back., taking a mandatory sip of your drink.
“Truth or dare?” one of the frat boys asks excitedly.
“Truth,” you answer quickly. “Always truth. I’m not getting arrested tonight.”
“I would bail you out,” Noor laughs beside you.
“Thank you, but I’ll stick to truth.”
The guy grins mischievously.
“Okay then… Out of everyone you’ve hooked up with on campus…” he starts, making everyone lean in immediately, “who gave you the best orgasm?”
The group explodes into screaming before you can even process the question.
“Drop the name, girl!” someone hollers while you feel heat creeping up your neck and cheeks.
Your gaze meets Harry’s for a second, he is just smiling, waiting for your answer like everyone else. Maybe it’s from the alcohol, maybe it’s the exhaustion from dealing with disappointing men, but you feel like being blunt about your answer.
“That would require one of them actually giving me one.”
It’s like you just dropped a bomb, everyone explodes, no one expected you to say that. Noor nearly falls over laughing beside you while someone across the circle chokes on their drink.
“Wait, seriously?” another girl asks, eyes wide.
You shrug, trying to act far more unbothered than you actually feel as heat crawls up your neck.
“What?” you laugh nervously. “You asked.”
When you glance at Harry again, expecting him to laugh like everyone else, he doesn’t. He’s still smiling faintly, but there’s something else in his expression now, something more curious than amused.
“Honestly? Real,” a brunette across the circle says, raising her drink toward you dramatically.
“Thank you!” another girl immediately shouts from the couch. “Finally someone said it!”
The girls erupt into laughter and cheers while a few of the guys start protesting loudly.
“Oh come on!”
“There’s no way all of them were bad.”
“Y’all are brutal tonight.”
“No, you’re just bad at sex,” Noor says matter-of-factly before taking a sip of her drink. The room explodes again. You cover your face with your hands, laughing despite yourself.
“This is exactly why I didn’t want to play.”
“Oh my God,” one of the hockey players groans. “You just destroyed male morale for the rest of the semester.”
“As she should,” a girl mutters.
Someone throws a pillow across the circle and suddenly everybody starts yelling over each other at once.
“Alright, alright!” the frat guy running the game laughs. “Damn, didn’t know we were starting gender wars tonight.”
“Too late for that,” Noor snorts beside you. You sink back slightly into your spot on the carpet, cheeks still burning, but weirdly… lighter. Because honestly? It kinda felt good to actually say it out loud, you’ve been carrying this secret around for way too long.
Then one of the guys across the circle leans forward with narrowed eyes.
“Wait, so how many guys are we talking about exactly?”
“Are you trying to slut shame me now?” you arch an eyebrow at him.
“Not at all, I just need the numbers for the statistics!” he holds up his hands in defense. “Like, two out of two is not as bad a ten out of ten.”
A horrified laugh escapes you.
“Oh my God, this is not a research project.”
“No, seriously!” he insists through his own laughter. “Context matters!”
“Both versions are unacceptable on the male side!” Noor points at him.
“No!” he protests. “Two guys is kinda unfortunate, but could happen. Ten on the other hand…”
“That’s a campus epidemic,” the brunette from earlier cuts in with a laugh.
“This just proves how much women have to put up with!” Noor raises her drink and almost all the girls join her.
“Can we move on before every man in this room develops a complex?” someone groans.
“Too late,” another guy mutters into his drink.
“Still think she should name names,” somebody says, but you just roll your eyes.
Your eyes drift across the room again, instinctively searching for Harry. Bad idea, because he is already looking at you. He’s pretty quiet compared to everyone else around him, one arm hanging lazily over his bent knee now as the corner of his mouth curves upward slightly. Like he is amused by what you just admitted.
Then one of the hockey guys nudges Harry with his elbow.
“Careful, mate,” he jokes loudly. “Don’t look too interested. She’ll expose you next.”
The group bursts into laughter again. Heat immediately crawls back into your face and you grab your cup for another sip, already preparing for Harry to laugh it off. But instead, Harry barely reacts, just shrugs his shoulders and says: “I’m not on her list of disappointments, maybe you have something to worry about, Tanner?” he teases back, making everyone around them laugh.
Slowly, the rumble around your answer dies down and you carry on with the game. By the time you leave with Noor you kind of forget about it too and expect it to just become a funny story you sometimes bring up.
Well, you were wrong.
Because apparently, the information you shared wasn’t as forgettable as you expected it to be. By the next afternoon it becomes kinda viral, a meme page had posted a screenshot of your confession and some girls started a micro trend by listing names of guys who failed to please them, Noor had already sent you three of these videos.
And then there were the DMs. The worst of it all, because some guys took it quite personally and started offering their unwanted services.
be honest though was it really that bad? i could fix that for u
i can show you a good time bby
if you want I can prove you wrong
It keeps going like that all weekend, driving you insane. You notice the stares and some guys even wink at you even though you have no idea who they are. By the time Monday comes, you’re considering just dropping out of school to have peace.
Walking into your afternoon class you’re so occupied trying to stay off the radar that you totally forgot that this is the lecture you share with Harry. He often comes in late and just sits in the closest seat to the door, but this time he is there before you and waves at you to sit beside him. You hesitate for half a second, but then head over to him.
“Hey,” he says when you drop into the chair beside him.
“Hey, you smile a little nervously, grabbing your notebook from your backpack. The room is still buzzing, you still have a few minutes until the professor arrives.
Your phone vibrates on the desk and you stiffen automatically, knowing it’s another DM. Harry glances sideways at you.
“Are you alright?” he asks, leaning just a tad bit closer. You exhale through your nose.
“I’m fine.”
He hums like he doesn’t believe you, but doesn’t push it and you just ignore your phone, until it vibrates again.
And again.
You exhale sharply as you grab it and mute it fully, but your anger doesn’t go over Harry’s head entirely.
“Someone is eager to reach you, huh?”
“Um, not exactly,” you sigh, deleting the notifications from your lockscreen. “I’ve been getting some… offers.”
His eyebrows arch and he shoots you a questioning look.
“I’m hoping these are not the kind of offers I’m thinking about, but…”
“But they are,” you finish for him with a forced smile. He hums with a frown as you drop your phone into your bag so it’s not distracting you. “Seems like some guys took it very personally to change my stats,” you mumble under your breath just as the professor walks in and the lecture starts.
For about twenty minutes you’re able to ignore the shitshow that’s been following you around and actually focus on the lecture. The only distraction is Harry’s presence beside you, it’s like you can’t not notice all his movements, the way he changes position in his seat or scribbles his notes down.
Then, sometime halfway through the lecture he leans closer and whispers to you.
“I think the problem is that you’ve become a challenge for them.”
“Huh?” you turn to him confused.
“The DMs,” he nods towards your bag by your leg. “They will keep coming, because you’re a challenge to them, they all want to prove that they are the ones to change your stats.”
“Okay, yeah, I can see that,” you nod, thinking through his words.
“There’s a solution though.”
“What?” you ask, a little louder than you should be talking during a lecture. The professor clears his throat.
“Please leave the friendly chats after the class. Thank you,” he calls out with a disapproving look on his face, staring at you.
Embarrassed, you slide lower in your seat, while you hear Harry chuckling under his breath beside you. Not wanting to piss off the professor, you have to sit through the whole lecture and it’s complete torture, not knowing what Harry wanted to tell you.
The moment the class is over you turn to him.
“So what is it?”
He grins, packing up his desk. You do the same and the two of you head out together.
“So, as embarrassing as it is, men are pretty simple,” he starts explaining. “They see a challenge, their competitiveness turns on and they won’t back down until they get what they want.”
“Okay, so then what’s the solution other than dropping out of school and becoming a nun?”
Harry chuckles at your joke, which makes your stomach flip.
“The real problem here is that you’re available.”
“Available?” you frown. “For what? To be continuously disrespected by assholes?”
“No,” he shakes his head. “You’re available to receive their offers.”
“I don’t think I’m following,” you admit just as you reach the branching of the road, you should be heading for your next class, while Harry is about to head to practice.
“By available I mean that you’re not taken,” he rephrases. “If you were dating someone, claimed by a guy, they wouldn’t feel like they could just easily slide into your DMs and make those ridiculous offers.”
“Oh, so I’m supposed to just find someone to date me, it’s that easy?” you ask totally sarcastically and Harry once again chuckles.
“Or you can just fake date someone.”
“Because that’s easier to find someone for, right?”
“I could do it.”
Your eyes widen and lips part. Did you just hear him right? Did he just offer to be your fake boyfriend to help you out or it’s just your brain playing nasty tricks on you?
But as he stares back at you, you slowly realize that he really did say that.
“I’m sorry, what? You’re offering to fake date me?”
“Yeah,” he shrugs, like it’s no big deal.
“I… I have so many questions right now,” you admit with a flustered laugh.
“Okay, I understand,” he nods. “Well, I have practice now, but I get off at six. Why don’t we meet up and we can discuss your questions?” He is already backing away towards the sports centre while you just stand there, like a dumb statue.
“Um, okay? Sure,” you agree at last. Harry nods with a smile and then turns around and disappears in the sea of students.
***
You can’t believe it, but at six o’clock you’re waiting by the sports centre for Harry to be done with practice so you could talk about him fakedating you. How insane does that sound?
Sitting on a bench near the exit you start noticing his teammates and your pulse quickens. Every time the door opens you’re scared and kind of excited at the same time to see Harry and when it’s finally him stepping out, you feel like fainting.
But as he approaches you with a soft, friendly smile you oddly find yourself calming down.
“So, have you thought about it?” he simply asks, dropping his bag to the ground and sitting beside you.
“That’s all I’ve been doing,” you scoff truthfully, making him chuckle. “And I have so many questions.”
“Alright, let’s hear them.”
You have a million questions racing in your mind and can’t really choose one to ask first, until you find the one that’s probably the most burning.
With a sigh, you turn to face him.
“Why?”
“Why what?” he cocks his head to the side.
“Why would you do it? What’s in it for you? I know what’s in it for me, but I don’t see your side.”
Harry nods, like he’s chewing on your words, moving his gaze around the buildings surrounding you before he looks back into your eyes.
“Maybe I’m trying to make up for the damage other guys do,” he shrugs, but you give him a look that makes it clear you’re not believing him. “Or maybe I just want to mess with others. I’m bored, this sounds like fun.”
“I’m not sure this should be your way of having fun, there are so many other things to do if you’re bored.”
“But I want to do this,” he points out. “I haven’t done it, I’m curious.”
“Don’t tell me it’s on your bucket list or whatever,” you shake your head laughing and that brings a smirk to his face.
“Maybe,” he teases you. “Maybe I just want to help a friend out.”
“So we’re friends?” you ask before you could think of your words.
“Are we not?” he throws the question right back.
“I mean… We’re in the same friend group and we are friendly, but I wouldn’t necessarily call you a good friend of mine.”
“Ouch,” he puts a hand over his chest dramatically, making you roll your eyes. “Well, maybe it’s time to change that!”
“I’m not sure fake dating is the best way to bring us closer,” you chuckle in disbelief.
“Not the best, but it’s one,” he shrugs smirking and you hate just how irresistible he looks. For a moment, you just stare at him. At the way he’s smiling at you like this whole thing is exciting instead of potentially catastrophic. Like fake dating you is genuinely something he wants to do. It makes your stomach twist dangerously and the urge to just be selfish and take it heightens.
“This could backfire horribly if someone finds out we’re just faking it,” you tell him with a sigh.
“Oh, I know,” he nods confidently. “But we can figure out how to do it right.”
“You sure you want to do it?”
“I offered, didn’t I?”
“That doesn’t answer my question. I need an explicit confirmation.”
His eyes flicker over your face for a second before he leans back against the bench, stretching his legs out in front of him.
“I do genuinely want to do this.”
You stare back at him, as if you’re giving him the chance to back out, but he doesn’t and you aren’t either.
“Okay,” you nod. “Then let’s discuss how to do it.”
Harry’s grin stretches wide as he nods and just like that, the acting starts.
***
“Girl, if you keep staring at the door it might explode,” Noor pokes her elbow into your side as you sit in the cafeteria. “You’re giving it away.”
“Sorry, I just… this is so weird,” you mutter, so no one else around the table hears you.
It’s been two days since you and Harry made a pact to fakedate so guys would stop bothering you and today is your official debut. Other than parties, the cafeteria is the best place to hard launch a relationship and that’s exactly what you’re about to do, only you’re so nervous you might fall right off your chair.
You’ve discussed the most important dates and Harry suggested to just go with the flow, because planning it out too much might give you away.
Noor is the only person you told the truth. You just knew you wouldn’t be able to convince her and you need her support to actually do this.
“Yeah, but maybe stop looking like you’re expecting a SWAT team to kick the doors down,” she murmurs, making you let out a nervous laugh.
That’s when the doors open and Harry walks in with two of his teammates. Heads naturally turn in their directions, students greet them on their way over to your table and you can’t stop staring at him. Maybe it’s the nerves, or just how fucking good he looks, he consumes all your attention.
He is halfway over to your table when his gaze meets yours and his whole face softens, while your stomach flips violently.
Noor says something beside you, but you hear nothing of it as Harry walks up to you. His friends greet others at the table, taking the empty seats while Harry strides right over to you.
“Hi,” he says, eyes focused only on you, then he leans down and presses a kiss to your cheek before taking the empty chair beside you.
And if that wasn’t enough, he simply grabs the underside of your chair, pulls you closer and lazily drops a hand to your knee, acting like this whole scene was nothing special. But it was.
For you, of course, but for others too. You notice how some of the girls around the table are eyeing you with shock and surprise, like they just missed a chapter and you don’t blame them. It kinda feels like you did too.
You try your best to act normal, but there is nothing normal about Harry Styles sitting beside you like this and you’re not only talking about his hand on your knee. He sits like the two of you belong together, like… actually. Like it’s the most natural thing to waltz in here, kiss you on the cheek and let everyone know your status without even saying a word.
It’s kind of scary, but exciting too.
Noor kicks your foot lightly under the table. Your eyes snap at her and find her smiling like crazy.
“Stop,” you mouth her and force your body to relax so you’re not sitting like a plank of wood while Harry is oozing charm right beside you.
“So what did we miss?” Larissa asks from across the table, wiggling her eyebrows in your direction.
“Erm, what do you mean?” you ask innocently, but then Harry decides to move his hand from your knee and circle his arm around your shoulders, gently pulling you closer to him.
“We’re just exploring new things. Together,” he answers so nonchalantly, you’d believe him if you didn’t know the truth. Why is he so good at this?
“Oh really?” another friend of yours, Georgia asks with a smile so wide you have never seen on her face.
“What, like it’s surprising?” Harry asks and you almost instantly scream Yes! It is! but everyone else around the table thinks about it for a second and actually agrees that it’s not a shocker.
Have you fallen into another universe? Why is it not surprising to anyone that you and Harry are an item now?
Questions like that flood your mind, but you can’t ask them without blowing your cover that seems to be working perfectly, so you’re left stewing in your own head.
Harry gently squeezes your shoulder, catching your attention.
“You alright?” he asks quietly. You’re very aware of how close your faces are, you can make out every freckle and blemish on his skin, along with his ridiculously pretty lashes that frame his light green eyes.
“Yeah,” you breathe out, but you’re anything but alright at the moment.
“You’re doing good,” he gifts you with a small smile. “People are noticing us.”
Carefully, you look around in the cafeteria and realize he is right, people are eyeing the two of you, whispering and probably guessing which will eventually lead to spreading the change in your relationship status shortly.
You turn back to face Harry and once again get swept away by him. It’s only day one and you agreed to keep the facade up for a couple of weeks until something else gets the attention of everyone and you can finally return to your normal again. But all you can think of now is how fucking beautiful and kind and perfect he is and that’s way too dangerous.
Because you’re supposed to be acting, it’s only a temporary agreement, but right now, you’re scared of how the end of it will find you.
For the rest of lunch you somehow manage to ease up enough not to freak out. With the girls you talk about having a movies night sometime soon and the boys talk about sport, it’s all the same as usual. Then when it’s time to leave Harry waits for you to gather your things and you almost ask him what he wants when you realize that you are a couple now and couples walk each other to class all the time.
“I’ll carry that for you,” he says, grabbing your heavy Spanish lit textbook you can’t fit into your bag, so you usually just carry it around in your arms.
“Oh, thanks,” you nod and then he holds his hand out for you. You blink a few times before eventually taking it and the two of you walk out hand in hand, earning quite some stares.
You can’t not focus on his hold around your hand. It’s warm and his hand is much bigger than yours. His grip is relaxed and easy, like it’s not the first time the two of you are doing this. Meanwhile you’re about to spiral and question this whole agreement, but that’s exactly when a guy from the party last weekend crosses you and you do remember him sending you DMs too since your confessional.
A wide grin stretches across his face and he is already opening his mouth to say something, but that’s when he sees your hand in Harry’s. The grin slips from his face instantly, instead, he just nods at you and keeps walking.
“Oh shit, it worked!” you whisper to Harry excitedly. He peeks down at you with a satisfied grin.
“Were you doubting my plan?” he asks, arching an eyebrow. You can’t help but chuckle.
“Maybe a little. Not anymore though.”
***
By the time Thursday rolls around you’re talk of the campus, but not because of the party anymore. It’s because of you and Harry becoming an item. People whisper behind your back, the ballsy ones even ask you straight about it and you can’t walk from one class to the other without dealing with the endless stares. Although that last one might be because Harry keeps walking you whenever he has the time, holding your hand or draping an arm around your shoulders while he asks about your day.
At first you thought he was just trying to ease the awkwardness with his questions, but he’s seemed genuinely interested in your occasional rants about papers or exciting projects. You asked him about hockey and he’s been teaching you the basics of the game, even invited you to their next game which you accepted.
Solemnly because a good girlfriend would cheer on their boyfriend, not because you want to see him all sweaty and strong on the ice.
When you get back to your dorm on Thursday evening, you feel drained, it’s been a long day and you want nothing than to take a shower and rot in bed while watching a movie with your favorite snacks. Returning from the shared bathroom you’re wrapped in your fluffy bathrobe and even light a candle as you get comfortable on your bed.
Your phone buzzes just as you’re opening your bag of gummy bears. You honestly expect it to be Noor sending you another ridiculous TikTok about your “relationship,” but the second you see Harry’s name pop up on your screen, your stomach flips embarrassingly fast.
HARRY: Coach asked me if I’m dating you. Guess now truly everyone knows about us.
Y/N: No fucking way! Does he like student gossips?
HARRY: Embarrassingly, yes. He is often way too deep in our business.
You laugh out loudly at that, imagining their coach asking around about gossips during practice.
Y/N: I guess we succeeded then. I heard a girl today tell her friend that you surely write love poems for me.
HARRY: I could start if that’s what the people want.
Y/N: Please don’t.
HARRY: Wow, such an anti-romantic!
Y/N: I’m just protecting myself and you as well from the embarrassment.
HARRY: Maybe I’m a good poet? How do you know it would be embarrassing??
Y/N: Are you a good poet?
HARRY: The worst, actually.
The grin on your face is ridiculously wide as you lie in bed and just keep texting him. The movie you wanted to watch gets forgotten pretty fast.
Y/N: Then my previous statement still stands.
HARRY: I actually did write a poem for a girl in high school.
Y/N: Stop. No you didn’t!
HARRY: Oh but I did.
Y/N: Do you remember it?
HARRY: It’s permanently burnt into my mind, unfortunately.
Y/N: I wanna read it.
HARRY: Absolutely not. I rhymed “eyes” with Styles.
Y/N: You wrote your name into it??
HARRY: Damn right I did.
Y/N: Did the poem at least work?
HARRY: Fuck no. She went to prom with another guy.
Y/N: Aw, I’m sorry.
HARRY: Don’t be. My girlfriend now is way cuter.
Your heart skips a beat. Is he flirting with you? Surely, he is just joking, but still, he just called you cute.
From the desk across the room, Noor slowly lowers her laptop and squints at you suspiciously.
“Why are you smiling like that?”
“I’m not smiling.”
“Your face is about to literally burst from your smile.”
You force your face to relax, though miserably fail.
“No idea what you’re talking about,” you clear your throat.
“Who are you texting?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at you.
“Just Harry,” you answer as casually as possible, though your heart is still hammering in your chest.
“Uh-huh, just Harry.”
You school your expression and put your phone aside, opening your laptop to scroll through Netflix, though you’re not even reading any of the titles, you just want Noor’s suspicion to die down.
Unfortunately, your phone buzzes again and you grab it so fast it’s ridiculous. You type your reply to Harry while ignoring Noor’s knowing smirk from across the room.
***
It’s your first time at a hockey game, even though the sport is pretty popular at your school. It’s a home game so luckily, you don’t have to travel far. Noor happily agreed to come with you, you even watched a few videos together last night as preparation for the game, though Harry has been teaching you the basics all week.
You’re already near the sports centre when he texts you.
HARRY: When are you arriving?
Y/N: In about two minutes.
HARRY: Can you come to the back? I have something for you.
Y/N: Sure!
“Hey, can we go to the back for a second? Harry wants to meet up,” you tell Noor.
“Of course, you can meet your lover before his game,” she grins suggestively. “So how is the fake dating going?”
“Good, I guess. I’m only getting a few DMs now.”
“That’s good. And how about the thing between you and Harry?”
“What thing?” you ask nervously.
“I don’t know, you’re always texting, he whispers things to you at lunch and the two of you look very coupled up, like… very.”
“That was the goal, to make guys think I’m unavailable.”
“Oh, so it’s all fake?”
You open your mouth, wanting to say yes, but then the word dies on your tongue. Is it all fake? Noor is right, you’ve been getting closer to Harry these past days and it’s way over the level of faking. Your agreement doesn’t require the late night texts and whispered inside jokes. It definitely doesn’t require the way your stomach flips every time his name lights up on your phone either.
Noor watches you carefully, like she can physically see the spiral happening inside your head.
“Wait,” she breathes out, leaning closer like she’s about to share a secret with you. “You’re into him, for real, right?”
“No?” you snap, way too fast. Noor’s mouth hangs open.
“You like him! You’re into him!”
“Would you stop… screaming?” you wave at her, the last thing you need is to draw attention.
“I knew I felt something, like your vibes were different, but this explains it all,” she grins at you like crazy. “So since when?”
You stay quiet, warmth crawling up your neck and Noor grabs your arm.
“Holy shit, this isn’t new, right? It’s not just from the fake dating, you already had a crush on him!”
“I’m stupid for agreeing to do this, right?” you ask with panic all over your face. “Because this is now making it all worse, Noor! I can’t stop thinking about him!”
“Okay, no need to lose our shit right now. Everything is fine.” She changes from excited to supportive in an instant and that’s exactly what you need right now. She is about to continue with her peptalk when a way too familiar voice calls out your name. Turning to the side you spot Harry jogging over to you.
“Hey!” he smiles at you, then he offers a nod to Noor too, but his gaze quickly returns to you. He is already wearing his undergarments and there is something in his hands that looks like a clothing item.
“Hi,” you breathe out.
“Glad you two could make it. Here, I wanted to give this to you.” He hands you whatever in his hand and that’s when you realize it’s a jersey.
With his name and number on it.
“Girlfriends usually wear their boyfriends’ jerseys at games and I thought… You don’t have to put it on, if you don’t want to,” he quickly adds as you hold the jersey up in front of you. Your heart practically somersaults in your chest.
“No, I want to,” you answer maybe a little too quickly, fingers tightening around the fabric. Harry’s expression softens instantly, pleased by your answer.
“Good,” he smiles. “Thought you’d look cute in it.”
Beside you, Noor makes a strangled noise that suspiciously sounds like her trying not to scream. You shoot her a warning look before turning back to Harry.
“Thank you. And for the tickets as well.”
“Of course. I’ll see you in there, then,” he nods with a smile and there is a second of hesitation, like he wants to do something else. Maybe hug you? Kiss you?
But then, someone calls out for him.
“Styles! Coach is looking for you!”
“Coming!” he shouts back. “Gotta go, but I’ll see after, right? At the party?”
“Sure,” you nod smiling. Then Harry suddenly leans in and presses a quick kiss to your cheek before jogging back inside.
“Oh my God, you are so down for that guy,” Noor scoffs, snapping you out of your trance.
“Just shut up,” you moan, shaking your head. “Let’s get inside.”
Twenty minutes later, you’re sitting in the packed arena wearing Harry’s jersey over your clothes while Noor is talking your ear off.
“No, for real, he knows I know it’s fake, right? Why would he kiss your cheek in front of me if it’s not because he is into you?”
“Others were around as well!”
“No one was paying attention. That kiss happened because he wanted it to happen, I’m telling you!”
“Can we just close this for now?” you let out a tired sigh. The last thing you need is false hope.
“Okay, okay. Sorry,” she mumbles, bumping her shoulder against yours.
With only minutes until the game starts the seats are almost entirely filled up and a guy takes the one beside you, almost spilling his drink on you.
“Woah, sorry. These cups are way too big,” he chuckles.
“It’s alright.”
“Hey, you’re… Y/N, right?” he asks and that’s when you actually look at him. “I’m Niall, we had Intro to Psychology together last semester.”
“Oh!” your face lits up finally recognizing him. “Hi! Yeah, I remember. You were the one who argued with the professor about Freud’s significance.”
“Yup,” he grins. “She almost failed me for that one.”
“I mean, you did call her Freud’s fangirl, so…”
You both laugh at that just when the teams finally make their appearance on the ice. The entire arena erupts into cheers so loud you feel it vibrate through your chest. The players skate onto the ice one by one and it’s no surprise your eyes instantly search for Harry. You spot him easily, not just because you know what number to look for from the jersey you are wearing, but because your gaze seems to be naturally gravitating towards him. Not much can be seen from him, his gear and helmet covers most of him, but the eyes are still there.
And they find you pretty easily as well.
His gaze jumps down to your jersey and though you’re not entirely sure, but it seems like he is smiling at the sight of you wearing it. You allow yourself a tiny wave in his direction which he acknowledges with a nod before focusing his attention back at the ice.
“Spotting you in the crowd, huh?” Noor teases you, but you just poke your elbow into her side, making her laugh.
The game starts before she can continue torturing you and thankfully, hockey turns out to be way more entertaining than you expected. Fast, aggressive, chaotic. Every time someone slams another player into the wall, the crowd loses their minds.
You end up talking quite a lot with Niall, he gladly helps you out when you and Noor have questions about the rules or what’s happening on the ice. He is explaining something one of the referees just did when Harry skates past you and his head turns sharply in your direction.
The movement is not that dramatic, probably no one really noticed it, but you did, since you’ve been very focused on him during the game. His eyes flick between you and Niall for half a second before he’s skating away again.
For a minute you wonder what that was about, but then the game continues and your thoughts get occupied.
Even though you’re definitely not a pro in hockey, you can tell that Harry is playing exceptionally well. He is fast and skilled, can easily sweep right past the other players and score like it’s second nature to him. It’s kind of mesmerizing, seeing him in his element.
The third time he scored during the game the whole arena explodes. You jump up instinctively with everyone else, cheering loudly while Harry’s teammates crash into him against the glass, celebrating like mad men. Then Harry looks up, his eyes finding you instantly and he points at you with a wink. A happy laughter bubbles from your throat, your heart practically jumping out of your chest.
“That was fucking romantic,” Noor squeals next to you, but you just ignore her.
Even when Harry starts to linger more and more on your side of the rink, eyes sweeping over you every time he skates by. Once, he even skates close enough to tap his stick lightly against the glass in front of you. Niall laughs beside you.
“I’m guessing he is your boyfriend.”
“Um, yeah,” you breathe out a chuckle.
“He is making sure everyone knows it.”
Heat rushes into your cheeks immediately.
By the third period, your team is leading and the arena is electric with excitement. Everyone’s on their feet during the last minute on the clock. The game tightens even in the last seconds, but when the buzzer goes off your team is the winner. The players yell and slam into each other while the crowd screams loud enough to deafen you. Noor grabs your shoulders, shaking you excitedly while Niall high-fives everyone within reach.
And then, through the chaos, Harry’s eyes land on you again and before you could even realize what’s happening he is skating over to you.
“Oh shit, this is gonna be good!” Noor laughs, but you kinda tune her out as Harry stops by the boards right in front of you.
Pulling his helmet off he taps on the glass, motioning for you to come to the side where there’s no glass. With a hammering heart, you climb out and meet him at the side. His curls are sweaty and sticking in all directions, but he still looks so fucking good your knees almost give up.
“Made sure your first game is a winner,” he grins, leaning onto the board in front of you.
“So you scored for me?”
“Who else?” he shrugs cheekily.
Suddenly, you become more aware of your surroundings and the chanting that’s getting louder around you.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” people demand, watching the two of you.
You let out a nervous chuckle, your heart is pounding so hard in your chest you’re afraid you might faint any moment. Your first thought is that it is about to get real awkward, because there’s no way Harry will kiss you. There’s no rule about how far you’re willing to go in this fake relationship, but you figured kissing is way over the line.
Well, you were wrong.
Because when you look back at Harry he is smirking at you in such a charming way, then he reaches over the barrier, grabs your waist firmly and pulls you against the board that separates the two of you. The crowd is absolutely losing it and before you could even realize what is about to happen, he is kissing you.
It’s rough, he is sweaty and still in his hockey gear, the board is hard against your hips, but it’s also the most toe-curling kiss you’ve ever experienced. His lips move so in sync with yours, there’s hunger and passion, but it’s also exploratory. The cheering intensifies around you, which is pretty fortunate since you let out a moan when his tongue swipes into your mouth.
And then he pulls back. All you see is his victorious grin as he pushes himself back from the board.
“See you at the after party,” he winks and then skates away, leaving you in a fucking puddle after the most perfect kiss ever.
***
The after party is already fully raging when you and Noor arrive. You dropped by the dorm to get changed after the game, though you actually thought about staying in the jersey Harry gave you.
Your mind has been an absolute mess since the kiss. It simply altered your whole brain chemistry and now you can’t think of anything else. The rational part of your brain keeps reminding you that it was all just for the show, but then you always end up thinking about how passionate it was, like he truly meant it. It’s a complete war in your mind.
By the time you arrive at the party you’re actually thinking about ending the whole fake dating thing, because if this is what one kiss causes, you’d get totally ruined if you kept going. There’s no way you can get through another kiss like that without falling for him entirely, so it’s better if you just go back to how everything was before.
But your decision flies right out the window the moment you meet Harry again.
He is in the kitchen when Noor and you walk in, his teammates surrounding him as he casually leans against the counter. His hair looks a tad bit damp, probably from his post-game shower, he is wearing a simple gray hoodie and black jeans, but still manages to look so fucking hot you can’t look away from him.
When he sees you, his whole face lights up and as soon as you’re within his reach his hands grab your hips, he pulls you closer and makes you stand right in front of him, with your back pressed against his hard chest, his hands remaining on your hips. His scent fills your nose, it’s fresh and a little spicy and suddenly, you completely forget about your intention to fake breakup with your fake boyfriend.
“Hi,” he murmurs into your ear. “Thought you might bail on me.”
“Did you really?” you ask quietly, craning your neck to look at him. His eyes are mesmerizing and there’s a cheeky glint in them tonight.
“No,” he smirks. “I know you’d never.”
You completely melt in his arms, leaning against him gladly as you ditch any plan to end whatever is between the two of you. Some selfishness couldn’t hurt, right?
Right.
***
You’re getting drunk on Harry. And quite some booze too. Probably it’s more the booze, but whatever.
The boys’ win kind of got you in a buzz too and couldn’t refuse a couple of shots, getting you tipsy pretty fast since you didn’t have time to have dinner.
Harry has been by your side all evening, sipping on just soda. When you asked why he is not drinking, he just shrugged and said his high from the winning is enough for him. You didn’t push him.
When Noor convinces you (quite easily) to take another shot with her you really start to feel just how much you’ve had so far.
“Woah,” Harry chuckles, when you lose balance as someone brushes past you a bit more forcefully, but he is quick to steady you with his hands on your waist. “Have you eaten, Y/N?” he asks, but there’s nothing accusatory in his tone, his eyes are still smiling.
“Um, not really,” you admit giggling.
“That explains a lot,” he smiles, hands still on your waist. Your skin feels like burning underneath his touch. “Why don’t we find something for you? I think I saw pizza boxes in the kitchen.”
“Oh! Pizza! Yummy!” you beam, making him laugh before he starts steering you in the direction of the kitchen.
A few minutes later you are sitting in a window sill with three slices of pizza stacked onto a paper plate in your hand.
“You want some?” you ask, holding a slice out for Harry while chewing on your last bite. He huffs out a laugh, leans closer and takes a bite while holding eye-contact, definitely igniting something in your tummy.
“So did you enjoy the game?” he asks, leaning against the wall next to you.
“Yeah. Now I kinda know why girls enjoy watching the boy aquarium.”
“The what?” he starts laughing.
“Boy aquarium,” you repeat grinning. “I think it’s a good name for it.”
“Wow, haven’t heard that one, but okay. Then maybe you should come to more games.”
“Mm. What about when we fake breakup?” you huff out a chuckle, busying yourself with the slice in your hand. Thinking about the time when you possibly won’t spend this much time with him kind of scares and saddens you. You’ve gotten used to being so close to him way too easily.
“You are always welcome. Fake dating or not,” he says with a soft smile.
“Careful,” you tease softly to cover up the way your pulse suddenly spikes. “You’re sounding very attached to me.”
The corners of his mouth curve slightly.
“Mm wouldn’t want that, right?” he asks, but his smiling eyes are saying something else and it’s making your heart flutter.
Before you could react something, a voice cuts the moment short.
“Styles! There you are.”
Two hockey guys appear near the kitchen entrance carrying drinks. One of them grins when he spots you tucked into the windowsill beside Harry.
“Ah, didn’t mean to interrupt the lovebirds,” the shorter one grins.
“But you kinda did,” Harry shakes his head, chuckling.
“Sorry man, it’s still kinda new that you have a girl now,” the taller one shrugs laughing and you just grin into your pizza, ignoring the way the butterflies in your stomach started dancing at being called his girls.
“Well, get used to it,” Harry simply answers, his eyes searching yours with a soft look.
“Yeah, I guess you were the one to change her stats,” a guy from behind snorts, inserting himself into the conversation and at his comment the mood changes instantly. Harry tenses beside you, a hand coming to rest on your knee, but it feels like he needs the touch to ground himself this time.
The guy who made the comment just smirks into his drink like he said the funniest thing in the world, but no one is laughing and you pretty much feel like a glass of ice cold water was dumped into your face.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Harry says flatly.
The guy lifts his hands innocently. “Relax, man. I’m joking.”
“No, you’re being a dick,” Harry shoots back immediately. You stare at him in surprise. There’s no teasing in his voice anymore, none of the usual easygoing charm. He actually looks angry.
“C’mon,” the guy laughs awkwardly. “You know what I mean. The whole campus has been talking about her confession for days, guys have been competing to get her attention and then she ends up dating you all of a sudden. Must have given her one hell of a good time.”
“None of your business,” Harry spats. “Nothing ever gives you the right to talk about a woman like that. So what’s your point exactly?” he asks coldly with a deathstare.
“Jesus, I was just joking,” he mumbles, already turning around to walk away, but Harry takes a step ahead to speak his mind before the guy goes.
“Stop reducing women to stupid challenges and games. And for the record,” he continues sharply, “I’m dating her because I like her. Not because I’m trying to win some disgusting competition you all made up in your heads.”
Someone whistles as the guy disappears in defeat and Harry returns to your side, replacing his hand onto your leg. When he looks at you, he gives your thigh a gentle squeeze.
“Are you alright?”
With the leftover pizza still in your hands, you’re just staring at him with wide eyes, nodding shortly. He just went all protective boyfriend over a stupid comment which was unbelievably sweet and unexpected, but on the other hand that one tiny comment put an unwanted thought into the back of your mind.
What if the guy was right and this was just Harry’s way of wanting to get closer to you? It feels impossible, Harry would never do such an awful thing, but your rather drunk conscience is playing a dirty game with you.
“Um, I’m gonna need another drink,” you mumble, hopping off the sill. You feel Harry’s worrying gaze glued to the side of your head as you walk back into the kitchen and grab the first bottle you find.
If the fake dating wasn’t putting you in enough stress, now you have something new to spiral about: a possible ulterior motive behind why Harry wanted to do the fake dating. So with an enthusiastic swig you try to tune the voices out in your head with the alcohol.
About twenty minutes and another shot later you are fully wasted and a mess. You’re seeing double and your legs keep giving up underneath you.
“Hey,” Harry softly murmurs, gathering you in his arms. “Let’s get you home, okay? You seem tired.”
“I am tired,” you draw the words out with a sigh and let him walk you towards the door. “Wait,” you gasp, stopping in your tracks. “Gotta tell Noor I’m leaving.”
“Already told her, don’t worry. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”
“Drive?” you ask with a puzzled look, but let him steer you out of the house. “Haven’t you been drinking?”
“No,” he chuckles softly. “Only soda.”
Somehow you make it to Harry’s car without tripping, he helps you inside and even buckles you in.
“Thank you, Harry. You are sooooo awesome,” you sigh, eyes fluttering closed. He just chuckles softly before closing your door and walking over to the driver seat.
The drive home is kind of a blur, you’re drifting in and out of sleep, occasionally mumbling something to Harry who patiently tries his best to react every time. Arriving at the dorm he gently helps you out of the car and circles an arm around your waist to help you make the walk up to your room.
“Ah, thank you, Harry,” you moan as soon as you fall into bed.
“You’re welcome. Did you have a good time?” he asks and starts pulling your shoes off.
“Yeah. Right until that douche said those things,” you groan at the memory.
“Sorry about that.”
You hum, mind cloudy from sleep and alcohol and you end up saying out loud the thought that circles your head.
“You know, if you really just wanted to… could have just asked me.”
Harry furrows his eyebrows, sitting beside you on the mattress.
“What are you talking about?”
“My stats,” you scoff. “If you just wanted to be the one changing it, you could have just asked. I’ve been… I’ve been having the fattest crush on you, I would have said yes.” You snort out a laugh, eyes closing as you’re already falling asleep. You vaguely feel Harry’s gentle touch on your cheek as he stands from beside you.
“Get some sleep, we can talk about that tomorrow,” he says, though his voice sounds from far away. Somewhere, the door clicks closed and you’re already asleep.
***
Sunlight is beaming right into your face through the window. Have you forgotten to close the curtains? That never really happens.
Groaning, you turn to your other side so the brightness is not directed at your face, but just a couple of seconds later, as your mind slowly wakes from the slumber, you realize why the curtains are not closed.
Because you were brought home last night by Harry, totally drunk.
“Oh my God.”
You bolt upright in bed so fast you instantly regret it. Pain shoots through your head and you groan, dropping back against the pillows dramatically.
Fragments from last night start returning one by one like little nightmares. The game, the kiss. Then the party, getting wasted, Harry standing up for you, then bringing you home and… What you told him about having a crush on him.
Your stomach drops, maybe from the hangover, maybe from the humiliation, who knows?
“No. No, no, no, no…”
From the other bed you hear Noor grunting.
“It’s way too early for a life crisis and I’m way too hungover.”
“I’m literally dying. Sorry for being inconvenient,” you groan, sitting up again in bed, this time slower so your head doesn't bust immediately. “I told Harry I have a crush on him.”
Noor turns to you in bed, slowly realizing the weight of the situation.
“And if that’s not mortifying enough,” you continue, “I told him, if he just wanted to sleep with me to change my stats, he could have just asked me.”
“Holy shit,” Noor blinks at you with wide eyes. “No, like actually holy shit,” she repeats, pushing herself up against the headboard despite looking half dead herself. “What did he say?”
“I don’t know!” you cry, pressing your fists into your eyes, rubbing them violently. “I was literally falling asleep mid-confession.”
“And what are you gonna do now?”
With a painful sigh, you shake your head, trying to come up with a plan, but nothing comes to your mind.
“I need to talk to him.”
“And what are you going to say? Sorry I told you I have a crush on you and want to have sex with you, are we still fake dating?”
“I don’t know,” you mumble, dragging yourself out of bed. “But I have to talk to him.”
A little over twenty minutes later you’re standing in front of Harry’s room in another dorm building, wearing a random hoodie and no makeup, looking and feeling like shit. For a solid ten seconds you just stare at the door, debating whether you should turn around and fake your own death instead. Then finally you get yourself to raise a fist, but just when you’re about to knock the door opens and you find yourself in front of Harry himself, dressed in what looks like a running set.
“Hey,” he beams happily upon seeing you. Your stomach twists.
“Hi. Can we… um, can we talk?”
“Sure,” he nods, stepping back so you can walk into his room.
He is one lucky bastard for having a room to himself. It’s pretty tidy and organized, smells like his cologne that you love so much. If you weren’t about to have the most awkward conversation of your life you’d definitely start snooping around, checking out everything and anything, but now is not the time for that unfortunately.
Turning around you face him and his usual confidence, he is wearing a soft, almost teasing smile and you’d kill to know what’s going on in his mind right now.
“So… I just wanted to talk about last night. First of all, I’m sorry I got so drunk you had to drag me home.”
“Happens to all of us,” he shrugs.
“Yeah, but not everyone confesses to having a crush on their fake boyfriend,” you add with an awkward laugh, hoping to ease your nerves with the joking, though it’s not helping. “I’m really sorry about that. And also about… Implying that you did this whole thing just to change my stats and I’m also very, very sorry for saying I would have just slept with you if you asked. I-I was drunk, saying out loud everything on my mind, I understand if this is very awkward for you now and you want to never talk to me again, because I–”
Your rambling is cut by Harry stepping closer and holding his hands up to stop you from apologizing some more.
“Y/N, there’s nothing to apologize for,” he calmly says.
“Oh but there is,” you laugh bitterly, hoping the floor would just open and swallow you so you wouldn’t have to keep having this conversation. “I’m so sorry for throwing all that on you. You’ve been nothing but kind and supportive, helping me out with this whole situation and then I just dump all that on you.”
“I didn’t mind it, really,” he smirks with mischief in his eyes.
“Well, you do have something to kinda blackmail me with, so…” A breathless laugh rolls out of you, unsure what else to say.
“Hm, that’s an interesting idea, but no, I won’t be doing that.”
“Okay, so… can we pretend I said nothing? I promise I won’t make it awkward, I just really want things to be like before.”
Harry stares back at you with an unreadable expression before shaking his head.
“No.”
“No?” you ask surprised. “Okay, then–”
“I don’t want things to be like before.” Confusion just keeps building up in you, because he is saying that, but his face is telling you something different. “Remember how you asked why I wanted to do this whole fake dating thing?”
You nod, swallowing hard.
“I lied to you.”
“You did?”
“Yep,” he nods with an almost proud smirk as he slowly starts walking closer to you, lessening the distance between the two of you. “I made up this whole fake dating thing to be with you.”
For a second you’re convinced it’s just the hangover, making you imagine things, but then you realize that he actually said that.
“Wait, what?” you laugh in disbelief.
“You’ve not been the only one having a crush,” he admits with a gentle chuckle, stopping only an inch away from you. “I’ve been trying to figure out a way to spend more time with you, making a move, but I wasn’t sure if you were open to that so then I came up with this ridiculous suggestion to fake date just so I could selfishly spend more time with you.”
“Are you pranking me? Getting back at me for getting way too drunk last night?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him, but he just shakes his head chuckling, his hands sneaking their way to your waist as he pulls you closer, closing the gap between the two of you.
“No. I truly wanted to help you with your situation, but I also wanted to be with you. I was willing to go through with this fake dating plan just to be with you. Kinda ridiculous, I know.”
“No, that’s…” you shake your head, something already melting in you as your hands slide up his arms to rest on his shoulders. “That’s kind of romantic, actually,” you admit chuckling. “So… you weren’t faking?”
“Not really.”
“The touches, the texts, the late night talks… they were all real for you as well? Because they were definitely real for me.”
“Absolutely,” he nods confidently.
“And… the kiss at the game?”
He bites into his bottom lip, looking away almost embarrassed before he speaks up.
“I saw you talking to that guy and I got jealous. I wanted to show him that you’re taken. That definitely wasn’t fake on my end.”
Your mind is blown. Every single interaction you’ve had since his proposal is now playing in your head, but in a whole new light. The touches, the gestures, the looks, the constant texting and that damn jersey he gave you before the game, it’s all clicking into place now.
“Holy shit,” you breathe out, making him laugh. “Are we really just two idiots?”
“Massive idiots,” he nods, grinning. “I feel like it’s time for us to fake breakup and get together for real,” he suggests, resting his forehead against yours. Your heart is hammering against your ribs and as you slip a hand down over his, you can feel how wildly his is pounding under your touch. You smile, wide and relieved before nodding.
“Please,” you breathe out and his lips are already crashing against yours.
***
Another winning game, another celebratory party. The boys have been going wild about this one, since it was their last game of the season and they reached an exceptional rank in the league this year.
The house is packed, the music is loud and booze is everywhere, though you’re not drinking more than three drinks tonight, a rule you made after that initial party a few months ago when Harry had to take you home and you made some drunk confessions. Even if those confessions led to you and him finally getting together, you’re not interested in making a fool out of yourself.
You’re sitting with the girls on the couches in the corner of the living room, Georgia sharing her latest disastrous dating experience as you all chime in with your own stories. You’re listening too, though your eyes keep wandering to a certain hockey player across the room, standing by the beerpong table.
Harry’s glance keeps returning to you as well, exchanging smiles and he occasionally winking at you, making your pulse quicken even after months of dating, he still has that effect on you. It’s hard to believe you once questioned if you even had a shot with him, the guy is absolutely smitten about you and the same goes for you too.
“Okay, stop with the eye-fucking! We are talking about bad experiences, you’re ruining the mood!” Georgia calls you out rolling her eyes, though she is smirking, obviously happy for you.
“Sorry! I’m just way too happy to think about all the shit from before,” you chuckle with a shrug, taking a sip from your drink.
“Wait, there is something I’m really curious about,” Larissa leans in closer with a cheeky smirk.
“I thought we’ve been over this, my stats have changed!” you answer with a dramatic sigh, making everyone laugh, but Larissa shakes her head.
“No. I need to know what he did differently than the others. What was it that you needed?”
“Girl, you always want to know the dirty deets,” Noor shakes her head chuckling.
“Of course I do! Look at her, she is glowing!” Larissa answers pointing at you. “You have to share it with the class!”
All the other girls start chiming in, agreeing that they absolutely need to know. With a longing look your gaze settles on Harry again and as if he could sense your stare, he looks right back at you, a soft smile tugging on his lips.
“You alright?” he mouths from across the room and you just nod with a gentle smile before turning back to the girls that are all waiting for you to answer.
“I needed… him. That’s what was missing. I just needed Harry.”
Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!
A publicist, a favor, and a fake relationship with Harry Styles that was only supposed to last a few months The arrangement was simple… until it wasn’t.
Word count: 16k
Warnings: None
The text arrived at 8:47 on a Sunday morning, three question marks deep and completely devoid of context.
emergency brunch???
I’d been awake for two hours already, which sounds productive until you factor in that I’d spent most of that time reorganizing a kitchen drawer I’d reorganized three weeks ago and watching a banana turn brown on the counter like it had personally let me down.
I almost said no.
Not because I didn’t want to see Nora, but because emergency brunches with Nora had a predictable taxonomy. Either she was about to confess something catastrophic involving a man with broad shoulders and the emotional range of a parking cone, or she was spiraling about work in a way that made my own cortisol spike by pure proximity. There was rarely anything in between, and I was still in my pajamas, and the banana needed dealing with.
But forty minutes later I was weaving through the outdoor patio of the kind of aggressively trendy café that made you feel slightly worse about yourself just by entering it. Every table was full of women in matching workout sets and men wearing sunglasses expensive enough to cover my electric bill. The whole place smelled like espresso and sunscreen and somebody’s fifty dollar citrus perfume.
I spotted Nora immediately.
She was tucked near the back beneath a striped umbrella, typing on her phone with the focused intensity of someone defusing something. Her empty iced coffee sat beside her, two other phones resting face-down near the edge of the table like exhausted soldiers. She looked, as she always did, unfairly beautiful. Perfect hair. Gold jewelry. An oversized button-down half-tucked into jeans that probably cost more than my car payment.
I was wearing leggings and a sweatshirt with a suspicious stain near the sleeve.
She dropped her head back against the chair the second she saw me.
“Thank God,” she said. “I’m in actual hell.”
I sat down across from her. “Good morning to you too.”
“Dante would have written a whole circle about celebrity PR if he’d lived long enough.”
“That feels historically questionable.”
“You know what I mean.”
Nora’s second coffee arrived sometime between “actual disaster” and her third use of the word “narrative,” which felt appropriate.
“One of my clients is in a PR crisis,” she said, setting her phone face-down for the first time since I’d sat down. “Not the kind where somebody gets photographed leaving a club looking rough and Twitter loses its mind for twelve hours. I mean genuinely bad.”
“What did he do?”
Her expression flattened.
“That,” she said, “is unfortunately the problem.”
“What does that mean?”
She glanced around the patio once, more out of habit than necessity, before leaning forward slightly.
“He didn’t technically do anything.”
“That sounds promising.”
“It isn’t.” She pointed at me with one manicured finger. “Because if somebody cheats or punches a photographer or gets caught saying something awful online, at least there’s a playbook. Beginning, middle, end. Apology statement. Strategic disappearance. Maybe a carefully photographed volunteer event in soft lighting. Then everyone moves on.”
“That is genuinely dystopian.”
“That is public relations.”
She reached for her coffee again, wrapping both hands around it like it was keeping her alive.
“This is worse because nothing actually happened. It’s just bad timing. Bad optics. Too many people online deciding on a narrative and running with it faster than we can get ahead of it.”
“What narrative?”
“That he’s a pretentious, emotionally unavailable recluse who dates models and disappears for six months at a time while pretending to be deeply profound.”
I winced. “Okay. Harsh.”
“And now everyone’s decided he’s secretly miserable and desperately lonely.”
Too long to post to tumblr, read it for free here!
3rd April - Backseat by @songbirdstyles (boyfriend harry, just filthy smut)
4th - Y/N & Harry see each other all of the time, it's a little weird, right? by @jawllines (part 2 of assassin harry)
5th - Decaf by @harrywavycurly (boyfriend harry, text fic) || False Start (footballer harry, college/uni, enemies to lovers sort of, bit of angst, bit of fluff), Mad Man by @watchmegetobsessed
7th - HTADACM: Unexpected Visitors by @harrywavycurly
8th - HTADACM: Unspoken Promises, Whisper On The Water: Spring in the Swamp by @harrywavycurly
11th - After The Party by @escapismatbest (uni harry, enemies to fuckers, no love in sight, lots of banter, harry is too cocky for his own good, smut, this was sooooo good)
14th - Bail Money by @harrywavycurly (boyfriend harry, text, group chat with the other 1d boys)
17th - You're Hot by @harrywavycurly || Aster extra: another first by @moonchildstyles
19th - From The Sidewalk by @harrywavycurly (uni harry, he's kinda nerdy and shy, reader is kind and sweet, a bit angst, fluff) || Aster extra: halloween by @moonchildstyles
21st - A Knight's Duty by @gurugirl (knight harry, princess reader who is a brat, smut, he can hear but can't touch lol, i can't even begin to explain how much I love this)
27th - Aster extra: valentine's day by @moonchildstyles
Mean Bossryy | Smut (heavy) | One shot | Masterlist | WC: 10K
Summary: A Halloween party was the last place you expected to see Harry Styles. CEO, boss, and bane of your professional existence
[Harry's jaw tightens, a muscle ticking in his cheek.
"Dance with me," he says abruptly. It's not a question.
Y/N blinks, thrown by the sudden shift. "What?"
"Dance. With. Me," he repeats, enunciating each word as if she might not understand. "Unless you're afraid to."
It's a challenge, clear as day, and something rebellious flares in Y/N's chest.
"I'm not afraid of you, Mr. Styles," she says, setting her cup down on the bar with deliberate care.
His smile is cold, almost mocking. "We'll see about that.”]
The bass thumps through the converted warehouse, colored lights cutting through artificial fog as costumed bodies move on the dance floor. Y/N adjusts her cat ears for the fifth time in ten minutes, self-consciously tugging at the hemline of her black dress. The outfit had seemed empowering in her apartment mirror. Seemed sleek, sexy, and confident. Now, surrounded by LA's beautiful people, she's questioning her choices.
Three months at Pleasing should have been enough time to find her footing. But working under Harry Styles? CEO, founder, and apparent critic of everything Y/N does? It has been an exercise in frustration. Every proposal rejected, every idea met with that cool, assessing stare that somehow makes her feel two inches tall.
"You came as a cat. How original," a familiar voice drawls from behind her.
Y/N freezes, plastic cup halfway to her lips. She knows that voice. She’s has heard it dismiss her marketing strategies and question her capabilities in front of the entire creative team. Slowly, she turns.
Harry Styles leans against the bar, a vision in a pirate costume that should look ridiculous but somehow transforms him into something straight out of a fantasy. The white shirt hangs open at his chest, revealing tattoos and silver chains. A red sash cinches his waist, and the black eyeliner rimming those green eyes makes them impossibly more intense.
"Mr. Styles," she manages, hating how her voice betrays her surprise. "I didn't expect to see you here."
"Clearly," he responds, his gaze traveling deliberately from her cat ears down to her platform heels. "You'd have chosen a different costume if you knew your boss would be present. Cute nose though"
Heat rises to her cheeks. Partly embarrassment, partly indignation.
"Actually, I dress for myself, not for my employer's approval," she responds, taking a deliberate sip of her drink. "Though that seems to be my perpetual state at work as well."
Surprise takes over his face at her boldness. Here, away from the sterile office environment, with alcohol warming her veins and the costume giving her a sense of anonymity, Y/N finds courage she usually swallows down.
"And what are you supposed to be?" she continues, gesturing at his outfit. "Besides overdressed for a warehouse party."
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Pirate. Obviously."
"Ah," Y/N nods with exaggerated understanding. "I should have guessed from the eyeliner. Very Johnny Depp circa 2003."
Harry's eyebrows rise slightly, but instead of the cold dismissal she's accustomed to at the office, he seems almost...amused.
"You know, most of my employees don't speak to me this way," he observes, taking a step closer. The movement places him just inside her personal space. Not enough to be inappropriate, but enough that she catches the scent of his cologne beneath the party's mingled odors of alcohol and sweat.
"Most of your employees probably don't run into you at Halloween parties," Y/N counters. "What are you even doing here? Doesn't the CEO of a successful beauty brand have more exclusive invitations?"
Harry studies her for a moment, his head tilting slightly as if seeing her for the first time.
"My friend owns this building," he finally answers. "And contrary to what you might believe, Ms. Y/L/N, I occasionally enjoy environments where not everyone is kissing my ass."
The use of her surname startles her. She hadn't realized he even knew it.
"Well, you certainly won't get that from me," she replies before she can stop herself.
Harry's laugh is unexpected. Rich and genuine, nothing like the polite chuckles he offers in board meetings.
"No, I don't suppose I will," he agrees, his eyes lingering on her face. "You've made that abundantly clear since your first week, when you challenged my entire approach to the summer campaign."
Y/N blinks, surprised he remembers.
"You shot down every one of my ideas," she reminds him, voice hardening.
"They weren't targeting the right demographic," he dismisses with a wave of his hand.
"They were expanding beyond your current demographic," Y/N corrects, three months of frustration bubbling to the surface. "There's a difference. But you're so fixated on maintaining your existing aesthetic that you're missing opportunities to grow the brand."
Harry's expression darkens, that familiar cold look returning to his eyes.
"You think I don't know my own brand?" he challenges, stepping closer still.
Y/N doesn't back down. Maybe it's the costume, maybe it's the tequila, but something gives her the courage to stand her ground.
"I think you're too close to it," she says evenly. "Sometimes it takes fresh eyes to see new possibilities."
"Fresh eyes?" he repeats with a condescending smile. "You've been with the company for what, three months? And you think you understand Pleasing better than I do?"
Y/N lifts her chin, refusing to be intimidated.
"I understand what you're missing," she insists. "You've carved out this niche market, but you're ignoring broader appeal because you're afraid of diluting your precious vision."
Harry's jaw tightens, a muscle ticking in his cheek.
"Dance with me," he says abruptly. It's not a question.
Y/N blinks, thrown by the sudden shift. "What?"
"Dance. With. Me," he repeats, enunciating each word as if she might not understand. "Unless you're afraid to."
It's a challenge, clear as day, and something rebellious flares in Y/N's chest.
"I'm not afraid of you, Mr. Styles," she says, setting her cup down on the bar with deliberate care.
His smile is cold, almost mocking. "We'll see about that."
Before she can respond, he's leading her into the crowd. The music pulses around them, heavy and insistent, as Harry turns to face her. His hand finds her waist, pulling her closer than necessary, while his other captures hers in a grip that's just shy of too tight.
"So tell me," he says, his voice carrying a dangerous edge, "what other brilliant insights do you have about my company? The one I built from nothing while you were still in college?"
Y/N's nostrils flare at his condescension.
"Your success doesn't make you infallible," she retorts, even as she allows him to guide her through the crowd. "And treating everyone's input like it's worthless doesn't make you a good leader."
Harry's eyes flash with anger, but there's something else there too. Something that looks almost like interest.
"Is that so?" he challenges, his hand sliding lower on her back, pulling her closer until their bodies nearly touch. "And what would you know about leadership, Ms. Y/L/N?"
"I know that surrounding yourself with yes-men might feel good for your ego, but it's terrible for business," she fires back. "You hired me for my perspective, then systematically shut down every idea I've had since day one."
Their bodies move together with the music, the tension between them creating a strange, electric current. Harry's grip tightens, his eyes never leaving hers.
"I hired you because your portfolio showed promise," he corrects. "Not so you could come in and tell me how to run my company."
"Then what am I there for?" Y/N demands, frustration making her bold. "To sit quietly and nod at everything you say? To be another decoration in your perfectly aesthetic office?"
Something dangerous flashes in Harry's eyes as he pulls her closer still, their bodies now pressed together as they move to the music.
"You're there to learn," he says, his voice low and intense. "To understand the brand before you try to reinvent it. To earn your place."
"And how exactly am I supposed to do that when you dismiss me at every turn?" she challenges, acutely aware of his body against hers, of the heat building between them despite, or perhaps because of, their argument.
Harry's mouth curves into a cold smile. "By proving me wrong."
The music shifts, the beat becoming more insistent, and Harry's hand slides to her lower back, guiding her into a turn that brings her back against his chest, her back to his front. His breath is warm against her ear as he continues.
"Show me why I should listen to you," he says, his voice carrying a challenge. "Make me believe you know what you're talking about."
Y/N tries to turn to face him again, but his hand at her waist keeps her in place, their bodies moving together in a dance that feels increasingly less like dancing and more like something else entirely.
"I've tried," she insists, her voice tight with frustration. "I've brought you market research, competitor analysis, focus group results—"
"Numbers and theories," Harry dismisses, his lips close to her ear. "Show me you have the instinct, the vision. Show me you understand what Pleasing is about at its core."
His words stir not just anger, but determination in Y/N. She spins in his arms, facing him again, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders as she meets his challenging gaze.
"Pleasing isn't just about beauty products," she says, holding his gaze. "It's about self-expression, about breaking down traditional barriers between masculine and feminine aesthetics. It's about creating a space where people can explore identity through color and texture."
A flicker of surprise crosses Harry's eyes, perhaps at her precise articulation of his brand's core.
"But," she continues before he can speak, "you're limiting that expression by targeting such a narrow demographic. You could be reaching so many more people without compromising your core values."
Harry's hands tighten on her waist, his eyes never leaving hers as they move together. The crowd presses around them, forcing them closer still.
"And how would you suggest I do that?" he asks, his voice carrying a note of genuine curiosity beneath the challenge.
Y/N opens her mouth to respond, but the words die in her throat as she becomes acutely aware of something pressing against her hip. The unmistakable evidence of his arousal.
Surprise makes her bold, anger makes her reckless.
"Am I turning you on?" she asks, her tone deliberately taunting, eyes narrowed. "Is this why you dismiss all my ideas? Because you can't handle being attracted to someone who challenges you?"
Harry's eyes widen slightly, then narrow with cold fury. But he doesn't pull away. If anything, his grip on her waist tightens.
"Don't flatter yourself," he says, but the evidence against her hip contradicts his words. "This has nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with respect. You haven't earned mine yet."
"And yet here we are," Y/N retorts, a bitter smile curving her lips as she deliberately shifts her hip against him, earning a barely perceptible intake of breath. "The great Harry Styles, getting hard while arguing with his employee. How professional."
Harry's expression darkens, his eyes glittering with anger and something that sends a shiver down Y/N's spine despite the heat of the room.
"You think I'm attracted to you?" he asks, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. "Or is it that I enjoy putting arrogant little upstarts in their place?"
The words are meant to wound, to push her away, but the roughness of them, the intensity about his tone only fuels the strange fire building between them.
"Is that what this is?" Y/N challenges, refusing to back down even as warning bells sound in the back of her mind. "You trying to put me in my place? How's that working out for you?"
Her eyes drop pointedly to where their bodies connect, then rise to meet his again, a taunting smile playing at her lips.
For a moment, Harry looks like he might actually be at a loss for words. Then his expression shifts, cold anger giving way to something calculating, almost hungry.
"You have no idea who you're playing with," he warns, his voice low enough that only she can hear it.
"Maybe not," Y/N agrees, surprising even herself with her boldness. "But I'm starting to think you don't either."
They've stopped pretending to dance now, standing still in the middle of the crowded floor, locked in a battle of wills that has somehow become charged with something neither of them anticipated.
"You want to know why I dismiss your ideas?" Harry asks, his voice tight with controlled anger. "Because you haven't earned the right to have them taken seriously. You strut into my company thinking you know better after a few months than I do after years of building this brand."
"I don't think I know better," Y/N corrects, her own anger rising to match his. "I think I know differently. I think I see possibilities you're too stubborn to consider."
Harry's laugh is cold, dismissive. "Possibilities that would dilute everything Pleasing stands for."
"Or possibilities that would help it evolve," she counters. "But you're too afraid to take risks anymore. You've gotten comfortable."
The accusation lands like a slap. Harry's eyes flash dangerously.
"Comfortable?" he repeats, his voice dropping to a near-growl. "You think I'm afraid of risks?"
"I think you're afraid of change," Y/N says, holding his gaze despite the warning in his eyes. "Afraid that if you let go of even a little control, everything might fall apart."
A change flickers across Harry's face. A subtle break in his composure, as if she's touched a nerve he'd rather keep hidden.
"You don't know what you're talking about," he says, but there's less conviction in his voice now.
"Don't I?" Y/N presses, sensing weakness and moving in for the kill. "Is that why you're so threatened by my ideas? Because they represent change you can't control?"
Harry's grip on her waist tightens almost painfully, his eyes burning into hers.
"I'm not threatened by you," he insists, pulling her closer until their faces are inches apart. "I'm irritated by your presumption, your arrogance, your—"
"My what?" Y/N challenges when he breaks off. "My refusal to be intimidated by you? My insistence on being heard?"
The air between them feels charged, electric with tension that's rapidly transforming into something neither of them anticipated.
"Yes," Harry admits, surprising them both with his honesty. "That."
Y/N blinks, thrown by his unexpected candor.
"So you admit it," she says, studying his face. "You don't like that I stand up to you."
Harry's expression is complex. Anger still simmering beneath the surface, but mixed with something else now, something that makes her pulse quicken.
"I didn't say that," he corrects, his voice rough around the edges. "I said you presume too much. You think you understand things you don't."
"Then explain them to me," Y/N challenges, their bodies still pressed together, neither willing to be the first to pull away. "If I'm so wrong, so naive, enlighten me."
Harry's eyes search hers for a long moment, as if looking for something specific. Whatever he sees there makes him shake his head slightly.
"Not here," he says finally, his voice carrying a note of decision. "Not like this."
Before Y/N can respond, Harry takes her hand, leading her purposefully away from the dance floor, through the crowd toward the exit. She should resist, should pull her hand from his and demand to know what he thinks he's doing. Instead, she follows, curiosity and something darker compelling her forward.
As they step outside into the cool night air, the bass from inside thrums faintly through the walls. Harry's hand remains firmly around Y/N's wrist, his grip tight but not painful as he leads her around the corner of the warehouse, away from the scattered smokers and partygoers taking a break from the heat inside.
In one swift motion, Harry presses Y/N against the brick wall, his arms caging her in. The sudden movement knocks the breath from her lungs, surprise widening her eyes as she looks up at him. His face is half in shadow, the glow from a distant street lamp catching on his jawline, highlighting the intensity in his gaze.
"You want to know why I dismiss your ideas?" he asks, his voice low and rough. "You want me to explain what you're missing?"
Y/N opens her mouth to respond with something cutting, but the words die in her throat as Harry leans closer, his nose tracing along her jawline. His breath is warm against her skin, raising goosebumps despite the lingering heat from the dance floor still radiating from her body.
"Your ideas aren't bad," he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he speaks. "They're incomplete. Underdeveloped. You see the surface. The aesthetic, the trend, but you miss the depth."
His nose trails down the column of her throat, making her pulse jump erratically. Y/N's hands come up to rest against his chest, though she can't decide if she means to push him away or pull him closer.
"You talk about expanding demographics without understanding what makes the current ones loyal," Harry continues, his voice vibrating against her skin. "You want to chase new markets without securing the foundation."
One of his hands moves from the wall to her waist, fingers digging into the fabric of her dress.
"It's not that I don't see the potential," he admits, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes. "It's that you're rushing ahead without doing the groundwork."
Y/N swallows hard, trying to focus on his words rather than the heat of his body pressing against hers.
"Then why not tell me that?" she challenges, her voice hoarser than she'd like. "Why shut me down completely instead of guiding me to develop the ideas further?"
Harry's laugh is soft and humorless, his thumb tracing small circles at her waist.
"Because that's not my job," he says simply. "I'm not your mentor. I'm not here to hold your hand. If you want your ideas to be taken seriously, make them bulletproof before you bring them to me."
His other hand moves to cup her jaw, tilting her face up to meet his gaze directly.
"But that's not really what this is about anymore, is it?" he asks, his voice dropping lower still.
Y/N's breath catches in her throat as his thumb brushes across her lower lip.
"What is it about, then?" she manages to ask, hating the breathless quality of her voice.
Harry studies her face for a long moment, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dim light.
"This," he says finally, closing the distance between them.
He claims her mouth with bruising intensity, his kiss demanding and assertive, a forceful statement rather than a hesitant question. Y/N gasps against his lips, the sound swallowed by his mouth as his tongue sweeps inside.
For a moment, she's too shocked to respond. Then something inside her ignites, three months of frustration and unacknowledged attraction converging into a single point of heat that spreads through her body like wildfire. Her hands fist in the material of his pirate shirt, pulling him closer as she kisses him back with matching ferocity.
Harry makes a sound deep in his throat, but whether its approval or surprise, she can't tell. His hand slides from her jaw to the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair. The cool silver of his rings presses against her skin. The other grips her hip hard enough to leave marks, holding her against the wall as he deepens the kiss.
When he finally pulls back, they're both breathing hard, their exhales creating small clouds in the cool night air.
Harry's eyes search hers, a question in them despite the assertiveness of his actions.
"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice rough with want but clear with intent. "Because if it's not, we stop now. No consequences, no awkwardness at work. We chalk it up to Halloween and too much tequila."
The offer is genuine, Y/N realizes. For all his intensity, all his apparent confidence, he's giving her a way out. An assurance that whatever happens here won't affect her job.
She considers it for a moment, weighs the potential complications against the heat still coursing through her veins, the undeniable chemistry that has apparently been simmering beneath their antagonism all these months.
"Yes," she says finally, her decision made. "It's okay. More than okay."
Relief and hunger flash across Harry's face, his grip on her hip tightening.
"My place," he says, not a question but a statement of intent. "Now."
Y/N nods, not trusting herself to speak as Harry takes her hand again, leading her toward the parking lot.
The sleek black Range Rover with tinted windows sits waiting in the VIP section of the lot. He opens the passenger door for her, an oddly gentlemanly gesture that contrasts sharply with the hunger in his eyes. The drive to his place passes in charged silence, tension thick enough to cut with a knife.
His home is exactly what Y/N would have expected: minimalist, tasteful, expensive. A modern glass and concrete structure nestled in the Hollywood Hills, offering breathtaking views of the city lights below. But she barely has time to take it in before Harry is on her again, his mouth claiming hers as soon as the front door closes behind them.
He backs her against the wall of his entryway, hands everywhere at once. Tangled in her hair, gripping her hip, sliding up her thigh beneath the hem of her dress. Y/N responds with equal fervor, her fingers working at the sash around his waist, desperate to feel more of him.
"Three months," Harry growls against her mouth, nipping at her lower lip hard enough to sting. "Three months of watching you challenge me in meetings, that defiant look in your eyes when I shut down your ideas."
His hand finds her throat, applying just enough pressure to make her gasp, but not enough to restrict her breathing.
"Did you think I didn't see how you looked at me?" he continues, his free hand hiking her dress higher. "Did you think I didn't notice?"
Y/N's head falls back against the wall as Harry's mouth moves to her neck, teeth scraping against sensitive skin.
"I didn't—" she starts, but he cuts her off with another bruising kiss.
"Don't lie," he warns, his voice rough with desire. "Not now."
In one fluid motion, Harry lifts her against the wall, her legs wrapping around his waist as his hands grip her thighs. The cat tail from her costume gets crushed between her and the wall, digging uncomfortably into her skin. She flinches involuntarily at the sudden pain.
Harry freezes immediately, his grip loosening.
"Did I hurt you?" he asks, concern replacing the hunger in his eyes.
Y/N shakes her head, touched by his immediate response despite the haze of desire clouding her thoughts.
"No. Just—the tail," she explains, shifting her hip away from the wall and inadvertently rubbing against his now throbbing erection. The movement elicits a sharp hiss from Harry, his eyes darkening once more.
Harry reaches behind her, yanking the tail free and tossing it aside with a smirk.
"Won't be needing that," he says, his voice dropping to a growl that sends shivers down her spine. "The ears can stay though."
His mouth is on hers again before she can respond, more demanding than before. One hand supports her weight while the other slides between them, pushing aside the thin material of her underwear to find her already wet.
"Fuck," he breathes against her lips. "So wet for me already."
Y/N moans as his fingers explore her, teasing her entrance before circling her clit with maddening precision.
"Harry," she gasps, her hips bucking against his hand.
He smiles against her mouth, a wicked curve of lips that promises both pleasure and torment.
"Say that again," he commands, his fingers stilling. "My name. Not 'Mr. Styles.' Not 'sir.' Harry."
Y/N swallows hard, meeting his intense gaze.
"Harry," she repeats, her voice barely above a whisper.
His smile widens, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes as his fingers resume their skilled movements.
"Good girl," he murmurs, the praise sending an unexpected thrill through her body.
Harry works her with his fingers until she's trembling on the edge of release, her breath coming in short, desperate pants. Then, just as she's about to fall over that precipice, he withdraws his hand completely.
Y/N makes a sound of frustration, her body clenching around nothing as Harry sets her back on her feet. Her legs feel unsteady beneath her, desire making her dizzy.
"Not yet," he says, his voice commanding despite its roughness. "Not until I say so."
He steps back, creating space between them as his hands move to the buttons of his shirt.
"Take off your dress," he orders, watching her with heated intensity.
Y/N hesitates for just a moment, then reaches for the zipper at the side of her dress. She slides it down slowly, holding his gaze as the material loosens around her body. With deliberate movements, she pushes the straps off her shoulders, allowing the dress to pool at her feet.
Harry's breath catches audibly as he takes in the sight of her in nothing but black lace underwear, cat ears, and platform heels.
"Christ," he mutters, shrugging out of his own shirt to reveal the tattoos scattered across his torso. "You're fucking perfect."
He closes the distance between them again, hands sliding possessively over her curves as his mouth finds her collarbone, teeth scraping against delicate skin. Y/N's head falls back, a soft moan escaping her lips as Harry works his way down her body, leaving marks in his wake.
When he reaches the swell of her breasts, his mouth closes around one nipple, teeth grazing the sensitive peak while his hand attends to the other.
Y/N arches into his touch, her hands fisting in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him growl against her skin. The sound vibrates through her, adding to the building pressure low in her belly.
Harry works his way lower still, dropping to his knees before her as his mouth trails over her ribs, her stomach, the jut of her hipbones. His hands grip her thighs, thumbs pressing into sensitive flesh as he looks up at her from his position on the floor.
"Been thinking about this since that meeting last month," Harry murmurs against her skin, his breath hot against her center. "Wanted to replace every word of yours with a moan."
Without warning, he hooks one of her legs over his shoulder, opening her to his gaze. Y/N gasps, her fingers instinctively threading through his curls as he leans in, dragging his tongue through her folds in one long, deliberate stroke.
"Harry," she breathes, her head falling back against the wall with a soft thud.
He hums in acknowledgment, the vibration sending shockwaves through her body as he focuses his attention on her clit. His tongue circles the sensitive bundle of nerves with precision, alternating between feather-light touches that make her whimper and firm pressure that has her hips bucking against his face.
One of his hands leaves her thigh, fingers tracing up her inner leg until they reach her entrance. He teases her there, circling but not entering as his mouth continues its relentless assault on her clit.
"Please," Y/N whispers, tightening her grip on his hair.
Harry pulls back just enough to speak, his lips brushing against her as he says, "Please what, love? Use your words."
"Inside," she manages, beyond embarrassment at this point. "I need you inside me."
A satisfied smirk crosses his face before he returns to his task, sliding two fingers into her as his tongue resumes its work. The dual sensation draws a moan from deep in Y/N's throat, her body trembling as Harry curls his fingers to hit that perfect spot inside her.
The pressure builds quickly, tension coiling tighter and tighter in her lower belly as Harry works her with single-minded determination. His fingers pump in and out in a steady rhythm, his tongue never letting up on her clit. Y/N's breaths come faster, shorter, her thighs beginning to shake around Harry's head as she approaches the edge.
"That's it," Harry murmurs against her, clearly sensing how close she is. "Let it go, love."
His words, combined with a particularly clever flick of his tongue, send her careening over the edge.
Harry works her through it, gradually slowing his movements as the intensity of her climax subsides. When her grip on his hair finally loosens, he places one final kiss against her oversensitive flesh. .
The sight of Harry Styles—CEO, boss, bane of her professional existence—on his knees before her sends a fresh wave of heat through Y/N's body. But before she can fully process the image, he's rising to his feet again, his expression shifting to something darker, more commanding.
His hand finds her throat once more, applying gentle pressure as he guides her backward until she hits the wall again.
"My turn," he says, his voice low and rough with desire. "Use that mouth for something more productive."
With gentle but firm pressure, he pushes down on her shoulders, guiding her to her knees before him. Y/N goes willingly, a thrill of anticipation coursing through her as she looks up at him from her new position.
Harry's hands move to the fastening of his pants, undoing them with deliberate slowness as Y/N watches, her breath coming faster in anticipation. The metallic sound of his zipper seems impossibly loud in the quiet room, heightening the tension between them. When he finally frees himself, she can't help the small gasp that escapes her lips at the sight of him already thick, hard, and leaking at the tip.
"Like what you see?" he asks, his voice a low rumble as he strokes himself once, twice, his eyes never leaving hers.
Before Y/N can respond, Harry's free hand comes up to cup her jaw, his thumb pressing against her lower lip with just enough pressure to part her mouth.
"Open," he commands, his voice leaving no room for argument as his thumb traces the seam of her lips. "On your knees."
A thrill running through her at the authority in his tone. She settles before him, looking up through her lashes as she parts her lips in invitation.
Harry doesn't immediately accept. Instead, he continues to stroke himself lazily, making her wait, making her want it. His other hand threads through her hair, gathering it at the nape of her neck in a makeshift ponytail.
He guides himself to her parted lips, rubbing the head against them, smearing pre-cum across her mouth but not entering.
"Tell me you want this," he demands, tightening his grip on her hair.
"I want it," Y/N breathes, her eyes locked on his. "Please, Harry."
Only then does he push forward, sliding between her lips with a groan that seems torn from deep in his chest. He starts slowly, allowing her to adjust to his size, but soon establishes a rhythm that borders on punishing. His hands remain firmly tangled in her hair, controlling the depth and pace of each thrust.
Y/N hollows her cheeks, working her tongue along the underside of his shaft as he moves in and out of her mouth. Her hands come up to rest on his thighs, feeling the muscles tense and release with each thrust.
When she attempts to take control, setting her own pace, Harry immediately tightens his grip, holding her still.
"No," he says, his voice strained but commanding. "You take what I give you."
The dominance in his tone sends another rush of heat between Y/N's legs. She moans around him, the vibration drawing a hiss of pleasure from Harry.
"Look at me," he demands when her eyes flutter closed in concentration. "I want to see those pretty eyes while you take me."
Y/N complies, meeting his intense gaze as he continues to thrust into her mouth. There's something intoxicating about seeing him like this. With his pupils blown wide with desire, a flush spreading across his cheeks and down his neck, sweat beginning to bead at his temples. His control is slipping, just slightly, pleasure overtaking the cool composure he maintains in the office.
One of her hands moves from his thigh to the base of his cock, working what she can't fit in her mouth. Harry's rhythm falters momentarily at the added sensation, a particularly colorful curse falling from his lips.
"Christ," he mutters, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. "Your fucking mouth, Y/N."
She increases her efforts, encouraged by his reaction. Her tongue swirls around the head on each upstroke, her hand working in tandem with her mouth as she takes him as deep as she can manage.
Harry's breathing grows more ragged, his thrusts becoming less controlled as pleasure builds. His hands tighten in her hair almost to the point of pain, holding her exactly where he wants her.
"Fuck," he groans, his voice strained. "If you keep that up, I'm going to—"
Without warning, Harry pulls out completely, a string of saliva connecting him to her lips for a brief moment before breaking. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he fights for control, his cock twitching with each labored breath.
Y/N remains on her knees, looking up at him with swollen lips and flushed cheeks, waiting for his next command. There's a certain power in being on her knees before him, knowing the effect she has on his carefully maintained control.
"Up," he says finally, his voice hoarse as he tucks himself back into his pants without fastening them. "Bedroom. Now."
He extends a hand to help her to her feet, but there's nothing gentle in his grip as he pulls her against him for a bruising kiss, tasting himself on her tongue.
He doesn't wait for her response, simply taking her hand and leading her through the house to a spacious master bedroom dominated by a large platform bed with crisp white sheets. The city lights twinkle through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting the room in a soft, ambient glow.
Harry turns to face her, his expression intense as he takes in the sight of her: disheveled, lips swollen, cat ears askew atop her head.
"On the bed," he instructs, his voice softer now but no less commanding. "Hands above your head."
Y/N complies, settling onto the plush mattress and raising her arms as directed. Harry watches her for a moment, his eyes dark with desire, before moving to join her on the bed.
He hovers over her, one hand pinning her wrists above her head while the other traces patterns on her skin, teasing touches that make her arch into him, seeking more substantial contact.
"You've been a thorn in my side for three months," he murmurs, his mouth close to her ear. "Always pushing back, always challenging me."
His hand slides between her legs again, finding her even wetter than before.
"And all this time," he continues, circling her clit with maddening precision, "this is what you really wanted, isn't it? To be underneath me, begging for my cock?"
Y/N wants to deny it, to maintain some semblance of the professional dignity she's fought so hard to establish. But as Harry's fingers slip inside her, curling to hit that spot that makes her see stars, all she can do is moan his name.
Harry works her with his hand until she's once again teetering on the edge of orgasm, her body trembling with need. And once again, he withdraws just before she can find release.
"Not yet," he reminds her, his voice tight with his own restraint. "Not until I say so."
Y/N whimpers in frustration, her hips bucking involuntarily as she seeks the pressure she desperately needs.
Harry chuckles darkly, the sound sending shivers down her spine.
"Patience," he advises, reaching over to the bedside table and retrieving a condom from the drawer.
He makes quick work of the rest of his clothes, rolling the condom on with practiced ease before positioning himself between her thighs. The head of his cock teases her entrance, gathering her wetness but not pushing inside.
Y/N tries to move her hips, to force him deeper, but Harry's hand on her hip holds her firmly in place.
"Ask for it," he says, his voice rough with desire. "Tell me what you want."
Pride wars with need as Y/N meets his gaze. In the office, she'd never give him the satisfaction of begging. But here, with desire coursing through her veins and his body poised to give her exactly what she craves, pride seems a small price to pay.
"Please," she whispers, the word foreign on her tongue in this context.
Harry's smile is triumphant, his grip on her hip tightening.
"Please what?" he pushes, clearly not satisfied with her simple plea.
Y/N swallows hard, heat rising to her cheeks that has nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with the vulnerability of the moment.
"Please fuck me," she elaborates, her voice stronger now despite the submission in her words. "I need you inside me."
Satisfaction gleams in Harry's eyes as he finally, finally pushes forward, entering her in one smooth thrust that draws matching moans from both their lips.
"Fuck," he groans, stilling inside her to let her adjust to his size. "You feel even better than I imagined."
The admission that he's thought about this before sends a fresh wave of heat through Y/N's body. Before she can dwell on it, however, Harry begins to move, establishing a rhythm that's just shy of punishing. It was hard enough to make her gasp with each thrust, but controlled enough to keep her hovering on the edge without pushing her over.
His hand finds her throat again, applying gentle pressure as he continues to drive into her. The slight restriction of her airflow intensifies every sensation, making colors bloom behind her eyelids as pleasure builds to almost unbearable levels.
Harry maintains a punishing rhythm, his hips snapping against hers with each thrust. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, punctuated by Y/N's gasps and Harry's occasional groans. His hand remains at her throat, applying just enough pressure to make each sensation more intense, more immediate.
His other hand slides between them, finding her clit with precision. The dual stimulation has Y/N trembling beneath him, so close to the edge she can practically taste it. Her back arches off the bed, her body tensing as the pressure builds to an almost unbearable level.
"Please," she gasps, the word barely audible. "Harry, please let me—"
Without warning, Harry stops mid-thrust. He pulls out completely, leaving her empty and aching. Y/N lets out a cry of frustration, her body clenching around nothing as she's denied release yet again.
"What are you doing?" she demands, her voice breaking with need. "Why did you stop?"
Harry doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he moves down her body, pressing open-mouthed kisses to her stomach, her hipbones. His hands push her thighs further apart, exposing her completely to his hungry gaze.
"Because," he finally says, his breath hot against her most sensitive flesh, "I want to taste you again when you come."
Before Y/N can process his words, Harry hooks her legs over his shoulders and replaces his cock with his mouth. The first sweep of his tongue has her crying out, her hands fisting in the sheets as pleasure crashes through her in waves.
Harry works her with his mouth like a man starved, alternating between broad strokes of his tongue and focused attention on her clit. His hands grip her thighs, holding her open and immobile as he devours her with single-minded intensity.
"Harry," she moans, one hand moving to tangle in his hair. "Oh god, Harry, please don't stop."
He has no intention of stopping. If anything, her pleas spur him on, his movements becoming more focused, more deliberate. He slides two fingers inside her as his tongue circles her clit, curling them to hit that spot that makes her see stars.
The combination is too much. The pleasure that's been building all night crests, washing over Y/N in an overwhelming wave. Her back arches off the bed, her thighs trembling around Harry's head as she comes with a cry that might be his name, though she's too far gone to be certain.
Harry doesn't let up, working her through the orgasm and straight into another. The second hits harder than the first, leaving Y/N breathless and disoriented, her body shaking with the force of it.
"Harry," she gasps, tugging at his hair. "Too much, it's too much."
Only then does he relent, pressing one final kiss to her oversensitive flesh before moving back up her body. His face is slick with her arousal, his eyes dark with hunger as he hovers over her.
"I'm not done with you yet," he warns, his voice rough with desire. "Not even close."
He captures her mouth in a kiss, letting her taste herself on his tongue. Y/N moans into the kiss, the intimacy of the act somehow more intense than everything that came before it.
Harry reaches between them, guiding himself back to her entrance. Despite her recent orgasms, Y/N finds herself arching into the contact, her body already craving more of him.
"Ready?" he asks, the question a mere formality given the way she's moving against him.
"Yes," she breathes, her hands sliding up his arms to grip his shoulders. "Please, yes."
Harry's eyes flash with renewed hunger, a decision crystallizing in his mind. In one swift motion, he flips Y/N onto her stomach, his movements confident and deliberate. She gasps in surprise, the sudden change in position momentarily disorienting her.
Before she can fully adjust, Harry's hands are on her hips, lifting them off the bed until she's on her knees before him, her upper body still pressed against the mattress. The position leaves her completely exposed to him, vulnerable in a way that sends a fresh thrill of anticipation down her spine.
"Look at you," Harry murmurs, his voice low and appreciative as his hands squeeze her hips. "Fucking perfect."
He positions himself behind her, the head of his cock teasing her entrance once more. Y/N pushes back against him, impatient despite her recent release, earning a sharp smack on her ass that makes her yelp in surprise.
"Greedy," Harry chides, though there's amusement in his tone. "I decide when and how you get my cock, understand?"
Y/N nods, her face pressed against the sheets as heat rises to her cheeks. The dynamic between them has shifted again with Harry taking complete control, leaving no room for challenge or defiance.
With one hand still gripping her hip, Harry uses the other to gather her hair into his fist, pulling it just tight enough to create a delicious tension without causing pain. The slight sting at her scalp sends another wave of heat through Y/N's body, her arousal building again despite her recent climax.
Without further warning, Harry enters her in one powerful thrust, burying himself to the hilt. Y/N cries out at the sudden fullness, her body stretching to accommodate him from this new angle.
"Fuck," Harry growls, his grip tightening on both her hip and her hair. "So fucking tight like this."
He sets a punishing pace, each thrust harder and deeper than the last. The sound of skin against skin fills the room once more, accompanied by Harry's rough breathing and Y/N's muffled moans.
"You feel that?" he demands, tugging on her hair to arch her back further. "Feel how deep I am? No one's ever fucked you this good, have they?"
The question doesn't require an answer, which is fortunate because Y/N can barely form coherent thoughts, let alone words. Harry's cock hits spots inside her that she didn't know existed, sending sparks of pleasure shooting up her spine with each thrust.
"Been wanting to do this since that first meeting," Harry continues, his voice strained with effort and desire. "All I could think about was bending you over my desk, making you take my cock until you couldn't remember your own name."
The image his words paint makes Y/N moan louder, her body responding to the fantasy as readily as to his physical touch. Harry notices, a dark chuckle escaping him as he drives into her harder.
"You like that idea?" he asks, his hand leaving her hip to slide around to her front, finding her clit with accuracy. "Like thinking about me fucking you in the office? Where anyone could walk in and see what a dirty little slut you are for me?"
Y/N whimpers, both at his words and at the skilled movements of his fingers. The combination of his cock filling her so completely and his fingers working her clit has her building toward another climax, despite having just come twice.
"Answer me," Harry demands, giving her hair another tug.
"Yes," she gasps, the admission torn from her throat. "Yes, I like it."
"Thought so," Harry says, satisfaction evident in his tone. "Bet you've touched yourself thinking about it, haven't you? Fingers in your cunt, imagining they were mine?"
The crude language sends another jolt of heat through Y/N's body, her internal muscles clenching around Harry's cock in response. He groans at the sensation, his rhythm faltering momentarily before resuming with even greater intensity.
"Gonna come for me again?" he asks, his fingers moving faster against her clit. "Gonna come on my cock like a good girl?"
Y/N can only nod, words beyond her as pleasure builds to an almost unbearable level. Harry's thrusts become more erratic, his breathing more labored as he chases his own release.
"Do it," he commands, his voice rough with exertion. "Come for me now."
As if her body was waiting for permission, Y/N shatters at his words. Her fourth orgasm hits with staggering force, waves of pleasure crashing through her as she cries out Harry's name. Her body convulses around him, drawing a strangled groan from his lips.
With a final, powerful thrust, Harry follows her over the edge, his body tensing as he comes. His grip on her hair tightens almost to the point of pain, then gradually relaxes as the intensity of his climax subsides.
For a moment, they remain connected, both breathing heavily as they come down from their respective highs. Then Harry carefully withdraws, releasing her hair and helping her lower her hips back to the mattress.
Y/N collapses onto her stomach, her body boneless with satisfaction. She feels the mattress dip as Harry moves off the bed, presumably to dispose of the condom. When he returns, he stretches out beside her, his hand coming to rest on the small of her back.
"You okay?" he asks, his voice gentler now, concern evident in his tone.
All Y/N could manage was a weak grunt and a halfhearted thumbs up, her eyes remaining firmly closed as she sank deeper into the mattress. Her body felt simultaneously weightless and impossibly heavy, every muscle deliciously sore in ways she hadn't experienced in far too long.
Harry chuckled at her response, the sound warm and satisfied as he stretched out beside her. With gentle fingers, he brushed her hair away from her face, tucking the tangled strands behind her ear.
"Good," he murmured, his voice deceptively soft before adding, "because you look like shit."
He punctuated the statement by squeezing her cheek between his thumb and forefinger, the teasing gesture bringing her eyes open to glare at him. And just like that, mean Harry was back. The brief tenderness giving way to his usual sardonic attitude.
Y/N might have been offended if she hadn't caught the playful glint in his eyes, the slight upturn at the corner of his mouth that belied his harsh words.
"Gee, thanks," she mumbled, her voice muffled against the pillow. "Just what every girl wants to hear after..."
She trailed off, suddenly uncertain how to label what had just happened between them. Sex seemed too clinical, fucking too crude (despite the accuracy), and making love laughably inappropriate given their complicated relationship.
Harry seemed to sense her hesitation, his smirk widening as he traced a finger along her jawline, coming away with a smudge of black eyeliner.
"After getting thoroughly fucked?" he supplied helpfully, his eyebrow arching in amusement. "You've got makeup everywhere. Mascara down your cheeks, lipstick..." he paused, glancing down at his own chest where faint red marks showed the journey of her lips, "well, all over both of us, actually."
Y/N groaned, her face buried deeper in the pillow. She could only imagine her appearance: her meticulously applied cat makeup ruined, her hair a tangled mess from Harry's enthusiastic embrace, and her lips swollen from his kisses.
"Bathroom's through there," Harry said, nodding toward a door on the far side of the room. "In case you want to clean up."
There was a careful neutrality that hadn't been there before that made Y/N lift her head to look at him properly. His expression was unreadable, those green eyes that had been so expressive during their encounter now guarded.
"Are you kicking me out?" she asked, surprising herself with the directness of the question.
Harry blinked, seemingly taken aback by her bluntness.
"No," he said after a moment, his brow furrowing slightly. "Unless you want to go?"
It was phrased as a question, but Y/N could hear the underlying uncertainty. For all his confidence, all his control in the bedroom, Harry Styles wasn't quite sure what happened next. The realization was oddly endearing.
"I'm not sure I could walk right now if I tried," she admitted, a small smile playing at her lips. "So unless you're planning to carry me to an Uber..."
Relief flickered across Harry's features before his usual confident smirk returned.
"Guess you're staying then," he said, his hand moving to rest on the small of her back, thumb tracing idle patterns on her skin. "Though I might need to hide all the mirrors in the house. Your reflection might scare you."
Y/N reached out to smack his chest, her movements sluggish with post-orgasmic fatigue.
"You're such an ass," she muttered, though there was no real heat in her words.
"An ass who made you come four times," Harry reminded her, his voice dropping to that low, husky register that sent shivers down her spine despite her exhaustion. "Don't forget that part."
Y/N rolled her eyes, but couldn't suppress the smile that tugged at her lips.
"As if your ego needs any more stroking," she said, gathering the energy to push herself up onto her elbows. "But fine. You're an ass who's good in bed. Happy?"
Harry's laugh was genuine this time, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that transformed his entire face, making him look younger, more carefree.
"Ecstatic," he said, leaning in to press a surprisingly gentle kiss to her temple. "Now go clean up before you completely ruin my thousand-thread-count sheets with your raccoon eyes."
Y/N stuck her tongue out at him, childish perhaps, but strangely appropriate given the odd dynamic that had developed between them before slowly pushing herself into a sitting position. Her muscles protested the movement, reminding her just how thoroughly Harry had worked her body.
"Thousand-thread-count, huh?" she said, running a hand over the luxurious fabric. "Fancy."
"Only the best," Harry replied with a shrug, watching her with those intense green eyes that seemed to see right through her.
Y/N nodded, suddenly feeling awkward despite their recent intimacy. She gathered the sheet around her body, creating a makeshift toga as she stood from the bed.
"I'll just..." she gestured toward the bathroom door, taking a step in that direction before pausing. "Um, do you have a shirt or something I could borrow? I'm not sure I want to put that dress back on just yet."
Harry's expression softened slightly at her request, something almost like affection crossing his features before disappearing behind his usual mask of confident indifference.
"Drawer on the left," he said, nodding toward a sleek dresser against the wall. "Help yourself."
Y/N crossed to the dresser, conscious of Harry's eyes on her as she moved. She selected a soft black t-shirt from the neatly folded stack, holding it against her chest as she continued to the bathroom.
The sight that greeted her in the mirror made her groan out loud. Harry hadn't been exaggerating. She looked like a Halloween disaster. Mascara streaked down her cheeks, her lipstick was smeared across her chin, and the cat nose Harry had once called cute was now a smudged mess across the bridge of her nose. The cat ears still sat atop her head, though they'd tilted to one side, giving her a lopsided appearance.
"Oh god," she muttered, reaching for a washcloth from the stack of pristine white linens beside the sink.
She dampened the cloth with warm water and began the process of removing the ruined makeup, wincing as she uncovered evidence of their encounter. A bruise was forming at the junction of her neck and shoulder, another at her collarbone. Her lips were swollen and slightly raw.
As Y/N wiped away the last traces of makeup from her face, curiosity got the better of her. Harry's bathroom was a designer's dream of gleaming marble and sleek fixtures. The shower alone was bigger than her entire bathroom at home, with multiple showerheads and a built-in bench that made her blush as she considered its potential uses.
She set the makeup-stained washcloth aside and began opening drawers, telling herself she was just looking for a comb, maybe some moisturizer. The first drawer contained the expected items like a razor, shaving cream, and cologne that smelled exactly like Harry. Yes, she uncapped and smelled it. The second held an array of high-end hair products, explaining how his curls always looked so perfectly tousled despite his apparent lack of effort.
It was the third drawer that made her pause. Tucked neatly beside a box of tampons was a pink razor, distinctly different from the sleek black one in the first drawer. A bottle of women's body wash sat next to it, along with a small makeup bag.
Y/N felt her stomach drop, a cold weight settling in her chest as the implications sank in. These weren't guest items. They were too personal, too specifically chosen. They belonged to someone who stayed here often enough to keep supplies on hand. Someone who mattered enough to Harry that he made space for her things in his private bathroom.
"Shit," she whispered, closing the drawer quickly as if hiding the evidence could somehow erase what she'd seen.
She hadn't considered this possibility. For all his flirtatious behavior at work, all the tension that had built between them over the past three months, she'd never stopped to wonder if Harry was already involved with someone. The thought made her slightly nauseated, her post-orgasmic glow fading as quickly as it had appeared.
Y/N turned back to the mirror, studying her reflection with new eyes. The marks on her skin, which had felt like badges of honor moments ago, now seemed like evidence of a betrayal she'd unknowingly participated in. She pulled on Harry's t-shirt with less enthusiasm than before, the soft fabric no longer a comfort but a reminder of her mistake.
Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself before opening the bathroom door.
When Y/N emerged from the bathroom, the confrontation she'd been mentally rehearsing died on her lips. Harry lay sprawled across the bed, one arm flung above his head, the other resting on his stomach. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep and even. The man who had been so commanding, so intensely focused on her pleasure just minutes ago, now looked almost boyish in sleep, his features relaxed and vulnerable in a way she hadn't seen before.
She stood in the doorway, clutching the hem of his borrowed t-shirt, uncertain whether to be relieved or frustrated by this turn of events. The evidence she'd found in the bathroom weighed heavily on her mind, demanding answers that would now have to wait. She didn't know if that was good or bad. Whether confronting him immediately would be better than letting the knowledge fester overnight.
"Harry?" she called softly, taking a tentative step toward the bed.
He didn't stir, apparently having fallen into the deep sleep of the thoroughly satisfied. Y/N sighed, running a hand through her hair as she considered her options. She could wake him, demand explanations about the feminine products in his bathroom. She could gather her things and leave, avoiding the awkward morning-after conversation entirely. Or she could join him in bed and deal with it all tomorrow, when her thoughts weren't clouded by post-orgasmic fatigue and emotional confusion.
The third option was tempting. The bed looked incredibly comfortable, and despite her discovery, she couldn't deny the lingering effects of their encounter. Her body was pleasantly sore, her limbs heavy with exhaustion. The thought of calling an Uber and making her way back to her apartment at this hour was decidedly unappealing.
But could she really sleep beside him, knowing what she now suspected? Would the morning bring awkward explanations, perhaps even the revelation that she was the "other woman" in a scenario she'd never wanted any part of?
Y/N chewed her lower lip, watching the rise and fall of Harry's chest as she deliberated. There was always the possibility she'd misinterpreted what she'd found. Perhaps the items belonged to a sister, a friend who stayed over frequently, even a cleaning service that stocked the bathroom with generic supplies.
But deep down, she knew these explanations were unlikely. The specific brand of tampons, the particular shade of lipstick visible in the makeup bag were personal choices, not generic supplies. They spoke of a woman who spent enough time here to consider this space partially her own.
With a resigned sigh, Y/N moved to the bed, carefully settling onto the edge to avoid waking Harry. She'd come this far; she might as well get some rest before facing whatever complications the morning would bring. Besides, a part of her, the one she wasn't particularly proud of at the moment, still craved the closeness, even if it was tainted by her discovery.
As she slipped under the covers, keeping a careful distance between her body and Harry's, she couldn't help but reflect on how quickly the evening had shifted. From the exhilaration of finally acting on three months of tension to the sinking feeling of potential betrayal all in the span of a few hours.
Harry stirred slightly as the mattress dipped under her weight, but didn't wake. Instead, he mumbled something incoherent and rolled toward her, one arm draping heavily across her waist. The casual possessiveness of the gesture made her heart clench, a complicated mixture of desire and dismay washing over her.
Y/N lay stiffly beneath his arm, staring at the ceiling as her mind raced with questions she couldn't answer. Who was she? How serious were they? Did Harry make a habit of this? Bringing women from work back to a home he shared, at least partially, with someone else?
And perhaps most troubling: why did the thought hurt so much? This was supposed to be a one-time thing, an outlet for the tension that had been building between them. She shouldn't care if Harry was involved with someone else. It shouldn't matter.
But it did. The realization sat heavy in her chest as she finally closed her eyes, willing sleep to come and provide temporary respite from the turmoil of her thoughts.
Tomorrow would bring answers, one way or another. For now, all she could do was try to rest, surrounded by the scent of Harry's cologne on the pillow and the weight of his arm across her body. A physical comfort that did little to ease the emotional discomfort growing within her.
As she drifted into an uneasy sleep, one final thought crossed her mind: how strange that the most physically satisfying encounter of her life might also be the one she'd come to regret the most.
the kind of love that feels lived in. Slow mornings, sun-kissed skin and quiet conversations.
Author's note: Hi loves 🤍 As many of you know from previous posts, after losing my dad to cancer my mom has been supporting me on her own, and she recently lost her job. I have a school payment due Thursday (after asking for an extension) and I’m doing everything I can to stay enrolled.
To help, I created Top Tier Access — 6 months for a one-time $20, including all All Access content plus everything added through July 2026 (no subscriptions).
A friend also set up a GoFundMe for anyone who prefers donating.
⚠️ Please purchase through your browser, not iOS (funds are held for 75 days). ⚠️
You can also send $20 via PayPal and I’ll gift you access — just DM me. This way you can skip all of the extra fees!
No pressure at all. Donating, purchasing, or even reblogging truly helps 🤍
Update: $1,370 raised so far out of 4000— thank you endlessly.
Links below 🤍
It was warm and not from the sun, not from the faint rays slipping through the white curtains, but from the pair of arms wrapped lazily around her waist. Harry’s breath fanned softly against the back of her neck, slow and unhurried, as if even his lungs knew there was no reason to rush.
The waves rolled in gently beyond the open balcony doors, a rhythmic hush that matched Harry’s heartbeat pressed to her spine. The whole rented beach house smelled like saltwater, linen, and him.
Y/N shifted slightly, and Harry tightened his hold as if she were part of the blankets tangled around them.
“Mmm… don’t move,” he mumbled, voice still heavy with sleep.
His nose brushed her shoulder. “S’too early to stop cuddling.”
A smile tugged at her lips. “Harry… the sun’s already up.”
“Then it can come back later,” he said, nuzzling closer.
She couldn’t help but laugh softly, placing her hand over his where it rested on her stomach. Their fingers threaded together without thought. It was a quiet, instinctive act of belonging.
After a few more minutes of silence, Y/N gently rolled onto her back. Harry’s curls were a mess, falling over his forehead, and his eyes were half-open, sleepy and soft. He looked younger like this. Softer. Happier.
“Morning,” she whispered.
He lifted one hand and cupped her cheek gently, his thumb brushing under her eye. “Hi… pretty girl.”
Her heart melted. “You should be arrested for talking like that first thing in the morning.”
Harry laughed. A low, lazy sound that vibrated against her chest when he pulled her into him.
Outside, the ocean shimmered peach and gold as the sunrise melted into the water.
“Come watch it with me,” she said.
Harry stretched, groaning dramatically, and followed her out onto the balcony, wrapping the comforter around the both of them like a cocoon. They stood barefoot, pressed shoulder to shoulder, wrapped in warmth while the wind brushed through their hair.
He kissed the top of her head. “We should wake up like this every day.”
“We don’t have a beach every day,” she teased.
Harry tightened the blanket around them. “Then I’ll build us one.”
She laughed, leaning into him as the sun painted their skin. It felt like the world had paused for them. No noise, no hurry, nothing but the waves and Harry’s thumb tracing circles on her hip.
When they finally went inside, the kitchen felt cozy with morning light spilling over the counters. Y/N pulled out eggs and bread while Harry insisted on making coffee.
“Insisted” meaning he pressed three buttons on the fancy machine and called it a victory.
“You’re a chef,” she teased.
He bumped her hip. “I’ll have you know this is very advanced barista work.”
Together they moved around the kitchen with an easy rhythm. Bumping into each other, laughing when the toast popped too high, Harry stealing little kisses whenever she wasn’t expecting them. Soft music played from Harry’s phone, but the waves were still the loudest sound.
“You’re domestic wife material.”
“I literally flipped an egg,” she said.
“And it was so attractive,” Harry insisted.
Breakfast ended up being simple but perfect: warm toast, scrambled eggs, coffee that was way too sweet because Harry made hers the way he knew she liked it.
They ate by the huge windows overlooking the water, legs touching, plates pushed aside when Harry reached across the table to hold her hand.
“This weekend was the best idea you’ve ever had,” he said softly.
“It was your idea,” she reminded him.
He shrugged. “Then you agreeing was the best idea you’ve ever had.”
Y/N shook her head fondly, leaning forward to kiss the corner of his mouth.
Harry smiled against her lips, slow and content.
“Let’s not do anything today,” he whispered. “No plans. No rushing. Just you… me… and this beach.”
Her heart melted. “I’d like that.”
After breakfast, Harry helped Y/N clear the table. Well, “helped” was generous. He mostly followed her around, hugging her from behind every chance he got and insisting on carrying one single fork to “contribute.”
“Real hero,” she teased as she washed her hands.
“I know,” he said, completely serious. “Now put on your swimsuit. I’m taking you to the beach.”
“Telling me what to do?”
“Politely suggesting,” he corrected, brushing a kiss to her jaw. “Very politely.”
Her cheeks warmed, but she didn’t let him see. Not yet.
The air outside was warm and breezy, the kind that lifted the ends of Y/N’s hair and smelled like sunscreen, saltwater, and late summer. The rented beach stretched out endlessly, untouched, soft white sand leading into a clear turquoise shoreline.
Harry carried the towels and the sunscreen, occasionally glancing at her as if he couldn’t quite believe she was really there.
“What?” she finally asked, bumping her shoulder against his.
“Nothing,” he said too quickly.
She raised an eyebrow. “Harry.”
He looked down at her with that soft, crooked smile he only used for her.
“You just look…” His jaw flexed shyly. “Really pretty in the sun.”
Y/N felt her whole stomach flutter. “You haven’t even seen me in my swimsuit yet.”
Harry blinked. “I— wait, this isn’t your swimsuit? This is just the cover-up?”
“Yes.”
He swallowed. Hard.
“Well, I’m gonna have a great day.”
She laughed, grabbing his hand and pulling him along the sand. Harry’s fingers threaded with hers immediately, as if his hands were designed to hold hers.
They laid out their towels a few feet from the shoreline. The sun was warm, the waves were calm, and Y/N pulled her cover-up off, folding it neatly.
Harry just stared.
Not in a rude way. Just in awe, in soft admiration, like she was the sunrise all over again.
“You okay there?” she teased, lying down on her towel.
“No,” he answered honestly, dropping down beside her. “Definitely not.”
She reached for the sunscreen and handed it to him. “Can you do my back?”
“Oh,” he grinned, “now I’m definitely not okay.”
“Harry.”
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he teased as he sat up and squeezed the lotion into his hands.
The first touch of his palms against her back was warm and slow. He spread the sunscreen gently, carefully, like she was something fragile. His thumbs moved in circles across her shoulder blades, down her spine, over her waist.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” she mumbled into her arms.
“Doing what?”
“Massaging.”
“I’m literally preventing sun damage,” he said, smoothing lotion across her lower back with a little too much attention.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“You’re welcome,” he said sweetly.
When he finished, she rolled onto her back and motioned toward him.
“Your turn.”
Harry practically sprinted to lie on his stomach.
“Go. Wild.”
She laughed. “Calm down.”
The sunscreen felt cool on his warm skin as she rubbed it into his shoulders. Harry melted instantly, burying his face in the crook of his arms.
“You’re so dramatic,” she said.
“I’m sensitive,” he mumbled.
“To touch?”
“To you,” he corrected, turning his head just enough to look at her.
Her breath caught. He wasn’t smirking. He wasn't teasing. Harry looked… honest. Vulnerable. Adoring in a way he rarely let himself show out loud.
Just as things got quiet and soft, a seagull screamed overhead.
Harry jerked so hard he almost face-planted into the sand.
Y/N burst into laughter.
“Why—why do they sound like that?” Harry spluttered, brushing sand off his cheek.
“Because you attract wildlife,” she said.
“Not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
He pouted. An actual pout.
“Come here,” she said, trying not to smile as she pulled him into her towel.
They lay side by side as the sun warmed their skin. Harry rested his head on her stomach, his curls brushing her ribcage, while she gently played with his hair.
“This is nice,” he said quietly.
“Mhm.”
“No. Like… really nice,” he insisted, looking up at her. “You, the sun, the beach… feels like I’m living someone else’s life.”
She traced his jaw with her fingertip. “Whose life?”
“Someone lucky.”
Her heart squeezed.
Harry closed his eyes again, letting her touch soothe him. His hand found her thigh, warm and relaxed, thumb moving in soft circles without him even noticing.
“Don’t fall asleep on me,” she whispered.
“I won’t,” he said.
He fell asleep fifteen seconds later.
She laughed silently, brushing his curls off his forehead, letting herself memorize the moment. His breathing was steady, the waves soft behind them, and for a few minutes she let the world shrink down to this. The sun, the breeze, Harry sleeping on her like she was home.
The sun had climbed higher by the time Harry stirred, the kind of slow, reluctant waking that only happened on vacation. His cheek was still against her stomach, his arm draped across her hips like he wasn’t quite ready to let the world back in.
He blinked up at her, eyes soft and unfocused. “How long was I out?” His voice was deeper from sleep, rough in a way she liked too much.
“Half an hour,” she said. She brushed a bit of sand from his temple. “You needed it.”
Harry hummed, stretching lazily before sitting up, palm sliding across her thigh in quiet thanks. “Alright, love. Should we have something to eat?”
She opened the cooler, the faint chill rolling out against the warm air. Inside were containers of fruit, sparkling waters, and a few snacks they’d picked up at the small market in town.
Y/N handed him a bowl of cut melon. “Start with this.”
Harry sat beside her, cross-legged, his knee brushing hers. He ate a piece, then lifted another toward her without a word. It wasn’t playful or showy. Just familiar tenderness.
She accepted the bite, letting the juice drip down her thumb. Harry caught her hand gently and wiped it with the corner of their towel, his rings glinting in the sunlight.
“You always get sticky when you eat fruit,” he murmured, almost to himself.
She gave him a look. “You say that like it’s a character flaw.”
“It’s something I like,” he answered simply.
The breeze picked up, warm but carrying enough of the sea’s salt to raise goosebumps on her arms. Harry noticed instantly and shifted closer, offering his body heat without making a comment about it.
They passed the fruit back and forth easily, strawberries, melon, mango, eating in a quiet rhythm. After a few minutes, Harry leaned back on his palms, legs stretched out, gaze on the water.
“You ever think about what comes next?” he asked suddenly, the seriousness in his tone making her turn to him.
“Next as in… the rest of today?” she teased softly, trying to decipher his expression.
He shook his head, eyes still on the horizon. “No. Bigger than that.”
She waited. Harry wasn’t one to rush through a thought.
“I think about the future a lot more lately,” he admitted. “Not in a panicked way. Just… aware of it. Curious about it.” His eyes flickered to her. “Curious about us.”
Her chest tightened in that familiar, grounding way that only happened with him — the feeling of being seen, understood, chosen.
“What do you imagine?” she asked.
Harry rubbed his thumb against his bottom lip, considering. “More of this,” he said finally. “Not necessarily beaches or rentals or time off… though that’s lovely.” A small, genuine smile curved his mouth. “I mean the pace. The quiet. Waking up next to you with nowhere to be.”
She looked down at her hands, smiling. “You’re getting sentimental.”
“Only with you,” he replied, calm and certain.
He reached out, hooking his finger under hers where her hand rested on her thigh, idly playing with her knuckles.
“I think about a home,” he continued. “Somewhere that feels grounded. Familiar. Where we cook dinner and argue over whose turn it is to do the dishes… where you steal my clothes and I pretend not to notice.” His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist. “That kind of life.”
She swallowed, not from nerves but from the weight of how deeply she wanted the same things.
“I think about that too,” she said quietly. “About a place that belongs to us. About routines that aren’t temporary.”
Harry’s shoulders relaxed, like her words unwound a knot he’d been carrying.
“And what about your work?” he asked gently, knowing how much her writing and editing meant to her. “Where does all of that fit in your vision?”
She exhaled. “Still there. Still important. I just… I don’t want it to be everything. I want room for a life outside of deadlines.”
Harry nodded. “Good.”
“Good?” she raised an eyebrow.
“I like knowing you’re not planning on disappearing into manuscripts forever,” he teased lightly, but his hand closed around hers with quiet reverence. “Selfishly, I want time with you. Many years of it.”
Her smile softened. “You’ll have it.”
He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her cheek, slow, warm, lingering. Not rushed. Not casual. Something steady, anchored.
The kind of kiss you gave someone you’d chosen every day for years. The kind of kiss that promised you’d choose them again tomorrow.
“Come here,” he murmured, tugging her gently until her head rested on his shoulder. He draped his arm around her waist.
They sat like that—sun on their legs, breeze in their hair, fruit between them—two people not planning the entire future, but acknowledging it together.
“Mmm,” she said eventually, nudging him. “You ate all the mango.”
“You fed me half of it.”
“Still your fault.”
He laughed softly. “You’re welcome to file a formal complaint.”
“I’ll draft one tonight.”
The sun was high enough now that the shoreline shimmered in shifting, liquid silver. Harry brushed sand from his thighs as he stood, stretching his arms overhead. His shadow fell across her, long and lean.
“Come on,” he said, tilting his head toward the water. “Let’s cool off. You’re going to roast out here.”
She squinted up at him. “You’re bossy today.”
“Not bossy,” he said, offering her his hand. “Motivated.”
“Mm-hm.” But she took his hand anyway.
He pulled her up gently, his palm lingering at the small of her back as they walked toward the surf. The water was warm at the edges but still crisp enough to sting pleasantly once the waves hit their calves.
Harry inhaled deeply as the tide washed over his ankles. “God, I missed this.”
“You’re always saying that about the ocean,” she teased.
“And I’ll keep saying it,” he replied, stepping in deeper. “Feels like it resets me. You know?”
She did know. She always saw it in him. The way the ocean loosened something tight inside him and made him lighter, freer, younger without being boyish.
Y/N waded in until the water reached her hips. Harry dipped below first, resurfacing with slick curls and a grin that made her chest warm.
“You coming in properly or just supervising me from there?” he asked, pushing his hair back.
“I’m preparing mentally.”
Harry smirked. “You’re stalling.”
“I’m adjusting.”
“You’re stalling.”
She splashed him, not dramatically, just a clean flick of water across his chest.
Harry blinked. “Did you… did you just challenge me?”
“Maybe.”
“That’s dangerous, love.”
She laughed, but it cut off with a soft gasp when he lunged, the water bursting around him as he wrapped his arms around her waist. She squealed at the cold as he lifted her slightly, water lapping at her ribs.
“Harry—!”
He set her down slowly, hands sliding along her waist, steadying her as she found her footing.
“Still cold?” he asked, voice warm against her ear.
“A little.”
“I can fix that,” he murmured, brushing his thumb along her hipbone.
Not teasing. Not coy. Just a simple, intimate touch that made her spine buzz.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, letting the water sway them together. They moved lazily, bodies drifting with the tide, not dancing exactly, but close enough that it could’ve been.
Harry pressed his forehead to hers. “This is nice.”
“It really is.”
“And you," he added, tracing a drop of water down her shoulder, "look completely unfair in this light.”
She snorted quietly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“No,” he said, voice low and certain, “I’m observant.”
Another wave rose, warm and gentle, lifting them a little and then lowering them together. Their noses brushed. Harry smiled against her mouth.
“You want to race?” he asked suddenly.
“To where?”
He nodded toward a buoy floating about fifty feet out. “Winner gets to choose dinner.”
“And the loser?”
“Also gets dinner,” he said, squeezing her waist. “Just with bragging rights added in.”
She shook her head, amused. “You realize you’re competitive as hell, right?”
“When it comes to you? Always.” Then his voice dropped into that familiar, playful rumble: “Ready?”
“Harry, don’t—”
He splashed her,with precision. A clean arc of water across her shoulder.
“Oh, you’re dead.”
And then she was after him.
They cut through the water smoothly, two strong bodies used to exercise, laughter mixing with the rhythmic pulse of the waves. Harry didn’t go easy on her, and she didn’t expect him to, but every few strokes she caught him glancing back, making sure she wasn’t struggling, keeping pace with her rather than outrunning her.
She reached the buoy first, slapping it triumphantly.
Harry arrived two seconds later, panting. “You cheated.”
“By swimming faster? Yes. Terrible crime.”
He laughed, swimming closer until their chests bumped gently in the water.
“Alright,” he conceded. “Winner chooses dinner.”
“I will.”
“And,” he added, leaning in, “winner also gets a kiss.”
“That wasn’t in the terms.”
“It is now.”
She cupped his jaw, thumb grazing the wet edge of his beard. “Then come here,” she whispered.
And when he kissed her, slow, deep, warm despite the water. The ocean didn’t stand a chance of cooling either of them down.
The walk back to the beach house was slow, their towels draped over their shoulders, skin still warm from the sun and salt. Y/N’s hair was damp from the ocean, and Harry’s curls clung to his temples. Neither spoke much. Not because there was nothing to say, but because this felt like the kind of silence that was comforting.
Inside, the late afternoon light poured through the tall glass doors, making everything glow soft and gold.
“What are we thinking for dinner?” Y/N asked, tying her hair into a loose knot at the nape of her neck.
Harry opened the fridge, scanning. “We’ve got salmon, pasta, those vegetables you made me buy…” He shot her a look over his shoulder. “We could make something light.”
“We,” she repeated, amused.
Harry shut the fridge with his hip. “I can chop things.”
“You say that like it’s a skill.”
“It is,” he said, already rolling up the waistband of his swim shorts so they wouldn't drip on the floor. “Come on. Let me help.”
And he did.
Not perfectly, not neatly, not quickly, but with intention. With care.
He sliced zucchini while she seasoned the salmon. She boiled pasta while he cleaned the cutting board. He made them both a drink. Something simple, citrusy, and cold. He kissed her hairline in passing without even thinking about it.
It was quiet, familiar, lived-in in a way that felt older than their years.
Harry set the table on the patio, leaving the sliding doors completely open so the sound of the waves drifted in with the breeze. Twilight was settling in, soft and blue, the sky melting into the ocean at the horizon.
Dinner was perfect in that unpretentious way theirs always was. Harry listened as she told him a story about a manuscript she’d edited last month. He teased her gently about her “editor voice.” She nudged his leg beneath the table when he smirked.
After they finished eating, Harry didn’t ask. He simply stood, took their plates, and washed them while she leaned against the counter sipping the last of her drink, watching him with a softness that wasn’t new but still surprised her sometimes.
When he dried his hands, he nodded toward the living room.
“Come here. Let’s sit.”
The couch was wide and deep, facing the open sliding doors where the breeze rolled through in steady waves. The sky was darker now, the ocean shifting into a deep navy.
Y/N curled up first, wearing only her tank top and the shortest pair of lounge shorts she owned. Her skin held that sun-kissed glow. Harry watched her settle in, a slow smile tugging at his mouth.
He dropped onto the couch beside her, shirtless, hair still damp from their shower, tattoos catching the low lighting. She stretched her legs out across his lap immediately. It was instinct by now, muscle memory. Harry rested one hand on her shin, his thumb brushing back and forth in lazy, unconscious strokes.
“What do you want me to read?” he asked, reaching for the small stack of books she’d brought on the trip.
“You choose,” she murmured.
Harry flipped through the pile and picked one of the slimmer novels something she’d been meaning to finish. He opened to the page where she’d dog-eared it and cleared his throat lightly.
She smiled. “You don’t have to perform, you know.”
“I’m not,” he said, meeting her eyes. “I just want to get it right.”
He started reading.
His voice was low, steady, carrying effortlessly over the sound of the waves. It was a soft cadence she knew well. It was how he spoke when he wasn’t performing, just existing. Slightly deeper. Slower. Warm.
She closed her eyes for a moment, letting it wash over her.
At some point Harry set the book down briefly and adjusted her legs so one was hooked over his thigh and the other rested along the cushion. His hand slid up to her knee, warm and reassuring. Her fingertips brushed the edge of his ribs, feeling the quiet rise and fall of his breath.
“You’re comfortable?” he asked softly, brushing a piece of hair from her cheek.
“Very.”
“Good.” He kissed her knee, a simple gesture, and kept reading.
The house smelled like ocean and dinner and his cologne, subtle and clean. The breeze danced through the curtains, brushing lightly against their skin. The only sounds were Harry’s voice, the turning of pages, the coast.
At one point she opened her eyes and caught him looking at her instead of the words on the page.
“What?” she whispered.
“You look…” His gaze softened, taking her in, “…at peace.”
“I am.”
She shifted slightly, her foot nudging his hip. “Because I’m with you.” she said, so simply, so sincerely that it silenced something in him.
Harry’s breath stopped for a moment.
And then everything inside him settled.
She was lying across the couch, sun-kissed and sleepy, her legs draped over his lap, her tank top slipping slightly off one shoulder, her hair still a bit damp from the ocean. The breeze moved through the house in a soft, steady pulse. Her skin glowed in the amber of the late evening.
She looked peaceful. She looked like home. She looked like the life he wanted. All of it. Every day.
And Harry felt it. A unmistakable certainty that this was the moment.
Not planned.
Not staged.
Not choreographed or anticipated.
Just right.
He held her hand tighter. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet.
“Y/N.”
She blinked up at him, a soft smile lingering on her lips. “Hmm?”
Harry swallowed, his thumb brushing over her pulse. His chest trembled once. Not from nerves, but emotion.
“I’ve been thinking about this for a long time,” he began. He didn’t raise his voice; he didn’t need to. “About us. About the life we’ve been building, even when we weren’t paying attention.”
The breeze slipped through the open doors, brushing her legs.
Harry’s eyes softened.
“You’re… it for me,” he whispered. “You always have been.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but he shook his head gently, smiling.
“Let me say this,” he murmured.
She closed her lips again, nodding.
Harry shifted slightly, careful not to disturb the peaceful weight of her legs across him. He reached into the small side pocket of his duffel bag that still laid by the couch even after she had instited on him carrying it into the bedroom.
As if he’d kept the ring there for weeks.
As if he’d been waiting for the right breath, the right quiet, the right feeling.
He held a simple velvet pouch in his hand, turning it once between his fingers before meeting her eyes again.
Y/N’s breath hitched.
“Harry…”
He exhaled, emotion thick in his throat. “It’s nothing fancy,” he said gently. “But I didn’t want fancy. I wanted this.” He nodded toward the open doors, the breeze, the sound of the ocean, the golden light. “I wanted you. Relaxed. Happy. Completely yourself.”
He opened the pouch and took out the ring. Elegant, understated, timeless.
Exactly her.
Her eyes instantly filled with tears.
Harry’s voice cracked when he spoke again.
“Marry me, love.”
Just that.
Two words, raw and unadorned, said with the full weight of years behind them.
Y/N didn’t blink. Didn’t hesitate.
She sat up so fast the couch dipped beneath them, her hands trembling as she cupped his jaw.
“Yes,” she said, breathless. “Harry—yes. Of course, yes.”
The first tear slid down her cheek before she even realized she was crying.
Harry’s thumb brushed it away, but his own eyes were already wet, shimmering in the soft light.
“Come here,” he whispered, voice breaking.
She nodded, climbing fully into his lap, her legs wrapping around his waist as if pulled by instinct. He slid the ring onto her finger. she buried her face in his neck.
Harry held her tightly, arms around her back, one hand cradling the back of her head.
She was shaking.
He was shaking.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t loud.
The world didn’t pause.
But they did.
He pressed his forehead to hers, noses brushing, breath mingling in the quiet.
“You said yes,” he said softly, almost in disbelief.
She laughed through a tear. “Of course I did.”
Harry let out a sound. A half laugh, half sob and pulled her closer, kissing her mouth, her cheek, the corner of her eye, everywhere he could reach. Not urgently. Just tenderly. Gratefully.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“I love you too.” His voice was steady now, steady in that way one is when they’ve found exactly what they need. “And I’m going to spend the rest of my life proving it.”
She rested against his chest, her fingers tracing the ring, her new ring, as the ocean breeze swept through the house and wrapped around them.
Warm.
Soft.
And exactly right.
Just a quick math, if a 134 people buy the collection. We will meet the goal!
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Harry thinks she's a princess and should be treated as such.
She has never felt the way Harry makes her feel.
from my 🧸-anon:
"Sometimes for some people it takes a lot to ask for help.... Simply because they weren't given some the first thousand times they ask for it"
Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Part VI
Part VII
Part VIII
Extra I
Extra II
@babegoals made the ADORABLE top divider for me 💕 I couldn’t not use it. So this will be a special little series and I will have an upper and lower one!
This has definitely become a Harry blog over time. Especially most recently. To avoid glitches, some pre-2020 stuff is on this list but still decent writing (if I do say so myself)
Newer (better) writing is toward the bottom!
Thunderstorms
Jack’s Theme
Are you threatening me?
Waking up with amnesia
The Notebook
Boston
Crabapple
Timeless
Sweet Creature
Sugar
Balance
Holes
2022-Present - The BETTER writing
The Car
Confetti (Champagne Problems)
FFF
Time
Yours
The Balcony
Boyfriends
Physics
Sleep
Therapy
Made to be
Pleasing*
Normal People
Be My Mistake I | Be My Mistake II
Hurt
To Be Loved
French Fries
Get Used to It
Zipper
Screens | Screens II | Screens III
Jan 29th
Neighbors
Tuesday
Committed
Tulips | Extra I
Traditional
Protection
Faking It | Faking It (2)
Half & Half
Sun-kissed
Right Here | Extra I
Love and Dryer Sheets
Dolcezza
My Friend's Toyota
Toothpaste
Ding
Lapse
Strong
Sunflower | Extra I
Most
Invitation
Green Skies, Pink Grass
Honey
Independent | Extra I
Two Negatives | Extra I | Extra II
Hummingbirds | Extra I
Buttercup | Extra I | Extra II
Chances
The Lottery
Pucking Rookie
a man being shoved into plexiglass by another player and then smash cutting to him getting fucked by the same guy. this show is fulfilling fantasies for me that i didn’t even know existed
jbbartram-illu
discoholicmusic
prguitarman
kianamaiart
dededos
