just wanted to say I love all your stories so far.. I came across “she got away” the other night and loved it, and then happened to come across “times like these” this morning and got excited the second I recognized your header/splitter with the solar boxes?? I was like omg I know I’ll like this one!!
I was sad to come to your page and see how people are being so discouraging and weird.
people don’t assume when a tv series drops all 6 episodes in one that it’s AI or fake. I don’t understand the rationale of believing someone posting 6 stories back to back is also fake. also I don’t understand the thought of being so judgmental like that without any real constructive feedback within it.
sorry on behalf of the weirdos
hope you keep posting! I will keep reading x
this is really kind, thank you. it honestly means a lot, especially with everything lately. i’m so glad you’ve been enjoying the stories, and that you recognized the header made me smile.
hi, i just wanted to say this because i received a horrible comment about it. im new to writing on here but ive actually wanted to write for a really long time and just never really had the confidence to share anything. after seeing harry on snl, i got inspired and decided to just go for it and start writing.
everything ive posted is written by me. i dont use ai and i wouldn't post something that isn't mine. i write all my stories on my phone usually just whenever i have time. im also on spring break right now, so ive had more free time than usual and decided to spend it writing which is why ive been posting a lot.
i get that im new here... but it's honestly discouraging to be accused of something like that when ive been posting real effort into my writing. right now its kind of making me question if I even want to keep posting because this wasn't the kind of response i expected.
i've actually been writing these stories since last sunday when harry was on snl, i didn't just write them all at once. i spent the whole week working on them and then deciding to start posting on thursday night and over the weekend. im new to writing fan fiction, so it kinda sucks that the first response im getting is people assuming its ai or hating on it when i've been putting real time into writing these.
my work isn't ai, I actually put time into what i make. just because you dont like it doesn't mean its "slop." i get that the tags matter, but im not spamming anything or trying to flood the space, im just sharing the stuff I made. if its not your thing, just scroll past it or block me, but dont assume its low effort or fake just because its not what you want or expected.
in which, you don’t listen to harry styles, and he decides to fix that.
your parents’ house always feels like it’s trying too hard.
not in an ugly way. in a curated way. glass walls, soft stone, everything neutral and expensive and placed exactly where it’s supposed to be. the kind of house where nothing ever really looks lived in, even though you’ve lived here your whole life.
the hollywood sign sits perfectly in the distance, like it was built just for your backyard.
you’re leaning against the kitchen island, half listening as your dad talks on the phone, pacing slightly, already in host mode.
“yeah, yeah— around six,” he says. “no, it’s casual. just a barbecue.”
you glance at the clock.
5:12.
you sigh, scrolling on your phone.
“who’s coming again?” you ask when he hangs up.
he barely looks at you, already distracted. “clients. a few friends. harry’s coming.”
you pause.
“…harry?”
“styles,” he says, like it should be obvious. “his album just came out.”
you blink, then let out a short laugh.
“‘kiss all the time. disco, occasionally,’” you repeat, reading it off your phone now. “that’s… that’s actually what he went with?”
your dad gives you a look. “be nice.”
“i am being nice,” you say, pushing off the counter. “i didn’t say it was bad. i said it was stupid.”
he sighs, rubbing his temple. “just— don’t say that to him.”
you shrug, unconcerned. “i won’t talk to him at all. problem solved.”
you’ve never been a fan.
not when he was in that band, not now. it was never your thing. you grew up around people like him, versions of him, just different faces, different names, same energy.
famous doesn’t impress you.
it never has.
by the time six rolls around, the house is full.
voices overlap, laughter spills out into the backyard, glasses clink, music plays just loud enough to feel intentional. your mom is in her element, moving between guests, greeting people, making everything feel effortless.
you hover at the edge of it, present but not really involved.
then the energy shifts.
it’s subtle, but you notice it.
people turning slightly. attention shifting toward the entrance.
you glance up.
and—
oh.
that’s… not what you expected.
harry styles steps into the backyard like he doesn’t even realize the effect he has. or maybe he does, but he doesn’t care.
he looks different.
you’ve seen pictures, obviously. interviews, clips, whatever gets shoved in your face online. but this version of him feels… newer. sharper.
his hair’s shorter than you remember, grown out just enough from a buzzcut that it sits messy, uneven in a way that somehow works. there’s something about it that makes him look less polished, more real.
and annoyingly—
hotter.
you frown slightly, like you’re correcting your own thought.
your dad is already moving toward him, greeting him, hand on his shoulder, talking about something you don’t care about.
you look away.
not interested.
you grab a drink instead, leaning against the counter again, tuning back into your own world.
until—
“there you are,” your mom says, suddenly at your side, already pulling you forward.
you don’t resist fast enough.
“mom—”
“this is my daughter,” she says, smiling warmly as she brings you right into the conversation.
you look up.
and there he is.
closer now.
his eyes land on you, and there’s a flicker of something— curiosity, maybe.
you offer a polite smile. nothing more.
“hi,” he says, voice softer than you expected.
“hi.”
your mom keeps talking, filling the space easily, asking him about the album, the release, how he’s feeling about everything. you stand there, half-listening, nodding occasionally, but not really engaging.
he answers her, but his attention drifts.
back to you.
you feel it.
you don’t acknowledge it.
eventually, someone calls your mom away, and she leaves with a quick squeeze of your arm.
and suddenly, it’s just you and him.
a beat.
you sip your drink.
he watches you.
“you don’t seem very impressed,” he says.
you glance at him, unimpressed expression still intact.
“should i be?”
his mouth twitches slightly, like he’s holding back a smile.
“most people are.”
“that sounds exhausting,” you say.
that gets him.
a small laugh slips out before he can stop it.
“fair,” he admits.
you nod once, like that’s settled.
another beat.
then—
“have you listened to the album?” he asks.
you blink.
then laugh.
“what, you need the streams?” you ask, tilting your head slightly.
his eyebrows lift, surprised.
“that obvious?”
“a little,” you say. “you’re doing the whole casual mention thing.”
he huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
“i’m just curious.”
“no, you’re not,” you reply easily. “you want to know if i liked it.”
he studies you for a second.
“did you?”
you take another sip of your drink.
“i didn’t listen to it.”
there’s no apology in it.
no hesitation.
just honesty.
he exhales, something like amusement crossing his face.
“not even one song?”
“no.”
“not even out of curiosity?”
you shrug. “i wasn’t curious.”
that should shut it down.
for most people, it would.
but he just… nods.
like he’s taking it in.
like he’s not offended.
which is more interesting than if he was.
“honest,” he says.
“efficient,” you correct.
he smiles properly this time.
and you hate that it’s… good.
before anything else can happen, your dad calls everyone over.
“food’s ready!”
you slip away without another word, moving toward the table, grabbing a seat without thinking too much about it.
you barely notice when the chair beside you is pulled out.
until—
“mind if i—?”
you glance up.
harry.
already halfway sitting.
you look at the empty seats around the table.
there are plenty.
you raise an eyebrow slightly. “you didn’t wait for an answer.”
he settles in anyway. “felt like a yes.”
you shake your head, but don’t argue.
the table fills with noise quickly. conversations overlapping, plates passing, people laughing, your parents at the center of it all.
but beside you—
it’s quieter.
more focused.
he leans slightly toward you.
“so,” he says. “you always this nice to people you’ve just met?”
you glance at him. “only the ones who ask about their own album within five minutes.”
he lets out a breath of a laugh, nodding.
“that’s fair.”
you pick at your food, not really hungry.
he watches you for a second.
“you’re not even going to pretend to like it?” he asks.
“why would i?” you reply. “you wouldn’t believe me.”
“you could try.”
“i don’t try things i don’t mean.”
that lands.
you can tell by the way his expression shifts, just slightly.
not put off.
interested.
“so what do you like?” he asks.
you shrug. “music wise?”
“in general.”
you think about it for a second.
“things that don’t feel like they’re trying too hard,” you say finally.
his gaze lingers on you.
“you think my album tries too hard?”
“i wouldn’t know,” you say. “i didn’t listen to it.”
he laughs again, quieter this time.
“you’re brutal.”
“i’m honest.”
“same thing, sometimes.”
you tilt your head slightly. “only if you’re sensitive.”
he smiles at that, slow.
“i’m not.”
“good.”
there’s a pause.
then—
“you grew up around this?” he asks, gesturing vaguely to the table, the house, the whole scene.
“yeah.”
“and it doesn’t impress you at all?”
you look around, then back at him.
“should it?”
he studies you again, like he’s trying to figure you out.
“most people would be a little—”
“impressed?” you finish.
he nods.
you shrug. “i’ve seen it too much.”
“so nothing does?”
you think for a second.
then—
“not this.”
something about that makes his smile fade, just a little.
not in a bad way.
in a thoughtful way.
like you’ve said something he’s not used to hearing.
the conversation drifts after that, but he keeps coming back to you. small comments, quiet questions, little things that pull you back in even when you’re not trying to engage.
and you don’t really know why you answer.
but you do.
by the time people start leaving, the sky’s darker, the lights in the yard softer, the energy winding down.
you slip inside, grabbing plates, helping your mom without being asked.
she gives you a grateful smile.
“thank you, sweetheart.”
“mm.”
you carry things to the kitchen, setting them down, moving on autopilot.
you don’t expect him to still be here.
but he is.
harry's at the sink, sleeves pushed up slightly, rinsing dishes like it’s normal, like he belongs here.
you pause in the doorway.
he glances up, catching you.
“figured i should help,” he says, like it’s obvious.
you lean against the counter, watching him for a second.
“you don’t have to.”
“i know.”
he dries his hands, turning fully toward you now.
it’s quieter.
no crowd. no noise.
just the two of you.
“so,” he says.
“so,” you echo.
he hesitates.
just slightly.
like this part matters more than the rest.
“can i see you again?”
you raise an eyebrow.
“why?”
he doesn’t rush the answer.
“because you didn’t listen to my album,” he says. “and i feel like that’s something i should fix.”
in which, your pregnancy gets leaked, and you and harry are left trying to take the moment back.
it starts with your phone buzzing.
not once. not twice. but over and over again, relentless, like something urgent is trying to claw its way into your quiet morning.
you’re still half asleep, tangled in the duvet, the london sky outside your window grey and soft. there’s a warm weight behind you, an arm draped over your waist, fingers curled loosely against your stomach like they always are now.
protective. instinctive.
harry exhales softly against the back of your neck, still asleep, his breath warm, steady.
your phone buzzes again.
you groan, reaching blindly across the bedside table until your fingers find it. the screen lights up, too bright, too loud.
messages.
so many messages.
you squint, trying to make sense of it.
your friend. another friend. someone you barely talk to anymore. even a number you don’t recognize.
your stomach twists.
you sit up slightly, the movement shifting harry behind you. his arm tightens immediately, like his body reacts before his mind does.
“mm,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. “what’s wrong?”
“i don’t know,” you say quietly, scrolling through the notifications.
have you seen this?
call me.
are you okay?
what the hell???
your chest tightens.
you open one.
a link.
instagram.
you hesitate for a second, like you already know this isn’t going to be good.
then you tap it.
the page loads.
and there it is.
a post from deuxmoi.
a blurry photo. grainy, taken from too far away. you recognize the street immediately. it’s near your place. you remember that day, the way the air felt, the way harry insisted on walking instead of taking the car because you said you needed fresh air.
your hand moves instinctively to your stomach now, even though you already know what the photo shows.
you. and him.
his hand resting there.
the soft curve that isn’t so easy to hide anymore.
your breath catches.
the caption is worse.
speculation. guesses. anonymous “sources.” people connecting dots that were never meant to be public yet.
you feel sick.
“what is it?” harry asks again, more awake now. he shifts, propping himself up on one elbow, his other hand still on you, grounding.
you don’t answer right away.
you just turn the phone toward him.
he blinks, eyes adjusting, then focuses.
you watch it happen.
the moment he understands.
his entire expression changes.
sleep disappears instantly, replaced by something sharp, something protective, something that makes your chest ache for a completely different reason.
“fuck,” he mutters under his breath.
he sits up fully now, taking the phone from your hand, scrolling through the post, the comments, the replies.
they’re already everywhere.
people zooming in. analyzing. speculating like it’s a game.
like it’s not your life.
“i’m sorry,” you whisper, even though you don’t know why you’re apologizing.
his head snaps toward you immediately.
“hey,” he says, firm but soft at the same time. “no. don’t— don’t do that.”
he reaches for you, pulling you closer without hesitation, his hand coming up to cup your face.
“this isn’t your fault,” he says, looking right at you, making sure you hear him. “not even a little bit.”
your eyes sting.
“we were careful,” you say quietly. “we tried—”
“i know,” he cuts in gently. “i know, love.”
he presses his forehead against yours for a second, grounding both of you.
“people are just…” he exhales, frustrated. “they don’t care. they see something and they run with it.”
you look down, your hand still resting on your stomach.
this was supposed to be yours.
yours and his.
not… this.
not like this.
“we didn’t even get to tell anyone properly,” you murmur.
his grip tightens slightly, like that hits him too.
“we will,” he says, softer now. “we still can. this doesn’t take that away from us.”
but it feels like it does.
just a little.
you can see it in his face too. the disappointment. the frustration. not at you. never at you.
at the situation.
at the fact that something so personal got turned into something public without your consent.
his phone starts buzzing now too.
he doesn’t even look at it.
he just tosses it onto the bed beside him like it’s irrelevant.
“ignore it,” he says. “all of it.”
you huff out a small, humorless laugh. “easy for you to say.”
he shakes his head immediately. “no, it’s not.”
there’s a pause.
then, quieter—
“i just don’t want you to feel like this moment’s been stolen from you.”
your chest tightens.
because that’s exactly how it feels.
he notices.
of course he does.
he always does.
his hand moves down from your face, settling over yours on your stomach, fingers intertwining with yours.
gentle. careful. like he’s holding something fragile.
“hey,” he murmurs. “look at me.”
you do.
“this is still ours,” he says, steady. “no post, no random person with a camera gets to change that.”
you swallow.
“it doesn’t feel like it,” you admit.
his expression softens, something almost aching in it.
“then we’ll take it back,” he says.
you blink. “how?”
he smiles slightly, but it’s not his usual playful one. it’s softer. more certain.
“we do it our way,” he says. “on our time. not because they forced it.”
you watch him, trying to understand.
he shifts, reaching over to the nightstand, grabbing his phone again.
you tense slightly, but he shakes his head.
“not for them,” he says, already unlocking it. “for us.”
he opens his camera.
“come here,” he murmurs.
you hesitate.
you’re not dressed. your hair’s a mess. you feel… exposed in a way that has nothing to do with how you look.
he sees it immediately.
“you’re perfect,” he says, like it’s obvious. like it’s not even a question.
your heart stutters.
“harry—”
“just for me, then,” he adds, softer. “we're not posting anything. i just want… this.”
you look at him for a long moment.
then, slowly, you shift closer.
he smiles, small and warm, like you just gave him something important.
he angles the camera, pulling you into his side, his arm wrapping around you, his hand settling over your stomach again, instinctively.
you lean into him, your head resting against his shoulder.
for a second, neither of you says anything.
it’s quiet.
just you. and him.
and this.
he snaps the picture.
then another.
and another.
each one soft. unposed. real.
he lowers the phone, looking at the screen for a moment, then at you.
“see?” he murmurs. “this is what matters.”
you glance at the photos.
they’re… beautiful.
not in a polished, perfect way.
in a real way.
in a this is your life way.
your chest tightens again, but softer this time.
“i hate them,” you admit quietly. “for taking this from us.”
his jaw tightens slightly.
“yeah,” he says. “me too.”
he leans down, pressing a slow, gentle kiss to your temple.
“but they don’t get you,” he adds. “they don’t get this.”
his hand moves slightly, thumb brushing over yours.
“and they don’t get to be part of it.”
you close your eyes for a second, leaning into him.
he stays there with you.
doesn’t rush you.
doesn’t try to fix it too quickly.
just… stays.
after a while, he shifts again, reaching for your phone this time.
you tense.
“what are you doing?”
“trust me,” he says.
you watch as he opens your camera, not instagram, not anything public.
just the camera.
he flips it, then hands it back to you.
“your turn,” he says.
you frown slightly. “what?”
“take one,” he says. “of me.”
you blink.
“why?”
he shrugs, but there’s something soft in his eyes.
“because you should have this too.”
your chest aches.
you lift the phone slowly, framing him.
he doesn’t pose.
just sits there, hair messy, eyes still a little tired, one hand resting over yours on your stomach.
present.
here.
yours.
you take the picture.
and something about it feels… grounding.
real.
you lower the phone.
“we’ll tell them when we’re ready,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “friends, family. properly.”
you nod.
“and the rest?” you ask.
he exhales, glancing at his buzzing phone again, then back at you.
“they can wait.”
you study him.
the way he hasn’t let go of you once.
the way his attention hasn’t drifted, not even for a second.
the way he looks at you like this is the most important thing in his life.
because it is.
you shift slightly, pressing closer to him.
“you’re not mad?” you ask, softer now.
he frowns immediately. “at you?”
you shrug a little.
he shakes his head, almost incredulous.
“never,” he says.
then, quieter—
“i’m just… sorry i can’t shield you from all of it.”
your throat tightens.
“you are,” you say. “right now.”
he stills for a second, like that hits him.
then his expression softens again.
he leans in, pressing his forehead to yours.
“always will,” he murmurs.
and for the first time since you saw the post—
it feels a little less like something was taken from you.
in which, you host snl to promote your new film and accidentally drag your boyfriend on live television.
the studio smells like hairspray, hot lights, and nerves.
you stand just offstage, cue cards in your peripheral vision, your name echoing faintly from the announcer as the audience applauds louder and louder. it’s not your first premiere, not your first interview, not even your first time in front of a crowd like this.
but this is different.
live.
no cuts. no second takes. no fixing it later.
“you good?” one of the stage managers asks, already half moving, already focused on the next thing.
you nod like you don’t feel your heartbeat in your throat.
“great,” they say, not really waiting for your answer. “you’re on.”
and then you’re walking.
the lights hit you all at once, bright and blinding, the audience rising, clapping, cheering in that overwhelming way that always feels a little unreal. you smile automatically, waving, soaking it in just enough before stepping into your mark.
you take a breath.
and then—
“hi.”
the applause softens, but the energy stays.
“wow,” you say, looking around like you’re taking it all in. “this is… a lot of people who voluntarily chose to be here.”
a small wave of laughter rolls through the crowd.
you nod slowly. “that’s already concerning.”
more laughter.
you shift your weight slightly, hands clasped loosely in front of you.
“hi, i’m— well, you know who i am, otherwise this would be deeply embarrassing for both of us.”
another laugh, a little louder this time.
“i’m hosting saturday night live for the first time, which is exciting,” you continue, voice calm, almost too calm. “and slightly suspicious. because i mostly do films where i stare at walls and try to feel things.”
the audience laughs again, catching onto your rhythm.
“i’m here promoting my new movie directed by chloé zhao,” you say. “which means it’s very beautiful, very emotional… and i cry in at least seven different lighting situations.”
a few people clap.
you nod at them. “thank you. i suffered for that.”
the laughter builds easier now.
you glance off to the side, like you’re remembering something.
“it’s actually been a very busy year for me,” you add. “i filmed the movie, did press, and i’ve been in a long term relationship.”
a beat.
“which is, honestly, my most challenging role.”
the audience reacts immediately, laughing, a little louder now.
you tilt your head slightly. “yeah. method acting. very immersive.”
you let that sit for a second, then continue, tone unchanged.
“i’ve been dating my boyfriend for over three years,” you say. “which, in hollywood time, is… basically a marriage and a divorce.”
a bigger laugh.
you nod. “we’re doing great, though. still together. against all odds. and several conspiracy theories.”
that lands.
you let your eyes drift slightly toward one of the cameras.
“because, apparently, our relationship is fake.”
the audience laughs again, already anticipating it.
“yeah,” you say, very matter of fact. “there’s a section of the internet that believes i’m in a long term, emotionally committed, very public fake relationship… for fun.”
you shrug lightly.
“i wish i had that kind of free time.”
laughter, louder now.
you pace just a step, slow and casual.
“they’re very dedicated, though,” you add. “they have timelines. body language analysis.”
you pause.
“which is interesting, because i don’t even analyze my own behavior that closely.”
another wave of laughter.
“like, they’ll be like, ‘she's ignoring him less than usual, something’s off,’” you say, mimicking just slightly. “and i’m like… i forgot he was there .”
the audience laughs, clapping now.
you nod, trying to stay serious. “i’m almost always forgetting about him.”
you glance toward the audience, like you’re searching.
“he’s actually here tonight,” you say casually.
there’s an immediate shift. the audience perks up, murmurs, excitement buzzing.
“yeah,” you continue. “i brought him to prove he exists.”
laughter.
“harry styles is here.”
the camera cuts to him almost instantly.
he’s sitting in the front row, dressed in something that’s very him, a smiley face shirt and blue jeans. he smiles, waving a little as the audience cheers louder, some people standing.
he leans slightly toward the person next to him, then looks straight at the camera.
“i’m real,” he says, deadpan.
the audience loses it.
you watch the screen for a second, then nod.
“debatable.”
more laughter.
the camera stays on him for a second longer as he presses a hand to his chest, mock offended, then mouths something that looks suspiciously like wow.
it cuts back to you.
“he’s a musician,” you add, like it’s new information. “very successful. you might know him.”
a small laugh.
“i’ve actually learned a lot from dating him,” you continue. “for example, i now know that leaving the house requires… an audience.”
the audience laughs, and the camera briefly cuts to harry again, who nods like that’s fair.
“and that you can, in fact, wear sunglasses indoors and still be taken seriously.”
harry shrugs at the camera, unapologetic.
you continue, unfazed.
“also, he’s taught me that if you wear something confident enough, people will just… accept it.”
you gesture vaguely. “like, feathers. or no shirt. or both.”
laughter builds again.
harry claps slowly for that one, smiling.
you glance back toward him.
“i tried it once,” you say. “didn’t go well.”
the audience laughs again.
you pause, then add, “turns out, you need the hair for that.”
the reaction is louder now, people clapping, a few cheers.
harry leans back in his seat, shaking his head, laughing.
you let the moment breathe before continuing.
“but he’s very supportive,” you say. “he’s here tonight, which is nice, because usually he’s somewhere else. like… italy. or japan. or emotionally unavailable.”
the audience laughs, a little sharper this time.
harry visibly reacts to that one, pointing at you like hey, but still smiling.
you shrug. “we’re working through it.”
a softer laugh.
you shift slightly, your tone just barely warming.
“he did help me prepare for this,” you admit. “he said, ‘just be yourself.’”
you pause.
“which is terrible advice for live television.”
laughter again.
“i asked him for something more specific,” you continue. “and he said, ‘don’t worry, you’re funnier than me.’”
you tilt your head.
“which felt… manipulative.”
the audience laughs.
harry presses his lips together, trying not to laugh too hard at that.
you take a small breath, glancing around the room again.
“but in all seriousness,” you say, tone still dry but slightly softer, “it’s nice to have someone who shows up for you.”
there’s a small shift in the audience, a quiet aww kind of reaction.
you immediately cut it off.
“especially because i made him sit through a four hour director’s cut of my film.”
laughter breaks it again.
“no bathroom breaks,” you add.
harry holds up a hand like that’s true, mouthing help.
you nod. “he survived. barely.”
you take another small step, settling back into your spot.
“anyway,” you say, clapping your hands lightly once. “we have an amazing show tonight.”
the audience cheers again, the energy rising.
“we’ve got great sketches, incredible performers, and i will be doing my best to not ruin all of it.”
a laugh.
you smile, just slightly.
“stick around. i promise it’ll be worth it.”
the band kicks in, the applause swelling again as you step back, the lights shifting, the moment moving on.
as you walk offstage, you catch a glimpse of the screen.
in which, harry thought he could have everything, until he’s left with nothing that matters.
it starts with silence.
not the peaceful kind, not the kind you used to share with him when the world finally shut up and it was just the two of you tangled in sheets, your head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns into your skin.
this silence is heavy. it presses down on you. it fills the house in a way that makes it feel too big, too empty, too wrong.
your daughter’s laughter is the only thing that cuts through it.
she’s in the living room, sat cross legged on the rug, surrounded by toys that you’re too tired to pick up right now. the tv hums quietly in the background, some cartoon she’s only half paying attention to.
she looks so much like him it hurts sometimes. the curls, the dimples when she smiles, even the way she hums to herself when she’s focused.
you lean against the kitchen counter, watching her, your phone face down beside you.
it buzzed earlier.
you didn’t check it.
you already know who it is.
harry.
he’s been texting more lately. calling, too. leaving voicemails you don’t listen to all the way through because his voice alone is enough to make your chest ache in a way you don’t have the energy to deal with.
you used to wait for those calls.
now you avoid them.
because what is there left to say?
you warned him.
you remember it so clearly, like it’s burned into your memory. standing in the doorway of your bedroom, your daughter barely a few months old, crying in the bassinet while he packed his bags for tour.
“i can’t come with you every night, harry,” you told him, trying to keep your voice steady. “she needs stability. i need—” you cut yourself off, swallowing hard. “we need you here too.”
he kissed your forehead, distracted, already halfway gone in his mind.
“it’s just a few months,” he said. “we’ll figure it out.”
you wanted to believe him.
you always wanted to believe him.
but a few months turned into more shows, more dates added, more cities, more nights where you fell asleep alone with a baby in your arms and a phone that stayed quiet.
you stopped asking when he’d be home.
he stopped offering.
and somewhere along the way, without either of you really saying it out loud, you stopped being a priority.
anne noticed before he did.
she called you often, checking in, her voice soft but laced with concern you didn’t want to acknowledge.
“you sound tired, love,” she said once.
you laughed it off. “i have a newborn. i’m allowed to be tired.”
but it wasn’t just that.
it was the loneliness.
it was watching interviews of your husband laughing, glowing, surrounded by people while you sat on the couch in yesterday’s clothes, rocking a baby who wouldn’t sleep.
it was seeing clips of afterparties, blurry videos of him out late, smiling in ways you hadn’t seen directed at you in a long time.
it was realizing you were building a life he wasn’t really part of anymore.
so you stopped reaching for him.
and eventually, he noticed.
not right away. not when it mattered most.
but eventually.
in italy, the nights feel wrong.
harry notices it in the quiet moments between takes, when the studio empties out and the buzz of creation fades into something hollow. he used to thrive in this. late nights, music spilling out of him, people around, energy everywhere.
now it just feels… empty.
he sits on the edge of the bed in his rented place, phone in his hand, staring at your contact.
he types something.
deletes it.
types again.
i miss you.
too simple.
too late.
he runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.
he didn’t mean for this to happen.
that’s the thought that keeps circling his mind, over and over again, like if he repeats it enough it’ll change something.
he didn’t mean to miss so many nights.
didn’t mean to leave you alone with everything.
didn’t mean to become someone who chose the stage over his own family.
but intentions don’t matter much when the result is the same.
he presses call before he can overthink it.
it rings.
once.
twice.
three times.
then voicemail.
he closes his eyes, jaw tightening.
“hi,” he starts, voice rougher than he expects. he swallows, forcing himself to keep going. “i just— i wanted to hear your voice. um.”
he lets out a quiet, humorless laugh.
“i don’t really know what i’m doing anymore, if i’m honest.”
the words feel too real. too exposed.
“i miss you,” he says again, softer this time. “both of you.”
he hangs up before he can say anything else.
across the ocean, your phone lights up on the counter.
you don’t pick it up so he calls his mom.
“what are you doing?” anne snaps the second he answers.
harry leans back against the headboard, already tired. “hi to you too, mum.”
“don’t you ‘hi’ me, harry. i spoke to her today.”
his chest tightens. “and?”
“and she sounds like she’s holding herself together by a thread.”
he closes his eyes.
“she won’t talk to me,” he mutters.
“i wonder why,” anne shoots back. “you’ve been gone for years, harry. years. you have a wife. you have a child. this isn’t some… phase of your life you can dip in and out of when it suits you.”
he sits up, frustration bubbling under his skin. “I'm working for us.”
“so is she,” anne says, voice sharp. “she’s raising your daughter. alone.”
that hits.
harder than anything else.
he runs a hand over his face, the weight of it all pressing down on him.
“i didn’t think it would get this bad,” he admits quietly.
anne softens, just slightly.
“well, it has,” she says. “and if you don’t fix it now, you’re going to lose them.”
the line goes quiet.
harry stares at the wall, her words echoing in his head.
lose them.
the thought makes something in his chest twist painfully.
he looks around the room, at the half-written lyrics scattered across the table, the guitar resting in the corner, the life he’s built here.
it suddenly feels meaningless.
he grabs his phone.
calls jeff.
“i’m going home,” he says the second his manager answers.
there’s a pause. “harry—”
“i don’t care about the album right now,” he cuts in, voice firm in a way it hasn’t been in a long time. “handle whatever fallout there is. i’ll deal with it later.”
“you have commitments—”
“not more important than this.”
there’s another pause, longer this time.
“…okay,” jeff says finally.
harry doesn’t waste another second.
the flight feels endless.
every hour stretches, filled with thoughts he can’t escape. memories of you, of your daughter, of everything he’s missed. first words he only heard about after. steps he watched on video instead of in person. nights he should have been there but wasn’t.
he doesn’t sleep.
doesn’t eat much.
just sits there, staring ahead, replaying every moment he should have chosen differently.
by the time he lands in london, his chest feels tight, like he can’t quite breathe.
the first thing he does is go to you.
the flat is quiet when he knocks.
you almost don’t answer.
but something in you… hesitates.
you open the door slowly, not expecting—
him.
for a second, you just stare at each other.
he looks different.
not physically, not really. he’s still him. still the man you married, the man you built a life with.
but there’s something in his eyes you haven’t seen in a long time.
fear.
“hi,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.
your grip tightens on the door.
“what are you doing here?”
no warmth. no softness.
just distance.
he swallows.
“i came home.”
you let out a small, incredulous laugh. “you’ve been ‘coming home’ for five years, harry.”
he flinches.
you don’t mean to be cruel.
but you’re tired. so, so tired.
“can i come in?” he asks, almost hesitant.
you hesitate too.
then step aside.
he walks in like he’s entering a place that no longer belongs to him.
and maybe it doesn’t.
your daughter looks up from the couch when she hears his voice.
for a split second, she just stares.
then—
“dada?”
it’s small. unsure.
but it’s enough to break something in him completely.
he drops his bag, crouching down as she runs to him, wrapping her little arms around his neck.
he holds her like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he lets go.
“hi, baby,” he murmurs, voice cracking.
you watch from a distance, your chest tight.
this is what you wanted.
him here. with you. with her.
and yet, it feels… complicated.
after a while, she pulls back, chattering excitedly, telling him about everything he’s missed in the way only a child can, all jumbled and bright.
he listens to every word like it’s the most important thing in the world.
because it is.
eventually, she drifts back to her toys, content.
and it’s just you and him again.
the silence returns.
different this time.
he stands, running a hand through his hair, nerves written all over him.
“i know i don’t get to just show up and fix everything,” he starts, voice careful. “i know that.”
you cross your arms, leaning against the counter. “then why are you here?”
“because i’m not losing you,” he says, and there’s something desperate in it. “i won’t.”
your jaw tightens. “you’ve been losing me for years.”
“i know,” he says quickly. “i know, and that’s— that’s on me. all of it.”
you look at him, really look, searching for the usual deflection, the charm, the easy way out.
it’s not there.
just honesty.
raw and uncomfortable.
“i didn’t know how to be this,” he admits. “a husband. a dad. i thought i could just… balance it all. keep living the way i always have and somehow make it work.”
you let out a quiet breath. “and?”
“i can’t,” he says simply. “not like that.”
the words hang in the air.
“i’ve been selfish,” he continues, voice rough. “i chose everything else over you. over her. and i didn’t even realize how bad it was until it was already—” he cuts himself off, swallowing hard. “until you stopped answering me.”
you look away.
because that part still hurts.
“i’m changing things,” he says, stepping closer but not too close. “i’ve already started. i put the album on hold. i canceled appearances. i’m— i’m restructuring everything. less touring. more time here. real time. not just… passing through.”
you laugh softly, but there’s no humor in it. “you’ve said things like that before.”
“i know,” he says immediately. “and i didn’t follow through. i get why you don’t believe me.”
he pauses, then softer—
“but i need you to give me the chance to prove it.”
your chest tightens.
this is the part that breaks you.
because you still love him. you never stopped.
that’s the problem.
“i don’t know if i can keep doing this,” you admit, voice quieter now. “waiting. hoping you’ll show up.”
he nods, like he expected that.
“then don’t wait,” he says. “don’t hope. just… watch me. hold me to it. call me out when i mess up. i’ll take it.”
you shake your head, overwhelmed. “it’s not that simple.”
“i know,” he says again. “but i’m here now. and i’m not leaving like that again. not without you. not without her.”
there’s a long silence.
your daughter hums softly in the background, oblivious to the weight of the moment.
you look at him.
this man you built a life with.
this man who broke your heart without meaning to.
this man you still love, despite everything.
“you hurt me,” you say, finally letting it out.
his face crumples, just slightly. “i know.”
“a lot.”
“i know.”
you swallow, blinking back the burn behind your eyes.
“i don’t know how to just… forget that.”
“i’m not asking you to,” he says quickly. “i don’t want you to. i just— i want to be better. for you. for us.”
he takes a careful step closer.
“please,” he adds, softer. “don’t give up on me yet.”
and that’s what makes it worse.
because you haven’t.
not really.
you should.
you know you should.
but love doesn’t just disappear because it’s inconvenient. because it hurts. because it would be easier.
you look at him for a long moment.
then, quietly—
“you don’t get to mess this up again.”
his breath catches.
“i won’t,” he says, and it sounds more like a promise than anything else he’s ever said.
in which, this is set in 1975 where groupies run just as wild as the musicians, and you're the one they all come looking for.
content: includes smut
you learn early on that los angeles doesn’t love you, it consumes you.
it chews you up under yellow lights and cigarette smoke and spits you back out on sunset strip with glitter stuck to your skin and someone else’s name on your lips. you don’t mind it. you never did. you like the mess. you like the noise, the way the nights never really end, just blur into each other like spilled liquor across a sticky bar.
people know you.
not in the way they know the men on stage, not in the screaming, camera flash kind of way. they know you in whispers, in dressing rooms, in hotel hallways that smell like cologne and cheap carpet cleaner. they know you because you’re always there. because you belong to the night as much as the music does.
“she’s trouble,” someone says once, loud enough for you to hear.
you smile at them like it’s a compliment. it is.
you drift from band to band, from party to party, a familiar face with unfamiliar intentions. you’re the girl they call when they hit california. the one who knows where to go, who to talk to, which doors open if you knock just right. you’re messy, yeah, but you’re fun. and that’s what matters here.
mick jagger likes you.
of course he does. everyone does eventually, but mick especially. he likes the way you don’t hang on his every word, the way you disappear for days and come back like nothing happened, hair tangled, eyes bright, stories spilling out of you like secrets you don’t intend to keep.
you’re his favorite, people say.
you never confirm it. you don’t need to.
it’s late, or maybe it’s early. time doesn’t really exist anymore, not with the music still echoing in your ears from the show and the afterparty that followed it. you slip out of the house when it gets too crowded, too loud, too full of people trying to be seen.
outside, the air is cooler, but it still hums with life. headlights streak past on the boulevard, laughter spilling from open windows, bass thumping somewhere in the distance.
you lean against a parked car, digging through your bag for a cigarette you’re not even sure you have. your fingers brush against a lighter, a lipstick, something that definitely doesn’t belong to you.
“you look like you’re searching for something.”
the voice catches you off guard.
you glance up, already halfway to rolling your eyes, already expecting some wannabe rockstar or hanger on. but then you see him.
harry styles.
of course you know who he is. everyone does. he’s everywhere right now, plastered across magazines, his name on everyone’s lips, his shows selling out before the posters even go up. they call him the next big thing, the new face of rock, the one who’s going to outshine the legends.
they compare him to mick all the time.
mick hates that.
you’ve heard the comments, the tension in passing, the way mick scoffs when someone brings harry up. you’ve never met him yourself, though. never been in the same room long enough. different circles, different nights.
until now.
“depends,” you say, finally finding the cigarette tucked into the lining of your bag. “what’s it look like i’m searching for?”
he steps closer, slow and deliberate, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. he’s dressed like he walked straight out of a fantasy, silk shirt half unbuttoned, rings catching the streetlight, hair falling just messy enough to look intentional.
“trouble,” he says, eyes flicking down to your hands, then back up to your face.
you laugh, soft and amused, and bring the cigarette to your lips. “you’re late. i’ve already got plenty of that.”
he doesn’t laugh. he just watches you, something sharp and curious in his gaze.
“yeah,” he says after a moment. “i’ve heard about you.”
of course he has.
you tilt your head, studying him now, really looking. there’s something different about him up close. less polished, more… dangerous. like the stage version of him is only half the story.
“have you?” you ask. “and what exactly have you heard?”
he reaches out, takes the cigarette from your fingers before you can light it. bold. you like that.
“that you belong to jagger,” he says, almost casually.
you blink, then laugh again, louder this time. “belong? that’s cute.”
he doesn’t smile.
“do you?” he presses, turning the cigarette between his fingers.
you step closer, closing the space he created, and pluck it back from him. your fingers brush his, just for a second, but it’s enough. there’s heat there. immediate, undeniable.
“no one owns me,” you say, softer now, but there’s an edge to it.
his eyes darken, just a fraction.
“good,” he murmurs.
you finally light the cigarette, taking a slow drag, watching him through the smoke. “why do you care?”
he shrugs, but it’s too quick, too practiced. “just curious.”
“you don’t strike me as the curious type.”
“no?” he steps even closer now, close enough that you can see the way his jaw tightens, the way his gaze lingers on your mouth. “what type do i strike you as?”
you exhale smoke between the two of you, letting it curl around his face. “the type who takes what he wants.”
there’s a beat of silence.
then, slowly, he smiles.
“you’re not wrong.”
you should walk away.
you know that. you know the rules, the unspoken lines you’ve never crossed. mick doesn’t own you, no, but there’s still something there. history, loyalty, whatever you want to call it. and harry, he’s… complicated. dangerous in a different way.
but you’ve never been good at following rules.
“and what do you want?” you ask, voice low now, matching his.
his gaze doesn’t waver. “you.”
it’s simple. direct. no hesitation.
your stomach flips in a way you don’t like, in a way that feels too much like anticipation.
“bold,” you say, but you don’t step back.
“honest,” he corrects.
the music from inside the house swells as someone opens the door, laughter spilling out again, but it feels distant now. like you’re standing in your own little world, just you and him and the city buzzing around you.
“you know who i am,” you say, more statement than question.
“yeah.”
“you know who i’m with.”
his jaw ticks, just slightly. “i know who you’ve been with.”
you tilt your head, studying him again, something clicking into place. “this about him?”
“no,” he says quickly, too quickly. then, slower, “not entirely.”
you smile, sharp and knowing. “he’s going to hate this.”
that does it.
something flashes in his eyes, something almost feral, and suddenly he’s closer than before, his hand coming up to your waist, fingers curling just enough to pull you into him.
“good,” he says, voice rougher now. “let him.”
your breath catches, just for a second, and you hate how much you like it.
“you’re trouble,” you murmur, echoing the earlier comment.
he leans in, close enough that his lips almost brush your ear. “so are you.”
your cigarette burns down between your fingers, forgotten.
“where are you staying?” he asks, low and insistent.
you huff out a laugh, but it’s breathless now. “you don’t waste time, do you?”
“no.”
you should say no.
you don’t.
“hotel on sunset,” you say instead. “penthouse. not hard to find.”
his grip on your waist tightens, just slightly. “i know it.”
of course he does.
you pull back just enough to look at him, really look, and there’s something electric in the air now, something that feels like the edge of a bad decision you’re definitely going to make.
“this is a bad idea,” you say, but there’s no conviction behind it.
he smiles again, slower this time, like he’s already won. “the best ones always are.”
your heart’s beating faster now, your head buzzing in a way that has nothing to do with the party or the drinks or the smoke.
“you coming?” you ask, already stepping back, already turning toward the street.
he doesn’t answer.
he just follows.
the city blurs around you as you slide into the back of a car, giving the driver your hotel without even thinking about it. harry sits beside you, close but not touching, the space between you charged, alive.
your knee brushes his when the car turns, and neither of you moves away.
“you do this often?” he asks after a moment, voice quieter now, but no less intense.
you glance at him, amused. “what, pick up strangers on the street?”
“i’m not a stranger.”
“no,” you admit. “you’re worse.”
he huffs out a laugh, shaking his head slightly. “and you?”
“i’m exactly what you think i am,” you say, leaning back against the seat, watching the city lights flicker past the window.
“i think you’re more than that.”
you roll your eyes, but there’s something in your chest that tightens anyway. “don’t get poetic on me, styles.”
“too late.”
the car slows, then stops.
your hotel looms above you, all glass and gold and quiet luxury that feels almost out of place compared to the chaos you thrive in.
you step out first, not waiting to see if he follows.
he does.
of course he does.
the elevator ride is quiet, but not in a comfortable way. it’s thick with tension, with everything unsaid. his reflection in the mirrored walls watches you as much as the real him does, eyes tracing every movement, every breath.
you feel it. you let him.
when the doors open, you don’t hesitate.
you walk straight to your room, unlocking the door and pushing it open, the city stretching out beyond the windows in a glittering sea of lights.
you step inside, kicking your shoes off without looking back.
the door to your hotel room clicks shut behind you, the sound echoing like a starting gun in the charged silence.
harry's right there, his body heat radiating against your back before you even turn around. no words, no hesitation—he grabs your waist, spinning you to face him, his mouth crashing down on yours with a hunger that steals your breath.
his lips are rough, demanding, tongue shoving past your teeth to claim every inch of your mouth.
you taste the faint bitterness of whiskey on him, mixed with the smoke from earlier, and it makes your head spin as you kiss him back just as fiercely, your nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt.
his hands are everywhere, sliding up your sides, yanking at the hem of your top until he pulls it over your head in one swift motion, tossing it aside.
you're not wearing a bra—never do on nights like this—and his eyes darken as they drop to your bare tits, nipples already hard from the cool air and the anticipation.
“fuck, look at you,” he growls, voice low and gravelly, before his mouth latches onto one nipple, sucking hard enough to make you gasp.
his teeth graze the sensitive peak, biting down just enough to send a jolt of pain-laced pleasure straight to your core.
you arch into him, threading your fingers through his hair, pulling his head closer as he switches to the other side, lavishing it with the same brutal attention.
you shove at his chest, breaking the kiss only to tug his shirt off, exposing the tattoos snaking across his skin, the lean muscles of his torso. your hands roam greedily, nails scraping down his chest, leaving red trails that make him hiss. he doesn't give you time to explore—he's too wild for that.
his fingers hook into the waistband of your skirt, shoving it down your hips along with your panties, leaving you completely naked in the middle of the room.
the air hits your wet pussy, and you feel a trickle of arousal slide down your thigh, but harry notices immediately. he drops to his knees right there, face level with your core, his breath hot against your folds.
“you're soaked already,” he murmurs, voice dripping with approval, before he leans in and drags his tongue flat along your slit, from your entrance to your clit in one long, filthy lick.
you moan, legs trembling as he spreads your thighs wider with rough hands, his thumbs parting your lips to expose you fully.
he dives in like a man starved, tongue thrusting into your hole, fucking you with it while his nose bumps against your clit.
the wet sounds of his mouth on you fill the room, obscene and loud, and you grind against his face, chasing the pressure.
he sucks your clit between his lips, flicking it with the tip of his tongue, then bites down lightly, making you cry out as stars burst behind your eyelids.
but harry's not done teasing. he pulls back just enough to spit directly onto your pussy, watching the saliva mix with your juices before rubbing it in with his fingers.
two digits slide inside you easily, curling up to hit that spot that makes your knees buckle. he pumps them fast, thumb circling your clit, his other hand gripping your ass cheek hard enough to bruise.
“you like that, yeah? my fingers stretching this tight little cunt?” his words are dirty, unfiltered, and they make you clench around him, heat flooding your face and your core.
you nod, breathless, “more—fuck, give me more.”
he adds a third finger, stretching you wider, the burn delicious as he scissors them inside you. his mouth returns to your clit, sucking and licking in rhythm with his thrusts, and it's too much, too fast.
your orgasm builds like a storm, coiling tight in your belly until it snaps, your pussy spasming around his fingers as you come with a shattered moan.
waves of pleasure crash over you, your thighs clamping around his head, but he doesn't stop—keeps fingering you through it, drawing out every shudder until you're oversensitive and whimpering.
harry stands then, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes blazing with lust as he unbuckles his belt.
you watch, hungry, as he shoves his jeans and boxers down, his cock springing free—thick, veined, the head already leaking pre-cum.
it's bigger than you expected, curving slightly upward, and you lick your lips without thinking.
he strokes himself once, twice, base to tip, smearing the slickness over the shaft. “on your knees,” he orders, voice rough, and you drop without protest, the carpet rough against your skin.
you wrap your hand around his base, feeling the heat of him pulse in your grip, and lean in to lick the underside from balls to tip.
his groan rumbles deep in his chest as you take the head into your mouth, sucking hard, tongue swirling around the slit to taste the salt of him.
he threads his fingers in your hair, not guiding yet, just holding as you bob your head, taking him deeper with each pass. your jaw stretches around his girth, saliva dripping down your chin as you hollow your cheeks, humming to send vibrations along his length.
“that's it, suck my cock like you mean it,” he grunts, hips twitching forward.
you do, relaxing your throat to let him push further, gagging slightly when he hits the back but not stopping. tears prick your eyes from the effort, but the way he watches you, dark and possessive, makes it worth it.
he starts to thrust, shallow at first, then deeper, fucking your mouth with controlled snaps of his hips.
spit bubbles at the corners of your lips, strings connecting you to him when you pull back for air, but he doesn't let you rest—guides your head back down, using your hair like a leash.
“fuck, your mouth's so hot—gonna fill it up soon.”
but he pulls out before he can, leaving you coughing and gasping, lips swollen and slick.
he hauls you up by your arms, kissing you again, tasting himself on your tongue with a low growl. then he's maneuvering you toward the bed, pushing you down onto your back, spreading your legs wide. he kneels between them, lining up his cock with your entrance, rubbing the head through your folds to coat himself in your wetness.
“tell me you want it,” he demands, teasing, the tip nudging your hole but not entering.
“fuck me, harry—hard,” you beg, hips lifting to try and take him in.
he smirks, then slams forward in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt.
you cry out at the stretch, the fullness, your walls fluttering around his thickness as he bottoms out. he doesn't give you time to adjust—starts pounding into you immediately, hips snapping with wild force, the bed creaking under the assault.
each thrust drives him deep, hitting your cervix with a delicious ache, his balls slapping against your ass.
his hands pin your wrists above your head, one big palm holding both as he leans down to bite at your neck, sucking marks into your skin that you'll feel tomorrow.
“you're so fucking tight—gripping me like a vice,” he pants against your ear, voice strained.
you wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his back to pull him closer, deeper. the angle lets him grind against your clit with every stroke, building that pressure again.
sweat slicks your bodies, the room filling with the wet slap of skin on skin, your moans mingling with his grunts.
he releases your wrists to grab your thighs, pushing them back toward your chest, folding you in half. the new position lets him go even deeper, his cock dragging against your g-spot relentlessly.
“look at you, taking it all—such a good little slut for me,” his words make you clench, heat blooming in your cheeks, but you love it, arching up to meet his thrusts.
one hand slides between you, fingers finding your clit and rubbing fast circles, and it's enough to tip you over again. you come hard, pussy squeezing him like a fist, milking his cock as tremors rack your body.
harry doesn't slow, fucking you through the orgasm, chasing his own release.
but he's not done—he pulls out suddenly, flipping you onto your stomach with ease, yanking your hips up so you're on all fours.
“ass up,” he commands, and you obey, arching your back to present yourself.
he spanks you once, hard, the sting making you yelp, then soothes it with a palm before delivering another. the pain mixes with pleasure, your pussy dripping onto the sheets as he lines up again, thrusting back in from behind.
this angle is brutal, his hips slamming into your ass, cock hitting spots that make you see white.
he reaches around to pinch your nipples, twisting them roughly, then slides a hand up to wrap around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your head swim.
“choke on it—feel me owning this pussy,” he rasps, tightening his grip as he fucks you harder.
you push back against him, meeting every thrust, the room spinning from the intensity. his other hand dips lower, thumb pressing against your asshole, circling the tight ring before pushing in just the tip.
you gasp at the intrusion, the dual sensation overwhelming, but you don't stop him—rock back to take more. he works his thumb deeper, in time with his cock in your pussy, stretching you in both holes.
“you like that? my thumb in your ass while i fuck you?” his voice is filthy, encouraging, and you nod frantically, moaning.
“yes—more, harry, fuck my ass too.” he chuckles darkly, pulling out of your pussy to spit on your hole, working his thumb fully inside before replacing it with his cock.
he enters you slowly at first, the head breaching the ring of muscle, the burn intense but addictive. you breathe through it, relaxing as he inches in, filling your ass completely.
once he's seated, he stills, letting you adjust, but you're impatient—wiggle your hips, urging him on. he starts thrusting, building speed, the slide easier with your arousal and his spit. it feels so dirty, so wrong, his cock pounding your ass while his fingers plunge into your pussy, three now, curling and scissoring.
you're stuffed full, sensations overlapping, your body on fire.
he spanks your ass again, harder, the slaps echoing as he rails you, “gonna make you come like this. come with my cock in your ass.”
his fingers fuck your pussy faster, thumb on your clit, and you shatter, orgasm ripping through you violently, ass clenching around him, pussy gushing over his hand.
he groans, thrusts erratic now, then pulls out of your ass, flipping you onto your back again.
he straddles your chest, cock slick and throbbing, jerking himself furiously, “open your mouth—gonna cum on your face, tits, everywhere.”
you do, sticking out your tongue, and he aims, ropes of hot cum shooting across your lips, cheeks, dripping down to your neck and breasts.
some lands in your mouth, salty and thick, and you swallow what you can, the rest smearing as he rubs his cock through it, marking you.
but he's not finished—still hard, insatiable. he slides down, pushing your legs apart again, sliding back into your pussy with a wet squelch.
“round two. gonna fill this cunt up.”
he fucks you slower now, deep rolls of his hips, grinding against you as his mouth finds your cum smeared tits, licking his own release off your skin. you tangle your hands in his hair, pulling him up for a messy kiss, tasting the mix of him and you.
he hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, changing the angle, hitting deeper still. his hand wraps around your throat again, lighter this time, possessive.
you rake your nails down his back, leaving the skin red, and he hisses in pleasure, thrusting harder, “mark me—make me yours tonight.”
the words spur you on, biting his shoulder, sucking a bruise into his collarbone as he pounds into you.
your third orgasm builds slower, from the friction, the fullness, the way he watches you like you're his entire world.
“come with me,” you gasp, clenching around him deliberately. he nods, burying his face in your neck, thrusts turning frantic.
you tip over first, crying out as you pulse around him, and he follows seconds later, cock twitching as he spills deep inside, flooding your pussy with warmth. he keeps moving, riding it out, until you're both spent, collapsing in a tangle of limbs.
he doesn't pull out right away, staying buried as your breaths even out, his weight a comforting press.
eventually, he slips free, a gush of cum following, and he watches it leak out with a satisfied smirk, “messy girl.”
he dips two fingers in, pushing it back inside, then brings them to your lips. you suck them clean, tasting the evidence of your night, and he kisses your forehead, surprisingly tender after the frenzy.
but even in the afterglow, the air hums with possibility, you two are far from over.
like everything is a little too bright, a little too loud, like the whole city is pretending to be something bigger than it is and somehow getting away with it.
you’re sitting cross legged on the hotel bed, shoes kicked off somewhere near the door, half listening to the music drifting up from the street below. your friend’s birthday has dissolved into separate plans, people disappearing into clubs and bars and bad decisions.
harry is leaning against the window, watching the lights like he’s trying to figure something out.
you’ve learned that look.
it usually means trouble.
“what are you thinking about,” you ask, not looking up from where you’re scrolling through your phone.
he doesn’t answer right away.
you glance up.
he’s already looking at you.
really looking.
it makes your stomach flip in that way it still does, even after six months of this, even after two years of knowing him before that.
before the first time you ever touched his face with a brush, trying not to think about how unfair it was that someone could look like that in real life.
before he started asking for you specifically. every time. every shoot. every campaign.
before late nights turned into longer ones.
before this.
“marry me,” he says.
you blink.
once.
twice.
“what?”
he doesn’t laugh. doesn’t take it back.
he just pushes himself off the window and walks toward you like this is a completely normal conversation to be having in a hotel room in vegas at one in the morning.
“marry me,” he repeats, softer this time.
you stare at him.
“harry,” you say slowly, “you’re insane.”
“probably,” he nods.
“what the fuck are you talking about.”
he stops in front of you, close enough that your knees brush his thighs.
“i’m serious.”
you let out a breath that’s almost a laugh.
“you’re serious.”
“yeah.”
you shake your head, still trying to catch up.
“we’re in vegas. you’ve had like two drinks. this is exactly how people ruin their lives.”
“i’ve had one drink,” he corrects.
“that’s not helping your case.”
he smiles a little at that, but it fades quickly.
“i’ve been thinking about it,” he says.
“since when.”
“since before tonight.”
you study him.
there’s no hesitation in his face. no joking edge. just that steady, stubborn certainty he gets when he’s decided something matters.
“harry,” you say, quieter now, “we’ve been dating for six months.”
“i know.”
“six.”
“i was there.”
“that’s not—” you exhale, frustrated. “that’s not a long time.”
“it is if you know,” he says.
you hate how simple he makes it sound.
you hate how much you want to believe him.
“and you know,” you ask.
he nods once.
no hesitation.
“i knew the first time you told me off on set,” he says. “remember that.”
you roll your eyes automatically. “you were moving too much.”
“i wasn’t.”
“you were.”
“you poked me in the eye with a brush.”
“because you wouldn’t sit still.”
he grins slightly, softer now.
“you didn’t care who i was.”
“you were messing up my work.”
“exactly,” he says.
you look at him.
really look.
he’s serious.
still.
always.
your chest tightens a little.
“you don’t think this is… fast?” you ask.
“i think,” he says slowly, “that if we wait, we'll just end up doing it later anyway. so why not now.”
you laugh under your breath, shaking your head.
“that’s your reasoning.”
“part of it.”
“what’s the other part.”
he reaches out then, hands settling gently on your legs, grounding, warm.
“i don’t want to not be with you,” he says.
it’s quiet. simple. devastating in the way it lands.
you swallow.
“that’s not a proposal,” you murmur.
“no?” he tilts his head. “sounds like one.”
you try to find something to argue with.
you can’t.
because the truth is sitting right there, loud and undeniable.
you want this.
you want him.
you’ve wanted him for longer than you ever admitted out loud.
“this is crazy,” you whisper.
“yeah.”
“this is actually insane.”
“a bit.”
you stare at him for one more second.
then you let out a breath.
“okay.”
he blinks.
“okay?”
you nod.
“what the hell. okay.”
it takes him half a second to process it.
then his entire face changes.
“yeah?”
“yeah.”
“you’re serious?”
“harry, if you ask me one more time—”
he laughs then, breathless, almost disbelieving, hands coming up to hold your face like he needs to make sure you’re real.
“you’re serious,” he repeats, softer now.
“i just said yes.”
“i know, i just—” he shakes his head, smiling like he can’t quite believe his luck. “fuck.”
you laugh, nerves finally catching up to you.
“okay,” you say, pushing up off the bed. “okay. if we’re doing this, we’re doing this.”
he follows immediately.
“yeah.”
“we need outfits,” you say, already moving toward your suitcase.
“i’ve got something,” he says.
“of course you do,” you glance back at him. “you always pack like you’re expecting a red carpet.”
“you never know,” he shrugs.
“i made fun of you for that.”
“you did.”
“i take it back.”
he grins.
you dig through your bag, heart racing now, hands moving faster than your thoughts.
and then you find it.
the dress.
white, soft, a little too effortless to belong anywhere near a vegas chapel. you bought it because you loved it, because it felt like something you’d wear barefoot on a beach somewhere far away.
“this,” you say, holding it up.
harry’s expression softens immediately.
“that’s perfect.”
“it’s not exactly traditional.”
“don’t care.”
you smile, disappearing into the bathroom to change.
your hands shake a little as you pull it on.
this is insane.
this is happening.
you stare at yourself in the mirror for a second.
bare face. no time, no need. you swipe on lipstick quickly, press it into your lips, then tap a little onto your cheeks for color.
it’s messy. real. its you.
you slip your heels on, take a breath, and step back out.
harry is already dressed.
and for a second, you forget how to speak.
he looks…
not like himself.
or maybe exactly like himself, just stripped down to something simpler. something softer.
he turns when he hears you.
and then he just stops.
completely.
“hi,” you say, suddenly shy.
he stares at you like you’ve knocked the air out of him.
“hi,” he echoes.
you shift your weight, a little nervous under the intensity of it.
“is it… okay?”
he laughs quietly, stepping closer.
“you’re—” he shakes his head, like he doesn’t have the words. “you’re so fucking beautiful.”
your chest tightens.
“you clean up alright too,” you tease softly.
“yeah?” he smiles.
“yeah.”
he reaches for you then, gentle, careful, like this moment matters in a way he doesn’t want to mess up.
“ready?” he asks.
you nod.
“ready.”
you don’t tell anyone.
not his manager. not his mum. not your parents. not your agent.
it’s just you.
just him.
the way it somehow always ends up being, no matter how big everything else gets.
vegas air hits you as you step outside, warm and alive, the city buzzing around you like it’s in on something.
harry grabs your hand immediately.
doesn’t let go.
not once.
the chapel is small.
quiet in a way that feels almost unreal compared to everything outside.
a little tacky. a little charming.
perfect.
the woman at the front smiles when you walk in, like she’s seen this a thousand times but still thinks it matters every single time.
“license?” she asks.
harry already has it.
of course he does.
you glance at him.
“you planned this.”
“i hoped,” he corrects.
you shake your head, smiling.
the ceremony is simple.
short.
but it doesn’t feel small.
not when he’s looking at you like that.
not when his hands are holding yours like they’re something precious.
“i do,” he says, before he’s even supposed to.
you laugh softly, the officiant smiling between you.
“i do,” you say too, voice a little shaky but certain.
he squeezes your hands.
just a little.
like he can’t help it.
when he kisses you, it’s not rushed.
not careless.
it’s slow.
intentional.
like he’s memorizing it.
like he’s been waiting for it.
when you pull back, he’s smiling in that soft, almost disbelieving way again.
backstage is all movement and noise, people brushing past in silk and nerves, voices too loud, laughter too sharp. your name is still echoing somewhere in your head. best new artist. it doesn’t feel real yet.
you’re holding the grammy too tightly when you turn the corner and there he is.
harry.
he’s standing off to the side, already half turned toward the stage again like he belongs there in a way you’re still learning how to fake. glitter blazer, pinky ring, that same careful composure he always wears in public.
for a second, everything else dulls.
he looks at you.
really looks.
and it’s not polite. it’s not distant. it’s something else, something that flickers too quickly to name but sits heavy in your chest anyway.
his mouth parts like he’s about to say something.
your publicist grabs your arm.
“we need you now,” she says, already pulling you away.
you don’t even get a word out.
you glance back once as you’re dragged down the hallway.
he’s still standing there. still watching.
he knew you before any of this.
before the award, before the headlines, before your name meant anything outside of a handful of industry people and him.
he was there the night you got signed, sitting across from you in some dim london bar, spinning a glass between his fingers while you tried not to look like your life had just changed.
“first album,” he’d said, smiling slightly. “you’ll hate it by the time it’s done.”
“that’s encouraging.”
“it’s true,” he shrugged. “means you’re growing.”
you didn’t hate it.
you wrote most of it about him.
late nights, voice notes, songs you swore you’d never release until you did and suddenly everyone was dissecting lyrics that weren’t meant for them. he heard them before anyone else. sat on the floor of your apartment while you played demos, nodding like it all made sense.
his album came after. songs that felt too close, too familiar. lines that made your stomach drop because you knew exactly where they came from. he never said it outright, but he didn’t have to.
it was always like that with him.
half said. half hidden.
the rest was whatever happened in between.
hotel rooms you never stayed in long enough. texts that went unanswered until they weren’t. nights that felt like something real until morning made them smaller.
he pulled away first.
not cleanly. not kindly.
just… less. fewer messages. missed calls. excuses that didn’t quite line up. and then that last one, where you said something that mattered and he just didn’t respond at all.
left you on seen.
you learned quickly how to pretend it didn’t bother you.
you got better at being seen with other people. an actor with a good smile and better timing. photos that made it look like you’d moved on cleanly.
he did the same. a model last month. headlines you pretended not to read.
the after party is louder.
chateau marmont glows in that dim, golden way that makes everything feel like a movie you’re slightly detached from. your team is around you, people you barely know congratulating you, hands on your arms, your shoulders, your back.
you smile. you thank them. you play the part.
you feel him before you see him.
it’s stupid, but it’s true.
so you slip away when no one is looking, weaving through the crowd until you find the balcony. the air is cooler there, quieter. los angeles stretched out below like something unreal.
you lean against the railing, finally breathing.
the door opens behind you.
of course it does.
“you always disappear like that?” harry’s voice.
you don’t turn around.
“only when people won’t leave me alone.”
“right.”
you can hear him step closer. not too close. never too close at first.
“congratulations,” he says. “best new artist.”
you let out a small laugh that isn’t kind.
“thanks. you were there, weren’t you.”
“i was.”
“could’ve fooled me.”
that lands. you can feel it.
you turn then, finally looking at him.
he looks the same. that’s the worst part. like nothing touched him. like the past year didn’t exist.
“what do you want, harry.”
he frowns slightly. “can’t i just talk to you?”
“you had that chance,” you say. “remember?”
his jaw tightens.
“i didn’t think—”
“no,” you cut in, sharper now. “you didn’t.”
the city hums below you. somewhere inside, someone laughs too loudly.
he runs a hand through his hair, frustrated in a way that almost looks genuine.
“i know i handled things badly.”
“badly?” you repeat. “you disappeared.”
“i didn’t disappear.”
“you stopped answering me.”
he doesn’t respond.
you tilt your head, studying him.
“you remember that last message?” you ask quietly. “the one where i asked if i meant anything to you.”
his eyes flicker.
“you read it,” you continue. “i saw that. you just didn’t think i deserved an answer.”
“that’s not fair.”
“neither was showing up to an event with someone else a week later,” you shoot back. “or letting me hear from other people that you were ‘taking space.’ from me. like i was the problem.”
he exhales sharply. “i was trying to keep things from getting messy.”
you almost laugh.
“messy,” you repeat. “you wrote songs about me, harry.”
he goes still.
“don’t,” he says quietly.
“why not?” you step closer now. “everyone else gets to hear them. why don’t i get to talk about it?”
“because it’s not—”
“not what?” your voice lifts. “not real?”
he looks at you then, properly, and there’s something raw there that almost makes you stop.
almost.
“you think i didn’t mean any of it?” he says.
“i think you don’t know how to stay,” you answer.
that hits harder than anything else.
he looks away for a second, like he needs it.
“i didn’t want to ruin what we had,” he says finally.
“you already did.”
silence.
thick, heavy.
he steps closer, close enough now that it feels familiar in a way you hate.
“i missed you,” he says.
it’s quiet. honest.
too late.
you shake your head.
“that’s not enough.”
his hand twitches at his side like he wants to reach for you but knows better.
“you didn’t even try,” you add, softer now but worse somehow. “you just left.”
he swallows.
“i didn’t think you’d wait.”
you let out a small, bitter laugh.
“i didn’t.”
the words sit between you.
true and not true at all.
inside, the music swells louder. someone calls your name faintly through the door.
you step back.
space again.
“congratulations,” he says, like he already said it once but needs to say it again anyway.
you nod.
“yeah.”
he doesn’t move.
neither do you.
for a second it feels like something might shift. like one of you might say the thing that fixes it or breaks it properly.
neither of you does.
you turn first.
you leave him on the balcony, standing there with all the things he never said sitting heavy in his chest.
this time, you don’t look back.
he stays out on the balcony longer than he should.
long enough for the party to shift inside, for the music to blur into something distant and dull. long enough that when he finally goes back in, you’re gone.
of course you are.
he hears about you anyway.
he always does.
at first it’s small things. your second album. bigger than the first. louder. less careful. people stop calling you new. start calling you inevitable. your name sits beside the ones that used to feel untouchable.
he listens to it once.
just once.
that’s all he allows himself.
there are no songs about him on that one. not really. or maybe there are, but they’re buried under something sharper, something colder. something that doesn’t need him anymore.
he tells himself that’s a good thing.
he doesn’t quite believe it.
you’re seen with him again. the actor.
not as a headline this time. not as a rumor. something steadier. quieter. he notices the difference immediately.
he stops reading after a while, but it doesn’t matter. your life has a way of reaching him anyway. through mutual friends. through rooms he walks into too late. through songs that play somewhere in the background and make people glance at him without meaning to.
he pretends not to notice.
he gets good at that.
years pass in that strange, uneven way they do when you’re not paying attention properly.
his career keeps moving. albums, tours, interviews where he says just enough and never too much. people still ask him about love like it’s something simple, something he can package into an answer that makes sense.
he never says your name.
he doesn’t need to.
he hears about your wedding on a random morning.
not from anyone close. just a headline, simple and clean.
you married him.
no drama. no spectacle. a private ceremony somewhere warm, somewhere quiet. the kind of thing you used to say you wanted when all of this still felt new.
he stares at the photo longer than he should.
you look… happy.
not the kind of happy you performed back then. not the one that came with sharp edges and something to prove. this is softer. settled.
he doesn’t recognize it at first.
that’s what gets him.
time keeps going.
it always does.
he hears about the first child a year later. then another.
each time, it feels smaller. more distant. like the version of you that knew him is being folded away piece by piece, replaced with something he was never part of.
he wonders sometimes if you ever think about it.
not him. not exactly.
just that version of yourself. the one who sat on the floor with a guitar, playing him songs that weren’t finished yet. the one who looked at him like he was something certain.
he remembers everything.
that’s the problem.
the bar where you told him you got signed. the way your hands shook when you tried to act like it wasn’t a big deal. the first time you played him something real and then refused to look at him while it ended.
the way you used to laugh at him like you already knew all his flaws and liked him anyway.
he remembers the last message.
he still has it.
he doesn’t open it anymore, but he knows it by heart.
he thinks about answering it sometimes.
years too late.
he imagines what he would say.
nothing ever sounds right.
one night, after a show, someone plays one of your old songs in the dressing room. from that first album. the one you wrote when it was still just the two of you and whatever that was.
he doesn’t tell them to turn it off.
he just sits there, listening.
there’s a line in it he never forgot. something small. something most people wouldn’t notice.
he notices.
he always did.
it ends.
no one says anything.
he nods like it didn’t mean anything at all.
later, when he’s alone, he realizes something he’s been avoiding for years.
walk, listen, write notes, try not to embarrass yourself in front of the attending.
you’re halfway through the list of patients when dr. evans glances at your chart and hums thoughtfully.
“this was your call last night?” he asks.
you nod, trying not to look nervous. “yes, sir.”
he scans the notes again.
“good work,” he says, tapping the page. “most first years wouldn’t have caught that.”
your chest warms a little at that. it’s rare for attendings to say anything beyond a quick correction.
“thank you.”
the team moves on to the next room.
when you step into the hallway again, you catch sight of harry at the far end of the corridor talking to a nurse. he’s not technically part of your rounds today, but he’s around.
his eyes flick toward the group for a moment. just a second. long enough to notice dr. evans still speaking to you.
“seriously,” evans continues, walking beside you, “that differential was sharp thinking. keep that up and you’ll survive residency.”
you laugh a little under your breath. “that’s the goal.”
you don’t see harry again until much later.
the er has settled into its late night rhythm, fluorescent lights buzzing softly above empty stretchers. you’re reviewing labs at the nurses station when a voice behind you says quietly,
“walk with me.”
you don’t even turn around.
“that sounds ominous.”
“now,” he says.
you sigh but follow him down the hallway anyway.
he leads you into the supply room and shuts the door. not suspicious at all.
you cross your arms lightly. “what’s wrong?”
harry leans against the counter, watching you in that unreadable way he has when he’s thinking too much.
“dr. evans seems to like you.”
you blink.
“…what?”
“during rounds,” he says. “he was practically glowing.”
you stare at him for a second before realization creeps in.
“are you serious right now?”
“i’m just observing.”
you huff a quiet laugh. “he complimented a chart note.”
“twice.”
“because i did a good job.”
harry doesn’t answer right away. his jaw tightens slightly like he’s trying to decide if he wants to say the next thing.
“you did,” he says finally. “i read it.”
that makes you pause.
“you read my chart?”
“i read all the charts.”
“that’s a lie.”
his mouth twitches but he doesn’t deny it.
you tilt your head at him. “you’re jealous.”
he immediately scoffs. “i’m not jealous.”
“you dragged me into a supply room to complain about another doctor complimenting me.”
“i didn’t complain.”
“you absolutely complained.”
for a second the room is quiet. then he pushes off the counter and steps closer.
“i just didn’t like the way he was looking at you,” he says softly.
your heart does something annoying.
“how was he looking at me?”
“like he noticed you.”
you raise an eyebrow. “harry. people are allowed to notice me.”
“i’m aware.”
“in fact,” you continue lightly, “that’s usually how being a person works.”
he exhales through his nose, clearly trying not to smile.
“you’re enjoying this.”
“a little.”
you shift closer without thinking. the space between you disappears until the edge of the counter presses lightly against your hip.
“for the record,” you say quietly, “i’m not secretly in supply closets with dr. evans.”
harry’s eyes flick down to your mouth.
“good,” he murmurs.
his hand finds your waist before either of you can pretend this is still a normal conversation.
“because,” he adds, voice low, “that would be very unprofessional.”
the er at nearly midnight has a strange quiet to it.
not silent. never silent. machines still hum and distant voices drift down the hall, but the chaos of the evening rush has thinned into something softer. something almost calm.
you lean against the counter in the empty supply room, chart half finished in your hands. your first year as a resident has taught you many things. mostly how tired a person can be without actually collapsing.
the door clicks shut behind you. you already know who it is.
“you hiding?” harry asks.
his voice is low, amused in that quiet way that always makes your stomach flip. you glance over your shoulder.
dr. styles. lead attending in the er. calm in a crisis. annoyingly brilliant. and right now standing way too close to you for this to be appropriate in any professional world.
“i’m charting,” you say.
“mm.” he steps closer. “looks a lot like hiding.”
he’s still in scrubs, sleeves pushed up slightly, stethoscope hanging around his neck like he forgot it was there. you should move. you really should.
instead you stay exactly where you are.
“if someone comes in here,” you say quietly, “this is your fault.”
“my fault?” he tilts his head. “you’re the one who picked the supply closet.”
“i didn’t pick it. i walked in here first.”
“and i followed,” he says.
now he’s close enough that you can smell the faint antiseptic soap and something warm underneath it. your heart is already doing something stupid.
“harry,” you warn softly.
he smiles a little.
“doctor styles at work,” he murmurs.
“no one says that.”
“you should.”
you roll your eyes, but the moment doesn’t last long because his hand finds your waist like it already knows where it belongs.
it’s reckless. incredibly reckless.
which is probably why you let it happen.
“you’re impossible,” you whisper.
“and yet,” he says, leaning closer, “you keep meeting me in supply closets.”
you try to say something back but it disappears when he kisses you.
it’s quick at first, like both of you are still pretending you have self control. then his hand tightens slightly at your waist and suddenly the world outside the room feels very far away.
your fingers curl into the fabric of his scrubs.
“we shouldn’t,” you breathe.
“probably not,” he says, already kissing you again.
you’re halfway through telling him to stop when the door handle rattles.
both of you freeze.
the door swings open.
“hey do we have any more gau—”
nurse camila stops mid sentence.
in less than a second harry steps back like you were never touching at all. you spin toward the shelves and grab the nearest box like you’ve been searching for supplies this entire time.
your heart is pounding loud enough to be considered a medical emergency.
camila looks between you.
then harry.
then back to you.
harry clears his throat like the most professional man alive.
“resident,” he says calmly, “did you find the saline kits?”
you blink.
“…still looking.”
camila squints slightly.
the room is painfully quiet for two seconds. then she shrugs and walks to the other shelf.
“they’re literally right here,” she says, grabbing a box.
you nod way too quickly.
“great. thank you.”
harry picks up a clipboard off the counter like he has been reviewing it for hours.
“good work,” he says to absolutely no one.
camila walks out.
the door closes again. three seconds pass.
you slowly turn toward harry. he’s already looking at you.
