RMH
Fai_Ryy
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
oozey mess
Sweet Seals For You, Always
noise dept.
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let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
Monterey Bay Aquarium
Cosmic Funnies
Love Begins
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
if i look back, i am lost
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❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Stranger Things
h
Peter Solarz
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
Xuebing Du
seen from United States
seen from South Korea
seen from United States
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seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
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seen from Argentina
@w2slvr
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fein for british youtubers and formula 1 drivers
▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|•
pls leave comments if you enjoy reading anything I’ve posted, or any requests or recommendations, would be lovely to see xx
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𖹭 ＭＡＳＴＥＲＬＩＳＴ 𖹭
ℋᴀʀʀʏ ℒᴇᴡɪꜱ (ᴡ2ꜱ):
Mini Golf
Drunken Confessions
Casual?
Complicated
We Hug Now
ℒN4
Jealous Boy
loml
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𝒜LFIE ℬUTTLE
merry christmas, please don't call
Merry Christmas, Please Don't Call
- Alfie Buttle
If someone asked you to define Alfie Buttle in one sentence, you’d probably say:
“Annoying, loud, and stupidly loyal in a way that ruins your life a bit.”
That’s how he was when you met at fifteen.
That’s how he was when you left him at twenty-one.
And that’s how he still is now (so you though) - even though you haven’t spoken in almost a year.
24/11/2025-
As you scroll on TikTok and come across one of Alfie’s videos, ‘A tour of The Grotto, Christmas Edition.’
Alfie’s house, ‘The Grotto’ used to be like your second home. It was his prized possession. Sometimes during your relationship you almost believed he loved it more than you.
24/11/2024-
It looks fooking sick, Y/N, you can’t deny it.”
He smirked up at you as he gave you the grand tour of the grotto all Christmassy. You went on a work trip the week before December and Alfie had decided to do the decorations for when you got home.
You try - you really try - to hold your expression steady.
To not give him the satisfaction.
To not validate the absolute chaos of his decorations. You nearly loose it when you see his little ornaments of Pablo and Chica on his tree.
But your mouth betrays you, curving at the corner.
Alfie catches it immediately.
Of course he does.
That boy could read your micro-expressions like subtitles.
“Ohh, she’s smiling. I see that,” he teases, pointing at you with the pure, feral delight of someone who just won the fucking world cup.
“I’m not smiling,” you lie.
He narrows his eyes dramatically.
“Oh yeah? Aight, watch this.”
Before you can ask what he means, he sweeps across the room, scoops up Pablo - his tiny, gremlin of a dog - and lifts him into the air like he’s Simba and the Grotto skylight is Pride Rock.
“BEHOLD,” he announces, “MY SON.”
Pablo dangles helplessly, blinking like he’s questioning every life choice he never made.
You snort.
You try to hide it with your hand.
You fail.
Alfie’s face lights up like you’ve just handed him the moon.
“There she is!” he beams. “Can’t resist us, can ya?” He puts Pablo down and walks over to you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders.
He tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, and it almost felt like the world stopped.
“What?” Tash asks, as he silently looks at her.
“You got that look on your face.” Alfie teases.
“Me!? What look?” Y/n grumbles.
“That one,” he says, lowering his voice, “where you’re pretending you don’t love something. Or someone.”
Pablo sneezes dramatically, breaking the moment.
Alfie laughs, rubbing the dog’s head.
“Man’s allergic to emotions.”
24/11/2025-
You shut your phone off before the memory gets too loud.
It was Christmas Eve.
Exactly a year later.
And you were horribly, achingly alone.
You drop your phone onto the couch beside you like it’s something dangerous - like if you hold onto it any longer, you’ll break your own heart on purpose.
The phone lands face-up between the cushions, slides a little, and slips deeper into the sofa crack.
You groan, long and dramatic.
“For fucks sake,” you mutter, blindly patting the cushions like that’ll magically pull it back out.
You wedge your hand down the side of the sofa, fingers scrabbling uselessly against crumbs, spare change and rusting bobby pins that had been there for god knows how long.
But the phone just sinks deeper, as if the universe itself has decided: Yes. Suffer.
Muffled, distant, his voice filters up from inside the couch like some kind of emotional jump scare.
“Welcome back to the Grotto…”
He sounds cheerful. Confident.
The version of Alfie that the internet knows.
You grit your teeth, shoving your hand deeper into the cushions.
“Look at this - got the tree up, the lights sorted… Pablo’s wearing his peng little Christmas jumper…”
Your chest tightens.
Because you remember helping him choose that jumper.
You remember last year - standing in that very living room, laughing as Pablo tried to chew the sleeves.
You squeeze your eyes shut.
You shove your hand back into the couch, determined, desperate, ignoring the way your pulse spikes at the sound of him.
Finally, finally, you manage to hook your fingers around the phone and drag it out - hair static-y, pride gone, emotional stability hanging by a thread.
You hold the phone, staring down at the paused frame of Alfie Buttle smiling at a Christmas tree you once helped decorate.
You swallow.
You hit the lock button with a little too much force.
And the room goes quiet."
You sit there in the silence, heart thudding like it’s trying to bruise its way out of your ribs.
And although you didn't end on horrific terms,
You’d deleted his number months ago. Muted his TikTok. Did everything short of performing an exorcism on your phone.
But somehow... somehow, Alfie Buttle still finds ways to haunt you.
You press the heels of your palms into your eyes until you see little fireworks of colour.
You should get up. Make tea. Shower. Do literally anything other than sit here thinking about…
The door bell goes off for your flat.
You frown, standing slowly.
Nobody visits you on Christmas Eve. Your friends are all home with their families. Your parents are away this year. And you certainly didn’t invite-
You buzz the door without asking who it is.
You wait at the peephole, heartbeat in your throat, anxiety tapping your french, acrylic nails on your sternum.
Heavy footsteps on the stairs.
Your breath snags.
Then-
A knock.
You open the door.
And the world… stops.
He’s standing there.
Alfie Buttle. Your Alfie- Except not yours anymore.
He’s wearing a stupid beanie that does nothing to hide the curls escaping around his ears. Snow dusts his shoulders. His cheeks are pink from the cold.
And he’s holding… a Christmas jumper.
Pablo’s Christmas jumper.
“Yo,” Alfie says quietly.
“Why are you here Alf?” you whisper.
He licks his lips, shifts awkwardly.
“Pablo tried to eat this,” he says, lifting the jumper a little. “Again. Man’s got beef with wool or sumfin’. Nearly choked.”
You stare.
“And that required you coming to my flat?”
Alfie looks down. Shrugs once, helpless.
“He went to your room,” he says. “Like a little crackhead. Kept scratchin’ at the door. I think he… misses you or something’.”
Your chest twists.
“Alfie-”
“Alright, fine,” he blurts, running a hand down his face. “It weren’t about Pablo.”
He steps back, pacing once like he’s fighting with himself.
Then he looks up - and the honesty in his eyes nearly takes you out.
“It’s been a year, Y/N,” he says. “A whole bloody year.”
You swallow hard.
“I know.”
“And I still-” He stops, looks away. His throat flexes.
“Bruv, this is embarrassing,” he mutters to himself. “Man’s never been soft in his life.”
You almost laugh. Almost.
“What are you trying to say?”
He meets your eyes.
And it hits you, sharp and immediate, the weight of everything the two of you never said.
“I still think about you,” he says finally, voice low. “Every day. Even when I don’t wanna. Even when I’m tryin’ to act bare unbothered for the gram and shit."
You can’t breathe.
“I see you everywhere,” he continues. “In the Grotto. In the songs I play. In every stupid fucking Christmas light I put up this year.”
Your heart is a fragile, stupid thing.
“And tonight…” He hesitates.
“Tonight what?” you whisper.
He laughs once, quiet, defeated.
“Tonight I realised I’ve been spendin’ a year tryin’ not to miss you.” A beat. “And I still do.”
Your eyes burn.
"Fuck say something Y/N." He groans in frustration, the raw emotion in his voice almost too much to bear.
You bite your lip, the words stuck in your throat, trying to untangle everything you feel without sounding like a mess.
You pause...
Then you let out a breath, looking up at him, your eyes narrowing slightly, like you’re steeling yourself. “What do you want me to say, Alf?” you ask, your voice steady but sharp, like you’re somehow still holding onto control of this moment.
He looks at you like he’s searching for an answer too, like he doesn’t know what he expects from you anymore. "Tell me you feel the same. Tell me you don't think about me. And don't lie cause I know it's been fucking killing you too."
You inhale sharply.
Because he’s right. He knows he’s right. He can read you better than anyone. Always has.
But he doesn’t get to have the last word on this. Not tonight.
You blink slowly, pressing your lips together as you consider him - really look at him. The pink cheeks from the cold, the curls escaping his beanie, little snowflakes melting on his eyelashes.
You huff out a soft laugh, shaking your head.
"You look like you're straight out of fuckin love actually... where's the sign?" You smile slightly, "No boombox either you lazy arse."
He laughs, and there’s something in the way he does it—genuine, warm, like he's just glad to be here. "Oi, that's cold, even for you. I’m tryin’ my best here."
You gently poke his chest with one finger. “Well to answer your question, of course it’s been killing me, you muppet.”
He smirks and steps closer to you, trying not to let the air between you shift too much. "Why'd we break up again?"
Instead, you just stare at him, suddenly aware of every little thing about him. The way his hand rests on the doorframe, the way his curls fall messily under the beanie. You swallow, trying to steady yourself.
You meet his eyes, feeling that familiar pull again, the gravity of everything you once shared. "We can't just go back. Shit happened Alf. You hurt me." Your voice breaks ever so slightly, but he noticed. He always did.
The words hit the air between you like a quiet storm. His face softens—genuine remorse flickers in his eyes as he takes a small step forward, almost like he's waiting for you to push him away again. But you don’t.
He doesn’t say anything at first, just studies you for a long, silent moment. His eyes are searching now, softer than before, like he's trying to find some piece of you he lost.
The tension in the room thickens, so heavy it almost feels suffocating. You want to tell him to leave, that you’re done with this, that it’s better to walk away. But you can’t. You won’t.
Because a part of you wants this. Wants him. I mean it's Christmas for fucks sake.
You bite your lip, keeping your gaze steady on his. “You get one chance, Alfie. Just one. You fuck it up, and I’m done for good.”
His face lights up, that grin you know all too well stretching across his lips. “You won’t regret it, Y/N. I swear.”
His expression flickers for a moment, like he's about to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just pulls you into him, his arms wrapping around you in a tight, almost desperate hug.
It’s too much. You want to push him away, tell him this isn’t how things are supposed to work. But you don’t. You let yourself sink into him, just for a moment, because it feels too good, too right. And even though you know it might break you in the end, you don’t want to let go. Not tonight.
𝐿ᴀɴᴅᴏ 𝒩ᴏʀʀɪꜱ, ʟᴏᴍʟ
AN: listen to 'loml' by taylor swift
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗
ˢʰᵉ ʷᵃˢ ᵗʰᵉ ˡᵒᵛᵉ ᵒᶠ ʰⁱˢ ˡⁱᶠᵉ. ᴬⁿᵈ ʰᵉ ˡᵉᵗ ʰᵉʳ ᵍᵒ. ᴴᵉ ʷᵃˢ ᵗʰᵉ ˡᵒᵛᵉ ᵒᶠ ʰᵉʳ ˡⁱᶠᵉ. ᴬⁿᵈ ˢʰᵉ ˡᵉᵗ ʰⁱᵐ ᵍᵒ.
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗
Amelie's POV
Amelie met Lando Norris on a rainy Thursday in Monaco.
She was nineteen, he was twenty-one. And everything about them was reckless from the start; the way their eyes locked across the paddock, the way she handed him a coffee like they’d known each other in a past life, the way he called her “trouble” with a crooked smile that didn’t match the sorrow in his eyes.
It was supposed to be temporary. He was an F1 driver; fast cars, faster headlines. She was just someone who tried not to fall in love with people who’d leave.
But he stayed.
For a while.
They kissed under city lights and behind closed garage doors, between races and wrong timing. Monaco turned to Silverstone, and Silverstone turned into Italy, into shared hotel rooms and sleepy 2 a.m. I-love-yous whispered like promises they both knew they wouldn’t keep. Years passed without either of them noticing how tightly they'd become stitched into one another.
Still, she said it back. She meant it back.
They carved their names into oak trees in Austria and danced on rooftops in Spain. He joked about getting married in Vegas after a Grand Prix, tipsy on champagne and adrenaline. She laughed, said he’d be a terrible husband.
He kissed her like he wanted to prove her wrong.
They’d talked about a house in the countryside. Something small, something quiet. A place with lemon trees. They said maybe next year. Then the next. Then never.
He changed. Or maybe he didn’t, maybe she just finally looked close enough to see that the heaven he promised was made of smoke, press statements and women who didn’t wear her perfume.
He started cancelling calls. Forgetting plans. She waited for flights that never landed, her hands trembling as she told herself it was fine.
The real race was her heart chasing after someone who was already gone.
He broke up with her in his hotel room in Singapore.
No warning. No goodbye kiss. Just his voice, distant and dry. “We’re not good for each other anymore.”
She didn’t cry, not until he was gone. But when she did, it cracked her, sobs in the hotel hallway, mascara on her pillow, the echo of you’re the love of my life sounding like a curse.
She moved back to London.
Painted over the pictures he took of her. Buried his letters in a shoebox marked fragile. Told her mother she was fine. Told her friends it was mutual.
But some nights, she still answered the phone expecting his name.
Years passed.
He won more races. She stopped watching them.
She made her own success.
He sent flowers once. She never replied.
They saw each other again a few years later. It was Charles Leclerc’s wedding in Monte Carlo. He brought someone else. She came alone. She smiled when their eyes met, even though her heart stuttered like it had forgotten how to beat without him. He looked older. Softer. The kind of tired that success doesn’t cure.
He wore black. Of course he did. She always said he looked best in it.
She smiled like she wasn’t still grieving him.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hi,” she replied.
And that was it. She left early. He didn’t follow.
No confession. No second chance. Just a look. A memory. A quiet knowing that some things don’t come back — not because they’re not real, but because they were too.
She got married three years later.
Not to him. Of course not to him.
But when her husband said, “you’re the love of my life,” her smile wavered slightly.
Because someone else had already said it, and meant it, and let her go anyway.
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗
Lando's POV
Lando met Amelie on a rainy Thursday in Monaco.
She was nineteen, all wide eyes, shy smiles, a laugh like windchimes in summer. He was twenty-one and already tired of everything he was supposed to be grateful for. She handed him a coffee in the paddock like she’d done it a thousand times before. Like they were already something.
He called her “trouble.”
She rolled her eyes and told him he looked like someone who didn’t sleep enough.
He fell in love with her that day and didn’t realize it for three years.
It wasn’t supposed to last.
He had a career to chase. Headlines to survive.
She was just a girl who shouldn’t have stayed as long as she did.
But she did.
She stayed through the chaos, through the travel, through the weeks he forgot to call and the nights he woke up from dreams he never told her about. She fit into his life like she wasn’t supposed to, quietly, completely. Until he couldn’t remember what it felt like to wake up without her skin against his.
They kissed in stairwells and alleyways. Whispered I love you between time zones and broken sleep. She learned to fold her life around him. And he, God, he let her.
He let her love him like he was worth something.
He never said it out loud, but she was his favourite part of everything.
Silverstone. Austria. Spain. A rooftop in Madrid where she told him the stars looked like tiny endings. He held her hand and said, “No. They’re beginnings.”
He lied.
They talked about a little house in the country. Lemon trees. No press. No grid. Just quiet.
He promised her next year.
Then the next.
And then... nothing.
Because he didn’t know how to stop. How to slow down.
Because he thought she’d always wait.
He started drifting before he even noticed he was letting go.
Missed calls. Forgotten dinners. A text that went unopened for three days. She never asked for much. That made it worse. Her silence was never passive-aggressive, it was patient.
That’s what broke him.
Because he was busy choosing everything but her, and she still loved him like it wasn’t breaking her ribs.
Singapore was a blur. Heat. Noise. Guilt.
He sat on the edge of the hotel bed and said it like he was reading a line from a script someone else wrote.
“We’re not good for each other anymore.”
She didn’t say anything.
Didn’t fight.
Didn’t beg.
Just nodded.
And he hated her for it, for making it easier than he deserved.
He watched her leave through the hotel window.
Didn’t sleep that night. Didn’t race well that weekend. But he smiled through interviews and told people he was "focused." Lied like a champion.
She moved back to London.
He stayed in motion, podiums, headlines, sponsors, new faces with unfamiliar laughter.
But nothing landed quite right after her.
His apartment was cleaner. His bed colder. He couldn’t remember when his life started feeling like a rehearsal for something that had already happened.
She stopped watching the races. He noticed.
She made a name for herself. He watched.
She became someone without him. He hated how proud it made him feel.
He sent flowers once, white lilies, because they reminded him of that dress she wore in Monza. No note. He didn’t have the right anymore.
She never replied. Of course she didn’t.
Charles’s wedding was the first time he saw her in four years.
She looked… older. Not in the way people age, but in the way people endure. Like someone who’d survived something quietly catastrophic. She looked beautiful, unbearably beautiful.
Her brunette curls were left natural. Of course they were. He always loved them that way.
She smiled when she saw him. He didn’t deserve that either.
“Hey,” he said, ignoring the blonde on his arm.
“Hi,” she said back.
They stood there for a moment too long. He wanted to say: I didn’t know how to love you right. I didn’t think I had to choose, and by the time I realised I did, you were already gone.
But instead, he just stood there.
She left early.
He didn’t follow.
He watched her walk away again and thought:
That’s the second time I let her leave without a fight.
And the last.
Three years later, someone sent him a photo from her wedding.
She looked happy.
The man she married looked like the kind of person who calls when he says he will. The kind who never forgets her birthday. The kind who doesn’t disappear into hotel rooms and come back with excuses.
When Lando saw it, he sat in his car outside the factory for a long time. Didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Just stared.
He didn’t race that weekend.
Sometimes, at night, he still dreams of her voice.
The way she’d whisper “I love you” like it hurt her to keep it in.
The way she used to sit on his lap in airport lounges and rest her forehead against his like he was her home.
People ask him if he’s ever been in love.
He says once.
Adds nothing else.
Because how do you explain that you were someone’s beginning, and then chose not to be their end?
How do you explain that you had a love worth building a life around… and you left it on a hotel room floor in Singapore?
How do you explain that the only person who ever really knew you… now lives a life you’ll never be in?
She was the love of his life.
And he let her go.
𝐿ᴀɴᴅᴏ 𝒩ᴏʀʀɪꜱ, ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱ ʙᴏʏ
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗
ᴵᵗ ʷᵃˢ ʲᵘˢᵗ ᶠᵘⁿ. ᵀʰᵃᵗ’ˢ ʷʰᵃᵗ ʰᵉ ˢᵃⁱᵈ. ᵁⁿᵗⁱˡ ʰᵉ ˢᵃʷ ʰᵉʳ ʷⁱᵗʰ ˢᵒᵐᵉᵒⁿᵉ ᵉˡˢᵉ.
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗
The club was loud, bodies moving like shadows under strobing lights, the air thick with sweat and smoke and something unspoken. Y/N leaned against the bar, laughing at something the guy next to her had said- too loud, maybe, or maybe just loud enough for Lando to hear over the music.
He watched her from across the room, jaw clenched, hand wrapped too tight around his glass. She looked good. Too good. That kind of good that made other guys stare too long. That kind of good that made his chest ache in that way he never admitted to anyone- especially not her.
Y/N tilted her head, hair falling over her shoulder, and the guy leaned in, whispering something in her ear.
Lando saw red.
He didn’t even realize he was moving until he was beside her, practically shoving himself between them.
“We’re leaving,” he said, voice low, hard.
Y/N blinked. “Excuse me?”
He didn’t look at her. “Now.”
The guy raised his eyebrows. “Problem?”
Lando turned his head slowly, eyes dark. “Yeah. You need to back off.
Y/N let out a humorless laugh. “Wow. Possessive much?”
Lando didn’t answer. He just started walking toward the exit, already assuming she'd follow.
And she did.
Y/N sat stiff in the passenger seat, arms folded, the air between them thick with tension.
“You wanna tell me what that was?” she asked.
Lando kept his eyes on the road. “Don’t start.”
“No. You don’t get to act like a jealous dick and not tell me why! We’re not doing that.”
He scoffed. “Jealous? That’s cute.”
Y/N turned to face him. “Then what was it? You practically dragged me away from that guy.”
“He was eye fucking you and his hand was far too fucking low. You looked like you were enjoying yourself though,” he said, bitter. “Flirting like you weren’t gonna end up in my bed again tonight.”
Y/N blinked, stunned. “Seriously?”
Lando kept driving. Jaw clenched. Rain pounding harder now.
“You know what?” he added, voice rising. “Maybe he’s better for you. He actually fucking wants you.”
She stared at him, jaw slack — but only for a second. Then her expression shifted. Blank. Cold. The kind of quiet that made people nervous.
“Wow,” she said, her voice low and even. “There it is.”
Lando glanced at her, chest heaving, but she didn’t give him the reaction he was braced for. No yelling. No tears. Just a slow blink and something unreadable in her eyes.
He just sighed and gripped the steering wheel tighter if that was even possible.
The silence was thick, and he hated it. This was not how he expected the night to go. But the sight of her with that guy had set his teeth on edge, and now he’d put his foot in his mouth.
Again.
“You know what? Stop the car.”
He blinked, jerking his head to face her. “What?”
“I said stop the car.”
“What are you-”
“Stop the car. Now.”
It was that voice. The one that had been burned into his brain. The voice that could stop him in his tracks, no matter what. He could barely look at her as he pulled over. She’d never used that tone with him before. Not once.
She was out of the car before he could even stop, and he sat there for a moment, stunned.
When he finally found the strength to get out, he saw her walking down the side of the road. The rain had started up, and already, her hair was plastered to her neck.
He stalked after her. “Are you insane?”
The look she threw over her shoulder made him flinch — cold and harsh.
He caught up to her. “You’re not walking back by yourself. Let’s go.”
She didn’t stop walking. Not this time.
Not when he said her name.
Not when he cursed under his breath and jogged after her like a goddamn idiot in the rain.
He grabbed her arm — not hard, just enough to make her stop — and she did, spinning on him with a fury that almost knocked the air from his lungs.
“Let. Me. Go,” she hissed, rain dripping down her cheeks like tears she refused to shed.
He loosened his grip, but didn’t let go. Couldn’t.
“What the hell do you want from me, Lando?” she snapped, eyes blazing. Hair soaked. Lip gloss smudged. Still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen and she probably knew it.
“I want you to stop acting like you don’t care.”
She laughed, sharp. “I’m acting? You’re the one who said it didn’t mean anything. You’re the one who made it a game.”
“I lied!” he shouted. “Okay? Jesus- I lied. Is that what you want to hear?”
She froze, blinking. He didn’t wait.
“I lied when I said it was just fun. I lied every time I acted like you were just some hookup, like it doesn’t ruin me when you even glance at someone else.”
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. He stepped forward.
“You think I don’t want you? I can’t fucking breathe when you’re around. I see you with someone else and I go insane.”
The silence that followed was loud- except for the rain, pounding on the pavement like it was trying to fill the space between them.
She swallowed hard. “You don’t get to do this.”
“I know.”
“You don’t get to pull this grand confession shit now, after pushing me away for months-”
“I know.”
She stared at him. Jaw clenched. Angry and gorgeous and so done with him.
“I’m in love with you,” he said.
The words hit the air like a slap. Neither of them moved.
She just blinked.
Then, slowly, she stepped forward. Close enough to shove him.
So she did. Right in the chest.
“You’re such an asshole,” she said, shoving him again. “You can’t just say that after everything.”
“I know.”
“I’m still mad at you,” she said, even as her hands balled up in the front of his hoodie, still pushing, still angry- but not pulling away.
Then she bites her lip in thought, registering the words that came out of his mouth. “You’re in love with me?”
He nodded, eyes locked on hers like they were the only thing anchoring him to the ground. Rain still pouring. Cars still rushing by in the distance. But none of it mattered. Just her. Always her.
“Yeah,” he said, like it physically hurt to admit.
Just looked at him, like she was still working him out in her head. Like maybe she wasn’t sure if she wanted to kiss him or slap him again. Maybe both.
“You’re in love with me,” she repeated, slower this time, like she was testing the weight of it on her tongue.
He nodded again. “Disgusting, I know.”
She actually smiled at that. Just barely. A twitch of her lips, but it was there. “It is kind of disgusting.”
A beat passed. Then she let go of his hoodie, arms dropping to her sides.
“Say it again,” she said, eyes still on him.
“What?”
“Say it again,” she repeated. “If you mean it.”
He didn’t even hesitate this time.
“I’m in love with you.”
And then, without warning, she grabbed the front of his hoodie again and yanked him down, crashing her mouth onto his.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.
It was everything they hadn’t said, bottled up and finally breaking.
His hands were on her waist, her neck, her jaw — desperate, searching, like he was trying to memorise her all at once. She kissed him harder, teeth grazing his bottom lip, and he groaned against her mouth, head spinning.
When they finally broke apart, they were both breathless, staring at each other like neither one knew what the hell just happened.
“Still mad at you,” she whispered, lips brushing his. And with that he picked her up and walked her back to the car.
𝐻ᴀʀʀʏ 𝐿ᴇᴡɪꜱ, ᴡᴇ ʜᴜɢ ɴᴏᴡ
AN: listen to 'we hug now' by sydney rose
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"ᴵ ʰᵃᵛᵉ ᵃ ᶠᵉᵉˡⁱⁿᵍ ʸᵒᵘ ᵍᵒᵗ ᵉᵛᵉʳʸᵗʰⁱⁿᵍ ʸᵒᵘ ʷᵃⁿᵗᵉᵈ, ᵃⁿᵈ ʸᵒᵘʳ ⁿᵒᵗ ʷᵃˢᵗⁱⁿᵍ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ ʲᵘˢᵗ ˢᵗᵘᶜᵏ ʰᵉʳᵉ ˡⁱᵏᵉ ᵐᵉ."
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ
Y/N's POV
Y/N stared out of the window, the early morning sun casting a soft golden hue over her old neighborhood. It looked the same as it always had, and yet, everything felt different now. She had moved away months ago, but every time she came back, the weight of memories seemed to pull her right back into the past.
She ran a hand through her hair, sighing deeply. It had been over a year since she and Harry had broken up, but the ache still lingered. Sometimes, when she went to sleep, she was still seventeen, and Harry was still living just a few blocks away, just down the street, and everything felt so easy. They would talk about their future, their dreams, their plans. They were young and in love, and the world felt endless. Now, all of it felt like a distant dream she could barely reach.
It wasn’t that she didn’t love him anymore. She did. It wasn’t that she hadn’t tried to move on. She had. But no one had come close to him. The way he made her laugh, the way he understood her like no one else ever could—it was a feeling she couldn’t quite shake, no matter how hard she tried. No one compared, and everything had fallen apart.
Harry had moved on, or so it seemed. He was successful—he had everything he ever wanted. He was a YouTuber, a Sideman, living a life that seemed so far removed from the small-town world they had once shared. She could see his videos online, smiling at his achievements, watching him build his empire. He was surrounded by friends, fans, laughter, and love. And yet, every time she saw him in the spotlight, something inside of her broke just a little more. She was stuck here, far from that world, and she hated herself for it.
Was he happy? She wondered, her mind racing. Or was he just pretending? Because, deep down, she knew the pain wasn’t just hers. It couldn’t be. He had been there with her through everything—the fights, the laughs, the moments of joy. And then it all stopped, just like that.
She pulled out her phone, scrolling through old pictures of the two of them, memories frozen in time. She couldn’t help it. She thought of how everything had seemed so simple before the world fell apart. How they'd been each other's first loves, each other's safe space. And now, he was untouchable, unreachable.
She felt the sting of tears threatening to fall. The feeling of being stuck here, of watching him live a life that seemed so perfect while she struggled with the emptiness, was unbearable.
It wasn’t just the distance that hurt—it was the feeling that, to him, it was all just a small thing. A small thing that happened, and the world moved on. But to her, it felt like the world ended. It had been everything. It was everything.
She stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the familiar street. The houses had changed slightly, new people had moved in, but it was still the place where she’d grown up. And deep down, she couldn’t shake the thought that Harry had moved on, and she was the one left behind, living in a version of the past that no longer existed.
Y/N closed her eyes, leaning against the glass. Maybe he thinks about me too? But she knew it had been too long. Harry had a new life now. And as much as she wished she could turn back time, she couldn’t. The past was gone. It was only a dream now.
The world had ended when it happened to her. And there was nothing she could do to bring it back.
HARRY'S PERSPECTIVE: Harry sat back in his chair, the glow of his computer screen illuminating his face as he scrolled mindlessly through the comments of his latest video. It was easy to get lost in the endless stream of praise, new subscribers, and brand deals. The Sidemen had built an empire, and Harry had everything he'd ever dreamed of. His life was fast, full of laughs, and everything seemed perfect on the surface. Yet, no matter how successful he became, something still gnawed at him.
He paused the video and leaned back, staring out of his office window. The view was nothing like the quiet streets of his childhood. No more simple, sleepy days spent walking down the road to Y/N's house. No more late-night talks about their future, filled with the kind of naive hope only a teenager could have. Now, he had everything—money, fame, a career that was thriving—but something was still missing.
It wasn’t that he didn’t love his life now. He had everything he wanted—his YouTube career was booming, his mates, the Sidemen, had become family, and everything he touched turned to gold. He had the freedom to do what he loved, and it had brought him everything he could’ve dreamed of... except for her.
His mind wandered back to those days when they were together, the way everything had felt so easy. They had been kids, just dreaming of what their lives could be. They talked about getting out of their small town, chasing their dreams together. But somewhere along the way, it all slipped away.
No one had come close to her. Not since they broke up. Not since she walked out of his life, anyway. Sure, he’d been on dates, had casual flings, but none of it ever felt right. The way she made him laugh, the way she understood him like no one else could—it was something he hadn’t found since. No one else had that same magic, that same spark. His fame, his success—it all seemed pointless in comparison to what they had.
He thought about the videos he posted online, how people probably assumed he was living the dream. To his followers, to the world, it seemed like he had everything. But when he laid his head down at night, alone, it all felt hollow. Fame didn’t fill the emptiness inside him, and the laughs with the Sidemen didn’t take away the ache.
Sometimes, Harry could still feel like he was seventeen, back in that small town, with Y/N by his side. He could still picture the way she’d smile when they’d walk home from school, the sound of her laugh, how everything felt like it could last forever. He’d close his eyes and it was like he could hear her voice calling out to him from just down the street, telling him everything would be okay, telling him they’d make it. But the moment he woke up, the reality of who he had become—and who they were now—hit him like a ton of bricks.
He’d seen her life unfold from a distance, through social media, through mutual friends. She was doing well—had a good job, a fresh start, and by all accounts, was thriving. He could only imagine how far she’d gone since they last spoke. It was easier for her, wasn’t it? She hadn’t been caught up in the chaos of a life in the spotlight, the noise that came with being constantly under a microscope. No, she was living a life that seemed to make sense. She was doing what she loved, without all the baggage he had to carry with him.
And here he was, surrounded by everything he’d ever dreamed of, yet still stuck in the past.
He had to face the truth: for him, the world really did end the day they broke up. It wasn’t just a breakup—it was everything they had built together, the future they had dreamed of, the life they were supposed to live. When they ended, it felt like the world he knew had stopped, and nothing else really mattered after that.
His success, the millions of views on his videos, the countless subscribers—it didn’t fill the void she left. He was happy, sure, but it wasn’t the same.
He looked down at his phone, the screen lit up with more messages and notifications, but none of it felt real. He scrolled past them, not really reading anything. He couldn’t focus. Instead, his mind wandered back to her—Y/N. Was she happy now? Was she living the life they’d once talked about?
But for him, the world ended the day they said goodbye. And despite all the fame, all the fortune, nothing would ever change that.
Harry Lewis x Y/N -
Complicated
It was a Saturday afternoon, and somehow you’d found yourself invited to take part in a Sidemen Sunday video. Honestly, you had no fucking clue what you’d just agreed to.
You stepped out of your Uber, trying not to look too out of place, and were immediately led through the front door of the house. It was the one the Sidemen filmed in. The familiar buzz of laughter and chaos filled the air as you walked into the living room.
The whole squad was there: Tobi, Ethan, JJ, George Clarke, Vik, Arthur TV, Harry, Simon, Bambino Becky, and—of course—you.
“Hey Y/N!” Simon’s grin greeted you from across the room, his smile wide as ever. JJ raised a beer, his eyebrows wiggling in your direction, and you rolled your eyes.
“Christ, JJ, drinking already?” You teased, eyeing the time on your watch.
JJ shrugged, taking a swig. “It’s 5 o’clock somewhere,” he retorts taking a sip.
You laughed as the crew moved around, setting up cameras in the corner. The boys sprawled themselves across the sofas and chairs, making themselves comfortable. Harry patted the empty spot next to him, and without thinking, you slid into the seat beside him. He shot you a small smile as you crossed your legs, settling in.
Simon stood up, his voice carrying. “Alright, today we’re doing a lie detector test. Everyone gets a turn answering questions, and we’ll see who’s been telling the truth.”
JJ was first. They hooked him up, and Behz asked the first question with a grin. “How many girls have you slept with?”
JJ answered, and the whole room went silent, waiting for the verdict.
The machine beeped, and the operator deadpanned, “That’s a lie.”
JJ’s head fell into his hands, and he burst out laughing, shaking with it. The room followed suit, laughing at his misfortune.
“Bloody hell,” JJ grunted, rubbing his arm where the shock had hit him.
Simon leaned in, a wicked smile on his face. “Oh yeah, I forgot to mention... you get shocked when you lie.”
JJ groaned dramatically, “You could’ve warned me, you wanker.”
Laughter erupted, and Harry caught your eye, and you both share an amused glance, before turning your attention back to to JJ, still trying to catch his breath.
George and Becky took their turns next. Then, your name was called.
You stood and walked toward the chair. The operator smiled at you warmly as he helped you get strapped in. He adjusted the cuff around your arm and clicked the clip onto your finger, then asked, “You ready?”
You let out a nervous laugh. “Is it bad if I say no?”
The crew chuckled. “It’s fine,” the operator said. “Just answer as honestly as you can.”
You nodded, trying to shake the nerves, but they lingered. The man turned to the group. “Alright, go ahead.”
Becky asked the first question. “Are you single?”
“Yes,” you answered, and the machine didn’t react.
Harry looks over at you, taking in your features, and a subtle smile appears on his face.
Behz asked the next one. “How long have you been single?”
You thought for a moment. “A year now.”
No reaction from the machine, and everyone seemed to accept it. Simon leaned forward, clearly intrigued. “How many boyfriends have you had?”
You shot him a look. “One.”
JJ leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “Wait—one? Are you serious?”
You laughed, rolling your eyes. “What’s so surprising about that?”
“Well you’re a fit girl so we just assumed you’d… ya’know…” JJ makes a crude hand gesture, his voice dropping.
“JJ! Behave,” Harry interrupts, giving him a disapproving look.
You laughed with the group, enjoying the light-hearted teasing. Then Ethan got serious with the next question. “Have you ever cheated on anyone?”
You recoiled at the thought. “No. Never.”
The machine didn’t react, confirming your honesty. JJ groaned. “BORING,” he shouted.
Then Harry leaned in, giving you a cheeky grin. “Alright, how many one-night stands have you had?”
You couldn’t help but feel flustered. “Two,” you muttered. The machine didn’t react.
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Fair play for being honest.”
You flipped him off, and he exaggeratedly clutched his chest like you’d just wounded him. The room burst into laughter, and Simon grinned, getting ready for the next one.
He paused for dramatic effect before asking, “Who’s the hottest man in this room?”
You sighed and buried your face in your hands. “Oh, come on,” you groaned, knowing exactly where this was going.
Simon leaned in, eyes glinting mischievously. “Come on, we all know who you’ll pick.”
The room turned to Harry, and suddenly he was the centre of attention. His cheeks flushed, and he shot Simon a glare, trying not to let the heat creep into his face.
“Just say it,” JJ urged. “Who’s the fittest in the room?”
You sighed, a little defeated. “Okay, fine. Harry.”
The room went dead silent for a beat, then erupted into teasing laughter. Harry’s blush deepened, and he looked anywhere but at at you, clearly trying not to smile.
Vik, grinning mischievously, asked the next question. “Was one of your one-night stands with someone in this room?”
The room went still, all eyes on you. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks as your expression betrayed you.
“Oh my god,” JJ gasped. “Wait, you’re serious?”
Becky’s mouth dropped open. “Fuck off!"
The boys were already laughing, trying to hold back their shock. Simon leaned forward, eyes dancing with mischief. “So… is it true?”
You groaned, knowing there was no point in denying it. “Yes.”
The room exploded with laughter. Ethan leaned in. “When?”
“About a month ago,” you muttered.
The laughter died down, but the tension lingered. Simon looked between you and Harry, eyes narrowing with curiosity. “So… Harry,” he smirked, “You never told us?”
Harry avoided eye contact with both of you, his expression unreadable. “It didn’t mean anything,” he muttered, his voice flat.
You felt a pang in your chest. It didn’t mean anything? You bit your lip, trying not to let the hurt show.
You stood up, not wanting to sit next to Harry any longer. You moved to the seat beside Simon.
Simon’s turn came next. He moved to the chair, and Harry shot you a quick glance, clearly relieved for the distraction.
One by one, the rest of the group took their turns, each question more outrageous than the last. The room was filled with laughter, teasing, and the occasional shock as the machine did its job. But through it all, Harry kept stealing glances at you. His eyes never quite met yours, but you could feel the weight of his gaze on you.
Finally, it was Harry’s turn. He put on his usual cocky grin and walked to the chair, ready for whatever questions were about to come his way.
“Right,” he said, sitting down with an exaggerated swagger. “Let’s do this.”
The operator hooked him up, and the questions began. First, Behz asked, “Is it true you have the lowest pain tolerance out of all of us?”
Everyone except Harry chuckles at the question. Harry rolls his eyes and says, “Oh ha ha, very funny. But yeah, I think it’s true unfortunately.”
The group burst out laughing. “So we can all take pleasure in knowing you’ll scream the loudest, huh?” Simon teased.
JJ joined in. “Yeah, you’re a baby when it comes to pain.” Harry flipped them both off.
Behz leaned forward, clearly enjoying the teasing. “Okay, have you ever cheated on anyone?”
Harry stiffened. “No. Never,” he said firmly. The machine stayed silent.
Then, JJ grinned, trying to lighten Harry's mood. “Is it true you’ve never won a game of hide and seek?”
The room erupted into laughter. Harry shot back defensively, “I have, I just don’t remember when!”
The machine beeped, and Harry groaned as the shock jolted through him. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, rubbing his arm.
Behz smiled mischievously. “Okay, have you ever been in love?”
The room quieted. Harry hesitated for a moment before answering. “Yeah, I guess so.”
Behz grinned. “Care to elaborate?”
Harry shot him a look. “No.”
Simon leaned in, clearly wanting more. “Who was it? Or who is it?” he asked, pressing further.
Harry’s gaze hardened. “None of your business.”
“So, Harry,” Simon grins, his eyes glinting mischievously. “You’ve been dodging the truth all day. Time to answer the real questions. Do you fancy Y/N.”
The room went silent. Harry looked at you, his gaze intense for a moment, like he was searching for something. Then, he spoke, his voice colder than you’d expected.
“Well, obviously, I fancy her. We slept together.”
You roll your eyes. Was that really necessary.
The room stared, waiting for more. JJ leaned in. “Yeah, I can’t blame you there mate. Are you in love with her?”
Harry’s jaw clenched, his expression unreadable as he finally turns his gaze to you. His eyes seem to darken, his jaw tight, the line of his lips hardening. His face is blank, betraying nothing. It infuriates you, makes you feel like you don’t know him at all. You were also pissed off at all the boys for egging on the stupid fucking questions. “No,” he said firmly, eyes locking onto you as he did. “I’m not in love with her.”
“Bullshit!” Josh interrupts and Harry shoots him a look that shuts him right up.
The silence in the room was deafening, and then the lie detector beeped.
“Lie,” the operator said.
You froze, your heart pounding in your chest. Harry stared at the machine in disbelief.
“What?” he stammered, trying to make sense of it. “No, run it again.”
The operator did as requested, an the operator repeated, his voice calm but firm.
The room was utterly still. You could feel the eyes of everyone on you and Harry, and you couldn’t shake the discomfort in your chest. Harry’s face turned a shade of red you’d never seen before, and for a brief moment, he looked like he wanted to disappear into the chair.
You wanted to laugh it off, but there was something in the air now, something different. Harry didn’t join in on the joke. He just sat there, his fingers twitching at his side, and you could see the wheels turning in his head as if he was trying to figure out how to salvage the situation.
Simon, ever the instigator, leaned forward with a cheeky grin. “So, Harry, it’s safe to say you are in love with Y/N, huh?”
Harry’s gaze flicked to you, and for the first time, he seemed vulnerable. His usual cocky demeanour was gone, replaced by something a little more real, a little more... uncertain. He swallowed, the words clearly not coming easily. “Seriously Simon, you can fuck off."
“Oh, come on, mate! This is juicy!” Ethan shouted, grinning.
Harry groaned, running his hand through his hair.
“Okay, okay, I’ve got a better question! Have you two kissed again since... y'know... the night?”
You exchanged an awkward glance with Harry, who was now clearly avoiding eye contact with you.
The tension in the room was palpable. No one spoke for a few moments, as everyone tried to process what had just been said.
“I think it’s clear we’re all dying to know,” Simon finally said, unable to resist. “So, Harry, what are you waiting for? Go on. Give us the tea.” He says like a teenage girl.
Harry sighed, rubbing his face with his hands, and then said, quieter this time, “Look, I don’t think now’s the right time, okay?”
You felt the air shift again. It was like Harry was trying to keep something from spilling out, but there was an energy between you two now that wasn’t just about the lie detector or the game anymore. It felt real. Too real.
“I think we should just finish the game,” you said suddenly, standing up before anyone could say more. You weren’t sure why, but you felt a surge of discomfort, a need to put some space between the way Harry had just spoken and the awkwardness in the room.
“Yeah, let’s just get this over with,” Harry said, his voice almost a little too quick, as if he was relieved you’d taken the pressure off.
Simon, sensing that it was better not to push for now, clapped his hands together. “Alright then, moving on! Who’s next?”
The rest of the game continued, but it was different now. The banter had dulled a little, and no one wanted to touch the topic that was still hanging between you and Harry. He didn’t speak much more the rest of the night, and neither did you. You couldn’t help but feel like something had changed, something that was neither good nor bad but... complicated.
The room empties, and soon, it's just the two of you left. The silence is deafening. You watch as Harry continues to pack his things, his movements almost robotic.
You can feel his eyes on you, even when he's not looking, and you know he's waiting for you to say something. But neither of you do. It's like there's an unspoken agreement, an understanding that once the room has cleared, all pretences of civility are dropped. Even though you thought you were fine, clearly you were wrong.
The tension between you is palpable, crackling in the air like electricity.
“Ok Harry what the fuck?” You break the silence.
Harry looks up from his bag, his jaw clenching almost imperceptibly. His eyes are cold, guarded.
"What?" he replies flatly, his hands still busy packing.
“Don’t get bitchy with me. You know exactly what.”
Harry's face hardens, his features sharpening into something harsher. He sets down his phone and turns to face you, his shoulders squared defensively.
"And what exactly do you want me to say? You think I wanted you to find out like that?”
“Why didn’t you tell me???” You groan.
Harry lets out a sharp laugh, the sound harsh and bitter. He takes a step towards you, closing the distance between you.
"Why didn't I tell you? Are you kidding me?" Harry says. "You really want the truth?"
“YES! I really fucking do Harry.”
Harry pauses, his eyes locked with yours. For a moment, he looks almost vulnerable, the hard façade crumbling just slightly.
"I didn't tell you," he says, his voice low, "Because I didn't want to show weakness. Because the way I feel about you... it makes me weak."
“Well I’m sorry if it makes you feel that way but you don’t have to be such a prick about it??? I thought we were fine Harry. We spoke about sleeping together the morning after and I thought we went back to normal!”
Harry let’s out another laugh, this one colder, harsher. He reaches out and grabs your arm, his grip surprisingly strong.
"Normal? Is that what you thought we were? You really thought we could just go back to being friends after that night?"
“I thought that’s what you wanted!” Your voice breaks with emotion.
Harry's face softens slightly at the sound of your breaking voice. His grip on your arm loosens but he doesn't let go.
"It is what I wanted," he admits, his voice more gentle now, almost defeated. "I thought I could just… Ignore it. Move on."
He steps closer, his hand sliding from your arm to your hip. His touch is surprisingly tender, his grip almost possessive.
"But I can't," he admits, his voice a rough whisper. "I can't ignore it, I can't move on. You're all I think about. It's driving me fucking insane."
You can feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint scent of his cologne. You’re so close now that you can count his eyelashes, see the flecks of gold in his eyes.
His thumb starts tracing slow circles on your hip as he looks at you, his gaze intense and unwavering.
He lets out a ragged sigh, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb grazes your bottom lip, a gesture that's both familiar and new at the same time.
"You don’t even realise, do you?" His voice is quiet, rough around the edges, like he’s been holding something back for far too long. "How much I want you."
You freeze. The words settle in the air between you, heavy, unshakable. Your heart pounds in your ears, but you force yourself to meet his gaze. His expression is unreadable—except for his eyes. There, beneath the restraint, something smoulders.
"I—" You start, but he shakes his head, looking away as if he already regrets speaking. His jaw tightens.
"It doesn’t matter, it's nothing" he mutters, raking a hand through his hair. "It can’t matter."
You frown up at him, “It does matter Harry, you said you were in love with me! That's not just nothing.“
He stares down at you, his expression hardening as your words sink in. "It's complicated, okay?"
He pulls away from you, taking a step back and running a hand through his hair. The gesture is familiar—a nervous tic he adopted years ago. You've never seen him this agitated before.
"I shouldn't have said anything," he mutters, avoiding your gaze. "I'm sorry, I just—"
He cuts off, swallowing hard.
He turns away from you, his shoulders rising and falling with every stilted breath. Even from behind, you can tell he's clenched his jaw so tightly it must be aching.
You watch him for what feels like an eternity. Every muscle in his body is taut, pulled tight like a bowstring ready to snap. Yet he doesn't turn around. He just stands there, rigid, unmoving.
Finally, you take a step forward, reaching out to touch him on the shoulder. He flinches at the contact, jerking slightly under your hand.
"Just talk to me Harry, its me ok. We can always tell each other stuff."
"It's not that easy," he snaps, shaking your hand off his shoulder. He finally turns around, folding his arms across his chest.
The expression on his face is somewhere between anger and something too vulnerable to name.
"You don't understand. You can't. Not when—" He cuts off, his jaw clenching again.
"Who says I don't fucking love you back!" You slip out.
Harry's breath hitches. His eyes widen, just a fraction, and for a second—just a second—his whole body goes still. Like he’s afraid to move, afraid to break whatever fragile moment just settled between you.
And then, just as quickly, he shakes his head. A dry, humourless laugh escapes him. "Don’t say that."
Your stomach twists. "Why not?"
His gaze drops to the ground. "You don’t know what you’re saying," he mutters, but the fight in his voice is fading.
"Yes, I do," you insist. "And you know I do. So stop pushing me away like this means nothing."
Harry exhales sharply, his chest rising and falling quickly. His hands twitch at his sides, like he wants to reach for you but won’t let himself. Like touching you might break him completely.
His voice is hoarse when he finally speaks. "You shouldn't have said that."
But you don’t regret it. Not for a second.
"Why not?" you whisper.
He steps closer—too close. Close enough that you can feel the heat of his body, the way his breath fans against your cheek. Close enough that if you moved even an inch, your lips would touch.
"Because now I can’t stop myself."
His fingers brush against your jaw, tentative, as if he’s memorizing the moment before he ruins it. His eyes lock onto yours, searching—asking for permission.
And you don’t hesitate.
You close the space between you, pressing your lips to his like you’ve been waiting for this moment forever. And maybe you have.
Harry doesn’t just kiss you. He claims you.
His hands cup your face, his fingers threading into your hair, pulling you closer like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. Like you’re the only thing tethering him to the ground. His lips move against yours, desperate and unsteady, like he’s unravelling right here in your arms.
And God, you let him.
You grip his shirt, holding onto him like he’s the only real thing in the world. His body presses against yours, solid and warm and trembling all at once. When he groans into your mouth, it’s the sound of surrender—of breaking down walls he spent years building.
He kisses you like he’s been starving for you. Like he’s been waiting for this, holding back, suffering in silence.
And now, finally, he’s free.
When you pull back, your breath is ragged, your heart pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to escape. His forehead rests against yours, his hands still tangled in your hair, his eyes still closed like he’s trying to make this moment last forever.
Harry Lewis x Y/N -
Casual?
Harry Lewis let out a deep sigh as he slumped down into his chair at the table, surrounded by the rest of the Sidemen—JJ, Simon, Ethan, Tobi, Josh, and Vik. The music thumped in the background, but his focus was elsewhere.
Then, the door opened, and you walked in. Faith was on one arm, Freya on the other, both of them laughing and chatting with you. Harry’s gaze snapped up, his eyes immediately landing on you. He watched you for a second, taking you in from head to toe.
You smiled as you approached, your eyes catching his, and you waved a greeting to the guys.
"Hey," you called out with a grin, your steps smooth and easy as you made your way toward the table.
Harry's lips twitched into a faint smile, and without breaking his gaze, he patted the empty seat beside him. “Sit here,” he said, grinning.
You raised an eyebrow at him, a playful smile tugging at your lips. "Hiya," you greeted, settling into the chair.
His eyes flicked over you once more, a smirk curling up at the corners of his mouth.
“What?” you echoed, a small laugh escaping your lips.
"Just… taking in the view," he said, his smirk growing wider.
You rolled your eyes. "Ha-ha,” you replied sarcastically.
He laughed, the sound light but genuine.
The rest of the Sidemen exchanged knowing glances, grins tugging at their lips. It wasn’t exactly a secret that you two, despite being friends liked to flirt. You both shared a back-and-forth that everyone was used to by now.
Harry leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, still watching you as if you were the only person in the room. The rest of the guys made their usual jokes about how long it was taking for you two to finally get together, but neither of you really paid attention. You’d heard it all before.
The night carried on, the usual banter and chaos of the Sidemen setting the tone. But despite the distractions your focus kept drifting back to Harry. It was like he had a magnetic pull, always there, always in your orbit, even in a room full of people.
Every now and then, you’d catch him looking at you with that half-smile, like he knew something you didn’t. But it wasn't just the looks. It was the way he'd sit closer to you than others, the subtle touches, a hand on your back, or a brush of his fingers against yours.
The music continued to play, the bar filled with laughter and chatter. Harry, however, remained focused on you. He was trying to act nonchalant, but the way he kept glancing at you gave him away.
As you laughed at something JJ said, Harry couldn't help but watch. Your smile, your laugh, they were addictive, like some kind of drug. But he forced himself to look away, you were just his close friend, nothing more. Right? He leaned back in his chair, trying to appear casual, though he couldn't stop his eyes from drifting back to you.
Simon, sitting next to Harry, noticed his friend's distracted gaze. He smirked and nudged Harry's shoulder.
“You’re staring,” he said, his tone teasing.
Harry immediately snapped out of his thoughts and turned to Simon, his expression betraying his embarrassment for being caught looking.
"I'm not," he said defensively.
Simon snickered, not buying it for a second. "Yeah, right," he replied. "You were straight up gawking at her."
Harry rolled his eyes and chuckled lightly, Simon knew him too well. He knew there was no point in denying it.
"Alright, maybe I was," he admitted, a slight smirk playing on his lips. "Happy now?"
Simon grinned, clearly enjoying his friend's moment of weakness. He knew Harry was usually so good at covering his emotions, so seeing him crack a little was rare.
"Very," he replied, still grinning. "It's about time you stop denying it, mate. Everyone knows you're head over heels for her."
Harry's glare intensified as he nudged Simon's arm, signalling for him to lower his voice. He didn't need you heating the conversation.
"Say it louder why don’t you.” He grumbled. Their conversation is interrupted by one of the waiters doing the rounds asking your table what they want to drink.
The waiter was quite tall, with messy brown hair that had a natural tousled look to it. Freya smirks and raises her eyebrows at you playfully. The waiter smiled at you, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary as he filled your order. Despite his attractive appearance, there was something about him that seemed a bit smug.
Harry noticed the subtle smirk on the waiter's face. It only fuelled his jealousy further. He knew the waiter was flirting with you, and he didn't like it at all.
He took another sip of his drink, still watching you and the waiter's interaction. He felt a pang of irritation seeing the waiter's gaze linger on you, the knowledge that he was interested in you was killing him.
It got late and the group started to leave the bar. Harry's mood was sour. He could feel his frustration bubbling up inside him, and he couldn't quite pinpoint why he was so irritated.
He was silent for most of the walk to the car park, his gaze fixed straight ahead as he followed the group. Occasionally, he'd cast a quick, slightly frustrated glance in your direction, his jaw clenched tight.
As you cast a quick look over your shoulder at Harry, he met your gaze. For a brief moment, his irritation softened as he met your eyes. The look on your face was confused, and he knew you were probably wondering why he was acting so strangely.
Harry's mood didn't improve much as you both walked back towards the car park. He was still in a foul mood, and he wasn't hiding it well. It was obvious something was bothering him.
As you walked through the car park to say farewell to the rest of the group, Harry walked alongside you in silence. His face was expressionless, and he seemed distant, lost in his own thoughts. He gave the other boys a half-hearted wave as they got into their cars, but his focus was entirely on you.
As everyone leaves you look at him and frown. “Alright Harry what the fuck is up with you?”
Harry's demeanour didn't change as you questioned him, his expression still cold and tense. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with you.
"Nothing's up," he responded, his tone gruff. "I'm fine."
He was lying, of course. But he didn't want to admit what was eating at him. He was too prideful to show weakness.
As you both walked down the street, towards your respective flats, which were conveniently located on the same street near the bar, Harry continued to keep his distance, his steps heavy and unenthusiastic. He still hadn't dropped his cold, expressionless demeanour, and it was clear he was still troubled by something but too stubborn to talk about it.
Rain started to fall heavily, the soft pitter-patter on the pavement suddenly creating a somber atmosphere. You groaned at the sudden downpour, while Harry simply let out a gruff sigh.
He had his hands shoved in his pockets, his face slightly shielded by the rain-soaked fabric of his sweatshirt. He glanced over at you, noticing your annoyed expression.
"Great timing," he muttered sarcastically.
“Oh my! I just realised… the weather is matching your mood!” You say sarcastically.
Harry let out a sharp scoff at your comment, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"Very funny," he replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You're just full of useful comments tonight, aren't you?"
“Jesus what is your problem?? You were fine earlier, who shoved a stick up your ass?” You glare, raising your voice.
Harry's expression darkened further at your words. Your raised voice surprised him, and he turned to face you fully, his gaze intense and almost angry. You’d never seen him this way. In fact the pair of you have never argued before, despite knowing one another for 10+ years.
"Fucking hell, you just don’t get it do you?” He yells.
“No Harry, I don’t. But please do tell me, cause if it’s something I’ve done I’d really like to fucking know.”
He ran a hand through his damp hair, frustrated and annoyed with himself.
"It's not... you..." he started, his voice quieter than before. "It's just... fuck I don't know. Can we just get to my flat first?"
“Harry just fucking say it!!!” You groan in frustration.
Your plea for clarification seemed to hit a nerve, and Harry's frustration boiled over. He took a deep breath, his hands clenched into tight fists in his pockets.
"It’s not what you've done, it's what you haven't done," he replied, his voice low and gravelly. "You haven't done anything, and that's the problem. You're so damn oblivious, it's infuriating."
Harry's mind was racing, his emotions warring inside of him. The rain continued to fall around them, adding to the heavy atmosphere.*
"You drive me crazy, you know that? You just have no idea frustrating you are!"
He ran a hand through his messy hair, his gaze locked relentlessly on you. His chest heaved as he spoke, a mixture of anger and something else, something deeper, filling his expression as you look up at him confused and upset.
Harry stood there, rain dripping off his face, staring at you with an intensity that was almost too much to handle. For a second, everything around you seemed to fade—just the two of you, in the middle of a downpour, standing face to face with all this unspoken tension hanging in the air.
His voice broke the silence, quieter this time, almost hesitant.
“You… you really don’t get it, do you?”
You blinked, momentarily thrown off by the shift in his tone. There was something softer in his voice now, the anger and frustration from earlier melting into something else—something deeper. Something you hadn’t expected.
“What don’t I get?” You frowned, trying to process what he was saying.
Harry exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his hair again, as if trying to calm himself. He stepped closer, his shoes squelching in the rain-soaked pavement, and for a second, the space between you seemed impossibly small.
“You and me… It’s always been there. All the stupid back-and-forth, all the flirting… it’s not just for fun, is it?”
Your heart skipped a beat, and suddenly, the world felt a little too small. He was so close now, and the realization hit you like a punch to the gut.
“What do you mean?” You swallowed, not sure if you even wanted to hear the answer, though a part of you did.
Harry sighed, his face unreadable, but his eyes intense. He seemed to be struggling with himself, his fingers fidgeting in his pockets as if the words were stuck somewhere deep down.
“I mean…” His voice trailed off for a second, and then he just said it, almost too fast, like he needed to get it out. “I mean, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing anymore. But I can’t keep pretending that I don’t care about you, and I can’t keep watching you flirt with anyone except me.”
Your chest tightened, and you weren’t sure if it was the rain or the vulnerability in his voice, but something about the way he said it made you feel like the ground underneath you had shifted.
“Harry…” You started, your voice barely above a whisper. "You… you can’t just—"
“I can,” he cut you off, his gaze unwavering now. “And I will. I’ve been a bloody idiot about this. I’ve danced around it for so long, and I’m just… I’m done.”
His words hung in the air, the space between you two now filled with a tension so thick, it felt almost suffocating. You stared at him for a moment, struggling to find the right response, you were both shit with your feelings.
“Why now?” You finally said, your voice barely audible above the sound of the rain. "Why after all this time, Harry?”
He didn’t hesitate, his eyes softening as he took a step closer, and then another, until the distance between you was almost non-existent.
“Because I’ve spent so many years pretending it didn’t matter… pretending I didn’t care that much, but I do care.” He exhaled sharply, almost laughing at himself, the sound dark but bitter. “And it does matter. You matter, to me.”
You could feel the electricity in the air, a tension that had been building up for years, thick and heavy between you both. The rain poured harder now, the water splashing against the ground as if the world itself was holding its breath. Your heart thudded in your chest, erratic and wild.
Harry reached up, brushing a strand of wet hair from your face, his fingers lingering along your jaw. His touch was tentative at first, almost as if he were afraid you might pull away. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.
Slowly, you reached for him, your hands finding the sides of his wet jacket. You weren’t sure what you were waiting for, maybe just a sign, or the courage to do what you both had wanted for so long.
And then, as if everything had been leading to this moment, you leaned in. His lips met yours softly, tentatively at first, as though asking for permission. You melted into him, the kiss deepening, the world around you fading into nothing but the feeling of his mouth on yours, the rain drenching you both, turning everything into a blur of sensation.
There was no more distance between you now. No more unspoken words. Just the pounding of the rain, the beat of your hearts, and the warmth of each other’s presence, as if the storm outside wasn’t the only one in your lives anymore.
When you finally broke the kiss, both of you gasping for air, the world still spun. Harry rested his forehead against yours, your thumb tracing the outline of his damp jaw.
The rain fell harder now, the droplets pounding against the earth, with a rhythmic urgency that seemed to mirror the pounding of your heart. He closed the space between you again. You could feel the slight tremble in his hand as it reached up to your face, his fingers brushing your hair back from your forehead, his touch so gentle it almost felt reverent.
It wasn’t enough. You needed more than that. Slowly, you leaned in, kissing him back, giving him the permission he needed. This time, it was different. There was no holding back. His lips deepened against yours, a tender pressure at first, as though he was still afraid, still unsure, but as the seconds passed, something inside him seemed to release.
His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, his other arm wrapping around your waist, drawing you in as though he never wanted to let go. The rain was relentless, soaking through your clothes, but it didn’t matter. His kiss was all that existed. You could taste the rain on his lips, feel the soft pulse of his heart through his chest as it pressed against yours. His mouth moved with growing intensity, tracing the contours of your lips, then slipping deeper, as if he was trying to pour every ounce of everything he’d kept hidden into that kiss.
You slid your hands up his soaked jacket, fingers gripping the fabric like you needed him to stay, needed him to be here in this moment. His tongue brushed against yours, slow at first, as though savouring every touch. It was soft, then hungry, then desperate, as if both of you were trying to make up for lost time.
You pressed yourself against him, letting the kiss grow deeper, more urgent, as the tension that had been building for so long between you both seemed to spill out.
Harry Lewis x Y/N -
Drunken Confessions
Harry and you had been inseparable since you were kids. Growing up in Guernsey together, it was like you were glued at the hip. Even when life pulled you both in different directions, you'd always found your way back to one another. When you both made the decision to move to London, it was only natural that you'd live with Harry. The apartment you’d found was shared with your other close friends, the two Callums—Callux and Calfreezy—who somehow always brought the chaos with them.
It was just past two in the morning, and you were lounging on the couch, scrolling mindlessly through your phone. The apartment was quiet, except for the hum of the city outside the window. Harry had gone out earlier with Ethan for a night of drinks, and you'd had stayed home, enjoying the solitude. You hadn’t felt like partying; it was just one of those nights.
Then, a noise broke the silence. Muffled voices. Footsteps shuffling up the stairs. You squinted, not sure if you were hearing things. The voices grew louder until you could make out Harry's slurred voice from behind the door.
"Y/N? Cal?" Harry’s words were thick with alcohol, each syllable dragging a bit too long.
You sat up groaning, your head in your hands. Not again.
There was another voice, one you recognized instantly. Ethan.
"He’s wasted, someone come get him," Ethan said, knocking on the door again, clearly annoyed.
You sigh, glancing toward the bedrooms where the Callums were probably dead asleep.
You begrudgingly walk to the door and unlocked it. Harry was standing there, leaning against the frame for support, his eyes half-lidded and unsteady. Ethan was just behind him, shaking his head.
“Here he is,” Ethan said with a smirk, stepping back.
You roll your eyes, holding the door open wider. "Fucking idiot, I could kill him."
Ethan chuckled, "Good luck."
You sigh, "Thankyou for bringing him home."
"Course," Ethan nods, waving goodbye as he disappeared down the hallway.
You turned back to Harry, who was swaying slightly. He looked up at you with that goofy, drunken grin plastered across his face.
"Hey," Harry mumbled, his voice low and raspy. "I missed you."
You shake your head, with a small smile. It was hard to be angry at that face. You tried not to get too distracted by the way his messy hair fell across his forehead. "Uh-huh. Missed me, hm?"
"Mhm," He hums, grinning as you take his arm to lead him inside.
You chuckled softly, brushing your hair out of your face, the light from the lamp casting a soft glow over the room. "Maybe you should get some sleep," you suggested, a playful hint in your voice, though there was a small tug of concern buried underneath.
Harry blinked slowly, his gaze drifting toward you with an intensity that made the air around you feel heavier. His eyes held something unspoken, and it made you wonder for a moment if maybe you had been wrong—maybe he wasn’t as tipsy as you thought. "You’re really beautiful, you know that?" he said quietly, almost as if the words were meant for no one but himself.
You blinked, startled by the sudden shift in his tone. There was a tenderness there, something you weren’t used to hearing from him. You laughed softly, your voice a little shaky. "Harry, you’re drunk."
But he shook his head, his expression serious, eyes fixed on yours like he was searching for something. "Doesn’t matter. You are."
Your heart fluttered, the words lingering in the air between you like a weight. You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out right away. The room felt smaller somehow, more intimate, the distance between you both strangely charged.
"Bedtime, Harry," you said at last, your voice gentle but firm, trying to redirect the moment before it slipped into something you couldn’t undo. "Don’t say anything you’ll regret."
He sat back a little, but not far enough to break the closeness. You reached out to help him up, but before your hand could close around his arm, he reached for you—his fingers brushing yours with a softness that startled you.
The contact was light, but it sent a jolt through your body, a quick spark that ran from your hand to your chest, and you instinctively pulled your hand away, your breath catching. You told yourself it was nothing, just a fleeting thing. But his touch lingered in your thoughts, like an echo you couldn’t quite shake.
For a long moment, Harry didn’t speak. His hand hovered near yours, still as though he were waiting for something, and you could feel the space between you both growing heavy with the unspoken. His eyes never left yours, and you saw something there that wasn’t just the lingering fog of alcohol. There was something deeper, something that made the air feel too thick to breathe properly.
"Harry..." you started, your voice coming out softer than you intended, "you’re not yourself, this isn't-"
But he cut you off, his gaze softening as he shifted closer, just enough so his presence surrounded you. "I’m not asking for anything, Y/N. Just..." He seemed to struggle with the next words, his hand hesitating once more. "Just... don't leave. Please.."
The plea in his voice was almost imperceptible, but it hit you in a place you weren’t sure you wanted to admit was there. "Harry it's nearly half past two in the morning," you whispered, your pulse thrumming in your throat.
He let out a small, tired laugh, and there was something almost vulnerable in the sound. "Stay." He knew he was drunk, knew he wasn't thinking straight. But the sight of you, the sound of your voice, the touch of your skin under his fingers—it made him forget about everything else.
You felt the weight of the silence between you two, the slow pull of something neither of you could quite name. His hand, still close but not touching, seemed to be waiting for you—waiting for permission, waiting for you to make the next move.
You opened your mouth to speak, but instead of words, all that came out was a soft exhale, as if you were suddenly afraid to break whatever fragile thing was unfolding between you. The room seemed to shrink around you both, the silence growing more and more intense. You were acutely aware of every sound—the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the soft ticking of the clock on the wall, and the soft sound of Harry's breathing.
Harry suddenly stood up and stepped close to you, the proximity causing your mind to spin. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, and you caught a whiff of his scent—a distinct smell you recognized as uniquely his. With every step, you felt the distance between you and Harry shrinking, like magnets drawn together. You had to tilt your chin up to keep your eyes on his. Despite the height difference, Harry's gaze never wavered. He was intense, his eyes locking onto yours as if he was peering into your soul.
One of his hands moved to cradle your cheek, his thumb lightly tracing the contour of your jawline. The touch was gentle but somehow possessive, as if he were trying to claim you in this moment.
You sigh and pull back slightly, "Harry, you know I love you, you're my best friend... but your drunk."
Harry's touch lingered on your cheek, his thumb still gently tracing patterns along your skin. There was a softness in his eyes as he looked down at you, a vulnerability you hadn't seen before. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of their shallow breathing, the air almost crackling with tension. Then, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Does it matter?"
"Of course it matters Harry!" I groan.
Harry's fingers twitched on your cheek, his thumb still tracing those gentle circles. Despite the sharpness in your tone, there was no anger in his eyes, just a flicker of sadness. The touch on your skin felt like a lifeline, grounding him in the moment.
He took a deep breath, his gaze never leaving yours. "Drunk words, sober thoughts." He grumbles.
Harry's hand dropped from your cheek, falling back to his side as he took a small step back, putting some distance between them. Clearly, you'd pissed him off slightly with your statement.
He ran his fingers through his messy hair, his jaw tight. There was a mix of emotions in his eyes—disappointment, hurt, maybe even a hint of shame. But above all, there was something there—longing, longing that he couldn't quite conceal. He forced out a humourless laugh.
"Do you really think I'm just your 'best friend'," he echoes your earlier words. The two words felt heavy in the air, laden with the weight of unspoken feelings. There was a sharp edge to his voice—a hint of anger mixed in with a hint of melancholy. He took another step back, creating a small pocket of space between you both.
Harry's back hit the wall behind him, and for a moment he looked like a fish out of water, struggling to find something to anchor him in this moment. His eyes flicked across your face, the intensity in them almost suffocating.
He closed his eyes, taking a shaky breath. The words seemed to be clawing their way out from somewhere deep inside him. "You know, it's not fair." he muttered, opening his eyes again to look at you, his gaze intense. "To have you as a friend and nothing more."
"Harry, come on, please don't do this, not now," you say, your voice wavering as a knot tightens in your chest. You knew, deep down, you wanted the same thing he did, but not like this. Not when he was drunk. This wasn’t the first time he’d done something like this—not even remembering his words the following morning.
He stared at you, his eyes slightly unfocused, but there was something in the way he looked at you that made your heart ache, something raw and vulnerable that you hadn’t seen before. He took a step closer, swaying slightly as he reached out for you, his hand brushing your arm with a softness that didn’t match the intensity of his gaze.
Harry's hand was warm against your skin, but there was something almost desperate in the gesture—as if he was grasping for something, anything to hold onto. He leaned forward, his head tilting to the side as he whispered your name in a voice that was a strange mix of vulnerability and determination.
"Please, don't push me away."
His hand, which was still touching your arm, slid down slowly to your waist, his fingers gently tracing the gap where cropped shirt ended and your trouser began. It was an intimate gesture, one that sent a shiver down your spine. His gaze flicked down to your lips for a brief moment, and for a moment he looked like a man drowning, desperately grasping for air. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing with the motion, and then his eyes met yours once more.
His voice was barely a whisper, but the words echoed painfully in your ears. "You're killing me."
He was really testing your restraint now. "Fuck Harry." You breathe out, not wanting to take advantage of his drunken state.
Harry's mouth curled into a small, smile at your words. There was something almost masochistic about the intensity of his drunken gaze, the way he seemed to be silently daring you to keep pushing back.
He leaned in, his breath hot and slightly sweet on your skin. His hand, still on your waist, started to slide up under your shirt, tracing an infuriatingly teasing path over the bare skin of your stomach. The fact that you weren't stopping him was enough.
Harry's lips were so close to your ear now, you could feel the heat of his breath against your skin. The closeness was intoxicating, a potent mix of alcohol and desire that had your senses on edge. "Stop running," he murmured, his voice thick with the weight of something deeper than the alcohol in his system. "I know you feel it too. Don't pretend you don’t."
Your chest tightened. His words were so quiet, yet so heavy, and it took everything in you not to crumble under the weight of his gaze. You couldn’t help but feel the heat rising between you two, the way his body shifted closer, his warmth invading your space.
"I... I’m not running," you whispered, but even you didn’t believe it. You were holding back. You knew you were. But you weren’t sure if it was because you didn’t want him, or because you feared what would happen if you did.
“Then why do you keep pulling away?” His voice was low, dragging across your skin like a touch, and it made your pulse spike.
"Harry you're my-" I start.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm your best friend, whatever. I've heard enough of that bullshit Y/N. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t keep pretending that I’m not dying to have you. Not when you look at me like that. Not when you make me feel like I can’t breathe without you.”
His hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer, and suddenly, you were pressed against him, the heat between you both almost unbearable. His lips brushed against your ear, his voice a low, seductive murmur. “Let go. Let me show you how much I need you. How much I want you. Just once. Let me make you feel everything.”
You felt your breath hitch, a thousand thoughts colliding in your mind, but you couldn’t push him away. Not this time. Not with the way his words, his touch, had unravelled every defence you’d put up. He was right. You did feel it. That same pull. That same burning need that he’d felt, too. And for once, you didn’t want to fight it.
The moment was hanging by a thread, and in it, everything felt possible. The world outside of this room didn’t matter. You didn’t care about the consequences, the aftermath, the broken pieces that might come later.
His lips, still so close to your ear, curled into a small, playful smile. He lifted a hand to cup your cheek, pressing his forehead against yours as he took a shaky breath, "I fucking love you Y/N." And with that Harry's lips crashed against yours, hot and insistent, as though the confession had unlocked something deeper, something that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long. You could taste the rawness in the kiss, the desperation, the longing that had built up between you both over time.
For a moment, you lost yourself in it—lost yourself in him, in the way his fingers traced the lines of your jaw, in the way his body seemed to press into yours with an intensity that made everything else fade away. The world outside? Gone. The years of uncertainty, the quiet doubts, they all melted under the heat of his touch, under the warmth of his confession.
You couldn’t think straight. You didn’t want to. Everything about him felt like it had always been meant to happen. His lips, his hands, the way he held you like you were the one thing that kept him tethered to the earth.
When you finally pulled back, breathless, you could hear the pounding of your heart in your chest, and you realized—maybe for the first time—that this was real. And somehow, that scared you. The intensity of it, the certainty, the way you couldn’t deny it anymore.
But when you looked into his eyes, there was only that same pull. That same gravity that had always existed between you two. And before you could stop yourself, you whispered, “I love you too, Harry.”
And just like that, everything fell into place.
Harry Lewis x Y/N - Mini Golf
The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the lush green of the mini golf course. It was one of those perfect afternoons where the air felt fresh but warm, and you could not be happier. Harry stood a few feet ahead of you, casually adjusting his cap, his focus more on you than the game. You tried to shake off the fluttering feeling in your chest, but it was impossible. He had that effect on you—he always had.
"Alright, Y/N," Harry said, his voice smooth and teasing. "Let’s see if I have any real competition today." You glare at your boyfriend, and stick your middle finger up at him, trying not to crack a smile. You both knew how competitive you were, and Harry always found entertainment in teasing you.
You walk up to take your turn, placing your pink ball down on the starting dot. Harry watched you line up your shot, amused by the grumpy look on your face already. He had always loved seeing you get competitive. Harry watched as you stuck your tongue out in concentration, swinging the golf club.
Much to his entertainment your ball went flying at an angle, landing nowhere near the hole. He chuckled and shook his head. "Unlucky," he grins. As you turned around with a pout, Harry couldn't help but smirk at your face.
“That didn’t count. Redo!" You shout quickly running to go pickup your ball. Harry, who had tried to stifle his laughter, couldn’t hold it in any longer. You ignore him and quickly pick your ball up before he can stop you, placing it back on the green, immediately hitting it again. Your second hit was not so bad, but Harry was still amused.
Half an hour later and 17 more terrible shots later, you were finally at the last hole. Although the pair of you could be extremely competitive, you were both simple enjoying each others company. Harry leaned in, placing a kiss on your temple as you readied your final shot. "Ready to lose?" he teased.
"Piss off. We're only 5 points apart." You shot back, adjusting your stance and narrowing your eyes at the hole, willing yourself to focus. You hit the ball, way too hard and it flew over the side of the green, making a beeline straight for the river that ran alongside the course. You both just look each other and burst out laughing.
"Fair play Haz. You win." You grin, holding your hand out to shake, and ignored you hand and instead grabbed your waist, pulling you close, and kissing your face all over, making you squirm and laugh. You gently held his face, rubbing your thumbs over his rosy cheeks, silencing him for a moment. His soft, blue eyes locked with yours, and his messy blonde hair tumbled slightly over his forehead, making him look effortlessly perfect. Harry’s gaze softened, and he leaned in just enough that his breath brushed against your lips.
"What?" he murmured, his voice low and warm, the kind of voice that made your chest tighten in the best way.
“Nothing,” you whispered, your heart fluttering as you closed the gap between you, pressing your lips softly against his. He sighed into the kiss, one of his hands moving to rest on your waist, pulling you a little closer.
When you pulled away, you rested your forehead against his, the feeling of his warm skin grounding you. “I love you,” you murmured, a quiet confession that felt like the most natural thing in the world.
“I love you too,” Harry replied, his voice filled with sincerity. He brushed a stray piece of hair behind your ear and smiled, his eyes never leaving yours.
He checks his watch and we realise how late it had gotten. "You'd better take your last shot then," I hum.
You couldn’t help but steal a glance at Harry as he lined up for his final shot. You noticed everything, whether it was the small crease between his brows as he focused, or the muscles in his arms flexing just enough as he gripped the putter—everything about him had you feeling MANY things. When he hit the ball it landed just shy of the hole, and you couldn’t stop the small laugh that escaped your lips, despite his failed attempt. “Almost,” you teased with a grin. "Your welcome by the way, any shot following mine looks fucking brilliant."
You chewed on your lip absentmindedly as you watched Harry stretch, his movements slow and deliberate. The way his arms reached above his head, muscles flexing beneath his shirt, made you want him more. Harry turned to face you after his shot, a confident grin spreading across his face, realising you’d been staring at him the entire time.
"Something on your mind?" he teased, his voice low and playful, his grin widening as he took a small step closer. His grin broadened, a hint of teasing mischief in his eye.
"Just admiring the view," you smile. He then grabs your hand, and walks you to the exit putting both your clubs away. As you approach his car he opens your door.
"Get in," he smirks.