đđ„âš Breathe me in, breathe me out. Welcome to my little fruity corner of tumblr. đ„ Writing hs fics and over-analyzing them.đ Pizza is my love language. âš Kindly sharing my stories with you. Asks: OPEN! đMASTERLISTđ„
Welcome to my library! Here is where I keep all my Harry Styles stories, organized by genre and vibe. Grab a slice of it, get cozy, and enjoy the read.
đ„ One-Shots & Short Stories:
The Frisbee Fiasco {Fluff /Meet-Cute} (Harry Styles x Reader)
The Green Thumb in 4B {Domestic Fluff / Neighbors AU / Rom-Com} (Harry Styles x Reader)
Half Baked Flour Power {Rom-Com / Workplace Fluff / Meet-Cute} (Harry Styles x Reader)
Faceplant {Hurt/Comfort, Soft Harry, Idiots in Love} (Harry Styles x Reader)
The Pineapple Paradox {Enemies-to-Lovers (in 10 minutes) / Playful Banter / Cozy Romance} (Harry Styles x Reader)
The 11 PM Collison Of Comfort Food {Meet-Cute / Soft Realism / Healing Fluff} (Harry Styles x Reader)
The Center Of The Universe (And Her Name Is Blair) {Papa!Harry/ Domestic Fluff/ Parental Fluff} (Dad!Harry x Reader)
2AM Raid {Domestic Fluff/ Rom-Com} (Harry Styles x Reader)
I Just Noticed.... {Angst / Family Angst / Hurt Comfort} (Harry Styles x Reader)
The Other Bedroom {Angst / Family Angst / Domestic Angst} (Harry Styles x Reader)
He's My Dad {Fluff / Coming-Of-Age / Slight Angst} (Dad!Harry Styles x Reader)
Paparazzi Panic {Angst / Coming-Of-Age / Family Angst} (Dad!Harry Styles x Son!Reader)
Underfed {Angst / Coming-Of-Age / Family Angst} (Dad!Harry Styles x Daughter!Reader) + Drafts {Angst / Coming-Of-Age / Family Angst} (Dad!Harry Styles x Daughter!Reader) <It was a part 2>
I Told You So... (But I Rather Take Care Of You) {Fluff / Comedy / Domestic Softness} (Harry Styles x Reader) + Lemme Take Care Of You (Because I Told You So...) {Angst/ Comedy / Domestic Softness} (Harry Styles x Reader)
Hold On (Don't You Dare Let Go) {Angst / Medical Drama / Domestic Angst} (TraumaSurgeon!Harry Styles x Reader)
The Drive-Thru {Angst/ Domestic Care / Hurt Comfort} (Dad!Harry Styles x Reader x Daughter)
I've Got A Headache {Romance / Domestic Care / Hurt Comfort} (Harry Styles x Reader)
The Sting {Rom-Com/ Hurt Comfort / Angst} (Harry Styles x Reader)
Stuck With You {Rom-Com/ Fluff/ Domestic Softness} (Harry Styles x Reader)
How To Be Hardcore (And Fail Miserably) {Coming-Of-Age/ Slice-Of-Life/ Family Domestic} (Dad!Harry Styles x Son!OC)
âšSeries
Cinnamon & Salt
đRules & Info
I love hearing from you! My Asks are always open for feedback or just to chat!
Please check the tags on each story for content warnings.
Warnings: None :) Just Harry and his little squirt.
Prompt: 11-year-old Cassian enjoys his father, Harry's cookies, cuddles and warmth. Things become different once he begins middle school and finds that his peers aren't as accepting.
ââââââââââââââââ
The thing about being eleven years old, Cassian Styles had decided, was that it was a relentless, soul-crushing performance. Every single day, you had to walk onto a stage called Middle School, and the audience was merciless. They could smell fear. They could smell weakness. They could smell the lingering scent of his dadâs homemade chocolate chip cookies on his hoodie, and they would use it against him.
Cassian loved his dad. That wasnât the problem. The problem was that he loved his dad with a fierce, un-ironic, completely uncool fervor that would have gotten him institutionalized in the sixth-grade hierarchy. Harry Styles was not just a dad; he was a dad who wore floral print cardigans and sang in the shower so loud the neighbors probably thought he was performing a one-man Broadway show about heartbreak. He was a dad who made pancakes in the shape of stars, who remembered the exact temperature Cassian liked his bathwater (lukewarm, with the fancy bath bombs that turned the water into a shimmering galaxy), and who, when Cassian had a nightmare, would crawl into his too-small racecar bed and hold him until the bad things went away.
Cassian was a Daddyâs boy. A capital-D, capital-B, full-on, unapologetic Daddyâs boy. And until three weeks ago, that had been the greatest superpower in the world.
Three weeks ago, heâd started sixth grade.
His elementary school had been a cozy little bubble of familiarity. Everyone knew his dad was âthe singer from that band,â but it was more of a footnote. Kids were too busy fighting over who got the red swing set. Now, he was in a sprawling brick building that smelled like stale gym socks and desperation. The halls were teeming with eighth-graders who had actual facial hair, or at least the audacity to wear cologne that smelled like a chemical weapon. They moved in packs, their voices deep and rumbling, their sneakers squeaking with an authority Cassian could only dream of.
He was just trying to survive. And his dad, his sweet, oblivious, cookie-baking dad, was not helping.
It was a cold, wet Tuesday in late October. Autumn had arrived with a vengeance, pelting the windows of their cozy London flat with rain that sounded like a thousand tiny fingers drumming on the glass. The sky was the color of a soggy dishrag. Cassian had trudged home from school, his sneakers squelching, his soul as damp as his socks. Heâd been strategically avoiding eye contact with the older kids on the bus, a skill he was developing with the intensity of a CIA operative.
Heâd slammed the front door, shrugged off his backpack, and let it fall to the floor with a wet thump. He was about to announce his arrival with a dramatic sigh, but the smell hit him first.
It was warm, buttery, and rich, a cloud of pure, unadulterated happiness that bypassed his brain and went straight for his spinal cord. His feet, still cold in his soggy shoes, moved on their own, carrying him through the hallway and into the kitchen.
And there he was. Harry.
He was wearing his favorite worn-out, forest-green cardigan that was too big for him and made him look like a cuddly woodland creature. His hair was a mess of loose, damp curls from a recent shower, and he was pulling a tray of perfectly golden-brown cookies out of the oven. The sight was so familiar, so quintessentially dad, that Cassian felt a Pavlovian wave of comfort wash over him.
âCass!â Harryâs face split into that signature grin, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look like a sunbeam in human form. âPerfect timing. I thought we needed a little pick-me-up.â
Cassianâs cynical, world-weary eleven-year-old brain was screaming at him to play it cool. To just nod and grunt, maybe say âsâupâ or something equally non-committal. But the traitorous part of himâthe small, squishy part that still believed in magic and fairy talesâbolted across the kitchen floor.
Harry opened his arms just in time for Cassian to crash into them. It wasn't a hug; it was a full-body collapse. He burrowed his face into the soft wool of the cardigan, inhaling the familiar scent of his dadâa mix of his cologne, a hint of mint from his tea, and the pure, warm scent of home.
âRough day, my love?â Harry murmured into his hair, his hand rubbing soothing circles on Cassianâs back.
Cassian just mumbled something unintelligible into the cardigan. He didnât want to talk about it. He didnât want to explain how the eighth-grade boys on the bus had called his new sneakers âgay,â even though they were just plain black and white. He didnât want to admit that heâd spent lunch alone because his friend, Max, had abandoned him to sit with the cool kids who were all obsessed with some video game Cassian wasnât allowed to play because it was âtoo violentâ (Dadâs words, not his, obviously, because he was totally mature enough for it). He just wanted to be here, in his dadâs arms, where no one could judge him for how much he loved it.
âI made your favorite,â Harry said, gently detaching himself and steering Cassian toward the kitchen table, which was already set with a glass of cold milk and a plate piled high with the freshly baked cookies. They were still slightly gooey in the center, and there was a tiny, perfect sprinkle of sea salt on top of each one.
Cassian sat down, and Harry placed a napkin on his lap with a theatrical flourish. âVoilĂ ! The official âCassianâs First Day of Autumn Rainâ feast.â
Despite his insistence on being a hardened pre-teen, Cassian couldnât stop the small smile that tugged at his lips. He picked up a cookie, still warm, and bit into it. The chocolate was melted and pooled on his tongue, the salt a perfect, sharp counterpoint to the sweetness. It was, objectively, the best thing he had ever tasted. He looked at his dad, who was watching him with such naked adoration that it was almost embarrassing.
Harry leaned forward, wiping a smudge of chocolate from Cassianâs cheek with his thumb. âYouâre getting big, you know,â he said, his voice soft. âToo big for me to carry you up the stairs anymore.â
Cassianâs chest tightened. He remembered the last time his dad had carried him. It was just last year, after heâd fallen asleep on the couch watching a movie. Heâd woken up halfway up the stairs, his head resting against his dadâs shoulder, listening to the steady, reassuring thump of his heartbeat. Heâd pretended to stay asleep for the entire journey.
âIâm not that big,â Cassian mumbled, grabbing another cookie to cover his feelings.
They ate in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the drumming of the rain and the soft music Harry had playing on the old record player. It was some old, sappy love song that Cassian would never admit to liking.
When the plate was just a crumb-filled memory, Harry cleared the dishes and took Cassianâs hand. âCome on, little man. Letâs get you into some warm pajamas. Iâll tell you a story.â
The word âstoryâ should have made him roll his eyes. He was eleven! He read chapter books with no pictures! But this was a specific kind of story. It was Harryâs specialty: the âWhen You Were a Babyâ story. It was his dadâs go-to move, a secret weapon of comfort that he deployed on all rainy days and bad nights.
In Cassianâs room, the rain sounded even cozier. He changed into his favorite footie pajamasâthe ones with the little rocket ships on them, which were, if he was being totally honest, on the verge of being too small, but he refused to give them up. Harry was already under the duvet, patting the spot beside him.
Cassian climbed into his bed, the soft white glow of his nightlight casting gentle shadows. He could feel the warmth radiating from his dad, the same warmth that had been his constant companion for his entire life. He sighed, a deep, contented sound that he immediately regretted.
âSo,â Harry began, his voice dropping into that low, melodic storytelling register. âThere I was. A brand-new dad. Absolutely terrified. And the nurse handed me this tiny, squalling little creature, wrapped in a blue blanket. You were so small you could fit in the crook of my arm.â
Cassian smirked. Heâd heard this one. âI was not that small.â
âYou were! You were like a grumpy little potato with a full head of hair. And I looked at you, and I thought, âWhat on earth do I do with this?â But then you stopped crying. You just looked right at me with those big, green eyes, and you grabbed my finger with your whole tiny fist.â
He paused, his gaze far away, lost in the memory. âAnd I knew, right then and there, that the entire world had changed. My heart just⊠expanded. To make room for you.â
Cassian felt that familiar warmth bloom in his chest, a gooey, syrupy feeling that was as comforting as the cookies. He tried to suppress it, to remember that he was a tough, middle-school warrior who was above this sort of thing. But the feeling was too strong. It was like trying to be mad at a puppy for being cute.
âRemember when you were two,â Harry continued, his voice full of laughter, âand you tried to eat a ladybug? You were so convinced it was a tiny, red, polka-dotted raisin. I had to pry your little mouth open while you cried because you thought I was stealing your snack.â
A genuine laugh burst out of Cassian. It was a goofy, unguarded sound that belonged to a much younger boy.
âAnd then,â Harry said, shifting so he was facing Cassian, his eyes twinkling in the dim light, âwhen you were four, you told your teacher that I sang to the houseplants because they were âlonely for musicâ.â
Cassian groaned, burying his face in his pillow. âDad, no! That is so mortifying.â
âItâs not mortifying, itâs adorable. You were protecting my honor. You said, âMy dad makes the plants grow with his voice. He has a magical voice.â And you were so serious about it.â
Cassian peeked out from behind the pillow. Harryâs face was soft, the expression of pure, unfiltered love so intense it was almost tangible. He reached out and began to trace the lines of Cassianâs face with his fingers, a habit heâd had since Cassian was a baby. Heâd always said he was âmemorizing his faceâ before he went to sleep.
The feeling was intoxicating. It was the smell of cookies and the sound of rain and the feeling of being completely, utterly safe. For a moment, Cassian forgot all about the snickering boys on the bus. He forgot about the homework he hadnât finished. He forgot about trying to be a âkidâ and not a âbaby.â
He was just Harryâs son. His little boy.
âNow you have to tell me the one about the garden hose,â Cassian mumbled, his eyelids getting heavy.
âWhat? When you were five and you tried to water the cat?â Harry chuckled, his chest vibrating. âThatâs a classic. Your reasoning wasâwait, let me get this rightâthat the cat looked âa bit wilted.ââ
Cassian giggled, the sound muffled by his pillow. âShe did! She was lying in the sun all day! She was a dried-out, furry raisin.â
âNot a raisin, my love. A queen,â Harry said, leaning forward to press a kiss to Cassianâs forehead. He lingered there, his lips soft and warm. Then he kissed the tip of his nose, then both of his cheeks, and finally, a loud, smacking, exaggerated kiss right on his right cheek again.
âBlech!â Cassian exclaimed, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand, but he was laughing. âDad! Youâre so gross.â
âNever too gross for my little Casserole,â Harry said, using the ridiculous nickname that had earned Cassian a year of teasing from his father.
Harry reached over and tucked the duvet firmly around him, making him into a little burrito. He pulled it all the way up to Cassianâs chin, just the way he liked it, creating a warm, protective cocoon.
âGoodnight, my little star,â Harry whispered, his voice a lullaby in itself. âSweet dreams. Donât let the bed bugs bite.â He kissed Cassian's forehead again. One that ended with a soft 'mwah'.
âTheyâre not real, Dad,â Cassian mumbled, his eyes closing.
âWell, they might be. And if they are, youâve got a guardian angel with a can of bug spray,â Harry said, flicking the nightlight off. At the door, he paused, and Cassian knew he was looking back. He always did. âI love you more than all the cookies in the world.â
âLove you too, Dad,â Cassian whispered into the darkness. He fell asleep, a smile on his face, the taste of chocolate and the warmth of his fatherâs love wrapped around him like a blanket.
The next morning, the rain had stopped, but the sky was still a murky gray. The fantasy of the previous night had evaporated. The dream-like comfort had been replaced by the heavy, real-world anxiety of school.
Cassian dressed himself with military precision, choosing a plain gray t-shirt and his standard-issue black jeansâhis attempt at invisibility. He was in the kitchen, shoveling cereal into his mouth, when Harry bounded in, looking like heâd just stepped out of a magazine. His hair was perfectly tousled, he was wearing a striking, patterned Gucci blazer over a silk scarf, and he was holding a tiny pink thermos.
âI made you hot chocolate,â he said, beaming. âItâs got those little marshmallows you like. The ones that taste like vanilla clouds.â
Cassian accepted the thermos, putting it in his backpack. âThanks, Dad.â
âReady for the big day?â Harry asked, slinging an arm around his shoulder.
No. I am ready for the apocalypse, which would be less scary than the eighth-grade hallway, Cassian thought, but he just nodded.
They walked to the bus stop together, the air crisp and smelling of wet leaves. The other kids were already there, huddled in small groups. Cassian saw Max, his former friend, laughing with a group of boys who had clearly just discovered the concept of having a âbad-boyâ aesthetic. They were wearing their hoods up, even though it wasnât raining.
Harry, oblivious to the social minefield, crouched down in front of Cassian to adjust the collar of his jacket. âAlright, my love. Have a brilliant day. Remember, youâre a genius and you can do anything.â
Cassianâs face flushed. He could feel the eyes of the other kids boring into his back. He tried to shuffle away, to cut the interaction short, but Harry wasnât finished.
He grabbed Cassianâs face gently, pulling him forward. And then he did it. He planted a big, sloppy, loud kiss on Cassianâs forehead. It was a kiss that echoed in the quiet morning air. It was a kiss that left a faint, shiny imprint of his fatherâs lip balm.
âDAD!â Cassian squeaked, pulling back.
âWhat? Iâm not allowed to kiss my favorite person in the whole world?â Harry said, his face a picture of mock innocence. âHave a good one, darling.â He gave Cassian one last wink and sauntered back toward their flat, looking as if he hadnât just committed a social crime.
Cassian turned around. The bus was pulling up. And from the small cluster of older kids, he heard it.
A low, mocking whistle.
âAw, did your daddy kiss your boo-boo better, Styles?â It was one of the eighth-graders, a tall, lanky kid with a shaved head and a smirk that seemed permanently etched onto his face. The others snickered.
âHis dadâs like, a total superstar, and he still kisses him like heâs a baby,â another kid whispered loudly, not loud enough to be discreet, just loud enough to be heard by everyone.
Cassianâs blood ran cold. He felt a hot, prickly flush crawl up his neck and settle in his cheeks. He kept his head down and got on the bus, his ears burning. He found a seat at the very back, trying to make himself as small as possible.
He didnât say a word the whole ride. He could feel the mocking glances, the stifled giggles. His dadâs love, the very thing that had made him feel invincible the night before, had suddenly become a weapon used against him.
That day at school was a blur of humiliation. At lunch, he just picked at his food. In the hallways, he heard the whispers. âBaby Styles.â âDaddyâs little prince.â He didnât fight back. He just retreated.
The seed of doubt had been planted. And over the next few weeks, it grew like a weed, choking out the sunshine.
He started noticing things. Things heâd never thought about before. The way Harry would hum while he was chopping vegetables. The way heâd clap his hands and do a little wiggle when he was excited about a new song. The way heâd call Cassian âsweetheartâ in a cheery voice that was, Cassian now cringed to admit, so obviously not cool.
The cuddles, which had once been his favorite part of the day, started to feel⊠sticky. Oppressive. Like a trap.
One evening, after a particularly brutal day where a kid had called him a âtotal mamaâs boyâ (which was ironic, since he didnât even have a mama, but the insult still stung), Harry was on the sofa watching some sappy romantic comedy. Cassian came in, his body language stiff. He saw Harryâs arm resting on the back of the sofa, a clear invitation.
âCome here, my love,â Harry said, patting the seat next to him. âLetâs have a cuddle.â
Cassianâs instinct was to crawl onto his lap like a kid half his age. His body literally ached for the safety of his dadâs arms. But his brainâthe newly cynical, middle-school brainâscreamed, NO!
âIâm fine, Dad,â he said, his voice coming out flatter than he intended. He sat on the far end of the sofa, leaving a good foot of space between them. He crossed his arms, attempting to radiate the aura of a brooding, misunderstood teenager.
Harryâs face fell. It was just a flicker, a momentary shadow that crossed his features before he hid it behind a practiced smile. âOh. Okay. Suit yourself.â
It was the first time Cassian had ever denied a cuddle. The victory felt hollow.
He found himself starting to edit his natural responses. When Harry would make his favorite pasta, Cassian would grunt his thanks instead of saying, âOh my god, Dad, this is the best thing Iâve ever put in my mouth, youâre a wizard.â
When Harry would sing along to the radio in the car, Cassian would turn up the volume on his own terrible music (which his dad hated, but heâd just grin through it) to drown him out. Heâd say things like âFor real, Dad?â or âThatâs so cringe,â trying out new vocabulary heâd learned from the older kids, even if it tasted like ash in his mouth.
Harry, for his part, seemed to sense the shift. He wasnât stupid. He stopped using the really embarrassing nicknames in public. He would still reach for Cassianâs hand, but if Cassian pulled away, he wouldnât push it. He just got a sad, confused look in his eyes that made Cassian want to punch a wall.
The worst part was that Harry didnât change at all. He was still relentlessly, impossibly, infuriatingly warm. He would leave little notes in Cassianâs lunchbox that said things like âYouâre my favorite star in the sky!â in his messy handwriting. Heâd be sitting on the sofa when Cassian got home from school, a cup of tea in his hand, asking about his day with genuine, unflinching interest.
And Cassian would give him monosyllabic answers, all while screaming internally:Â Why are you so nice? Why canât you be a normal, distant, grumpy dad who doesnât care? It would make my life so much easier!
It came to a head on a rainy Wednesday, a month after the first bus-stop incident. Another cold, gray day that mirrored the state of Cassianâs soul. He had spent another day being a social pariah. A kid had written âBaby Stylesâ on his locker in permanent marker. Heâd spent thirty minutes scrubbing it off with his sleeve, his eyes stinging with tears he refused to shed.
He walked in the front door, soaked and defeated. Harry was in the kitchen, of course. He had a fresh batch of cookies cooling on the rack. The smell that had once made Cassianâs heart soar now felt like a guilt trip.
âHey, Casserole,â Harry said, his voice soft. âIâve got a fresh plate hereâŠâ
Cassian stood in the doorway, his backpack dripping on the mat. He looked at his dad. He saw the familiar, beloved face, the gentle eyes, the warm cardigan. And he saw his own personal prison guard. The architect of all his social failings. The man who loved him too much.
âStop calling me that,â Cassian said, his voice tight.
Harry froze, the cookie mid-way to his lips. âWhat?â
âCasserole. Itâs stupid. Itâs a baby name.â
âOh,â Harry said, setting the cookie down. âOkay. Sorry, love.â He looked utterly bewildered, like a puppy that had just been scolded for being too happy.
âAnd stop making cookies all the time,â Cassian continued, the words spilling out like hot lava, once heâd started, he couldnât stop. The dam of suppressed humiliation had burst. âItâs so⊠itâs so dad. Itâs embarrassing. Everyoneâs parents at school are cool. They donât bake! They have jobs and theyâre busy and they donât wave at their kids from the window like a total weirdo!â
âCassianâŠâ Harryâs voice was barely a whisper.
âAnd stop kissing me!â Cassian shouted, his voice cracking. He could feel a hot pressure building behind his eyes. âItâs gross! Iâm not a baby anymore! Iâm in middle school! Do you know what they call me? Baby Styles! Daddyâs little prince! Do you know how humiliating that is? Because of you? Because you canât just be a normal dad!â
The silence that followed was suffocating. It was louder than the rain hammering against the windows.
Harry stood there, his face pale and completely still. He looked like a painting. A beautiful, broken painting. His eyes, those warm, comforting eyes that had always been Cassianâs safe harbor, were shimmering with unshed tears. He blinked, and a single tear escaped, tracing a path down his cheek.
He didnât say anything. He just nodded slowly, his jaw tight.
Cassian felt like heâd just been punched in the gut. He saw the love, the confusion, the sheer, devastating hurt on his fatherâs face. And he knew, in that terrible, crystal-clear moment, that heâd just taken a sledgehammer to the most precious thing in his world.
His fatherâs heart.
âDad, IâŠâ he started, the rage evaporating, leaving only a cold, hollow dread.
But Harry just held up a hand, his movements stiff. âItâs okay. I⊠I understand.â He cleared his throat, a harsh, ragged sound. âIâll⊠Iâll just be in the studio, yeah? Got some⊠some work to do.â
He walked away, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood floor. He didnât look back. The door to his home studio clicked shut, and the sound of it was like a gunshot.
Cassian stood alone in the kitchen, surrounded by the cooling cookies. The perfect, golden-brown cookies. The objects of his former joy, now just cold, pathetic lumps of dough. He could still smell his dadâs cologne in the air, a scent that now smelled like guilt.
He walked over to the plate and picked one up. He bit into it. It was cold. It tasted like nothing.
He felt a sob wrack his body. It was an ugly, hiccuping sound. He sank onto the kitchen floor, his back against the cupboards, and he cried. He cried for the boy on the bus who had made him feel small. He cried for the dad whose heart heâd just stomped on. But mostly, he cried because he was just an eleven-year-old boy who was terrified, and lonely, and who had just screamed at the only person in the world who made him feel safe.
The cold rain continued to fall. He could hear his fatherâs muffled voice from the studio, probably on the phone, trying to sound normal. And Cassian sat in a puddle of his own misery, realizing that being âhardcoreâ wasnât about pushing people away. It was the most childish thing heâd ever done.
He sat on the floor for a long time, the kitchen growing dark around him. He watched the rain streak down the windowpane. His tears dried, leaving salty tracks on his skin. Finally, the sound of the studio door opening jolted him out of his stupor.
He heard Harryâs footsteps in the hallway. They stopped at his bedroom door, then continued. He was going to his own room.
Something in Cassian broke loose. He scrambled to his feet, his legs numb. He ran out of the kitchen and down the hall, just as Harry was about to close his bedroom door.
âDad! Wait!â
Harry turned. His face was blotchy and his eyes were still red-rimmed. He looked exhausted. Defeated. It was the most horrible thing Cassian had ever seen.
âIâm sorry,â Cassian blurted out, the words tumbling over each other. âI didnât mean it. Iâm an idiot. Theyâre just stupid kids. They donât know anything. I donât care about them. I care about you. Iâm sorry. Iâm so sorry.â
He didnât wait for a response. He launched himself at his father, wrapping his arms around him and holding on as tight as he could. He burrowed his face into Harryâs chest, and the smell of his cologne hit him again, and it was the best smell in the whole world.
Harry stood frozen for a moment, stiff with shock. Then, his body seemed to melt. His arms came up, wrapping around Cassianâs small frame, and he held him like he was the most precious thing in the universe.
âOh, my baby,â Harry whispered, his voice thick with tears. âOh, my little love.â
âI donât want you to change,â Cassian sobbed into his dadâs shirt. âIâm so stupid. Iâm so stupid.â
âShh, shh, itâs okay,â Harry murmured, stroking his hair. âYouâre not stupid. Youâre growing up. Itâs confusing. Itâs hard.â
âBut I donât want to be big,â Cassian wailed. âI want to be your little boy.â
âYou will always, always be my little boy,â Harry said, his voice fierce. âNo matter how old you get. Youâll be my little boy when youâre forty. I donât care. Itâs not babyish, Cass. Itâs love. Itâs just love.â
Cassian just held on tighter, letting the tears flow. The storm that had been brewing inside him for weeks had finally broken.
They stood there in the hallway for what felt like an eternity. Finally, Harry pulled back just enough to look at him, his own tears still falling. He cupped Cassianâs face in his hands.
âI love you more than anything,â he said. âThe cookies? The cuddles? The stories? Thatâs just the way my love comes out. Itâs the only way I know how to do it. And if itâs embarrassing, well⊠then I guess Iâll just have to be the embarrassing dad.â
Cassian let out a wet, sniffling laugh. âI donât think you know how to be any other way, Dad.â
âNope,â Harry agreed, a watery smile finally breaking through. âIâm broken that way.â
A comfortable silence settled between them.
âAre you hungry?â Harry asked eventually, wiping a tear from Cassianâs cheek with his thumb.
âStarving,â Cassian admitted.
âHow do you feel about cookies that have been sitting out for an hour?â Harry asked with a small, wry smile.
âTheyâre probably still the best cookies in the world,â Cassian said, and he meant it.
They walked back to the kitchen, their arms around each other. Harry reheated the milk and they sat down at the table, just like before, but this time everything felt different. It felt real.
As Cassian bit into a now-cold cookie, he didnât mind. It was still from his dad. It was still love.
Later that night, Harry made him another cup of hot chocolate and read him a chapter from a book, even though Cassian was definitely old enough to read it himself. He didnât protest.
When it was time for bed, Harry tucked him in. He pulled the duvet right up to his chin. He leaned over and kissed Cassianâs forehead. A soft, gentle kiss. He kissed his nose. Both cheeks. And then he planted a big, loud, smacking kiss right on his chin.
Cassian just grinned, his cheeks sticky with the residue.
âGoodnight, my little star,â Harry whispered.
âGoodnight, Dad,â Cassian said, his voice sleepy.
As he drifted off, he heard his dad playing the piano softly in the other room. The melody was a lullaby heâd heard a thousand times. It was the one Harry had written for him on his first birthday.
His dadâs love wasnât a weakness. It was his superpower. And as he fell asleep, warm and full of cookies and hot chocolate, Cassian decided that being a Daddyâs boy wasnât just okay. It was the coolest thing he could ever be.
And if the kids at school didnât get it? Well, that was their loss. Because they would never, ever know what it felt like to be the center of someoneâs entire universe. And that, he thought, yawning widely, was a much sadder fate than being called a baby.
His last conscious thought was that maybe, just maybe, heâd let his dad carry him up the stairs tomorrow.
He was definitely too big for it, but he was also certain his dad would manage just fine.
(IK I used this song before but it's just soooo relatable for Cassian's case! I love LĂLĂ)
Prompt: As luck would have it, you and Harry are stuck at home with a cold and find solace in each other's company.
ââââââââââââââââ
You wake up feeling like you've been hit by a bus. A very large, very angry bus that specifically targeted your sinuses and then backed over your throat for good measure.
The first thing you register is the pounding in your head, a relentless drum solo that seems to be playing exclusively inside your skull. The second thing is the sticky, awful taste in your mouth, like you've been chewing on a wool sock all night. The third thing is the warm, solid weight pressed against your back, and the distinct sound of congested breathing directly behind your ear.
Harry is still asleep. Or, more accurately, Harry is still in a state of semi-consciousness that resembles sleep but involves a lot more snoring. It's not his usual gentle, melodic snore either. This is a full-on, chainsaw-adjacent, window-rattling rumble that sounds like a bear with a head cold trying to start a lawnmower.
You try to sit up, and immediately regret every life choice that led to this moment. Your muscles ache like you've run a marathon. A marathon through quicksand. While carrying a piano. Your head throbs, and you let out a pathetic little whimper that you would never admit to under normal circumstances.
The snoring stops.
"Yn?" Harry's voice is a croak. A gravelly, destroyed, completely unrecognizable croak. It sounds like he's been gargling broken glass. He clears his throat, which turns into a coughing fit that rattles his entire frame.
"Harry," you rasp back, your own voice barely above a whisper. It hurts to talk. It hurts to exist.
He shifts behind you, and you feel his arm snake around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. He's burning up. You can feel the heat radiating off him like a furnace. His skin is clammy and feverish, and you're pretty sure you're not much better.
"We're dying," he announces, his voice muffled against your hair. "This is it. The end. Write our wills. I leave my extensive collection of floral shirts to⊠actually, no, I'm taking those with me. To the afterlife. They're coming in the casket."
"You're not dying," you manage, though honestly, you're not entirely convinced. "It's just the flu. A really, really aggressive flu. That wants us dead."
"Same thing," he insists, and you can feel him pouting against your shoulder blade. "I've never been this sick. Ever. I think I've contracted the plague. The bubonic plague. This is how the Black Death started."
"It's not the plague."
"How do you know? Have you seen a doctor? No. We're just two victims lying here, waiting for the sweet release of death." He pauses, sniffling wetly. "I've had a good life. I've seen things. I've done things. I've eaten a truly remarkable amount of pasta. I can go in peace."
You groan, which turns into a cough, which turns into a full-on hacking fit that leaves you breathless and teary-eyed. Harry immediately sits up behind you, ignoring his own misery to rub your back in slow, soothing circles.
"Okay, okay, we're not dying," he says quickly, his voice softer. "We're just⊠temporarily inconvenienced. By a microscopic enemy. That we will defeat. With⊠what's the plan? What do people do when they have the flu?"
"Sleep," you croak. "Lots of sleep. And fluids. And maybe some medicine if we can find any."
Harry squints at the clock on the nightstand. It's 7:32 AM. A perfectly reasonable time to be awake, except for the fact that you both feel like you've been dragged through a hedge backwards.
"I'll make us some tea," he says, trying to sound heroic. He swings his legs out of bed, and you watch him stand up. He's wearing only his boxers and one of his oversized silk robes, the one with the tiny floral pattern that makes him look like a Victorian ghost who got lost on the way to a garden party. He wobbles dangerously, steadying himself against the wall.
"You look like a baby giraffe learning to walk," you inform him.
"I look like a majestic creature of the savanna," he corrects, pointing a trembling finger at you. "A very sick, very handsome majestic creature."
He shuffles out of the bedroom, and you hear him banging around in the kitchen. There's a clatter of mugs, the sound of the kettle being filled, and then a very loud, very dramatic sneeze that seems to shake the entire flat.
You close your eyes, trying to will the pounding in your head to subside. It doesn't work. You're pretty sure your brain is trying to escape your skull through your nostrils.
Ten minutes later, Harry returns, carrying two steaming mugs with a look of intense concentration on his face. He's walking very slowly, like he's transporting a bomb, and the mugs are sloshing dangerously.
"Don't drop them," you warn.
"I won't drop them," he says, his voice strained. "I'm a professional. I haveâ" He stumbles over the edge of the rug, and the tea sloshes over the rims, splashing onto his robe. "âhands. That are shaking. Like a leaf. In a hurricane."
He makes it to the bed and sets the mugs down on the nightstand with a triumphant sigh. "See? Professional."
You sit up slowly, your joints protesting every movement. Harry collapses onto the bed beside you, his head landing on your shoulder with a thud. He's still radiating heat, and his hair is a disaster of tangled curls that stick up in every direction.
"Tea," you say, reaching for a mug. It's not just tea. It's honey and lemon and something else that smells vaguely medicinal. "What did you put in this?"
"Love," he says, his eyes closed. "And also some of that elderberry syrup my mum sent. And a splash of whiskey. For medicinal purposes."
"Harry, it's seven in the morning."
"The flu doesn't have a clock, Yn. The flu is an anarchist. It doesn't play by society's rules."
You take a sip. It's surprisingly good, the whiskey warming your throat and soothing the raw, scratchy feeling. You take another sip, and another, and by the time you've finished half the mug, you feel slightly more human. Slightly.
"I have a proposal," Harry announces, his voice still gravelly but with a hint of his usual theatrical energy. "We're stuck here. We're miserable. Our bodies are betraying us in ways I didn't think possible. But we have each other. And we have a television. And we haveâ" He gestures vaguely toward the kitchen. "âI think there's some soup in the pantry. Maybe. If the soup goblins haven't stolen it."
"The soup goblins?"
"They're a very real threat, Yn. I've seen them. They live in the back of the cupboard and they steal cans of tomato soup and replace them with⊠with disappointment."
You laugh, which turns into a cough, which turns into Harry patting your back again. "Okay," you manage. "What's the proposal?"
"We make the best of it," he says, sitting up and looking at you with those big, green eyes that are slightly glassy with fever. "We're sick. We're gross. We're probably contagious. But we're also in love, and that means we can have fun even when we're dying. So I propose a day of terrible movies, terrible snacks, and absolutely no judgment. Just⊠us. Being pathetic together."
You stare at him for a moment. He looks awful, honestly. His nose is red, his eyes are watery, and there's a smear of something on his cheek that you really hope is tea and not something more alarming. But he's also the most beautiful thing you've ever seen, even when he's a snotty, feverish disaster.
"Fine," you say. "But I get to pick the first movie."
"Absolutely not," he says, already reaching for the remote. "I'm the one who had the idea. I get first pick."
"Your taste in movies is terrible."
"My taste in movies is impeccable. It's you who has no appreciation for cinematic masterpieces."
"'The Princess Bride' is a cinematic masterpiece. You made me watch 'Kung Fu Panda' three times last week."
"Excuse me, 'Kung Fu Panda' is a work of art. It's about self-discovery and inner peace and the importance of dumplings. It has layers, Yn. Layers."
You grab the remote from his hand, and he gasps in mock horror. "Treason," he declares. "I've been stabbed in the back by my own beloved."
"Get over it," you say, scrolling through the streaming options. "We're watching 'Clueless.'"
"That's not a sick movie! A sick movie is something comforting. Something with warmth. Something likeâ"
"Like 'Clueless,'" you interrupt. "It's warm. It's funny. It has great outfits. And Paul Rudd hasn't aged a day, which is deeply comforting on a cosmic level."
Harry sighs, flopping back against the pillows. "Fine. But only because I'm too weak to fight you. And because I love you. And because my head feels like it's full of cotton candy."
"Romantic," you say dryly.
"I'm a romantic at heart, Yn. Even when I'm dying. Especially when I'm dying. It's when I'm at my most romantic."
You press play, and the movie begins. You settle back against the pillows, and Harry immediately shifts to curl around you, his head on your chest, his arms wrapped around your waist. He's still burning up, but the warmth is actually kind of nice. Comforting. Like having a very large, very affectionate space heater.
Halfway through the movie, Harry starts singing along to the soundtrack. Badly. His voice is shot, and it comes out as a series of croaks and wheezes that sound like a dying frog trying to serenade a pond.
"Please stop," you say, your voice muffled by his hair.
"Never," he croaks. "This is my moment. My time to shine."
"Your moment to sound like a cat being put through a blender."
"Art is subjective, Yn. You just don't appreciate my creative expression."
You reach for your tea, taking another sip. The whiskey has worn off, leaving only the honey and lemon, but it still soothes your throat. Harry has somehow acquired a box of tissues and is now using them with reckless abandon, creating a small mountain of used tissues on the nightstand.
"You're going to need to clean that up," you inform him.
"I'm going to need to be buried with it," he counters. "It's my legacy. My final gift to the world. A mountain of tissues, lovingly crafted over the course of a single morning."
The movie ends, and Harry immediately reaches for the remote, scrolling through options with a feverish intensity.
"Now we watch something I want," he says. "Something that will heal my soul. Something likeâ" He pauses, his eyes lighting up. "'The Muppet Christmas Carol.'"
"You're kidding."
"I've never been more serious in my life."
"Harry, it's October."
"Christmas is a state of mind, Yn. It's not bound by the constraints of a calendar. And Michael Caine's performance as Scrooge is the single greatest acting achievement in the history of cinema. I won't hear otherwise."
You don't have the energy to argue. You just nod, and Harry practically vibrates with excitement as he presses play. Within minutes, he's singing along again, but this time you join him. Your voices together are a disaster, a symphony of wheezes and croaks and off-key notes, but you're both laughing between verses, and somehow that makes it perfect.
By the time the movie ends, you're both exhausted. The fever seems to have peaked, and you're both sweating through your clothes. Harry has shed his robe and is just lying there in his boxers, his skin glistening, his hair plastered to his forehead.
"I think I'm getting worse," he announces dramatically. "This is it. The end. Tell my mum I loved her. Tell my fans I loved them too. Tell my guitar that it was the best guitar a man could ever ask for."
"You're not dying," you say, for what feels like the hundredth time.
"How do you know? Have you checked my pulse? Have youâ" He stops mid-sentence, his eyes going wide. "Oh no."
"What? What's wrong?"
"I think I need to⊠I need toâŠ" He scrambles out of bed, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated, and makes a break for the bathroom. You hear the sound of him being sick, and you wince in sympathy.
When he emerges a few minutes later, he looks pale and miserable. His eyes are red-rimmed, and he's clutching the doorframe like it's the only thing keeping him upright.
"Okay," he says weakly. "Maybe I'm not dying. But I'm definitely not having a good time."
"Come here," you say, opening your arms. He shuffles over and collapses onto the bed, his head landing in your lap. You run your fingers through his damp curls, and he lets out a pitiful little whimper.
"I hate being sick," he mumbles. "I hate it. It's the worst. I feel like I've been wrung out like a dishrag."
"I know," you say softly. "But we're in it together. That's something, right?"
He looks up at you, his eyes glassy but warm. "Yeah," he says. "That's something."
You spend the next hour in a haze of semi-consciousness, drifting in and out of sleep. Harry's head stays in your lap, and you keep running your fingers through his hair, a soothing rhythm that seems to calm him. Your own head is pounding, and your throat feels like sandpaper, but there's something about this momentâthe quiet, the warmth, the simple presence of each otherâthat makes it bearable.
When you wake up again, it's early afternoon. The light is gray and soft, filtering through the curtains. Harry has shifted at some point and is now curled up beside you, his face pressed into your neck, his breathing slow and even.
You check his forehead with the back of your hand. His fever has broken. He's still warm, but it's a normal warmth now, not the alarming heat of earlier.
"Harry," you whisper. "Wake up."
He stirs, letting out a grumbly noise of protest. "Five more minutes."
"It's already afternoon. We need to eat something. Or at least drink something."
"Food," he mumbles, his eyes still closed. "What is food. I don't remember food. I've never known food. I am a being of pure existence, unburdened by the needs of a mortal body."
"Harry."
"Fine." He opens one eye, glaring at you half-heartedly. "But only because you asked nicely. And because I think I might actually die if I don't eat something. My stomach is making noises. Threatening noises. It's going to stage a coup."
You both manage to shuffle into the kitchen, moving like zombies. Harry is wearing his robe again, though it's untied and hanging open, revealing his bare chest. He looks like a disheveled Roman emperor who's just woken up from a particularly rough bacchanal.
"I'll make soup," he says, pulling open a cupboard. "If the soup goblins haven't taken it."
You peer over his shoulder. There's a single can of tomato soup, sitting alone and forlorn on the shelf. Harry snatches it triumphantly.
"Victory!" he declares. "The goblins have been defeated!"
It takes you both an embarrassingly long time to open the can. Harry's hands are shaking, and you can't seem to get a grip on the can opener. At one point, the can slips and clatters across the counter, and you both just stare at it for a moment before bursting into hysterical, wheezy laughter.
"This is pathetic," you manage between laughs. "We're adults. We're supposed to be able to feed ourselves."
"Speak for yourself," Harry says, finally managing to pry the can open. "I'm a grown man. I can take care of myself. I just⊠choose not to. It's a lifestyle choice."
You pour the soup into a pot and heat it up while Harry sets the table. Well, "sets the table" is generous. He puts two bowls on the counter and then forgets where he put the spoons, wandering around the kitchen in circles like a confused puppy.
"Spoons," you remind him.
"Spoons," he repeats, looking around as if the cutlery might have spontaneously grown legs and walked away. "Right. Spoons. I know where those are. They're⊠they're in the place where spoons go. The spoon place."
"The drawer next to the sink, Harry."
"Right! That's what I meant. The spoon drawer. Obviously."
You both sit down at the counter, cradling the warm bowls of soup. It's not fancyâit's just tomato soup from a canâbut somehow it's the best thing you've ever tasted. It's warm and comforting, and it soothes your throats and your aching muscles.
"This is nice," Harry says, his voice soft. He's looking at you, not at the soup, his eyes full of that familiar, lovesick warmth that makes your heart flutter even when you're both covered in snot and sweat.
"It's just soup," you say.
"It's not just soup," he corrects. "It's soup. With you. In our flat. On a day when we should be miserable but we're actually⊠okay. Because we have each other."
You reach across the counter and take his hand. His fingers are warm and rough, and they curl around yours like they belong there. Because they do. They always have.
"You're so sappy," you say, but your voice is affectionate.
"You love it," he says, grinning. "You love my sappiness. It's one of my best qualities."
"It's definitely one of your qualities."
He gasps in mock offense. "I'm wounded. Deeply wounded. I'm going to take my soup and my wounded heart and go sulk in the corner."
But he doesn't move. He just keeps holding your hand, his thumb tracing circles on your knuckles.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of terrible movies, half-eaten snacks, and long stretches of comfortable silence. You watch "Mamma Mia!" and sing along badly. You watch "The Emperor's New Groove" and quote every line. You watch a nature documentary about penguins, and Harry spends the entire time making up dramatic backstories for each of them.
"That one," he says, pointing at a penguin waddling across the ice, "is named Gerald. He's a retired accountant who decided to pursue his dream of becoming a professional ice dancer. His family doesn't support him, but he's following his heart."
"That's beautiful," you say dryly. "Very moving."
"I'm a storyteller, Yn. It's a gift."
By evening, you're both exhausted but also weirdly content. The fever has completely broken, and while you're still achy and congested, the worst seems to be over. You've dragged the duvet into the living room and created a nest of pillows and blankets on the sofa, and you're both curled up together, watching the evening light fade through the window.
"I love you," Harry says suddenly, his voice soft and sincere. "Even when I feel like death. Especially when I feel like death. Because you're the only person I want to be sick with."
"That's the most romantic thing you've ever said to me."
He laughs, a wheezy, congested sound that dissolves into a cough. "I try. I try so hard, Yn."
"I know you do." You press a kiss to his forehead, and he hums contentedly.
"I think I'm going to live," he says, his voice sleepy. "I think we're both going to live. And then we're going to eat more soup tomorrow. And watch more terrible movies. And be pathetic together forever."
"Forever," you agree.
He's already half-asleep, his head on your chest, his breathing slow and even. You run your fingers through his hair, and he mumbles something that might be "love you" or might be "soup goblins," but either way, it's perfect.
You look out the window at the darkening sky. It's raining againâa soft, steady drizzle that patters against the glass. The flat is warm and quiet, and Harry is warm and solid against you.
The flu is awful. Being sick is awful. But being sick together, with him, in this cozy little bubble of love and terrible movies and soup from a can⊠well, that's something special.
You press a kiss to the top of his head and close your eyes, letting the sound of the rain and the rhythm of his breathing lull you toward sleep.
Tomorrow, you'll both be better. Tomorrow, you'll be functional adults again. But tonight, you're just two people, in love, being pathetic together.
idk if you wanna do a part two but to the sunburn one can you do one where harry burns this time and yn offers to get his back cause heâs struggling but heâs stubborn and says he can do it but he misses a big spot on his back and it burns and yn takes care of him this time while also saying i told you so
Prompt: Harry gets the worst sunburn of his life and Yn offers him the comfort he needs... while also resisting the urge to say 'I told you so'... which she fails.
ââââââââââââââââ
The first thing Harry says when they step off the plane in Mykonos is: "I'm not going to burn."
Yn looks at him. He's already shed his jumper, rolling up the sleeves of his linen shirt, his skin pale and unblemished in the Greek sun.
"You always say that," she says.
"Because it's always true." He grins, slinging an arm around her shoulders. "I'm like a lizard. I just get golden."
"You're not a lizard. You're a himbo."
"A golden himbo."
"You're delusional."
He laughs, loud and bright, and kisses her temple. "Come on. Let's get to the hotel. I want to see the pool."
The hotel is everything they'd hoped forâwhitewashed walls, turquoise water, a view of the Aegean that looks like it's been photoshopped. Their room has a private balcony with a plunge pool and a sun lounger that's calling Harry's name.
He's stripped down to his swim trunks within ten minutes.
"Harry," Yn says, unpacking their suitcase. "Sun cream."
"In a minute."
"Harry."
"I said in a minute." He's already on the lounger, stretching out like a cat in a sunbeam. "I want to feel the sun first. Just for a second."
"It's going to be more than a second."
"Just a second," he repeats, and he closes his eyes.
Yn sighs. She knows this battle. She's fought it a hundred times. She picks up the bottle of SPF 50 and walks over to him, holding it out.
"At least let me do your back."
"Yn."
"Harry. You're going to burn."
"I'm not going to burn."
"You're going to burn, and then you're going to be miserable, and then I'm going to have to take care of you."
"Sounds like a threat." He cracks one eye open. "Is that a threat?"
"It's a promise." She shakes the bottle at him. "Let me do your back. Please."
He groans, but he rolls over. "Fine. But just my back. I can do the rest myself."
"Whatever you say."
She squirts a generous amount of cream into her palm and starts with his shoulders. His skin is warm under her hands, and she watches the way the sun catches the muscles in his back as he shifts. She tries not to be distracted. She mostly fails.
"Your hands are cold," he murmurs.
"Your skin is hot."
"That's the sun."
"That's the burn starting," she says, and she pats his shoulder a little harder than necessary. "Now hold still."
She works the cream into his back, methodical and thorough, making sure to cover every inch. His shoulder blades. The dip of his spine. The soft skin at the base of his neck.
"There," she says, when she's done. "All good."
He turns back over, and she watches him squirt cream into his own hands. Watches him rub it onto his chest, his arms, his stomach. He's thorough enoughâshe'll give him that. But his movements are quick, almost careless, and she notices that he doesn't twist around to check his own back.
"You got everything?" she asks.
"Everything."
"Your back?"
"Yn, you just did my back."
"I know. Butâ"
"I'm fine. Stop worrying." He closes his eyes again, turning his face to the sun. "I'm not going to burn."
Famous last words.
The first day is fine.
Harry is golden. Glowing. He spends hours by the pool, reading his book and sipping something fruity, and Yn has to admitâhe looks good. Like he belongs here, on this island, in this sun.
The second day is also fine.
They take a boat to Delos, and Harry puts sun cream on his shoulders and nose and the tops of his feet. He's careful about it. Almost smug.
"See?" he says, holding up the bottle. "I'm being responsible."
"You're being responsible today," Yn says. "What about yesterday?"
"I was responsible yesterday too."
"You didn't put any on your back."
"I let you put it on my back."
"That's not the same thing."
"It's exactly the same thing."
Yn rolls her eyes, but she doesn't argue. He looks fine. He feels fine. Maybe he's right. Maybe he's one of those annoyingly lucky people who just doesn't burn.
The third day is when it happens.
They're on the beachâa little cove tucked away from the main tourist spots, with white sand and clear water and no shade to speak of. Harry is lying on his stomach, his book open in front of him, his skin warm and golden in the sun.
Yn is beside him, reading her own book, occasionally glancing over to make sure he's not getting too pink. He's not. He looks perfect. The kind of tan that makes her a little jealous.
"Harry," she says, around midday. "Reapply."
"In a minute."
"Harry."
"I will, I will." He doesn't move. Doesn't reach for the bottle. "Just let me finish this chapter."
She watches him read. Watches the way his lips move slightly as he follows the words. Watches the way his toes curl and uncurl in the sand.
She doesn't push.
Because he's fine. He's golden. He's not going to burn.
That night, at dinner, he's itchy.
He's been scratching his shoulder for the last ten minutes, trying to be subtle about it, but Yn notices. Of course she notices. She notices everything.
"Harry," she says. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Justâ" He scratches again. "I think there's a mosquito. Or something."
"There's no mosquito."
"How do you know?"
"Because I'd feel it too. Mosquitoes love me."
He shifts in his seat, trying to get comfortable. "It's probably just the salt water. Dried on my skin."
"Or maybe it's the sunburn you said you weren't going to get."
"I don't have sunburn."
"Then stop scratching."
He stops. But his hand twitches, and she sees him fighting the urge.
The next morning, he's in pain.
He's trying to hide itâtrying so hardâbut she can see it in the way he moves. Stiffly. Carefully. Like every movement costs him something.
"Harry," she says, when he comes out of the shower. "Let me see your back."
"It's fine."
"Let me see your back."
"Yn, I told you, it's fineâ"
"Harry." She steps in front of him, blocking his path to the closet. "Let me see your back. Now."
He looks at her. There's something in his eyesâembarrassment, maybe. Or shame. He knows he messed up. He knows she was right.
"It's not bad," he says, but he turns around.
She gasps.
His back is a mess. There's a patch of skin, right between his shoulder blades, that's bright red. Almost purple. The kind of burn that means he definitely missed a spot. A big spot. A spot that's been baking in the Greek sun for three days.
"Harry," she says, and her voice is quiet. "How did you miss this?"
"I didn'tâ" He stops. Swallows. "I thought you got it."
"I did. I got the parts I could see. But there's a spotâ" She reaches out, gently, and touches the edge of the burn. He flinches. "You must have moved when I was doing it. Shifted your shoulders. And then when you reappliedâ"
"I did reapply."
"Did you? Or did you just put it on the parts you could see?"
He doesn't answer. Which is answer enough.
The next few hours are a blur of damage control.
Yn takes over completely. She makes him sit on the bed while she goes through their suitcase, looking for anything that might help. She finds aloe vera (she packed it, of course she did), a bottle of ibuprofen, and a light cotton shirt that won't irritate his skin.
"Take these," she says, handing him the ibuprofen. "And then I'm going to put aloe on your back."
"Ynâ"
"Harry. Don't argue with me. You can't even see it. You have no idea how bad it is."
He doesn't argue. He takes the pills. He sits on the edge of the bed, facing away from her, while she squirts aloe into her hand and starts with the edges of the burn.
He hisses when it touches his skin.
"I know," she says softly. "I know it hurts. Just breathe."
She works the aloe into his back, patient and slow, avoiding the worst spots and coming back to them later. She can feel him trembling under her handsânot from cold, but from pain. He's in so much pain.
"I'm sorry," he whispers.
"For what?"
"For not listening. Forâ" He stops. Swallows. "You told me. You told me a thousand times. And I didn't listen."
"No," she says. "You didn't."
"I thought I knew better. I thought I was fine."
"You are fine. You're justâ" She touches the worst spot, gently, and he flinches again. "You're burned. It's not the end of the world."
"It feels like the end of the world."
She almost laughs. Almost. "Welcome to my world."
The rest of the day is spent in the hotel room.
Harry is lying on his stomach on the bed, his shirt off, his back exposed to the air. Yn is sitting beside him, reapplying aloe every few hours, making him drink water, feeding him small bites of bread and cheese.
"I feel useless," he says, after a while. "I came here to swim. To explore. And now I'm justâ"
"You're healing," Yn says. "That's not useless."
"It feels useless."
"It's not." She reaches out, brushes a curl off his forehead. "Do you know how many times you've done this for me? How many times you've taken care of me when I was sick or hurt or just being stubborn?"
"That's different."
"It's not different."
"Yes it is. You'reâ" He stops. "You're you."
"I'm me. And you're you. And we take care of each other. That's how it works."
He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "I feel like an idiot."
"You are an idiot. But you're my idiot." She leans down, presses a kiss to the back of his head. "And I'm not going to say I told you so."
"You just did."
"I said I'm not going to say it. I didn't say I wasn't thinking it."
He laughsâa small, pained laugh. "I love you."
"I love you too. Now lie still. I'm going to put more aloe on."
That night, he can't sleep.
The pain is too intense. Every time he moves, even slightly, the burn pulls and stings and makes him want to cry. He lies on his stomach, his face pressed into the pillow, trying to breathe through it.
Yn is beside him, awake too. She's been awake for hours, watching him, waiting.
"Harry," she says softly. "Do you want me to get more ice?"
"No."
"More ibuprofen?"
"No."
"More aloe?"
He's quiet for a moment. Then: "Yes. Please."
She gets up, goes to the bathroom, and comes back with the aloe. She sits on the edge of the bed and starts working it into his back, careful and gentle.
"I know it hurts," she says. "I know. Just breathe."
"I'm trying."
"I know you are."
She works in silence for a while, her hands moving in slow circles across his skin. He's tense, rigid with pain, but slowlyâvery slowlyâhe starts to relax.
"Yn?" he says.
"Yeah?"
"I'm sorry."
"You already said that."
"I know. But I mean it." He reaches back, catches her hand. "I'm sorry I didn't listen. I'm sorry I was stubborn. I'm sorry you have to take care of me."
"Harry." She squeezes his hand. "I don't have to take care of you. I want to. There's a difference."
He doesn't say anything. But she can feel him relax, just a little.
The next day, he's worse.
The burn has blistered in a few placesâsmall, angry bubbles of skin that make Yn wince when she sees them. Harry can't see them, but he can feel them. Every time he moves, the blisters pull and sting.
"We need to see a doctor," Yn says.
"No."
"Harryâ"
"No, Yn. It's just a sunburn. I don't need a doctor."
"You have blisters. That's not just a sunburn."
"It's fine."
"It's not fine. You're in pain. You can't move. You can't sleep. That's not fine."
He's quiet for a moment. Then: "I don't want to ruin the trip."
"Harry." She sits down beside him, takes his hand. "The trip isn't ruined. You're not ruining anything. But if you don't let me get you help, you're going to be in pain for the rest of the holiday. Is that what you want?"
"No."
"Then let me call the front desk. They can recommend a doctor who does house calls."
He looks at her. There's still something in his eyesâembarrassment, maybe. Or shame. He doesn't want to admit he needs help.
But he does.
"Okay," he says finally. "Okay."
The doctor comes within the hour.
She's a small Greek woman with kind eyes and steady hands. She examines Harry's back, clucks her tongue, and tells him he has a second-degree sunburn. He needs to stay out of the sun, keep the area clean, and use a prescription cream to prevent infection.
"You should have been more careful," she says, and Harry nods sheepishly.
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize to me. Apologize to your girlfriend." She looks at Yn. "He's lucky to have you."
"Believe me," Yn says. "I know."
The next few days are a repeat of the pattern.
Harry stays in the room, lying on his stomach, while Yn takes care of him. She applies the prescription cream. She makes him drink water. She feeds him small meals and helps him to the bathroom when he needs it.
"You're doing too much," he says, one afternoon.
"I'm doing exactly the right amount."
"I should be taking care of you."
"You've taken care of me a thousand times. Let me do this."
He looks at her. There's something in his eyesâgratitude, maybe. Or love. Or both.
"You're too good to me," he says.
"I'm not. I'm just doing what you would do."
"That's the point." He reaches out, catches her hand. "You're doing what I would do. That's why you're too good to me."
She laughs, soft and low. "That doesn't make any sense."
"It makes perfect sense."
"Whatever you say, hotshot."
The last day of the trip, Harry's back is finally starting to heal.
The blisters have faded. The pain is manageable. He can sit up without wincing, can walk without feeling like his skin is on fire.
"I want to go to the beach," he says.
"Harryâ"
"Just for an hour. I'll wear a shirt. I'll wear a hat. I'llâ" He holds up the bottle of SPF 50. "I'll let you put on the sun cream. Everywhere. Twice."
She looks at him. At the hope in his eyes. At the sunburn that's finally starting to fade.
"One hour," she says. "And you wear the shirt."
"Deal."
They go to the beach, and Harry is careful.
He wears a loose white linen shirtâone that doesn't touch his back too much. He wears a wide-brimmed hat. He sits in the shade, not the sun. And when Yn holds up the sun cream, he turns around without complaint.
"Everywhere," he says. "Don't miss a spot."
"I won't."
She works the cream into his back, his shoulders, his neck. She's thorough. Methodical. She doesn't miss anything.
"There," she says, when she's done. "All good."
He turns around, and she watches him put cream on his own chest, his arms, his legs. He's careful this time. He doesn't miss anything.
"See?" he says, holding up the bottle. "I'm being responsible."
"You're being responsible today," she says. "What about tomorrow?"
"I'll be responsible tomorrow too."
"Will you?"
"Yes." He catches her hand, squeezes it. "Because you taught me how."
She looks at him. At the sunburn that's finally healing. At the gratitude in his eyes. At the love that's so obvious, so overwhelming, that it makes her chest ache.
"Good," she says. "Now lie down. I want to read."
They spend the rest of the afternoon on the beach, in the shade, doing nothing.
Harry reads his book. Yn reads hers. They eat watermelon and drink cold water and watch the waves roll in.
"This is nice," Harry says, after a while.
"It is."
"I'm glad we came here."
"Even with the sunburn?"
"Even with the sunburn." He puts his book down, reaches for her hand. "I'm glad I got to see you take care of me. It wasâ" He stops. "It was nice. Having you there."
"I was always going to be there."
"I know." He squeezes her hand. "That's what makes it nice."
That night, they're sitting on the balcony, watching the sunset.
Harry's arm is around her shoulders, and she's leaning into him, her head on his chest. The sun is sinking into the Aegean, painting the sky pink and gold.
"Can I tell you something?" he asks.
"Always."
"I used to think I had to handle things alone. The pain. The embarrassment. All of it. I thought that asking for help made me weak." He pauses. "But youâyou showed me that's not true. That it's okay to need someone. That it's okay to lean on them."
She looks up at him. "Harryâ"
"I know. I know you already know. But I wanted to say it." He presses a kiss to her forehead. "You're the strongest person I know. And I'm so lucky to have you."
She blinks back tears. "I love you."
"I love you too. Now stop crying, you're ruining the sunset."
She laughs, soft and wet. "You're ruining the sunset."
"I'm the one who's ruining it?"
"Yes."
"Rude."
She laughs again, and he pulls her closer, and they watch the sun sink into the sea together.
The next morning, they fly home.
Harry's back is almost completely healed. The skin is pink, but not red. The blisters are gone. He can move without pain.
"Look," he says, in the airport bathroom. "I'm a lizard. I'm golden."
"You're still pink."
"I'm golden pink."
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm your ridiculous." He grins, slings an arm around her shoulders. "Now come on. I want to get home and sleep in my own bed."
"Your own bed?"
"Okay, our bed."
"Good answer."
The flight is long, but Harry doesn't mind.
He sleeps most of the way, his head on Yn's shoulder, his hand in hers. She watches him sleepâwatches the way his lashes flutter against his cheeks, the way his mouth falls open just a littleâand she thinks about the trip. About the sun, the burn, the aloe. About the fear in his eyes when he realized how much pain he was in. About the way he let her take care of him, even though it was hard for him to accept.
She thinks about how lucky she is.
And she thinks:Â I'm going to be better. I'm going to take care of him the way he takes care of me.
She falls asleep with her head against his, and she dreams of Greece.
When they land in London, it's raining.
Of course it is. It's London. But Yn doesn't care. She steps off the plane, takes a deep breath of the cold, damp air, and smiles.
"Welcome home," Harry says, his arm around her waist.
"Welcome home," she echoes.
He looks at her. Really looks at her. And then he leans down and kisses herâsoft, sweet, full of promise.
"Next time," he says, pulling back, "I'm going to listen to you. Every time. I promise."
"Really?"
"Really." He grins. "I'm going to be the most sun-safeguarded man in the entire world."
"Sun-safeguarded?"
"I'm making it a thing."
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm your ridiculous."
She laughs, and he pulls her into the baggage claim.
And Yn thinks:Â This. This is what it feels like to be loved.
She's never going to forget it.
P.S. Please reapply your sun cream. And listen to your girlfriend when she tells you you're going to burn. She's probably right.
i suffer from chronic migraines and i was wondering if you could do a oneshot where yn gets one of her worst migraine attacks, like dizziness, light sensitivity, nausea, migraine aura, the whole shebang and harryâs there to help her thru it and comfort her :(
Awww, poor thing!!! My sister gets these and Ik they're excruciating!! :(
Prompt: The worst migraine of your entire life impounds you and Harry helps you through it.
ââââââââââââââââ
The first sign is always the smell.
Yn is halfway through making tea when she catches itâsomething metallic, like copper and old pennies, threading through the air. She pauses, kettle in hand, and sniffs experimentally. Nothing. Just the usual scent of their flat: Harry's sandalwood cologne, the faint citrus of the cleaning spray she used this morning, the lingering warmth of toast from breakfast.
But the copper is still there. Underneath everything. Persistent.
She ignores it.
The second sign is the flicker.
She's scrolling through her phone, waiting for the water to boil, when the edges of her vision start to... shimmer. Like heat waves rising off pavement. Like someone's turned on a strobe light just out of sight. She blinks hard, rubs her eyes, and when she looks up again, there's a blind spot in her peripheral vision. Small. Annoying. The shape of a crescent moon.
Her stomach drops.
No. Not today. Please not today.
She has things to do. Groceries to buy. A Zoom call with her editor at three. Dinner to planâshe was going to make that lemon chicken Harry loves, the one with the capers and the crispy skin. She can't afford to be sidelined byâ
The kettle clicks off.
Yn pours the water over her tea bag, watching it bloom into amber. Her hands are steady. Her breathing is normal. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's just a headache. Regular people get headaches all the time. It doesn't have to beâ
The shimmer intensifies.
She blinks again, and this time the blind spot has grown. It's not a crescent anymore. It's a jagged line, zigzagging across her field of vision like a crack in glass. She can't read the words on her phone. Can't focus on anything except the visual disturbance that's slowly, methodically eating away at her sight.
"Yn?"
Harry's voice drifts from the bedroom. She hears him shuffling around, probably looking for a shirt that isn't wrinkled.
"Yeah?"
"You seen my blue jumper? The one with theâ"
"I think it's in the laundry," she says, and her voice sounds normal. It sounds fine. "I'll grab it for you in a second."
"Cheers, love."
She stands there, tea growing cold in her hands, and watches her vision dissolve.
By the time Harry comes out of the bedroom, she's sitting on the couch with her eyes closed.
"Yn?"
"Mm."
"You okay?"
"Fine." She opens her eyesâbig mistakeâand the light streaming through the window hits her like a physical blow. She winces. Tries to hide it. "Just tired."
Harry walks over, and she can hear his footsteps on the hardwood. Can hear the soft thud of him sitting down on the coffee table in front of her. Can feel his presence, warm and solid, even though she's keeping her eyes squeezed shut.
"Yn," he says, and his voice is softer now. "Look at me."
"I can't."
"Why can't you?"
"Becauseâ" She stops. Swallows. The copper smell is stronger now, mixing with the nausea that's starting to curl in her stomach. "Because I think I'm getting a migraine."
Harry is quiet for a moment. Then: "How bad?"
"I don't know yet. It'sâ" She gestures vaguely at her face. "It's happening. The thing. Theâthe aura thing."
"The zigzags?"
"Yeah."
He's seen it before. Twice, actually. Once at a restaurant when they were first datingâshe'd had to excuse herself to the bathroom and throw up, and he'd found her there, pale and shaking, and insisted on driving her home. The second time was last year, when they were supposed to go to his sister's birthday party. She'd made it to the car before the nausea hit, and he'd spent the rest of the evening sitting in the dark with her, rubbing her back.
She hates that he's seen it. Hates that he knows what's coming.
"Okay," Harry says, and his voice is calm. Reassuring. "Okay. What do you need?"
"I don'tâI don't know yet. It's stillâ" She presses her palms to her eyes, trying to block out the light. "I need it to stop."
"I know, love. I know."
He doesn't say it's going to be okay, because they both know that's not true. It's not going to be okay. It's going to get worse before it gets better. The aura will fade, but then the pain will comeâthe crushing, blinding pain that makes her want to drill a hole in her skull just to relieve the pressure.
She's been through this before. She knows the map.
But knowing the map doesn't make the journey any easier.
The nausea hits first.
It comes in waves, rolling over her like the tide. She's still on the couch, still with her eyes closed, but now she's curled into a ball, her knees drawn up to her chest, one hand pressed to her mouth.
Harry is beside her. She can feel his hand on her back, rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades.
"Deep breaths," he murmurs. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. You're okay. I've got you."
She tries to breathe. She really does. But the nausea is relentless, and the light is still filtering through her eyelids even though she's facing the back of the couch, and the metallic smell is so strong now it's making her dizzy.
"I'm going to be sick," she manages.
"Okay. Okay, let'sâ" He's already moving, helping her sit up, guiding her toward the bathroom. She stumbles, her legs not working properly, and he catches her before she falls.
"I've got you. I've got you. Just a few more steps."
She makes it to the toilet just in time.
Afterward, she feels worse.
The vomiting has stopped, but the pain is starting to build behind her eyes. It's not a headache yetânot really. It's more like pressure. Like someone's inflating a balloon inside her skull, and any second now it's going to pop.
Harry is kneeling beside her on the bathroom floor, holding her hair back even though she's not throwing up anymore. His other hand is on her back, warm and steady.
"Better?" he asks.
"No."
"Want to try some water?"
"No."
"Just a sip?"
"No, Harry. Iâ" She stops. Breathes. The pressure is building, building, building. "I need to lie down. In the dark. I needâ"
"Okay. Okay, we can do that. Can you stand?"
She tries. Her legs are shaking, and her vision is still a mess of zigzags and blind spots, but she manages to get upright. Harry wraps an arm around her waist, takes most of her weight, and guides her back to the bedroom.
The curtains are already drawnâshe'd asked him to close them before she went to the bathroomâand the room is dim. Not dark, not yet, but dim. Harry leads her to the bed, helps her lie down, and pulls the duvet up to her chin.
"Better?" he asks again.
"Getting there."
He sits on the edge of the bed, and she can feel him looking at her. Can feel the weight of his concern. She wants to say I'm fine, I'm fine, don't worry about me, but she can't. The words are too heavy. The pressure is too intense.
"Your aura," he says quietly. "Is it still there?"
She opens her eyesâjust a slitâand looks at the ceiling. The zigzags are fading, replaced by a dull, throbbing ache at the base of her skull.
"Gone," she says. "It'sâit's gone."
"Good." He reaches out, brushes a strand of hair off her forehead. "That means the headache's coming."
She nods, because she knows. She knows what's coming.
The migraine.
It starts as a dull ache behind her left eye.
She's lying in bed, eyes closed, trying to breathe through it. Harry is still there, still sitting on the edge of the bed, still watching her. She can hear him breathing. Can hear the soft creak of the mattress when he shifts his weight.
"I'm going to get you some water," he says. "And some ibuprofen. Maybe some ice for your head."
"No," she says, and her voice is tight. "Don't leave."
"Yn, I'll only be a minuteâ"
"Please." She reaches out, catches his hand. Squeezes. "Please don't leave."
He's quiet for a moment. Then he squeezes back. "Okay. I won't."
He doesn't move. Doesn't get up. He just stays there, holding her hand, and she feels a fraction of the tension in her shoulders ease.
But the pain is growing.
It's spreading now, from behind her eye to her temple to the back of her neck. It's not a sharp painâit's worse than that. It's a dull, grinding ache, like someone's taken a vise to her skull and is slowly, methodically tightening it. The kind of pain that makes her want to claw at her own head just to make it stop.
"Harry," she whispers.
"I'm here."
"It hurts."
"I know, love. I know." He leans down, presses a kiss to her forehead. "What can I do? Tell me what to do."
She doesn't know. She's never known. There's no cure for migraines, not really. Just time. Just waiting. Just lying in the dark and wishing for death.
"I needâ" She stops. Swallows. The nausea is coming back, rolling in her stomach like a storm. "I need a cold cloth. For my head."
"Okay. I'll be right back."
He lets go of her hand, and she hears him stand up. Hears his footsteps on the hardwood, then the sound of the bathroom faucet running. She focuses on that soundâthe water, the hum of the pipesâtrying to anchor herself to something other than the pain.
He's back in less than a minute. She feels the cold cloth settle on her forehead, feels the immediate relief. Not much. Just a little. But enough.
"Is that good?" he asks.
"Better."
He sits back down on the edge of the bed, and she feels his hand find hers again. His thumb rubs circles on her palm, and she focuses on that sensation instead of the vise tightening around her skull.
"Talk to me," she says.
"What?"
"Talk to me. About anything. I needâI need to focus on something else."
He hesitates. Then he starts talking. About the weather. About the leaky faucet in the kitchen that he's been meaning to fix. About the new song he's been working on, the one with the guitar riff he can't quite get right. His voice is low and soothing, a gentle hum in the background, and she lets it wash over her.
But the pain is getting worse.
It's peaked now, she knows. It's at its worst, the pressure so intense that she can't think, can't breathe, can't do anything except lie there and endure it. Her left eye is watering. Her neck is rigid. She wants to scream, but she doesn't have the energy.
"Harry," she says again, and her voice breaks.
"I'm here, love. I'm right here."
"I can'tâI can't do this. I can'tâ"
"You can." He squeezes her hand. "You've done this before. You're strong. You're so strong, Yn. And I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
She doesn't believe him. She doesn't believe she's strong. She feels weak, pathetic, useless. A grown woman reduced to tears by a headache.
But then she feels his hand on her face, his thumb brushing the tears off her cheek. Feels him lean down and press a kiss to her temple. Feels his presence, solid and unwavering, and she thinks:Â He's still here. He's still here.
The pain doesn't stop. But it becomes bearable.
Hours pass. Or maybe minutes. Yn has lost all sense of time.
The pain is still thereâit hasn't let up, not reallyâbut it's become a constant companion. Something she's learned to live with, just for now. She's still lying in bed, still with the cold cloth on her forehead, still with Harry's hand in hers.
He's been talking the whole time. She's not sure about what. Something about growing up in Holmes Chapel. About the time he fell out of a tree and broke his arm. About his mum's cooking, her roast chicken, the way she'd always make extra gravy because she knew he loved it.
"Harry," she says, and her voice is hoarse.
"Yeah?"
"Can youâcan you turn on the fan? I'm hot."
He gets up, and she hears the click of the fan turning on. Feels the cool air on her face. It's not much, but it's something.
"Better?" he asks.
"Better."
He sits back down, and this time he doesn't take her hand. He lies down beside her, careful not to jostle the bed, and wraps his arm around her waist. His chest is warm against her back, and she can feel his heartbeat, steady and slow.
"Tell me about your song," she says. "The one with the guitar riff."
"What about it?"
"I want to hear it."
He's quiet for a moment. Then he starts hummingâlow and soft, a melody she's never heard before. It's not finished, she can tell. There are gaps, places where the notes don't quite connect. But it's beautiful anyway.
"When you're better," he says, "I'll play it for you. On the guitar."
"I'd like that."
"I'll write you a whole album," he says, and she can hear the smile in his voice. "Songs about sun cream. Songs about migraines. Songs about how beautiful you are even when you're lying in bed with a cold cloth on your head."
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm romantic."
"You're both."
He laughs, and the sound vibrates through her chest. "Fair enough."
The pain starts to recede around midnight.
It's gradual, almost imperceptible at first. The vise loosens just a fraction. The pressure behind her eye eases. She's still nauseous, still sensitive to light, but the worst is over.
She knows it's over because she can think again. Can string thoughts together without wanting to cry.
"Harry?"
"Mm?"
"I think it's going away."
He lifts his head, looks at her. In the dim light, she can see his faceâtired, worried, but relieved. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." She reaches up, touches his cheek. "You stayed the whole time."
"I said I would."
"You didn't have to."
"Yn." He catches her hand, presses a kiss to her palm. "I'm not going to leave you when you're suffering. That's notâthat's not who I am."
"I know. I know." She closes her eyes, lets out a long breath. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For staying. For talking. Forâ" She gestures vaguely. "All of it."
"Don't thank me." He settles back down beside her, pulls her closer. "Just rest. You need to rest."
She does. She closes her eyes, and for the first time in hours, the pain is manageable. Not gone, but manageable. She can feel sleep pulling at her, soft and insistent.
"Harry?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
He presses a kiss to the back of her head. "I love you too. Now sleep."
She wakes up the next morning feeling like she's been hit by a truck.
Her head is still aching, but it's a dull ache now. A reminder of what happened, not the event itself. She's groggy and disoriented, and her mouth tastes like battery acid, but she's alive.
She's alive.
Harry is still beside her, still curled around her like a shield. His face is relaxed in sleep, the worry lines smoothed away, and she watches him for a long moment. Watches the way his lashes flutter against his cheeks. Watches the way his mouth twitches, like he's dreaming about something good.
She loves him so much it hurts.
Carefully, she extricates herself from his arms and pads to the bathroom. She looks in the mirror and seesâwell, she sees a mess. Her hair is tangled, her face is pale, and there are dark circles under her eyes that make her look like she hasn't slept in weeks.
But she's alive. She's healing.
When she comes back to the bed, Harry is awake. He's propped up on his elbows, blinking at her sleepily.
"How are you feeling?" he asks.
"Better." She climbs back into bed, curls up against his chest. "Tired. But better."
"Good." He wraps his arms around her, pulls her close. "That's good."
"Thank you," she says again. "For last night. For everything."
"Stop thanking me."
"I mean it. You wereâyou were so patient. So kind. I don't know what I'd do without you."
He's quiet for a moment. Then he presses a kiss to the top of her head. "You don't have to find out," he says. "I'm not going anywhere."
They lie there in the morning light, tangled together, and Yn thinks about how different things could have been. If he hadn't been there. If he hadn't known what to do.
But he was there. He did know.
And he stayed.
Later that day, Harry makes her tea.
Chamomile, because caffeine is a migraine trigger. He brings it to her on the couch, where she's wrapped in a blanket, and sits down beside her.
"Feeling better?" he asks.
"Much." She takes a sip of the tea. It's perfectânot too hot, not too sweet. "I think I'm going to be okay."
"I know you are." He reaches over, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "But you know what I was thinking?"
"What?"
"We should probably see a doctor. A specialist. You get these migraines too often, and Iâ" He stops. Swallows. "I hate seeing you in pain. I hate not being able to help."
She looks at him. At the worry in his eyes. At the love that's so obvious, so overwhelming, that it makes her chest ache.
"Okay," she says. "We'll see a doctor."
"Really?"
"Really." She puts her tea down, reaches for his hand. "I don't want to keep going through this. And I don't want you to keep worrying."
He squeezes her hand. "I'm always going to worry. That's what I do."
"I know. But maybe we can worry a little less. Together."
He looks at her for a long moment. Then he smilesâthat soft, lopsided smile that she fell in love withâand he leans over to kiss her forehead.
"Together," he agrees.
A week later, they're sitting in a neurologist's office.
The doctor is a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and a no-nonsense manner. She asks Yn about her migrainesâhow often they happen, what triggers them, how long they last. She asks about the aura, the nausea, the sensitivity to light.
Yn answers everything. Harry holds her hand the whole time.
"Well," the doctor says, when they're done, "it sounds like classic migraine with aura. The good news is, there are treatments. Preventative medications. Lifestyle changes. And there are things you can do when you feel an attack coming onâtake medication early, lie down in a dark room, use cold compresses."
"Which I do," Yn says. "Harry makes sure of it."
The doctor smiles. "Good. Having a supportive partner makes a huge difference." She looks at Harry. "You're doing exactly the right thing. Keep doing it."
Harry nods, and Yn can see the relief on his face. The validation.
They leave the office with a prescription and a list of triggers to avoid. As they walk back to the car, Harry's arm is around her shoulder, and he's smiling.
"See?" he says. "That wasn't so bad."
"No," she agrees. "It wasn't."
"And now we have a plan. A real plan."
"We do."
He stops walking, turns to face her. "I'm proud of you," he says. "For going. For taking this seriously."
"Thanks," she says. "I'm proud of you too."
"For what?"
"For being there. For staying." She reaches up, touches his cheek. "For everything."
He leans into her touch, closes his eyes. "I love you," he says. "In case you didn't know."
"I know." She smiles. "I love you too."
That night, they're lying in bed, and Yn is thinking about everything.
About the migraines. About the pain. About the way Harry held her hand through all of it. About the way he never wavered, never complained, never made her feel like a burden.
"Harry?" she says.
"Yeah?"
"Can I tell you something?"
He turns to look at her. "Anything."
"I used to think I had to handle it alone. The migraines. The pain. All of it. I thought that asking for help made me weak." She pauses. "But youâyou showed me that's not true. That it's okay to need someone. That it's okay to lean on them."
He's quiet for a moment. Then he reaches out, brushes a strand of hair off her face.
"You're not weak," he says. "You're the strongest person I know. And you're not alone. You never have to be alone."
She blinks back tears. "I know. I know that now."
"Good." He pulls her closer, wraps his arms around her. "Now sleep. You need your rest."
She closes her eyes, and she feels itâthe warmth of him, the safety of his arms, the steady beat of his heart.
She's not alone.
She never will be again.
P.S. If you get migraines, please see a doctor. And if you have someone like Harry in your life, hold onto them. They're rare.
Warnings: None ;) Just protective dad energy and a VERY satisfying takedown of a Karen.
Prompt: Celia, You and Harry's daughter gets a job at a Dairy place. Harry doesn't take too kindly when a rough customer tries to pick on his little girl.
ââââââââââââââââ
(I wrote this while waiting inside a Dairy Queen lmao!!!)
Itâs a Tuesday.
Thatâs the first thing. Itâs always a Tuesday when things go sideways. Tuesdays have this deceptive calmâthe Monday rush is over, the weekend feels far away, and you let your guard down. You think, today will be fine. You think, whatâs the worst that could happen?
Harry Styles has been thinking that all day. He woke up next to Yn, her hair fanned across the pillow, and he kissed her shoulder and whispered, âI love you,â and she mumbled something unintelligible back, and it was perfect. He made pancakes. He drove Celia to her shift at Frosty Swirlsâtheir townâs aggressively pastel, Dairy-Queen-adjacent fast-food jointâand he watched her walk inside in her stupid little visor and her striped polo, and he thought, sheâs so grown. Sixteen. Driving. Flirting with disaster in the form of a boy named Sam who has âkind eyes but questionable hair,â according to Yn.
He spent the afternoon in the studio. Wrote half a song. Ate an apple. Did not check his exâs Instagram, which is a victory heâs learned to celebrate quietly.
Then Yn texted him at 4:47 PM.
Yn: Celiaâs shift ends at 7. Want to pick her up together and get dinner?
Harry: Yeah. Mexican?
Yn: Always.
Simple. Normal. The kind of text that makes him feel like heâs done something right in his life. Not the fame. Not the Grammys. This. A family. A woman who looks at him like he hung the moon even when he forgets to take out the recycling. A daughter who inherited his curls and Ynâs stubbornness and a laugh that could cure cancer.
They pull into the Frosty Swirls parking lot at 6:52 PM. Harry parks the carâa sensible SUV, because his twenties are behind him and he values back supportâand glances toward the drive-thru window.
âSheâs on headset tonight,â Yn says, scrolling through her phone. âThe manager texted me. Said sheâs a natural.â
Harry grins. âOf course she is. Sheâs ours.â
âModest, too.â
âModesty is overrated.â
Yn swats his arm. He catches her hand and kisses her knuckles. The sun is setting over the strip mall. The neon signâa swirling soft-serve cone with a cherry on topâbuzzes cheerfully. Everything is fine.
And then Harry notices the car.
Itâs a white SUV. One of those massive ones that take up two parking spaces and have bumper stickers that say things like Live, Laugh, Love in cursive font. Itâs pulled up to the drive-thru speaker, and the window is down, and even from here, Harry can hear the voice.
Not the content. Just the tone.
Sharp. High. The kind of voice thatâs used to getting what it wants.
He frowns. âWhoâs that?â
Yn looks up. âWhat?â
âThat car. At the speaker.â
Yn shrugs. âSomeone ordering a Blizzard, I assume.â
But Harryâs stomach does something unpleasant. A father thing. A spidey-sense thing. Heâs learned not to ignore it. He learned when Celia was three and she almost ran into traffic. He learned when she was eight and a fever spiked to 104. He learned when she was twelve and a boy pushed her on the playground, and Harry showed up to parent-teacher conferences wearing the kind of face that made the principal stammer.
He opens his car door.
âHarry,â Yn says, suddenly alert. âWhat are you doing?â
âJust getting closer.â
âYouâre not going to interfere in our daughterâs fast-food job.â
âIâm just going to observe.â
âHarry.â
But heâs already walking. Not running. Walking with purpose. The kind of walk that says I am a law-abiding citizen who simply happens to be moving toward a potential threat with paternal intent.
The white SUV is still at the speaker. The voice is getting louder. Harry can make out words now.
ââabsolute joke. Iâve been waiting for THREE MINUTES. Do you know who I am?â
Harry stops. He knows that phrase. Do you know who I am? Itâs the battle cry of people who peaked in high school and have been trying to claw their way back ever since.
He canât see Celia yet. The drive-thru window is around the corner. But he can hear the speaker crackle as someoneâhis daughter, his sweet sixteen-year-old daughter who still sleeps with a stuffed otter named Jeremyâresponds.
âMaâam, Iâm really sorry about the wait. Weâre short-staffed tonight. What can I get started for you?â
Celiaâs voice. Professional. Polite. A little shaky, but holding.
Harryâs hands curl into fists.
âWhat I can get started,â the woman mimics, dripping with venom, âis a conversation with your manager. Because this is unacceptable. I have three hungry children in my car and a migraine, and youâre going to stand there and tell me you canât even take my order in a timely manner?â
Three children. Harry glances at the backseat of the SUV. Sure enough, three kids. All on tablets. All completely oblivious, because children of Karens learn early to tune out the background noise.
âMaâam, I can take your order right now,â Celia says. The shakiness is worse. Harry can hear it. âWhat would you like?â
âIÂ would like,â the woman says, each word a dagger, âto speak to someone who didnât flunk out of high school. Are you even old enough to work here, or is this some kind of Make-A-Wish situation?â
Harry sees red.
Not metaphorically. The actual edges of his vision tint crimson. Heâs been in rooms full of screaming fans. Heâs been on stages where the lights are so bright he canât see his own hands. Heâs been through a public breakup that made international news. None of thatânone of itâprepared him for the sound of a stranger mocking his daughter.
He starts walking faster.
Yn is behind him now. He can hear her footsteps. Sheâs not trying to stop him anymore. Sheâs just keeping up.
âHarry,â she says low. âLet her handle it. She needs to learnââ
âSheâs sixteen.â
âSheâs capable.â
âSheâs sixteen,â he repeats, and Yn goes quiet, because she hears what heâs not saying: I will burn this entire establishment to the ground before I let someone talk to our child like that.
They round the corner of the building.
The drive-thru window is open. Celia is standing there, headset on, visor slightly askew. Her face is pale. Her lip is doing that thing it does when sheâs about to cryâthe little wobble, the way she bites the inside of her cheek to hold it together.
And the woman.
Oh, the woman.
Sheâs maybe forty-five. Blonde bob. Sunglasses perched on her head despite the fact that the sun is setting. A face that looks like itâs been professionally frozen into an expression of permanent dissatisfaction. Sheâs leaning out of her driverâs-side window, one manicured hand gesturing wildly, the other holding a phone that sheâs recording with.
Sheâs recording Celia.
Harryâs blood turns to lava.
âIâm just documenting this for corporate,â the woman announces to her phone. âThis is the level of service at Frosty Swirls. This little girlâand I say little girl because she canât be a day over twelveâhas been nothing but incompetent since I pulled up.â
âMaâam,â Celia says, and her voice cracks, âplease donât record me. Iâm a minor.â
âOh, so now you know how to use words?â
Harry steps forward.
He doesnât shout. He doesnât have to. He learned a long time ago that the quiet ones are scarier. He walks up to the window, puts a hand on Celiaâs shoulderâshe startles, looks up, and her eyes go wide with a mixture of relief and oh no, Dadâs about to do somethingâand then he turns to face the woman.
He doesnât smile.
âHi,â he says. His voice is calm. Dangerously calm. The kind of calm that precedes a storm. âIâm her father.â
The woman blinks. For half a second, something flickers across her face. Recognition? Heâs Harry Styles, after all. Even in a small town, even in a dad sweater and jeans, heâs recognizable. But the moment passes, and her face hardens.
âGood,â she says. âThen you can explain to me why your daughter is the worst employee Iâve ever encountered.â
Harry tilts his head. âCan you explain to me why youâre recording a sixteen-year-old without her consent?â
âIâm documenting.â
âYouâre harassing a child.â
The womanâs mouth drops open. âI am notââ
âYou are.â Harryâs voice doesnât rise. It gets quieter. Which is worse. âYou pulled up to the speaker three minutes ago. Three minutes. And in that time, youâve insulted her intelligence, her age, her work ethic, and her value as a human being. All because you had to wait for a milkshake.â
âItâs the principleââ
âThe principle,â Harry interrupts, âis that my daughter is a minor. Sheâs working a minimum-wage job on a Tuesday night instead of being at home doing her homework. Sheâs showing up. Sheâs trying. And youâa grown adultâare filming her like sheâs a zoo animal because your frozen dairy product took an extra sixty seconds.â
The womanâs face is now the color of a tomato. âI am calling corporate.â
âGo ahead,â Harry says. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone. âIâll wait. And while you do, Iâll be calling the police. Because recording a minor without parental consent in this state is a violation. And Iâm pretty sure theyâd love to have a conversation with you about it.â
Itâs a bluff. Mostly. Heâs not entirely sure about the legality. But the woman doesnât know that. And her faceâher frozen, Botoxed, perpetually aggrieved faceâshows the first real crack of fear.
âYou wouldnât.â
âTry me.â
Behind Harry, Yn appears. She doesnât say anything. She just stands there, arms crossed, looking at the woman with the kind of quiet fury that only mothers possess. Itâs the look that says I have changed diapers and survived sleep regression and watched my child learn to walk. You do not scare me.
The woman looks between them. Her phone is still recording. Harry reaches out and calmly, deliberately, presses the button to stop it.
âDelete it,â he says.
âI donât have toââ
âDelete it, or I will ensure that every manager within a fifty-mile radius has your license plate number before sundown. Your choice.â
For a moment, the woman holds his gaze. Harry holds it back. Heâs been stared down by the worldâs cruelest critics. Heâs been dissected on social media. Heâs had his heart broken on a public stage. This womanâthis small, sad woman in her oversized SUVâis nothing.
She deletes the video.
Harry watches her thumb press the confirm button. Then he watches her delete it from the recently deleted folder, too, because heâs not an idiot.
âNow,â he says, stepping back. âYouâre going to apologize to my daughter. And then youâre going to drive away. And if I ever see you near this establishment again, I will make it my personal mission to ensure you never feel comfortable ordering fast food in this town again. Are we clear?â
The womanâs mouth opens and closes. She looks at Celiaâwho is now openly crying, silent tears streaming down her faceâand something almost human passes over her features. Shame, maybe. Or just self-preservation.
âIâm⊠sorry,â she mutters. The words are ground out like gravel.
âMean it,â Harry says.
The woman swallows. Looks at Celia again. âIâm sorry,â she says, and this time it sounds almost real. âI was having a bad day. That wasnât⊠I shouldnât haveâŠâ
Celia sniffles. Wipes her nose with the back of her hand. âItâs okay,â she whispers, because sheâs a good kid, a too-good kid, a kid who apologizes for other peopleâs cruelty.
âNo,â Harry says firmly. âItâs not okay. But sheâs accepting your apology because sheâs a better person than you are. Now go.â
The woman rolls up her window. The white SUV lurches forward, tires squealing slightly as it peels out of the drive-thru and disappears onto the main road.
The silence that follows is enormous.
Celia bursts into sobs.
Harry pulls her through the drive-thru windowânot gracefully, sheâs all gangly limbs and visor, and he nearly drops herâand wraps his arms around her so tight she squeaks. Yn is there too, a second later, sandwiching their daughter between them.
âIâve got you,â Harry murmurs into Celiaâs hair. âIâve got you, baby. Youâre okay.â
âShe was so mean,â Celia hiccups. âI didnât do anything wrong. The shake machine was being stupid and the headset kept glitching and I was trying so hardââ
âI know,â Yn says. âWe saw. You did everything right, sweetheart. You were professional. You were kind. You were perfect.â
âI almost cried.â
âYouâre allowed to cry,â Harry says. âCrying doesnât mean youâre weak. It means youâre human. That woman? Sheâs the weak one. She had to tear down a teenager to feel big. Thatâs not strength. Thatâs pathetic.â
Celia laughs wetly against his chest. âDad, you were so scary.â
âGood.â
âLike, really scary. I didnât know you could do that.â
Harry pulls back, cups her face in his hands. Her cheeks are blotchy, her eyes red, but sheâs smiling. A real smile. The kind that makes him remember why he does any of this.
âBaby,â he says, âthere is nothing in this world I wouldnât do for you. Nothing. You understand? I will fight every Karen. I will call every corporate office. I will stand outside every Frosty Swirls from here to eternity. Because you are my daughter. And no oneâno oneâgets to talk to you like that.â
Celiaâs lower lip trembles. âYou mean it?â
âWith every fiber of my being.â
Yn kisses the top of Celiaâs head. âYour father is a lot of things. He leaves wet towels on the floor. He sings in the shower at 6 AM. He once accidentally dyed the dog pink. But he is ferocious when it comes to you. Always has been.â
âThe dog was an accident,â Harry mutters.
âThe dog was pink, Harry.â
Celia giggles. Itâs watery and broken, but itâs a giggle. And thatâs enough.
Laterâafter Celiaâs manager (a flustered twenty-two-year-old named Kevin who apologized profusely and gave her a free Blizzard coupon) let her leave early, after they went to the Mexican place and Celia ate an entire basket of chips by herself, after they drove home with the windows down and sang along to Stevie NicksâHarry found himself in the kitchen, alone.
The house was quiet. Yn was tucking Celia into bed. He could hear them talking through the walls, low murmurs, the occasional laugh.
He leaned against the counter and let out a long breath.
His hands were still shaking.
Not from adrenaline. Not from anger. From something else. Something older. The realization that his daughter is out there in the world now, vulnerable and brave and too fucking kind for her own good, and he canât protect her from everything. He canât follow her to college. He canât be there for every shift at every part-time job. One day, sheâll be alone when some woman with a blonde bob and a sense of entitlement decides to make her the villain in someone elseâs story.
Heâd told Celia she was strong. Heâd told her she did everything right. And she had. But the truthâthe ugly, parental truthâis that it shouldnât have happened at all. No sixteen-year-old should have to learn how to de-escalate a grown adultâs tantrum. No child should have to practice the vocabulary of professional calm while their hands shake under the counter.
Yn appeared in the doorway. She was wearing his sweaterâthe green one, the soft oneâand her hair was loose around her shoulders. She looked at him and saw everything, because thatâs what she does.
âYouâre spiraling,â she said.
âIâm not spiraling. Iâm processing.â
âYouâre spiraling.â She crossed the kitchen and wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her chin on his chest. âTalk to me.â
He swallowed. âI wanted to hit her.â
Yn didnât flinch. âI know.â
âIâve never wanted to hit anyone. Not like that. Not with that kind of⊠clarity. I saw her face, and I thought, I could end you. And I meant it.â
âYou didnât, though.â
âNo. I didnât. But I wanted to. And that scared me.â
Yn was quiet for a moment. Then she said, âWhen Celia was two, she fell off the changing table. I turned my back for one second, and she squirmed, and she hit the floor. She was fine. She cried for thirty seconds and then she wanted a cracker. But I held her and I sobbed for an hour. Because I realized in that moment that I couldnât protect her from physics. I couldnât protect her from gravity. I couldnât protect her from her own wiggly, curious, self-destructive little body.â
Harry closed his eyes.
âThatâs what being a parent is,â Yn continued. âItâs wanting to hit every Karen and bubble-wrap every staircase and never let them cross the street alone. But we canât. So we do the next best thing. We show up. We teach them how to stand up for themselves. And when they canât, we stand up for them.â
âI donât want her to need me to stand up for her forever.â
âShe wonât. Sheâs sixteen. Sheâs already stronger than both of us combined. But tonight, she needed you. And you were there. Thatâs not a failure, Harry. Thatâs the whole point.â
He opened his eyes. Yn was looking at him with that expressionâthe one that made him fall in love with her in the first place. The one that said I see all of you, the good and the messy and the furious, and Iâm still here.
âI love you,â he said.
âI know.â
âI love Celia more than Iâve ever loved anything.â
âI know that too.â
He pressed his forehead to hers. They stood like that for a long time, breathing together, until the shaking stopped.
The next morning, Harry woke up to find a note on the kitchen table.
It was written on a napkin from Frosty Swirls. The handwriting was loopy and rushed, the way Celiaâs always was when she was trying to get a thought out before it disappeared.
Dad â
Thank you for being scary. I know I complain about you checking in on me and texting me a million times and being âembarrassingâ in front of my friends. But yesterday, when you showed up and you didnât even hesitate? That was the coolest thing Iâve ever seen. You didnât care about your image or your fame or whatever. You just cared about me.
I hope Iâm half as brave as you when I grow up.
Love you more than Blizzards (and thatâs a lot).
â Celia
P.S. Mom says Iâm not allowed to tell you this, but Iâm going to anyway. After you went to bed, she cried in the bathroom because she said sheâs never been more attracted to you. So. Youâre welcome.
Harry laughed out loud. Loud enough that Yn stirred in the bedroom and yelled, âWhat did she write? Harry, I swear to Godââ
He folded the napkin carefully and tucked it into his wallet. Right next to the photo of Celia on her first day of kindergarten, missing two front teeth, holding up a crayon drawing of their family.
Then he walked to the bedroom, crawled back under the covers, and pulled Yn close.
âYou cried in the bathroom because youâre attracted to me,â he murmured into her hair.
âIâm going to kill that child.â
âYou said I was brave.â
âI said half the things I say at 2 AM donât count.â
He kissed her shoulder. âI love you.â
She sighed, dramatic and fond. âI love you too. Even when youâre a terrifying papa bear who threatens middle-aged women in drive-thrus.â
âEspecially then,â he corrected.
âEspecially then,â she agreed.
And outside, the sun rose over their little house, over the town with its strip malls and its Frosty Swirls and its Tuesday afternoon chaos. And Harry Stylesâformer boyband member, Grammy winner, occasional pink-dog-dyerâheld his family close and felt, for the first time in a long time, like heâd gotten something right.
loved your last one shot!! would you ever do a pt 2 and it turns out she has sun poisoning? she doesnât realize but harry suspects it and is really concerned as she drastically declines? i got that once and it was agony. one of the worst feelings of mine is to feel internally overheated, hate it.
Lemme Take Care Of You (Because I Told You So...) Pt. 2
Warnings: None ;) Just sunburns. And Harry being the best boyfriend.
Prompt: Yn refuses to reapply sunscreen on a boat in Positano. Harry spends the next week taking care of her when her stubbornness lands her in the hospital with sun poisoning.
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The second day is worse.
Yn wakes up feeling like she's been hit by a truckâwhich is dramatic, she knows, but it's the only way to describe it. Her skin is still that violent shade of red, but now it's tight. So tight she can barely move her arms without feeling like the skin on her shoulders might split open like overripe fruit.
She tries to sit up and immediately regrets it.
"Whoa," Harry's voice comes from somewhere to her left. "Easy. Easy."
His hands are on her shouldersâgently, so gentlyâhelping her lean back against the pillows. She's been sleeping on her stomach all night, but now she's propped up, and the fabric of the linen shirt is scraping against her chest in a way that makes her eyes water.
"Water," she croaks. "Can Iâ"
"Already got it."
He's holding a glass out to her before she finishes the sentence. Straw in it, because he knows she's too tired to lift her head. She takes a sip. The water is cool and clean and she wants to drink the whole glass, but her stomach lurches after a few swallows and she has to push it away.
Harry's brow furrows. "You okay?"
"Fine. Justâstomach's a little off."
"You didn't eat much at dinner."
"I wasn't hungry."
He looks at her for a long moment. The morning light is filtering through the villa's windows, soft and golden, and she can see the worry lines creasing his forehead. The lines that only appear when something is genuinely wrong. When he's not just concernedâhe's scared.
"I'm fine, Harry."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
He doesn't argue. He just hands her two ibuprofen and watches her swallow them, then gets up to make her tea. She hears him in the kitchenette, the clink of the kettle, the soft sound of him humming under his breath. Fleet Foxes again. Something about a tiger mountain peasant song.
She closes her eyes and tries to breathe through the pain.
It's not just her shoulders anymore.
It's her arms. Her chest. The tops of her thighs. The back of her neck. It's everywhere the sun touched, and she's starting to realize that the sun touched more than she thought. More than she wanted to think.
Harry comes back with a mug of chamomile. "Drink," he says. "It'll help."
She takes it, even though she doesn't want to. The steam curls up and hits her face and she feels her skin prickle. Like she's still in the sun, even though she's not. Like she's on fire, even though she's not.
But she drinks. Because Harry is watching, and she knows he won't relax until she does.
The third day, she can't get out of bed.
It happens fastâscary fast. She wakes up and tries to stand and her vision goes white, static crackling at the edges, and Harry catches her before she hits the floor.
"Yn. Yn, look at me."
His voice sounds like it's coming from underwater. She blinks, tries to focus, and his face swims into view. He's pale. She's never seen him pale before. He's always so golden, so warmâeven in London, even in the dead of winterâbut now his cheeks are washed out and his eyes are dark with something that looks terrifyingly like panic.
"Harry," she says, and her voice sounds wrong. Thin. Reedy. "I think I need toâ"
She doesn't finish the sentence. She just crumples.
When she wakes up, she's back in bed.
There's a cold cloth on her forehead. She can feel it, can feel the damp weight of it, and she can feel Harry's hand holding hers. He's sitting on the edge of the mattress, and he's staring at his phone, his jaw tight.
"Harry?"
He looks up immediately. "Hey. Hey, you're awake."
"What happened?"
"You fainted." His voice is steady, but there's a tremor underneath it. "I caught you. You were out for about three minutes."
Three minutes. That's notâthat's not a normal fainting spell. That's something else.
"I think I need to call a doctor," Harry says, and he says it carefully. Like he's testing the words. Like he's afraid she's going to argue.
She doesn't argue.
"Okay," she says instead, and Harry's face flickers with somethingârelief, maybe, or surprise. "I thinkâI think that's a good idea."
He squeezes her hand. "I already called one. She's on her way."
"You called a doctor?"
"I called a doctor when you fainted, Yn. What did you expect me to do?"
She doesn't answer. She's too tired. Too hot. Too everything.
The doctor is a small Italian woman named Dr. Lombardi, with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense manner that reminds Yn of her grandmother. She takes Yn's temperature firstâ101.2âand then her blood pressure, and then she asks Yn to stand up and walk across the room.
Yn makes it three steps before her knees buckle.
"Okay," Dr. Lombardi says, guiding her back to the bed. "Okay. Lie down."
Harry is hovering in the corner, arms crossed, watching everything. He doesn't say a word, but Yn can see him. Can see the way his knuckles are white, the way his jaw is clenched. He looks like he's holding himself together with sheer force of will.
"Signorina," Dr. Lombardi says, sitting on the edge of the bed, "you have sun poisoning."
Yn blinks. "Sun poisoning?"
"Severe sunburn, dehydration, and a systemic inflammatory response. Your body is essentially fighting itself." She gestures to Yn's chest, where the skin is still raw and red. "This is not a simple burn. This is your body telling you it's overwhelmed."
Harry steps forward. "How do we treat it?"
"Fluids. Rest. Anti-inflammatory medication. Cool compresses." Dr. Lombardi looks at Yn, her expression softening just a fraction. "And time. It will take time."
"How much time?"
"A few days. Maybe a week." She stands up, pulling a prescription pad from her bag. "I'm going to give you something for the pain and inflammation. You'll need to stay hydratedâmore than you think. And you'll need to stay out of the sun completely. No exceptions."
Yn nods weakly. "Okay."
"Your boyfriend will take care of you?"
"Always," Harry says, and his voice is steady. Firm. The kind of voice that doesn't leave room for argument.
Dr. Lombardi looks at him, nods once, and hands him the prescription. "There's a pharmacy two blocks from here. They'll have this ready in an hour."
"I'll go right now."
"Not before you eat something." She turns back to Yn. "And youâyou need to eat too. Even if you don't want to. Your body needs fuel to heal."
Yn wants to argue. She wants to say I'm not hungry, because she's not. She's the opposite of hungry. The thought of food makes her stomach turn. But she looks at Harry's face and sees the fear still lurking there, and she can't bring herself to make it worse.
"I'll try," she says.
Dr. Lombardi nods, satisfied, and packs up her bag. She gives Harry a few more instructionsâthings to watch for, signs that things are getting worseâand then she's gone, and the villa is quiet again.
Harry doesn't say a word for a long time.
He just stands there, in the middle of the room, looking at her. And then he walks over to the bed and sits down heavily beside her, and he pulls her into his armsâcarefully, so carefullyâand holds her.
"I was so scared," he whispers into her hair. "When you fainted, IâI didn't know what to do. I thoughtâ"
"I know," she says, and her voice cracks. "I know. I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize." He pulls back just enough to look at her. "Justâplease. Please promise me you'll let me take care of you. No more 'I'm fine.' No more pretending."
She looks at him. At the worry in his eyes, the exhaustion, the love that's written all over his face. She thinks about how she's been pushing him away all week, thinking she was protecting him from her own stubbornness. Thinking she was being strong.
"I promise," she says.
He exhales, long and slow, and presses his forehead to hers. "Thank you."
The next few days are a blur.
Harry does everything. He goes to the pharmacy and gets the prescription. He makes her drink water every hour, even when she doesn't want to. He makes her broth and toast and plain pasta, small portions, nothing too heavy. He changes the cool compresses on her shoulders every thirty minutes, sitting with her for hours on end, reading aloud from his phone or just humming softly.
She sleeps a lot. Her body is exhausted, fighting the inflammation, and the medication makes her drowsy. But every time she wakes up, Harry is there. Sometimes he's reading. Sometimes he's watching her. Sometimes he's asleep in the chair beside the bed, his head tipped back, his mouth slightly open.
She watches him sleep one afternoon, and she thinks:Â I don't deserve this. I don't deserve him.
But he chose her. He keeps choosing her.
On the fourth day, things get worse before they get better.
Yn wakes up shivering, even though the room is warm. Her teeth are chattering so hard she can barely speak. Harry is at her side in an instant, pressing a hand to her forehead.
"Shit," he mutters. "You're burning up."
"I'm cold," she says, and her voice is shaking. "Harry, I'm so cold."
"I know. I know, love. Hang on."
He piles blankets on her. Three of them. Four. He adds a duvet, heavy and thick, and she's still shivering. He climbs into bed beside her, pulling her against his chest, and she can feel the warmth radiating off him.
"Better?" he asks.
"Getting there."
He rubs her arms through the blankets, trying to generate heat. His hands are steady, careful, even though she knows he must be terrified. She can feel his heart pounding against her back.
"Harry?"
"Yeah?"
"I think I'm getting worse."
He doesn't say anything. Just holds her tighter.
The fever breaks at dawn.
Yn wakes up drenched in sweat, the blankets twisted around her legs, her hair plastered to her forehead. The room is coldâtoo coldâbut she's not shivering anymore. She's just... tired.
Harry is still beside her, but he's awake. He's propped up against the headboard, phone in hand, scrolling through something. When he sees her move, he puts the phone down immediately.
"Hey," he says softly. "How are you feeling?"
"Weird." She blinks, trying to orient herself. "The fever's gone, I think."
He presses the back of his hand to her forehead, then her cheek. "Yeah. Yeah, it's broken." He lets out a long, shaky breath. "God, you scared me."
"I scared myself."
He laughs, but there's no humor in it. Just relief. Pure, overwhelming relief. He pulls her into his armsâgentle, so gentleâand she lets herself melt into him.
"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm so sorry, Harry."
"Stop apologizing."
"I kept saying I was fine. I kept telling you I was fine. And I wasn't fine, and you knew I wasn't fine, and Iâ"
"Yn." He pulls back, cups her face in his hands. "Listen to me. You don't have to apologize for being sick. You don't have to apologize for not knowing. All I care about is that you're okay. That's it. That's all I've ever cared about."
She looks at him. At the dark circles under his eyes. At the worry that's still etched into his face. At the love that's so obvious, so overwhelming, that it makes her chest ache.
"I love you," she says.
"I love you too." He presses his forehead to hers. "Now let's get you some more water. And then maybe some toast. And thenâ"
"And then you're going to sleep."
"I'm fineâ"
"Harry." She gives him a lookâthe same look he gives her when she's being stubborn. "You haven't slept properly in days. I can see it on your face."
He opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. "You're right," he admits. "I haven't."
"So we'll eat. And then we'll sleep." She reaches up, brushes a curl off his forehead. "Together."
He looks at her for a long moment. Then he smilesâthat soft, lopsided smile that she fell in love withâand he kisses her forehead.
"Okay," he says. "Together."
The fifth day is better.
Yn wakes up feeling less like death and more like a very, very tired human. Her skin is still red, but it's starting to fadeâjust a littleâand the tightness is easing. She can move her arms without wincing. She can sit up without her vision going white.
Harry is still beside her, curled around her like a shield. His face is relaxed in sleep, the worry lines smoothed away, and she watches him for a long time. Watches the way his lashes flutter against his cheeks. Watches the way his mouth twitches, like he's dreaming about something good.
She loves him so much it hurts.
Carefully, she extricates herself from his arms and pads to the bathroom. She looks in the mirror and seesâwell, she sees a mess. Her hair is tangled, her face is pale, and the sunburn is still visible, though it's faded to a less-violent shade of red. She looks like she's been through war.
But she's alive. She's healing.
When she comes back to the bed, Harry is awake. He's propped up on his elbows, blinking at her sleepily.
"Where'd you go?"
"Bathroom," she says. "I'm fine. Go back to sleep."
"Come back to bed." He holds out his arms, and she doesn't hesitate. She climbs back in, curls up against his chest, and lets him wrap himself around her.
"Thank you," she says quietly. "For everything."
"Don't thank me."
"I mean it. You've beenâyou've been so good to me. Even when I was being impossible."
He kisses the top of her head. "You weren't impossible."
"I was."
"You were a little bit impossible." He grins against her hair. "But I love you anyway."
She laughsâthe first real laugh in daysâand he tightens his arms around her. They lie there in the quiet morning light, and Yn thinks about how different things could have been. If he hadn't been there. If he hadn't known what to do.
"I almost lost you," Harry says, and his voice is quiet. Serious. "You know that, right? If we hadn't caught itâ"
"But you did."
"I did."
"So you didn't lose me." She tilts her head up, looks at him. "I'm right here."
He looks at her. His eyes are bright, and she realizes he's crying. Just a little. Just enough for her to see.
"You scared me," he says again.
"I know." She reaches up, wipes his cheek with her thumb. "I'm sorry."
"You keep saying that."
"Because I keep meaning it." She smiles, small and tired. "I know you've been taking care of me. I know you've been worried. I know you haven't slept. And I want you to knowâI see it. I see all of it. And I love you for it. I love you for everything."
He doesn't say anything for a long moment. Just looks at her. And then he pulls her closer, buries his face in her hair, and holds on like she's the only thing keeping him grounded.
"Don't ever do that again," he says, his voice muffled.
"I won't."
"You say that."
"This time I mean it. I mean it, Harry." She wraps her arms around him, careful of her shoulders, and holds him tight. "I'll wear sun cream. I'll reapply every hour. I'll drink water. I'llâI'll listen to you when you tell me I'm being an idiot."
"You won't."
"I will."
"You won't," he says again, and this time he's laughing. "You're still you. You're still impossible."
"Impossibly loveable."
"That too."
They stay like that for a long time, tangled together in the sheets, the Italian sunlight streaming through the windows. It's warm, but not too warm. Golden, but not aggressive.
And Yn thinks:Â This. This is what matters. This is what I want to remember.
The sixth day, they finally leave the villa.
Harry is insistentâ"Fresh air, Yn. You need fresh air."âand she's too tired to argue. So they walk slowly down the winding streets of Positano, her arm looped through his, her shoulders covered by a lightweight white shirt that Harry bought her from a little boutique. It's loose and airy and doesn't touch her skin at all.
"You know," Harry says, "when I imagined this trip, I didn't imagine spending most of it in a dark room with a sick girlfriend."
"Romantic, right?"
"Very." He reaches across the table, takes her hand. "But honestly? I don't mind. Being with youâit doesn't matter where we are. You could be in a hospital bed and I'd still be happy as long as I was with you."
"Harry."
"What?"
"That's the cheesiest thing you've ever said."
"I know." He grins. "I've been saving it up."
She laughs, and the sound surprises her. It feels good. It feels like healing.
"I want to do this again," she says, after a moment. "Notânot the sun poisoning. The trip. Italy. I want to come back and do it right."
"Me too."
"And I want to actually see the lemon trees. And eat lemon pasta. And go to Capri. Andâ"
"We'll do all of it," he says. "Promise."
She looks at him, and she believes him.
The seventh day, she finally feels like herself again.
Her skin is peeling now, which is gross, but Harry helps her with the bits she can't reach, and he doesn't make fun of her even once. He just works carefully, patiently, and when she tries to apologizeâ"You shouldn't have to do this, this is disgusting"âhe kisses her forehead and tells her to shut up.
"You'd do it for me," he says.
"Would I?"
"You would."
She thinks about it. She thinks about Harry getting sunburned, getting sick, needing her. And she knowsâshe knows she'd do the same thing. She'd do anything for him.
"Yeah," she says softly. "I would."
The night before they leave, they sit on the balcony and watch the sunset.
Positano is lit up gold and pink, the water reflecting the colors like a painting. Harry has his arm around her shouldersâgently, still carefulâand she's leaning into him, her head on his chest.
"I'm glad we came here," she says.
"Even with the sun poisoning?"
"Even with the sun poisoning." She tilts her head up, looks at him. "I'm glad I got to see you worry about me. It wasâI mean, it was scary, obviously. But it was also nice? Knowing that you care that much."
Harry laughs. "I care that much every day, Yn. You just don't notice because I'm not panicking."
"I notice. I notice everything."
He looks at her. The sunset is catching in his eyes, turning them gold. "I love you," he says. "In case you didn't know."
"I know." She smiles. "I love you too."
The flight home is long, but she doesn't mind.
Harry falls asleep against her shoulder, his head heavy and warm, and she watches him breathe. Watches the way his mouth falls open just a little. Watches the way his hand finds hers even in sleep, curling around her fingers like she's the only thing keeping him tethered.
She thinks about the trip. About the sun, the boat, the burn. About the fear in Harry's eyes when she fainted. About the way he took care of her, day after day, without complaint. About the way he never made her feel like a burden.
She thinks about how lucky she is.
And she thinks:Â I'm going to be better. I'm going to take care of myself. Not because he asked me to, but because he deserves someone who's not constantly falling apart.
She falls asleep with her head against his, and she dreams of Italy.
When they land in London, it's raining.
Of course it is. It's London. But Yn doesn't care. She steps off the plane, takes a deep breath of the cold, damp air, and smiles.
"Welcome home," Harry says, his arm around her waist.
"Welcome home," she echoes.
He looks at her. Really looks at her. And then he leans down and kisses herâsoft, sweet, full of promise.
"Next time," he says, pulling back, "we're going to the Alps. There's no sun in the Alps."
"There's definitely sun in the Alps, Harry."
"Fine. The Arctic. No sun in the Arctic."
"The Arctic hasâ"
"Yn."
She laughs. "Okay. The Arctic. Fine. But we're bringing sun cream anyway."
"Sun cream for the Arctic?"
"Never hurts to be prepared."
He shakes his head, grinning, and pulls her into the baggage claim.
And Yn thinks:Â This. This is what it feels like to be loved.
She's never going to forget it.
End.
P.S. Please reapply your sun screen. And listen to your boyfriend when he tells you you're getting pink. He's probably right.
I am sobbing. I just read âthe other bedroomâ, and as a Floyd myself, it was beautiful and perfect.
I was too young to really know what had happened and what my parents were going through, but I lost my brother in a very similar way.
Even now, allll these years later, I think of him every day. How my young son would interact with him, what our family dynamic would have been. What kind of brother and uncle heâd be. I too, never got to meet him, see him, or hold his hand.
Even now, allll these years later, I think of him every day. How my young son would interact with him, what our family dynamic would have been. What kind of brother and uncle heâd be. I too, never got to meet him, see him, or hold his hand.
I used to draw pictures and write letters to him as if he could hear me, and it helped me handle my grief so much, as a child. Now my son is named after him, so I get to carry a piece of him every day. My son looks like my dad so I feel like he made it to the right family, just a few decades later.
Thank you for writing this, I loved it and it was so beautifully done. It absolutely felt like what I went through all of those years ago.
đ
I'm sorry I wasn't able to get to this until just now, but I really appreciate this story. I am soo sorry that your family endured such a loss and I can't imagine that. But this has touched me deeply and I'm glad this touched you just as much. :) đ
Hello everyone. Soooo sorry for being MIA. I was logged out of my account for nearly three months and I JUST NOW logged back in! It's good to be back!!
I will be doing requests now and I have to admit... a lot of things have changed and I even wrote a one shot called The Contract that you all might love. I will be using this time to respond to comments, asks and etc, and I am once again so very sorry I was gone for so long. I was devastated when I thought I had lost this account forever, but now that I have it back, I will be posting new blurbs!!
I love you all so much and I am deeply grateful for your endless dedication and devotion to this blog. :*
Genre: Hurt/comfort, medical drama, emotional angst, fluff (the soft kind after the storm), Angst, Domestic Angst
Word Count: ~6k words
Warnings: major car accident, detailed medical assessment and procedures (chest tube, laparotomy), broken ribs, pneumothorax, skull fracture, concussion, internal bleeding, lacerations, blood, mentions of surgery, post-operative pain, protective/possessive behavior, one instance of raised voice (out of fear), emotional distress, near-death situation. reader is injured but survives. this is angst with a very fluffy, soft ending.
Prompt: You and Harry are newly engaged after six years of dating and as a trauma surgeon, Harry has seen it all... he just never expected you to be the one he has to save.
ââââââââââââââââ
The house smells like garlic and rosemary when the front door opens.
Harry doesn't look up from the stove. He's been simmering the sauce for the last two hours, stirring it slow and patient the way Yn likes it, the way his Nonna taught him when he was twelve years old. Their engagement photos are sitting on the counterâa stack of Polaroids they took last weekend in the park, her laughing at something stupid he said, her ring catching the golden hour light.
She should have been home forty-five minutes ago.
He's not worried. He's never worried. Yn is a careful driver, and her commute is only twenty minutes, and sometimes she stops at the grocery store or gets caught on a call with her sister. He's not worried.
He checks his phone anyway.
No texts.
He's about to call her when he hears itâthe creak of the front door, the shuffle of footsteps, the soft, wet sound of something hitting the hardwood floor.
"Yn, I know you're home. Dinner's almostâ"
He turns.
And the world stops.
Yn is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, one hand braced against the wall, the other pressed to her side. Her work clothes are torn. Her blouse is ripped at the shoulder, dark with something that isn't water. Her face is paleâtoo pale, the kind of pale that makes his stomach dropâand there's a cut above her eyebrow, blood dripping down her cheek in a slow, lazy line.
She's not wearing shoes.
"Harry," she says, and her voice is wrong. Slurred. Too quiet. "I think IâI think something happened."
She takes one step forward. Two.
And then her knees buckle.
Harry moves before he thinks.
He crosses the kitchen in three strides, catching her under the arms before she hits the ground, lowering her carefully onto the tile. His hands are already running over herâa reflex, years of training, a lifetime of muscle memoryâand his brain is screaming at him in a language he knows too well.
"Yn. Look at me." He cups her face, tilts her chin up, checks her pupils. Her left pupil is sluggish. Slower than the right. His heart seizes. "Baby, I need you to stay awake. Can you do that for me?"
"'M awake," she mumbles. Her eyes are glassy. She blinks too slowly. "Just tired. 'M so tired, Harry."
"I know. I know you are." He runs his hands down her neck, her collarbones, checking for deformity, for step-offs. "Did you drive? Were you in the car?"
"Tree." Her brow furrows, like she's trying to remember. "There was aâa dog. Or something. In the road. I swerved."
"Yn, I need to check you over. It's going to hurt." He presses his palm to her cheek, and she leans into it, her eyes fluttering. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, baby. But I need you to stay still and stay awake. Can you do that?"
"Don't wanna go to the hospital," she whispers.
"We'll talk about that later. Right now, I need you to breathe for me. Deep as you can."
He unbuttons her blouse with shaking handsâsteady, Styles, you've done this a thousand timesâand pushes the fabric aside. His breath catches.
Her left side is already bruising. A deep, angry purple spreading from her ribs down to her hip. He presses gently along the curve of her ribs, and she screams.
Not a gasp. Not a whimper. A full, throat-tearing scream that makes him want to throw up.
"I know," he says, and his voice cracks. "I know, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I have to check."
Her ribs are unstable. Floating. He can feel the crepitus under his fingersâthe horrible grinding of bone against boneâand he knows what that means. Broken ribs. Multiple. Probably flail segment, which meansâ
"Take another breath for me, Yn. As deep as you can."
She tries. He watches her chest rise, and on the left side, it doesn't move right. It caves in. Paradoxical movement. Flail chest.
And her breathing is fast. Too fast. Shallow.
Tension pneumothorax. The thought hits him like a freight train. Air leaking from her lung into her chest cavity, pushing her trachea, collapsing everything. If he doesn't decompress it, she'llâ
No. He's not going there.
"Harry." Her voice is small. Scared. "Hurts to breathe."
"I know. I know it does, angel." He presses two fingers to her neck, counting her pulse. Tachycardic. Thready. She's losing blood somewhere. "I need to call an ambulance."
"No."
"Ynâ"
"No hospital." She grabs his wrist, and her grip is weaker than it should be. "Justâjust give me something. Painkillers. I'll rest. I'll be fine."
"You have broken ribs, Yn. You might have a collapsed lung. You might be bleeding internally." He keeps his voice level, even, the way he does with scared families in the trauma bay. But this is different. This is her. "You are not fine. And you are not staying here."
"Harry, pleaseâ"
"No." His voice sharpens. "This is non-negotiable. You are going to the hospital, even if I have to carry you there myself."
He's already pulling out his phone, dialing 911, giving their address in a voice that doesn't sound like his own. The operator asks questionsâis she conscious, is she breathing, is there severe bleedingâand he answers on autopilot while his other hand holds hers, his thumb tracing circles on her knuckles.
"Harry," she whispers again, and there are tears in her eyes now. "I'm scared."
He hangs up. Drops the phone. Leans down so his forehead touches hers.
"I know you are. But I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere." He kisses her temple, gentle, avoiding the cut. "The ambulance is five minutes out. You're going to stay awake for me until they get here, and then you're going to let them take care of you, and I'm going to be with you the whole time. Okay?"
"'Kay."
"Say it back."
"I'll stay awake."
"Good girl."
The ambulance ride is a blur of sirens and fluorescent lights and hands that aren't Harry's. He rides in the back with her, holding her hand, telling her names of stars and the capital of every country he can think of just to keep her talking.
"Tell me about the wedding," he says, when her eyes start to droop. "You picked out flowers last week. What color?"
"White," she murmurs. "And... and eucalyptus."
"What kind of white? There's a million kinds of white. You told me that. You were very passionate about it."
A ghost of a smile. "Peony. Garden rose. Something called... 'Quicksand.'"
"Quicksand? That's a flower?"
"It's a... it's a rose. It's blush. But mostly white." Her grip on his hand tightens. "Harry, it hurts."
"I know, sweetheart. I know." He looks at the paramedic, who's already hanging a bag of fluids. "Can you give her something for the pain?"
"Already on board," the paramedic says. "Morphine, four milligrams. Should be kicking in soon."
Harry watches her face. Watches the way her brow slowly unclenches, the way her breathing stays too fast but her eyes get a little softer.
"There you go," he murmurs. "That's better, isn't it?"
"Mmm." She blinks up at him. "You're pretty."
He laughs, and it comes out wet. "You're on drugs."
"Still true."
The ambulance hits a pothole, and she gasps, and he stops laughing.
Harry tunes out the rest. He's watching her face. She's looking for him in the crowd of scrubs and stethoscopes, and when she finds him, her eyes fill with tears.
"Harry," she says, and her voice breaks.
He moves.
He doesn't think about protocols or visitor policies or the fact that he's technically not supposed to be in the trauma bay. He walks to her side, takes her hand, and presses a kiss to her knuckles.
"I'm here. I'm right here."
"Don't leave."
"Never."
The trauma surgeonâa woman with kind eyes and steady handsâintroduces herself as Dr. Chen. She looks at Harry, recognizes him from a conference last year, and doesn't tell him to leave. She just nods once and gets to work.
"Let's get a chest X-ray," she says. "And page surgery. I want a FAST scan and a head CT."
Harry watches them cut off her clothes. Watches them expose the bruising on her ribs, the swelling on her abdomen, the laceration on her scalp that's still oozing blood. He watches Dr. Chen listen to her lungs, her expression going tight.
"Diminished breath sounds on the left," Dr. Chen says. "Harry, you're a trauma surgeon. You want to do the honors or should I?"
He's not supposed to. He's not on her case. But Harry looks at YNâat the way she's gripping his hand like he's the only thing keeping her tethered to the earthâand he makes a decision.
"I'll do it."
He scrubs his hands in the sink, puts on gloves, and picks up the scalpel. The room goes quiet. Dr. Chen holds the ultrasound probe over YN's chest, confirming what he already knowsâa massive pneumothorax, lung completely collapsed, everything shifting to the right.
"Yn, I need to put a tube in your chest," he says, keeping his voice soft. "It's going to hurt, but it's going to help you breathe. Do you understand?"
"Will you hold my hand?"
"I'll hold your hand with one hand and put the tube in with the other. I'm very talented."
She laughs weakly, and it hurts her, but she doesn't let go of him.
He positions himself at her side. Dr. Chen hands him the scalpel. And HarryâHarry who has done this procedure hundreds of times on strangers, on people whose names he never learns, on bodies that feel nothingâmakes a small incision between her ribs and feels his own heart crack.
"Deep breath for me, sweetheart."
She breathes. He pushes the tube through the chest wall, into the pleural space, and there it isâthe rush of air, the hiss of the lung re-expanding, the beautiful sound of her chest rising and falling the way it's supposed to.
"Good," he breathes. "That's so good, baby. You did so good."
The chest tube is secured. The drainage system bubbles quietly. And Yn is still looking at him, still holding his hand, still alive.
Dr. Chen orders a head CT and a pan-scan. Harry follows the gurney to radiology, still holding her hand, still whispering.
"You're doing so well. I'm so proud of you. Just a few more minutes, and then we'll get you fixed up, and you can rest."
"M'not doing anything," she slurs. "You're doing everything."
"That's my job."
"Your job is... saving people."
"Today, my job is saving you."
The CT results come back forty-five minutes later.
Harry is in the waiting roomâthey made him leave for the actual scan, something about radiation exposure, and he spent twenty-three minutes pacing a hole in the linoleum floorâwhen Dr. Chen finds him.
"We have a skull fracture," she says, holding the films up to the light. "Linear, non-depressed, temporal region. No active bleed, but she has a moderate concussion. We'll monitor her neuro status overnight."
Harry nods. He was expecting that. "What else?"
"Abdomen. She has free fluid in her peritoneal cavity. We're calling it a positive FASTâshe's bleeding internally, and she needs a laparotomy. We're taking her to the OR in ten minutes."
Harry closes his eyes. A laparotomy means opening her abdomen, finding the bleed, stopping it. It means hours under anesthesia, hours of him waiting in a plastic chair with bad coffee and worse thoughts.
"Who's operating?" he asks.
"Chang. He's good. You know him."
Harry does know him. Michael Chang is one of the best trauma surgeons in the state. He's also a friend. And right now, Harry needs to trust him.
"Can I see her before they take her up?"
Dr. Chen hesitates. Then she nods. "Five minutes. She's in bay three."
Yn is awake when he gets there. Barely. Her eyes are half-closed, and there's an oxygen mask over her face, and someone has put a cervical collar around her neck even though her spine is fine. She looks small. She looks breakable. She looks like the person he's supposed to spend the rest of his life with, and she almost died tonight.
"Hey," he says, sitting on the edge of her bed. "They're going to take you to the OR in a few minutes. You have some bleeding in your belly, and they need to fix it."
Her eyes widen. "Surgery?"
"Just one surgery. A small one. And then you'll be done, I promise." He brushes her hair back from her forehead, careful of the laceration. "Dr. Chang is going to take care of you. He's very good. He once took out a gallstone the size of a golf ball."
"That's... gross."
"It was impressive." He presses his lips to her forehead. "I'm going to be right here when you wake up. I'm not leaving the hospital. Do you hear me?"
"'M scared."
"I know." He pulls back so she can see his face. "But I'm not scared. Because I know you're going to be fine. You're too stubborn to die on an operating table."
"Harry."
"I'm serious. You once argued with me for forty-five minutes about whether a hot dog is a sandwich. You're not going anywhere."
She laughs, and it hurts her, and he hates himself a little for making her laugh. But she's smiling. She's still smiling.
"I love you," she whispers.
"I love you too." He kisses her forehead again, her nose, the corner of her mouth. "Now go be the most dramatic patient Michael's ever had. I'll see you on the other side."
They wheel her away. Harry watches until the doors close. Then he puts his head in his hands and doesn't move for a very long time.
The surgery takes three hours.
Harry spends them in the waiting room, alternating between pacing, staring at his phone, and drinking vending machine coffee that tastes like burnt regret. He texts her momâshe's in surgery, she's going to be fine, I'll call you when she's outâand then turns his phone off because he can't handle any more questions.
He thinks about the last thing they argued about. It was stupidâsomething about where to hang a picture in the hallway, her wanting it higher, him wanting it lower. He thinks about how he'd let her hang every picture in the house at whatever height she wanted if it meant she'd come out of this okay.
He thinks about the ring on her finger. The one he spent six months saving for, the one he hid in his sock drawer, the one he put on her hand last month in their living room while she was crying happy tears and saying "yes, yes, yes" over and over again.
He thinks about a world where she doesn't come out of this, and he has to stop thinking about it because he can't breathe.
At 11:47 PM, Dr. Chang comes out.
Harry is on his feet before the door finishes swinging.
"She's stable," Michael says, pulling off his scrub cap. "Lacerated spleen. We were able to repair it without removing it. She lost about a liter and a half of blood, but we transfused two units, and her vitals are solid. Chest tube is in place, lung is fully expanded. Skull fracture is non-operativeâwe'll just watch it."
Harry sags against the wall. "Thank you. Michael, thank you."
"She's a fighter." Michael claps him on the shoulder. "She's in the SICU. You can see her in about twenty minutes, once we get her settled."
Harry nods. He waits eighteen minutesâbecause he's never been good at waitingâand then he's walking into the SICU, past the beeping monitors and the hushed voices, to the bed in the corner.
Yn is asleep.
She looks pale against the white sheets. There's a tube coming out of her chest, connected to a bubbling drainage system. There's an IV in each arm, a pulse ox on her finger, leads on her chest. Her abdomen is bandaged from sternum to pelvis, the dressing clean and white. There's a small gauze pad taped above her eyebrow where they stitched the laceration.
Harry pulls up a chair. He sits. He takes her handâthe one without the IVâand holds it between both of his.
"Hi," he whispers. "I'm here."
She doesn't respond. She's sedated, intubated, her chest rising and falling with the rhythm of the ventilator. But her hand is warm. Her fingers curl around his, just a little, like even unconscious she knows he's there.
Harry lowers his head to the edge of the bed. And for the first time since he saw her standing in the doorway, he cries.
She wakes up twenty-six hours later.
The first thing she sees is Harry. He's in the chair next to her bed, head tipped back, mouth slightly open. He hasn't shaved in two days. There are dark circles under his eyes. His sweater is the same one he was wearing when she walked in the doorâexcept now it has blood on it. Her blood.
She tries to say his name, but her throat is dry, and there's a tube in her mouth, and she can'tâ
"Easy, easy." Harry is awake instantly, leaning over her, his hand on her forehead. "You're intubated. Don't try to talk. Just squeeze my hand if you can hear me."
She squeezes.
"Good girl." His eyes are wet. "You're in the SICU. You had surgery on your spleen last night. Your lung collapsed, but we put a tube in, and it's healing. You have a concussion and a small fracture in your skull, but your brain is fine. You're going to be fine."
She squeezes his hand again. Harder.
"I know. I know you have questions. But you need to rest right now, okay? They're going to take the tube out in a few hours, and then you can talk my ear off as much as you want."
She doesn't want to talk. She wants to sleep. But she also wants to look at himâat his stupid beautiful face, at the worry etched into every line of itâand she wants to tell him she's sorry for scaring him, for swerving, for walking home instead of calling an ambulance, for all of it.
Instead, she just holds his hand and closes her eyes.
When she opens them again, the sun is up, and the tube is gone, and Harry is still there.
The next week is a blur of pain and sleep and Harry.
He doesn't leave. She's not sure if he's officially on leave or if he just stopped showing up to work, but every time she opens her eyes, he's there. Reading in the chair. Sleeping in the chair. Eating bad hospital food out of plastic containers. Holding her hand.
"You need to go home," she says, on day three. Her voice is still raspy from the tube, and her ribs ache every time she breathes, and she's so tired she can barely keep her eyes open. "You need a shower. And real food."
"I showered in the on-call room."
"That doesn't count."
"I used soap."
"Harry."
"Yn." He raises an eyebrow. "I'm not leaving. Stop asking."
She wants to argue, but she's too tired. So she just watches him rearrange her pillows for the fifth time, tucking the blanket around her legs, checking the chest tube drainage like he can't help himself.
"You're hovering," she says.
"I'm monitoring."
"You're hovering."
He sits on the edge of her bed, careful to avoid the tubes and wires, and cups her face in his hands. "I almost lost you. I'm allowed to hover."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You have a chest tube and a skull fracture and an incision that goes from here to here." He traces a line down her abdomen, light as a feather. "But you will be fine. Because I'm going to make sure of it."
She leans into his touch. "I love you."
"I love you too." He kisses her forehead. "Now go back to sleep. The nurses get grumpy when you're awake during shift change."
"How do you know that?"
"I've been here longer than they have."
Day five, she gets discharged.
Harry handles everythingâthe paperwork, the prescriptions, the follow-up appointments, the careful instructions about showering and lifting and driving. He carries her bag. He helps her into the car. He drives five miles under the speed limit the whole way home, and she doesn't tease him about it because she's pretty sure he'll cry if she does.
Home is strange.
It smells like garlic and rosemary, still, faintlyâthe sauce he was making when she walked in the door. She looks at the kitchen floor and sees the spot where she collapsed, scrubbed clean but somehow still there in her memory.
"Don't," Harry says softly, coming up behind her. "Don't think about it."
"How do you know what I'm thinking?"
"Because I'm thinking the same thing." He wraps an arm around her waistâcarefully, so carefullyâand guides her toward the stairs. "Bed. Now. You've been upright for twenty minutes, that's your limit."
"I'm not an infant."
"You're a trauma patient. Same thing."
He helps her up the stairs one step at a time, his hand on her back, his body blocking her from falling if her knees give out. She hates needing help. She hates the way her body feels foreign and fragile, held together with stitches and staples and prayers.
But she loves the way he holds her. The way he treats her like something precious.
He gets her settled in bedâtheir bed, the one with the soft sheets and the pillows she stole from his sideâand then he disappears into the bathroom. She hears water running, cabinet doors opening, the sound of him organizing things on the counter.
When he comes back, he's carrying a blood pressure cuff, a pulse oximeter, and a small notebook.
"Harry."
"What?"
"Why do you have a notebook?"
"To track your vitals." He sits on the edge of the bed and reaches for her wrist. "I'm going to check you every four hours. BP, HR, O2 sat, temperature, and I'm going to look at your incisions."
"You're not a nurse."
"I'm a trauma surgeon. I'm overqualified to be a nurse."
"You're obsessed."
"I'm thorough." He wraps the cuff around her arm and starts pumping. "There's a difference."
She lets him do it. Lets him record the numbers in his little notebook, lets him lift her shirt to check the dressing on her abdomen, lets him listen to her chest with a stethoscope he apparently brought home from the hospital.
"Your lung sounds good," he murmurs, pressing the cold metal to her back. "No diminished breath sounds. Chest tube site looks clean."
"You're ridiculous."
"You're alive." He puts the stethoscope down and kisses her forehead. "I'm going to be ridiculous for as long as it takes."
The first three days at home are... intense.
Harry wakes her up every four hours, even at 2 AM, to check her vitals and give her pain medication. He hovers in the doorway when she uses the bathroom. He won't let her walk down the stairs by herself. He won't let her shower without him sitting on the toilet lid, reading aloud from a book to keep her company, ready to catch her if she slips.
"Harry, I can wash my own hair."
"You can't lift your arms above your shoulders. You have a skull fracture."
"It's a hairline fracture."
"It's still a fracture." He squeezes shampoo into his palm and starts working it through her hair, gentle, methodical. "Stop arguing and let me take care of you."
She closes her eyes. His fingers feel goodâscratching her scalp, working out the tangles, massaging the tension from her neck. She leans back against the shower wall and lets him do it.
"You're good at this," she mumbles.
"I've had practice."
"On who?"
"On you. You're always getting into trouble." He rinses her hair, cupping his hand over her forehead to keep the water out of her eyes. "Remember when you fell off that ladder trying to change a lightbulb?"
"I was fine."
"You had a sprained wrist for three weeks."
"Fine."
He laughs, and the sound echoes off the tile, and she thinks maybe being taken care of isn't so bad.
Day four is when she almost ruins everything.
Harry is in the showerâhis first real shower in days, because he's been too busy monitoring her to take care of himself. She can hear the water running, hear him humming something soft and low, and she looks at the clock and thinks:Â I have fifteen minutes.
She's hungry.
Not snack-hungry. Starving. The kind of hungry that comes from eating hospital food for a week and then sleeping through three meals because the pain meds knock her out. She wants a sandwich. A real sandwich. With bread and cheese and maybe that pesto from the fridge.
She shouldn't get up. She knows she shouldn't get up. Harry's rules are very clear:Â Do not get up without me. Do not walk down the stairs. Do not lift anything heavier than a book. Do not be a hero.
But she's so tired of being helpless.
So she swings her legs over the side of the bed. Stands up slowly, holding onto the nightstand. Waits for the dizziness to pass. Takes a step. Then another.
The stairs are harder.
She goes one step at a time, holding the railing with both hands, her abdomen screaming with every movement. The incision pulls. The chest tube siteâstill healing, still tenderâthrobs in protest. But she makes it. She makes it to the bottom of the stairs, makes it to the kitchen, makes it to the counter.
The bread is in the cabinet above the microwave.
She has to reach for it.
She stretches her arm upâtoo high, too fastâand feels something pull in her abdomen. A sharp, tearing pain that makes her gasp, makes her drop the bread, makes her double over with her hand pressed to her side.
"No no no no no," she whispers, looking down.
There's blood on her shirt. Just a little. Just a spot. But it's spreading.
"Yn?"
Harry's voice from the top of the stairs. She doesn't answer. She can't. She's too busy trying not to panic.
And then he's there.
He takes the stairs two at a time, still dripping wet, a towel around his waist, his hair soaking wet. He takes one look at herâbent over, hand pressed to her abdomen, blood on her shirtâand his face goes white.
"What did you do?"
"I just wanted a sandwich," she whispers.
He doesn't say anything. He picks her upânot carefully this time, not gentle, just picks her up and carries her to the couch, laying her down like she's made of glass. He pulls up her shirt, and she sees his expression shift from panic to anger to something worse: fear.
"You pulled a stitch."
"I'm sorry."
"You pulled a stitch, Yn. You could have torn the whole repair open. You could be bleeding internally again. You couldâ" He stops. Presses his palm to his forehead. Takes a breath. "What were you thinking?"
"I was hungry."
"You were hungry?" His voice rises, and she flinches. He sees her flinch, and something in his face cracks. "You almost died. You had a hole in your lung. Your spleen was in pieces, Yn. I watched them put you back together. I held your hand while they cut into your chest. And youâ" He looks away, jaw tight. "You couldn't wait fifteen minutes for me to get out of the shower?"
She doesn't know what to say. The blood on her shirt is still wet. Her abdomen is throbbing. And Harry is looking at her like his heart is breaking.
"I was so scared," he says, quieter now. "When you walked through that door, bleeding, not knowing where you wereâI have never been that scared in my entire life. And I have seen people die on my table. I have told families that their loved ones didn't make it. And none of thatânone of itâwas as hard as seeing you fall in my kitchen."
"Harryâ"
"No. Let me finish." He kneels in front of the couch, his hands on her knees, his eyes bright with unshed tears. "I need you to understand that you cannot do things like this. You cannot push yourself. You cannot be brave or stubborn or proud. Because if something happens to youâif you tear something open and I can't fix it in timeâI will not survive it. Do you understand me?"
She nods. Her throat is too tight to speak.
"I need words, Yn."
"I understand."
"You can't do that again."
"I won't."
"You have to let me take care of you. Even when it's annoying. Even when you're bored. Even when you just want a stupid sandwich." He presses his forehead to her knee. "Please. I'm begging you."
She reaches down and touches his hair. It's still wet from the shower, curling against her fingers. "I'm sorry."
"I know." He looks up at her. "I'm sorry I yelled."
"You were scared."
"Terrified." He takes her hand and presses it to his chest, over his heart. It's pounding. "I love you so much. You can't do that to me again."
"I won't."
"Promise me."
"I promise."
He closes his eyes. Takes a breath. Opens them again, and he's still scared, but he's also Harryâher Harry, the one who catches her when she falls, the one who puts sun cream on her shoulders in Italy, the one who held her hand while they put a tube in her lung.
"Now," he says, standing up. "Let me look at that stitch."
He rechecks the incision. The bleeding is minorâone small torn suture, nothing deeper. He cleans it, tapes it closed, and puts a fresh dressing over it. Then he goes upstairs, puts on clothes, and comes back down to make her a sandwich.
She watches him from the couch, wrapped in a blanket, feeling stupid and loved in equal measure.
He brings her the sandwich on a plate, cut into triangles, with a pickle on the side and a glass of water with ice.
"You're not allowed to eat it in bed," he says. "But you're allowed to eat it on the couch. Baby steps."
"Thank you."
He sits next to her, close enough that their thighs touch, and watches her take the first bite.
"Good?" he asks.
"Good," she says.
He nods. Leans over and kisses her temple. Stays there for a long moment, his lips pressed to her skin, his hand finding hers under the blanket.
"I love you," he murmurs against her hair. "Even when you're an idiot."
"Especially when I'm an idiot."
"Especially then."
Six weeks later, she's cleared for normal activity.
Harry still checks her vitals every morning. Still hovers when she walks down the stairs. Still sleeps with his hand on her stomach, over the scar, like he's making sure it's still there.
She doesn't mind anymore.
She lets him take care of her. Lets him be overprotective. Lets him check her incisions and track her blood pressure and wake her up at 2 AM just to make sure she's breathing.
Because she knows, now, what it cost him. She knows what it means to be loved by someone who almost lost you.
And when he puts a ring on her finger for the second timeânot an engagement ring this time, but a wedding band, simple and gold, on a beach in Maine with just their families and the sound of the wavesâshe looks at him and thinks:
I would survive it all again, just to end up here.
But she doesn't say that. She just kisses him, soft and slow, and lets him hold her like she's something precious.
can you pretty pls do a oneshot where yn and harry are in italy and harry tells yn again and again to put sun cream on and she waves him off every time saying that sheâll do it in a minute and by the time they head out she forgets. she burns badly and sheâs trying to act like itâs not painful so he doesnât say i told you so and so he doesnât worry about her. he takes care of her and itâs all fluffy <333
Warnings: sunburn, mild pain, fluff, harry being a nurturing boyfriend
Prompt: You and Harry are enjoying a nice vacay in Italy and you decide sunscreen isn't on the list-- Harry begs to differ, but.... you learn the hard way regardless.
ââââââââââââââââ
The Italian sun doesnât mess around.
Thatâs the first thought Yn has when she steps out of the villaâs sliding glass doors, barefoot on the warm terracotta tiles, a cup of espresso in one hand and her sunglasses perched on top of her head. The sky is that specific shade of endless, aggressive blue that only exists in the Mediterraneanâno clouds, no mercy, just golden light spilling over everything like honey.
Itâs their third day in Positano. The third day of lemon trees, cobblestone streets, and Harry waking her up at an ungodly hour just to watch the sunrise from their balcony.
âYâready?â
His voice drifts from inside, low and still scratchy with sleep, even though theyâve been up for an hour. Yn turns, leaning against the doorframe, and watches him rummage through their shared suitcase. Heâs already shirtlessâbecause of course he isâwearing only a pair of loose linen shorts that sit low on his hips. His curls are a disaster, sticking up in seventeen different directions, and thereâs a faint crease on his cheek from the pillow.
Sheâs so ridiculously in love with him it makes her chest ache.
âAlmost,â she says, even though sheâs fully dressed in a tiny white crochet cover-up over her bikini. âJust finishing my coffee.â
Harry looks up, squinting against the sunlight pouring in behind her. âDid you put on sun cream?â
Yn takes a slow, deliberate sip of her espresso. Doesnât answer.
âYn.â
âHarry.â
âDonât âHarryâ me.â He abandons the suitcase and walks over, barefoot like her, and she has to tilt her chin up to keep looking at him because heâs close now. Close enough that she can smell his deodorantâsomething clean and warm, like sandalwood. âIâm serious. The sun here is different. Itâs not like London.â
âI know what the sun is,â she says, amused. âIâve been outside before.â
âHave you, though?â He raises an eyebrow, and his hand comes up to push a strand of hair off her forehead. The gesture is soft, automatic. âBecause last time we were in Greece, you turned the color of a tomato and then cried when I tried to put aloe on you.â
âI didnât cry.â
âYou wept, love. Full tears. Said I was being too rough.â
âBecause you were being too rough.â
Harry laughsâthat warm, crinkly-eyed laugh that makes her stomach flip even after three years togetherâand presses a kiss to her temple. âJust put it on, yeah? Iâll wait.â
âIn a minute,â she says, waving a hand. âLet me finish my coffee first.â
He gives her a look. The look. The one that says I know you, and I know youâre going to forget, and Iâm going to end up being right, and youâre going to hate that.
âYn.â
âIn a minute, Harry.â
He sighs, but thereâs no real frustration in it. Just resignation. Heâs learned, over the years, that Yn is the kind of person who has to learn things the hard way. You can tell her the stove is hot a hundred times, but sheâs still going to touch it. Not out of defianceâjust out of a very specific kind of absent-minded stubbornness that she calls trusting the process and he calls driving me insane.
âFine,â he says, stepping back. âBut when youâre crispy and miserable later, donât look at me.â
âI wonât.â
âYou will. You always do. You get that little pout and you look at me like a sad kitten.â
âI do not pout.â
âYouâre pouting right now.â
She is. She stops immediately.
Harry grins, kisses the tip of her nose, and disappears back inside to find his own sun cream. Yn finishes her espresso, licks the bitter foam off her lip, and thinks:Â I should probably put some on.
And then the moment passes.
Because the boat rental is at eleven, and they have to walk down to the marina, and Harry is already yelling something about forgetting the bag with the towels, and Yn gets distracted by the way the light hits the bougainvillea climbing up the villaâs walls, and then theyâre locking the door behind them and the sun cream is still on the bathroom counter, untouched.
The boat is small and white, with blue cushions and a little canopy that Harry promised would provide âplenty of shade.â Yn stands at the bow as they putter out of the marina, the wind whipping her hair into a tangled mess, the salt spray catching on her skin. Behind her, Harry is steering with one hand, sunglasses on, looking disgustingly handsome.
âYouâre staring,â he shouts over the engine.
âYouâre pretty,â she shouts back.
He ducks his head, grinning, and she sees the tips of his ears go pink. Three years, and she can still make him blush. She considers that her greatest achievement.
They anchor in a small cove about twenty minutes laterâturquoise water, cliffs covered in pine trees, not another boat in sight. It feels like something out of a movie. Like theyâre the only two people in the world.
Harry cuts the engine, drops the anchor, and immediately starts setting up. He lays out towels on the bow, inflates a floating mat, arranges the cooler with sparkling water and peaches and prosciutto-wrapped melon. Yn watches him from where sheâs perched on the edge of the boat, feet dangling in the water, and thinks, not for the first time, that sheâs never met anyone who takes care of people the way he does. Itâs in the small things. The way he remembers she hates cilantro. The way he always gives her the bigger half of the cookie. The way heâs currently holding up a bottle of SPF 50 and looking at her expectantly.
âYn.â
âHarry.â
âDid you put any on before we left?â
She looks down at her shoulders. Theyâre already faintly pink. Just a little. Barely.
â...Yes?â
âYouâre lying.â
âIâm not lying, Iâm misremembering.â
Harry pinches the bridge of his nose. Itâs such an exasperated gestureâso dadâthat she has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. âGet over here.â
âIâm fine.â
âYn. Now.â
She sighs dramatically, but she pushes herself up and pads over to where heâs standing on the towel. The deck is warm under her feet. Harry doesnât wait for her to sitâhe just squirts a generous amount of cream into his palm, rubs his hands together, and starts with her shoulders.
His hands are big and warm, and the sun cream is cool, and the combination makes her shiver. He works it into her skin slowly, methodically, like heâs painting a canvas. Across her shoulders, down her arms, over her collarbones.
âYouâre supposed to do this before you start burning,â he murmurs, his thumbs pressing gently into the muscle where her neck meets her shoulder.
âI wasnât burning.â
âYouâre pink, sweetheart.â
âIâm rosy.â
He laughs under his breath. âRosy. Right.â He taps her hip. âTurn around.â
She turns, and now sheâs facing him, and his eyes drop to her chestânot in a weird way, just in a you missed a spot way. He squirts more cream into his palm and reaches for her sternum, and she watches his face as he does it. The concentration. The softness. Heâs not trying to be sexy. Heâs just taking care of her. Thatâs the thing about Harry. He could be doing anythingâfolding laundry, making tea, applying sun cream on a boat in Italyâand heâd do it like it mattered.
âThere,â he says, finally, wiping his hands on his shorts. âYouâre coated. You look like a glazed donut.â
âRomantic.â
âYou know what I mean.â He cups her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones. âJust reapply every hour, yeah? Especially after you swim.â
âYes, Dad.â
He narrows his eyes, but heâs smiling. âIâm gonna remember this when youâre whining later.â
âI wonât whine.â
âYou will.â
âIÂ wonât.â
She does.
Of course she does.
It starts innocently enough. They swim, they float, they eat cold peaches and drink sparkling water straight from the bottle. Harry puts on a playlistâsomething soft and acoustic, all Fleet Foxes and Joni Mitchellâand Yn lies on her stomach on the floating mat, letting the water lap at her fingers. Itâs perfect. The kind of perfect that feels dangerous, because you know it canât last.
Around two oâclock, the sun is directly overhead, and Harry looks over at her from where heâs sprawled on the bow. His chest is tan alreadyâheâs one of those annoyingly lucky people who just gets golden instead of burntâbut his eyes are fixed on her back.
âYn.â
âHmm?â
âYouâre getting red.â
She twists to look over her shoulder, but she canât really see. âIâm fine.â
âYouâre not fine. Come here. Let me put more on you.â
âIn a minute,â she says, turning back to face the sun. It feels so good. Warm and heavy, like a blanket. She closes her eyes.
âYn.â
âHarry. Iâll do it in a minute. Iâm relaxing.â
A pause. She can feel him looking at her. Then: âYou said that two hours ago.â
âAnd Iâll say it again in two more hours. Iâm a woman of consistency.â
He doesnât laugh. Which means heâs actually annoyed. But he doesnât push itâbecause thatâs not who he is. Heâs not the kind of person who forces. He suggests, he reminds, he nudges. But at the end of the day, he lets her make her own choices, even when those choices are monumentally stupid.
So he lies back down, and she lies on the mat, and the sun beats down on both of them, and Yn thinks:Â Iâll put some on when we get back to shore.
They donât get back to shore until five.
The ride back is slower. The wind has died down, and the sun is lower but somehow more intense, bouncing off the water and hitting her from every angle. Yn sits in the back this time, facing away from Harry, and she notices that her shoulders feel... tight. Like someone is pulling the skin too thin.
She doesnât say anything.
By the time they dock, her arms are stinging. Just a little. Just a warning. She keeps her cover-up on, even though itâs hot, and she doesnât meet Harryâs eyes when he reaches for her hand to help her off the boat.
âYou okay?â he asks.
âPerfect,â she says, and she smiles, and she hopes it looks real.
The walk back up to the villa is a special kind of hell.
Positano is built on a cliff, which means every street is a staircase. And every step sends a fresh wave of heat radiating off her skin. Her shoulders are throbbing. The backs of her legsâthe parts she didnât even think to put cream onâfeel like theyâre on fire. Her nose is so tight it hurts to scrunch it.
She keeps pace with Harry, though. Doesnât limp. Doesnât complain. Doesnât even wince when he brushes his hand against her lower back.
âDinner at that place with the lemon pasta?â he asks, scrolling through his phone. âThe one we walked past yesterday?â
âSure,â she says, and her voice comes out normal. Sheâs proud of herself.
âYou want to shower first?â
âYou go ahead.â
He looks at her. Just for a second. Just long enough for her to smile wider.
âOkay,â he says slowly. âIâll be quick.â
He jogs up the stairs ahead of her, and the moment his back is turned, Yn lets her face crumple. Just for a second. Just long enough to mouth ow ow ow to herself.
Sheâs fine. Sheâs fine.
The villa has a massive bathtub and a rainfall shower and a bidet that neither of them knows how to use, but right now, YN would trade all of it for a bag of frozen peas. She closes the bathroom door behind herâlocks it, even though Harry never walks in without knockingâand peels off her cover-up.
And then she looks in the mirror.
Oh no.
Oh no.
Sheâs not pink. Sheâs not even red. Sheâs the color of a fire engine. The color of a Ferrari. The color of that one lobster she saw at the aquarium when she was seven. Her shoulders are two perfect circles of violent crimson, and her chest is blotchy, and her nose looks like Rudolf got into a fight with a blowtorch.
Thereâs a distinct line where her bikini top was. The rest of her is... angry.
She touches her shoulder gently. Just with one finger.
She actually yelps.
âYn?â Harryâs voice through the door. âYou alright?â
âFine!â she calls back, too fast. âJustâdropped something. Dropped theâsoap. Dropped the soap. All good.â
A pause. âYou donât use bar soap.â
â...The body wash, then. Dropped the body wash. Very slippery. Anyway.â
She turns the shower on as cold as it will go and steps under the spray, and the second the water hits her skin, she lets out a sound that is absolutely not a sob. Itâs a shudder. A controlled exhale. She is a grown woman, and she is in Italy with her gorgeous boyfriend, and she is not going to let a little sunburn ruin anything.
The cold water helps. A little. Long enough for her to wash her hair (painful, her arms donât want to lift) and shave her legs (more painful, bending over compresses her chest) and convince herself that sheâs being dramatic.
She towels off carefullyâso carefullyâand puts on the loosest, softest thing she owns: an oversized linen shirt that Harry bought her in Florence last year. It buttons up the front, which is good, because lifting her arms over her head is officially not an option.
When she comes out, Harry is sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through his phone. He looks up.
And he stops.
His eyes move from her face to her shoulders to her chest to the way sheâs holding her arms slightly away from her body, like a T-Rex.
âYn.â
âDonât.â
âWhat happened to âIâll put it on in a minuteâ?â
âDonât say it.â
âYouâre burned.â
âDonât say I told you so.â
He stands up. He crosses the room. He stops in front of her, close enough that she can see the sunburn on her own face reflected in his eyes. His expression isnât smug. It isnât triumphant. Itâs worried.
âHow bad is it?â he asks softly.
âItâs fine.â
âYn.â
âItâs fine, Harry. Iâm fine. Itâs just a little pink.â
He reaches out, very slowly, and touches the inside of her wrist. The one place that isnât burned. His thumb presses gently against her pulse point, and she knows he can feel how fast her heart is beating. Because it hurts. It hurts so much, and sheâs trying so hard to pretend it doesnât, and the effort of pretending is almost worse than the pain.
âYou donât have to be brave,â he says. âNot with me.â
And thatâthatâs what breaks her.
Her chin wobbles. Just once. Just enough for him to see.
âIâm sorry,â she whispers. âI should have listened. You told me like a million times.â
âI know.â
âAnd I was so annoying about it. I kept saying âin a minuteâ like I was being cute, and I wasnât being cute, I was being an idiot.â
âYou were being a bit of an idiot, yeah.â
She laughs wetly. âDonât agree with me. Youâre supposed to say âno, you werenât.ââ
âYou want me to lie?â
âYes.â
He smilesâthat soft, lopsided smile that she fell in love withâand pulls her into a hug so gentle it almost doesnât count as a hug. His arms go around her loosely, carefully, not touching her shoulders at all. He rests his chin on top of her head.
âIâm not going to say I told you so,â he murmurs into her hair. âBecause you already know. And because youâre in pain, and I donât want to make it worse.â
âYouâre too nice to me.â
âSomeone has to be.â
The rest of the evening is a blur of cool compresses and aloe vera.
Harry takes over completely. He makes her sit on the couch with a glass of ice water while he goes through the villaâs cabinets, looking for anything that might help. He finds a half-empty bottle of aloe gel in the bathroom, a box of ibuprofen in a drawer, and a bag of frozen peas in the freezer.
âThese are for emergencies,â he says, holding up the peas.
âThis is an emergency.â
âIt really is.â
He sits behind her on the couch, her back to his chest, and he starts with her shoulders. The aloe is coldâshockingly coldâand she hisses when it first touches her skin.
âI know,â he says softly. âI know. Just breathe.â
He works in small circles, patient and slow, avoiding the worst spots and coming back to them later. His hands are so gentle. He treats her like sheâs made of glass, like she might shatter if he presses too hard, and the truth isâshe might. Not because of the sunburn. Because of him. Because of the way heâs taking care of her without a single I told you so, without a single ounce of smugness, just quiet focus and the occasional kiss pressed to the back of her head.
âYou donât have to do this,â she says, after a while. âYou could be getting ready for dinner.â
âWeâre not going to dinner.â
âWhat? Harryââ
âYouâre not putting on a bra with that burn.â His voice is final. âAnd youâre not sitting in a restaurant for two hours while your shoulders rub against the back of a chair. Weâll order in.â
âBut the lemon pastaââ
âWill still be there tomorrow.â He kisses her hair again. âYouâre more important than pasta.â
She wants to argue. She wants to say donât change your plans for me, Iâm fine, really, but the truth is, the thought of putting on actual clothes makes her want to cry. So she leans back against his chestâslowly, carefullyâand lets him wrap his arms around her middle.
âIâm sorry,â she says again.
âStop apologizing.â
âIâm not good at being taken care of.â
âI know.â He presses his lips to her temple. âBut youâre going to have to get good at it, because Iâm not going anywhere.â
He orders pizza from the place down the street. Not because itâs the best in Italyâitâs not, itâs fine, the crust is a little thickâbut because they deliver, and Harry doesnât want to leave her alone.
They eat on the couch, cross-legged, the pizza box balanced on the coffee table between them. YN is wearing the linen shirt unbuttoned (because buttons pressing against her chest hurt) and nothing else (because elastic waistbands are the devilâs invention). Harry keeps looking at her and smiling, and she keeps asking âwhat?â and he keeps saying ânothing,â and itâs not nothing, but she doesnât push.
After dinner, he makes her take more ibuprofen. He fills a water bottle and puts it on the nightstand. He finds the softest sheets in the closetâan old set of cotton that feels like butterâand changes the bed while she watches from the doorway, leaning against the frame.
âYouâre doing too much,â she says.
âIâm not doing enough.â He pulls the duvet back, fluffs the pillows, and turns to her with his hands on his hips. âOkay. Youâre going to sleep on your stomach.â
âIâm a side sleeper.â
âNot tonight youâre not.â
She wants to argue, but heâs right. The thought of lying on her side, her shoulders pressing into the mattress, makes her wince just thinking about it. So she shuffles to the bed and lowers herself onto her stomach with all the grace of a beached whale.
Harry gets in next to her, on his side, facing her. He props his head on his hand and just... looks at her. Traces a finger down her spine, light as a feather, careful to stay on the parts that aren't burned.
âYouâre staring again,â she mumbles into the pillow.
âYouâre pretty.â
âI look like a tomato.â
âA pretty tomato.â He leans over and kisses the back of her neck, right where her hairline meets her skin. The only part of her shoulders that isnât red. âThe prettiest tomato in all of Italy.â
She laughs, and it hurts a littleâher chest moves, and the skin pullsâbut itâs worth it. âI love you.â
âI love you too.â He settles in beside her, his hand finding hers under the pillow. âEven when youâre stubborn.â
âEspecially when Iâm stubborn.â
âEspecially then.â
She wakes up in the middle of the night.
Itâs the heat. Her skin is radiating warmth like a radiator, and the sheets feel too hot, and her shoulders are throbbing in a way that ibuprofen canât quite touch. She tries to roll overâforgets, for just a second, that sheâs not supposed toâand the friction makes her gasp.
Harry stirs beside her.
âYn?â
âGo back to sleep.â
âAre you hurting?â
âNo.â
âYouâre lying.â
Heâs already sitting up, blinking in the dark, reaching for the lamp on the nightstand. The light clicks on, soft and yellow, and he looks at her. Really looks. She must look as bad as she feels, because his face does something complicatedâconcern and tenderness and a little bit of I told you so that heâs too polite to say out loud.
âStay there,â he says.
He gets up. He disappears into the bathroom. She hears water running, the cabinet opening and closing, and then heâs back with a cold, damp towel and the aloe vera.
âThis is gonna be cold,â he warns.
âI know.â
He lays the towel across her shoulders firstâjust lays it there, doesnât rubâand the relief is so immediate, so profound, that she actually moans. A real, honest-to-god moan. Harry laughs quietly.
âBetter?â
âDonât ever stop.â
He doesnât. He sits on the edge of the bed and lets the towel sit for a few minutes, then replaces it with another cold one. He dabs aloe on the worst spotsâthe backs of her arms, the tops of her thighs, the angry red stripe across her chest where her cover-up gaped open. He works in silence, and she watches him through half-closed eyes, and she thinks:Â I donât deserve him.
But also:Â He chose me. He keeps choosing me.
âThank you,â she whispers, when heâs done.
âDonât thank me.â He sets the aloe aside and lies back down, this time on his stomach too, so theyâre face to face on their pillows. âJust... next time I tell you to put on sun cream, maybe donât wave me off?â
âI wonât.â
âYou said that last time.â
âI mean it this time.â
He looks at her for a long moment. Then he reaches across the small space between them and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. âYouâre impossible.â
âYou like it.â
âI love it,â he corrects. âBut I also love you not being in pain. So. Compromise?â
âCompromise,â she agrees. âIâll let you put the sun cream on me. Every time. You can even do the commentary.â
âWhat commentary?â
âYou know. âYouâre missing a spot, love. Turn around, sweetheart. You look like a glazed donut.ââ
He grins. âThatâs not commentary, thatâs affection.â
âItâs both.â
âItâs both,â he admits.
She closes her eyes. The cold towel has faded to lukewarm, but the aloe is doing its work, and the ibuprofen has finally kicked in, and Harryâs hand is on her wrist again, thumb brushing her pulse point.
âHarry?â
âYeah?â
âIâm glad youâre here.â
He doesnât say anything for a moment. When she opens her eyes, heâs looking at her like she hung the moon.
âIâm glad youâre here too,â he says. âEven when youâre burned. Especially then. You get very honest when youâre burned.â
âI do not.â
âYou told me I was âaggressively handsomeâ earlier.â
â...You are.â
He laughs, soft and low, and leans over to kiss her forehead. âGo to sleep, tomato.â
âDonât call me that.â
âSleep well, my little Italian produce.â
âHarry.â
He turns off the light, and in the dark, she feels him shift closer. Not touchingâheâs careful not to touchâbut close. Close enough that she can feel his breath on her cheek. Close enough that when she falls asleep, sheâs not alone.
The sun will rise over Positano tomorrow, golden and relentless, and YN will still be red. Sheâll peel in about four days, and Harry will help her with the pieces that are hard to reach, and he wonât say I told you so even once.
Because he doesnât need to.
She already knows.
And more importantlyâshe already knows sheâs loved.
end notes:Â soft boyfriend harry owns my entire heart. please reapply your suncreen. x
