Harry's Cherries

I will never understand the complicated world of Tumblr. (22)

[westcoastrry]

Can’t Help If This Is Us

Hello friends. I’ve worked super hard on this fic. I’m not a fast writer so this took my while and I’m super happy with the way it turned out! Special thank to my bestie @harryforvogue​ . I wouldn’t know how to spell or about even write if it wasn’t for her so thanks you ugly fart face.

Also I wrote this entirely for free so all I ask is for feedback. I would really appreciate it and would love to hear your thoughts!

literally mate please let me know your thoughts. PLEASE. I beg.

WARNING: there is smut in this and mentions of the mafia.

I hope you enjoy reading Kiara and Harry’s story as much an I enjoyed writing it. 11.5k words

A fic about Kiara, a normal girl who works at a coffee shop in the upper east side of New York, where she meets Harry. A man who is caught up in a job he doesn’t want but is working hard to craft a better life for himself.

Fuck me like you wanna make love

Call me when you wanna stay in touch

Lie together just to gain trust

Say what you wanna say, can't help if this is us

Moving to New York was a fresh start for Kiara.

It’s only been a couple of months, but she has grown accustomed to the city.

She has an apartment in a not-so-great part of town, but it is close to her University, and the view from her balcony isn’t too bad. She is a coffee connoisseur, so when her pregnant friend and neighbor, Trina, helped her get a job at a cafe on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, how could Kiara truly not make the best of her newfound city life?

“An Americano please?” a deep British voice asserts.

Kiara’s cleaning off the steamer about an hour into her morning shift when the man with long chocolate curls speaks to her. Kiara has been working here for a month, and some very high profile people have come to the shop, but Kiara has never seen this man, but he sure looks important. He is in a suit, all black, and the only accessories are the multitude of rings he has on his fingers. The rose one catches her eye first, then the big gold H.S letter rings. Those are his initials? What is the point of that? Is this man obsessed with himself?

“Americano?” he says more lightly, snapping Kiara out of her thoughts.

“Sorry, I- Americano,” Kiara stutters.

Kiara isn’t one to get easily flustered, but how can she not be when this six-foot sexy man was towering over her in a suit, asking for black coffee.

Only real men drink black coffee.

She works around the machine expertly until the man’s voice interrupts her. “You’re new here?”

“Yeah,” she responds, swiping a curl off her forehead. Managing her naturally curly type four hair in the bipolar New York weather has been a challenge. Most days, she wears her thick hair in a bun, or when she can afford to get it done, box braids. “Started working here a month ago.” Kiara hands him the coffee in a brown to-go cup.

“Hmmm. I’m here all the time. I’m sure I would have noticed a new pretty employee.”

“Guess I’m not all that pretty then,” Kiara fires back, handing him a receipt with a pen to sign.

Harry doesn’t really know what to say to that because he actually does find Kiara pretty. He likes that her face is an even brown color with a few beauty marks. He likes the color of her light brown hair, and he really likes the sound of her voice. It’s sort of angelic, even when she is snapping at him.

Harry smugly hands Kiara his hefty card (the first indicator that this man has money) and signs the receipt. He drops some cash on the bill.

“That’s your tip. By the way, I do think you’re pretty.” His eyes flick down to her name tag. “Kiara.”

Kiara rolls her eyes at the man. He probably walks around life getting everything handed to him because he’s rich, white, and hot.

Screw him and his stupid cute dimple, Kiara thinks to herself. She goes to grab the receipt he signed and see’s two fifty-dollar bills stacked on each other.

Her mouth forms into an “o” shape. A hundred dollars on a three-dollar coffee? What sense does that even make? This had to be a mistake.

“Hey Kiara, are you okay?” Trina, who’s waiting tables today, asks. She has her brown apron tied over her baby bump with a few crumpled receipts and pens tucked in the pockets.

“I just got tipped a hundred dollars,” Kiara says, still shocked.

“You go, girl!” Trina enthusiastically shouts. “Who was it? A regular?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve never seen him before. Brown curly hair, dressed in a nice black suit-”

“Oh, that’s Harry,” Trina smiles. “Everyone loves Harry. He is a cutie. Been getting coffee here for a long time. He owns the strip club down the street.”

“I’m sorry. The dude owns a what?”

“A strip club bar type thing,” Trina shrugs. “Very fancy. It’s pretty much only for the elite. He is super nice. Everyone loves him here! He bought me a crib and this fancy high-tech stroller when he found out I was pregnant.”

“Yeah, well, he is kinda a dick if you ask me,” Kiara mutters under her breath.

“He tipped you a hundred dollars, and you’re calling him a dick?” Trina curiously questions.

“He called me pretty! And he had this arrogant ambiance to his voice. And what is with all the rings? It’s tacky.”

Trina places her hands on her hips.“Oh, just say you find the man hot! It’s okay to admit you find Manhattan’s most eligible and rich bachelor hot. I don’t blame you. I would get on it if I wasn’t thirty and pregnant.”

“I’m not admitting anything. Besides, I don’t have time for men. Men just cause problems.”

“Oh, you're telling me?” Trina points to her bulging belly. Kiara snorts at her friend and starts to walk away to grab more coffee beans from the storage, and Trina follows closely behind her. “You need to have some fun! Loosen up. Get your head out of that textbook. You have been living next to me for three months, and I haven’t seen you invite not one boy over! I know that vibrator you use is tired.”

Kiara grabs the box of coffee beans and turns back around to face Trina. “My vibrator is doing me just fine.”

Kiara’s whole life has been centered around academics. She was a really smart kid growing up. She had a good start to life too. However, Kiara’s wholesome childhood took a turn at twelve when her Dad died in a car accident. The accident was horrific for her entire family, but it hit her mom the worst. Her mom went from being a well respected physician's assistant, to being a drug addict, and Kiara had to grow up at the tender age of twelve just to take care of her mother. Around the age of fourteen Kiara’s mom got shipped off to rehab, and she ended up weaving in and out of foster homes until she was eighteen. Kiara realized that she never wants that to happen to her future family. She has been working hard on her academics because she hopes to have a stable income, so she can give her future kid the life that she never had.

It’s not like Kiara didn’t want to go and mingle around. Meet a new guy, have a one-nightstand, maybe even possibly fall in love. However, the dating scene as a brown skin woman in a whitewashed part of the city isn’t as easy as it sounds. Kiara doesn’t teeter the line of looking ethnically ambiguous. She is clearly a Black girl. Caramel skin, tight curls, full lips, and wide hips. Kiara likes these traits that she carries. In fact, she loves them, but men don’t. Specifically, men that aren’t her race. Not to mention that Black men are hard to come by in this particular part of city.

The simple fact is most white men don’t like Black women.

It’s even arguable that Black men don't even like Black women.

And Kiara is okay with that. She doesn’t need to be approved by a bunch of white people, nonetheless ones with penises. She just wishes she had more options to date within her race, or at least find someone who genuinely liked her.

Maybe that’s the reason why Kiara doesn’t want to go out and find a man to have some fun with. She knows he’s going to be white, and she will have to endure hundreds of questions about her race and her hair or meet racist parents, and she has done that all before.

So, for now, instead of explaining this to Trina, her very white friend, she will just blow off her questions about why she isn’t sleeping around or why she doesn’t entertain the idea of going to bars to find cute boys.

+++

The next day Kiara is off work. She spends her day sitting in her bed, in red pajama shorts and her university sweater, studying for her midterm. She got through quite a bit but is still a little worried about not getting an A. About an hour into her studying, she hears bickering from Trina’s apartment.

“I don’t know what you are being so shy about. Just ask her! You are great with girls.”

“No, I’m great at fucking girls. Trying to establish a genuine connection, I haven’t done that in a while.”

“I believe in you! Now go!”

Knock

Knock

It’s another guy that Trina has been trying to set Kiara up with. Trina does this about every other month. Very rarely does Kiara entertain the idea and sleeps with them, because she is bored, but it usually doesn’t go further than that.

Kiara opens the door to her apartment and there stands Harry. He is holding a boutique of red roses in one hand, and his other is behind his back. The suit he is wearing today is slightly different. Same silhouette, but this time the suit is brown. Kiara finally gets a good look at this man, and fuck.

Green eyes, full bright pink lips. Wide shoulders and defined biceps that show he does work out but isn’t a gym rat.

Gucci loafers. Now, this is an interesting man.

“What are you doing here?”

Harry nervously gestures to the flowers in his hand. “I brought you this.”

“You just came here to bring me flowers?”

“I also brought you this,” Harry pulls his hand from behind his back and shows a bottle of wine he got when he went on a business trip in Napa. He was saving the wine for a special occasion, like the next time he would go visit his mom, but this is more than a special occasion in Harry’s eyes. He is trying to swoon this girl.

Kiara smiles at him and grabs the wine bottle. If it’s one thing Kiara has learned in her adult life is that she loves wine. She usually only gets the cheap stuff from the liquor store down the street, but Kiara has never seen this bottle before.

She walked to her kitchen, leaving Harry staring at her dumbfoundedly. She pulled out two wine glasses from her kitchen cabinet.

Normally Kiara wouldn’t entertain this. Especially since she has a test to study for. However, she can’t lie and say she hasn’t been worked up...sexually.

“Alright, you brought me wine. You are welcomed in.”

Harry follows her inside the apartment, feeling a bit awkward. Usually, Harry never found himself at a girl’s place. He always took his one-night stands back to his house and had his assistant, Trevor escort them out in the morning.

Harry was nervous because this wasn’t a one-night stand. This was him bringing wine and flowers to a girls’ apartment, which he barely knows.

Just like Kiara, Harry also hasn’t been in the dating scene in a while. He has been busy with work, and it’s not easy what he does.

“So why did you come all this way to bring me wine?” Kiara asks Harry, pouring some wine into a glass and handing it to him. “I know you don’t live in this part of the city.”

“I don’t.” Harry sits on the barstool by the kitchen countertop. “I told you I thought you were pretty. Nice place, by the way.”

Kiara looks for the sarcasm on Harry’s face when he compliments her one-bedroom apartment but doesn’t find any. Kiara’s apartment isn’t ugly. But it probably is nothing compared to what Harry lives in.

Kiara takes a gulp of her wine. “It’s kinda trash actually. This is the ghetto.”

“You go to Columbia?” Harry asked, noticing her university sweater.

Kiara takes one more gulp of her wine, finishing off what is left in her glass. She was going to answer Harry’s question. She really was. But she got a good look at his bone structure. The way his jaw is a perfectly angled line. The way his Adam apple moves when he takes a sip of his wine. Even the way his fingers glide against the glass.

She begins to wonder how his fingers would feel against her.

“Kiara?”

That was it for Kiara because she doesn’t think she can keep herself composed in front of this beautiful rich man.

Instead of pouring her wine, Kiara grabs the bottle and starts to chug the wine like she is a trucker drinking a Samuel Adams.

Her lips remove from the bottle with a pop sound. Harry is now staring at Kiara completely taken aback by her actions. “What are you really here for, Harry? Sex? Because we can cut the small talk part.”

“Maybe I actually like you, Kiara.”

“You don’t like me.”

“Who told you that,” Harry counters.

Harry watches closely as Kiara struts towards him.

“I thought you were into blonde models?”

“Where are you finding this information from?” he questions.

“Google.”

Harry smirks. “So you’re googling me?”

“You know, if you wanted to know more about me, you could have just asked.”

Kiara cut him off with her lips attached to his. She wanted him to shut up, but she also wanted to kiss him.

Killing two birds with one stone.

Harry’s lips move in sync with hers, and he places his ringed hands on her back, pulling her closer to him.

If Kiara is being honest with herself, Harry’s lips feel like magic. It’s been a while since Kiara has kissed a guy, and she feels butterflies in the pit of her stomach.

“Kiara, what are we doing?” Harry mumbles into her mouth.

“We are gonna go back to my bedroom, and you are going to fuck me. Hard.”

“A-are are you sure about that?” Harry stutters on his words.

“We both know you didn’t come here to take me out on some date. So let’s just do this.”

Harry should have confidently responded and said, “No, Kiara, that is not why I’m here. I’m here because I actually find you attractive, and I know you have been working at the shop for about two weeks now but I have been very nervous to ask you on a date.”

However, his mouth went dry because Kiara threw off her sweater and her perky boobs sat fully on her chest.

“Kiara-”

“You know,” Kiara rests the palm of her hands on his muscular chest. Kiara has the upper hand and she sees it in the way Harry was staring at her, gaping at her actions. She loves being this bold. Upper chest bare for a man who is practically drooling over her boobs. Kiara likes to be in charge, but only for a little bit. After a while she wants to be taken care of. In bed that is. “For a man of such little words, you are talking so much right now.”

Harry grabs both of her wrist, but keeps her hands placed upon his chest. He knows his heart is racing a mile per minute. Kiara feels it and for a second she thinks to herself that there is no way she is causing this man's heart to skip beats.

Kiara stands up on her tippy toes and lets her tongue dart out to touch right below Harry’s ear suckling on the spot until it turns a nice red shade. She detaches her lips with a pop.

“You want this,” Harry whispers.

“I need this,” Kiara responds back.

“Tell me what you need Kiara.”

Harry’s right hand brushes over her bare breast, causing her to buckle a bit and stumble onto Harry’s chest.

“Hold yourself up, love, and tell me what you need.”

“I need you to fuck me,” Kiara whines.

With that, Harry holds Kiara's hips and roughly turns her away from him. Her hands went out and to grab at the granite countertop, holding herself up as much as she possibly could.

“How do you want it, hmm?” Harry whispers, quickly shrugging off his blazer and undoing a few buttons from his shirt. He begins to place wet kisses along the back of her shoulder. “I can fuck you right here, bent over the counter top. Or I can take you to the bed.”

“Here,” Kiara choked out through a moan.

“Can you handle it?” Harry teasingly asked her.

“I can handle it.”

“Can I take off your shorts?” Harry asks in a more serious tone.

“Mhmm, yes please.”

Harry shimmies down Kiara’s shorts. He takes the time to run his hands over her ass. The contact of her hot skin and Harry’s ice cold rings feels good to Kiara. She wants him to spank her, but she isn’t exactly sure what Harry is into and now she wishes she was sober enough to vocalize what she likes in bed so her needs can be met.

“Let's get a good orgasam out of you. Can I eat you?”

“Yes. God Harry, you're teasing me.”

“Not teasing,” he reassures her. “Just wanna know what you like.”

Harry gets down on his knees and opts for pushing her gray panties to the side instead of taking them off. Her core is glistening in her arousal and the smell alone makes Harry’s dick twitch in his boxers.

“Stop staring at it and-” Kiara cuts her sentence off with a yelp because Harry has attached his plump lips to her clit, giving her small kitten licks.

Kiara doesn’t really prefer to be eaten out. Most men's mouths don’t really do it for her. However, Harry is doing a very good job at keeping her legs shaking. She wants to turn around and look at him, but everytime she tries he delves deeper and deeper in her core, until she can barely hold herself up.

“M’mmm. A little higher please?”

Harry smirks against Kiara’s core because the little please she added to the end of her request tells him that she is slowly letting go of the tough exterior she puts up.

“Here? Is this good?”

“Yeah. Fuck right there please.” Kiara grips at the counter harder until her fingertips turned white.

“Been eating your veggies, huh?” Harry talks against Kiara’s core, the vibrations making her shudder. “You taste good love.”

Kiara is unable to respond because Harry is really going at it. His hands tightly grip Kiara's hips. His face is completely buried in her cunt, and he feels a slight ache in his jaw from the motions he makes with his mouth.

He continues to lick over her swollen folds, and then wraps his lips around her clit, which makes Kiara arch her back and push onto him. She is a panting mess, mouth wide open, eyes pinched together. She begins to thrash around but Harry grips even tighter at her hips.

“Stay still love.”

“I can’t,” she whined. “I’m gonna cum.”

“Why don’t you ask to cum?”

Kiara chokes on her spit slightly when Harry pulls his mouth from her pussy, and dips a finger inside of her. “Am I not entitled to an orgasm?”

“You are if you wanna be good for me.”

“Well if you're looking for a good girl I think you have come to the wrong place-”

Harry adds a second finger to her, which shuts Kiara up. “Ask nicely and you can cum.”

“I didn’t know you were gonna be so-”

“So what?” Harry asks her.

“Dominant.”

“You're lucky I’m not spanking you.”

“What's holding you back?” Kiara challenged.

Harry gets up from off his knees, and his free hand reigns down a heavy smack on her ass.

“Ask me nicely,” Harry demands, slowly pumping his fingers in and out of her.

“No.”

Smack.

“Ask nicely Kiara. I can do this all night.”

Kiara snaps her head back to look at Harry. “No.”

Smack.

Smack.

Smack.

The three spanks that Harry had given to Kiara were much harder than the first. So hard that Harry started to see an outline of his hand print.  

It's when Harry gives her one more smack and pushes his fingers deeper into her, hitting a sensitive spot that Kiara gives in.

“Fuck, Harry please just let me come,” Kiara struggles to say with a couple tears falling from her eyes from being so wrapped up in pleasure.

“Say sorry.”

“I’m sorry. So damn sorry. Please, I'm so close.”

Harry laughed at how her personality has done a complete one eighty. She went from being a complete brat to now begging him for an orgasm. “You are?”

“Yes please.”

Once Harry feels her pussy tighten around his fingers he pulls them from inside of her. “I don’t think you are that sorry.”

Kiara let out a whimper at the loss of connection. Her legs are still shaking and she almost slipped off the counter but Harry was quick to catch her.

Harry's strong arms snaked around to the front of Kiara’s stomach, letting her stumble back into her arms. She felt Harry’s hard cock press up against her raw ass.“Easy now.”

Usually, Kiara would give Harry some witty comments, but right now she is too worked up from being so close to her orgamsm. She feels a bit fuzzy, not sure what to do next. Her core aches and all she can think about is getting off.

Her hands go down to rub at her clit, but Harry quickly smacks it away.

“That's my job tonight alright? You gonna let me fuck you? You're gonna be good so I can get you off properly.”

Kiara nods her head.

“Verbal consent Kiara.”

“Yes please.”

“Good girl.”

Harry’s smug voice echoes in her ear as he places wet open mouth kisses along her neck. Harry is really enjoying himself. She felt him smile against his neck when he started to coax soft moans out of her.

Kiara weakly pushes Harry's head away from her neck.

“Doll, are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

“No, I'm good. Can we just take this to my bedroom?” Kiara politely asks. “I think I will be more comfortable there.”

When Harry gets a good look at Kiara, he can tell he has pushed past the first layer of her tough exterior. He knows there is probably much more fight and sass in her, but right now she looks vulnerable.

“Yes of course we can,” Harry held his hand out and Kiara willingly took it as he led both of them to the bedroom.

When they arrive, Kiara sits at the edge of her queen sized bed, and Harry lets go of her hand. She whines a little at the feeling of Harry’s hands slipping away from her.

Harry chuckles at the girl. “Let me just take my shirt off darling.”

Kiara watches closely as Harry’s fingers undo the buttons one by one. His silk shirt gilded easily off his toned shoulders. He made his way to sit at the top of Kiara’s bed leaning against the headboard, and Kiara crawled on her hands and knees toward him.

“Christ,” Harry mumbled under his breath.

Harry spreads his legs wider, which allows Kiara to sit comfortably in his lap. She let her hands roam up and down his tattoos starting with the birds on his collar bone. She then notices the butterfly right above his tummy. When she places her left hand on it, tracing the wings, Harry sighs contently at her touch. It’s a comforting touch, one that he has never experienced with his one-night stands.

Harry breaks a sweat on his forehead when Kiara continues to trace his tattoos. His broad chest stops moving up and down because he begins to hold his breath. He isn’t really sure what she is doing, but it feels good. Good enough for Harry to exhale and relax into the bed.

For Harry, sex with girls usually got directly to the point. Of course, there was foreplay, but not to any extent like this.

Having someone else’s hands on your body is a part of sex. However, this feels much more intimate than that. He’s got that feeling of butterflies in his stomach when Kiara begins to run her hands all over his body. It felt like he was in high school again, having sex for the first time and being so nervous because you don’t know what to do. But in this case, the nerves and butterflies don’t come from a lack of knowledge of the female anatomy. It comes from being completely enamored by the beauty this one girl holds.

And for just a second, Harry questions if he deserves this to feel the way he feels right now. Warm and a little drunk on the feeling of love. He doesn’t love Kiara, at least not yet anyway. But he feels like at this moment, Kiara cares for him. And even if she doesn’t care for him, he wouldn’t mind existing in this false reality he has created in his head for a really long time.

Something about having his body touched in such a vulnerable way is making him feel things he has never felt in his life.

“You have a lot of tattoos,” Kiara points out, fingers still tracing his butterfly tattoo.

“Yeah, I have been collecting them over the years.”

“Which one was your first one?” Kiara asks curiously.

Harry brought Kiara’s delicate hands up to the swallows on his chest.

“These ones,” Harry’s voice shakily said. Kiara takes her index finger and begins to trace the birds.

“How old were you?” Kiara asks, keeping her eyes looking at the birds.

“Sixteen,” is all Harry says, trying to keep his past where it belongs. In the past.

“That’s young. You don’t regret any of them?”

“No, actually. I think they all tell a story. Sure, some of them are stupid, but they all got some meaning behind them.

Kiara innocently brings her hand up to his cheek, cradling his face. “You gotta tell me about them one day. You have so many.”

“Mhmm,” Harry hummed in response.

“Let’s kiss some more,” Kiara suggested, wiggling her hips in Harry’s lap to find a comfortable position.

Harry nodded his head in response letting his lips touch Kiara’s, but not yet giving in to her request. His hands find their way to her lower back, and Kiara’s hands now have made their way up to his shoulders.

“You look good. You know that?” Harry says against her lips.

Kiara now has a grin on her face and blushes at Harry as if she has never received a compliment in her life.

Kiara brushes a brown curl off of Harry’s face with her index finger, “You can’t give me compliments while I’m buzzed off of wine because you might make me fall in love with you.”

Harry smiles. “Why don’t I just fuck you like I love you?”

Harry realizes what he said and awkwardly takes his hands off of Kiara’s body, nervously running his hands through his hair.

Kiara see’s the worried look on Harry’s face, but she is just a tad bit too intoxicated to process the weight of Harry’s words.

“Or you could let me fuck you,” Kiara bodly suggests. “I just haven’t done it in a while, so you might need to take over when my legs get sore.”

Harry nods, his forehead pushed upon Kiara’s. He kisses her again, and is taken by surprise when she lightly bites on his lip. She then gives a quick kiss to the corner of the month, and then his throat. She leans over to kiss his collar bones, and Harry takes the opportunity to grab a handful of her ass.

He then slowly peels her underwear off of her. He drags it slowly past her thighs looking down at her soaking wet core.

“You’re wet,” Harry mummers into her ear.

Kiara cups Harry’s dick through his boxers, and slides them off of his hips.

Harry groans in pleasure when he feels her hand touch his hard dick that is leaking pre cum.

“Don’t get too cocky now,” her hand lazily pumps at Harry's length, which she finds to be quite impressive in size.

“Kiara, don’t forget who is in charge here,” Harry grits through his teeth.

Kiara dips her head down to lick at Harry's heavy balls, she then continues her way up to his shaft until she makes her way to his tip and suctions her lips around the pink swollen flesh.

Harry looks down at the Kiara, who is giving him those innocent eyes, as if she doesn’t have his entire dick in her mouth

“Oh fuck me,” Harrys rolls his eyes, and lets his head fall onto the headboard.

“I will. But let me suck you off first.”

Kiara passes her thumb over his dick, and kisses all around the tip. She licks him up and down before taking him into her mouth entirely, making sure to make eye contact with him.

Harry places his hand gently over Kiara’s head, asking permission to touch her. She blinks at him signaling to him that it's okay.

He took a rough grip to Kiara’s brown curls, moving her head up and down in a steady rhythm.

“That's it,” he encourages as Kiara suckles on his tip. “Fucking hell.”

She pulls her mouth from Harry's length and gives him a few sharp tugs.

“Slow down,” Harry pants. “Want to be inside of you when I come. Can you handle it?”

Kiara swings one leg around Harry’s lap, her core just inches away from Harry’s throbbing dick.

“Yeah I can.”

“Well what are you waiting for?”

Kiara slowly slides down on Harry’s dick, and his hands cling to the sides of hips, coaxing her on her way down. Harry groans at how tight and snug she feels around him.

Kiara is about halfway down when the blissful feeling starts to hit her. She tightens her grip on Harry’s shoulders biting her bottom lip.

“What's wrong? Thought you said you could handle it.”

Bravely, in one push Kiara glides right down Harry’s dick.

Harry groans with pleasure as soon as she makes it all the way down. His hands go out to grip her ass, and help her bounce up and down.

“That's it. Good girl. You like it when I call you that?”

“Yes,” Kiara responds, picking up her speed so that her tits move up and down with her.

“What do you want me to call you? I can call you my good girl, a slut, or whore. Which one do you prefer?”

“A whore,” Kiara is slightly embarrassed at what this man is doing to her, but she is so wrapped up in the lust of the moment that she really couldn’t care less.

“You're my dirty little whore, hmmm?”

Harry cranes his neck down to place a kiss on her tongue, lapping his tongue over her soft skin that smells like a floral scented perfume. He moans softly into her neck and squeezes at her fleshy hips.

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I’m your dirty little whore,” Out of nowhere Harry thrust his hips up to meet hers. “Fuck, Harry!”

Harry placed a wet kiss behind her hair before speaking, “How about you get on your hands and knees for me. I can fuck you like that.”

“Okay,” Kiara withdraws herself from him with ease due to how wet she was. She props herself on her hands and knees and arches her back for Harry.

Harry places a hand on her lower back. He rubs the tip of his dick over her wet folds before pushing in.

Harry moves slowly at first, testing out the waters to make sure he isn’t hurting her. Her sweet moans are only egging Harry on, and he is sure he isn’t gonna last another five minutes inside of her.

“Please Harry. Fuck me faster please.”

Harry hands grips on Kiara's fleshy love handles. It is a little tight for her liking however the pain is quickly drowned out by the intense pleasure she begins to feel.

This is a dirty shag. Harry is pounding into her at such an extreme pace that Kiara can’t even get a full moan out. Her little “uhhhh’s” and “nggggs” only encourage Harry on.

Kiara’s orgasm hits her first and it's just as blissful as she thought it would be. Legs trembling, her arms are no longer propping herself up, instead her right cheek is pushed up on the bed, and a bit of salvia is foaming out of her mouth.

“I’m gonna, oh god Kiara. Just give me a sec- fuck!”

Harry’s orgasm shortly follows and it's just as euphoric for him as it was for Kiara. This was one of the most satisfying sexual encounters Harry has had in a while and he wants to enjoy every second of being buried in Kiara’s warmth.

Harry was about to pull out from her but when he looked down at where they were connecting he realized how fucked he was.

Not only did he not wear a condom, but he most definitely came inside of her.

“Fuck,” Harry mumbles under his breath.

How could he be so careless? This has never happened to him. Harry has had quite the extent of sexual partners and he makes sure to always use a condom.

He wants to blame it on the wine but he didn’t even finish his glass.

“I need a second,” Kiara tiredly whispers, panting.

“I didn’t use a condom.”

“I’m sorry?” Kiara says still coming down from her high.

Harry runs his hand through his tangled hair nervously, “I didn’t use a condom. I haven’t had sex in almost a year though. I get tested regularly too. I’m sorry it just slipped my mind. I can run out and get you some plan B.”

“It's okay,” Kiara responds. She turns her head around to look at Harry. “Do you mind pulling out now though?”

Harry looks down at his dick, and then looks up at Kiara. “Oh yeah shit uhh.” He grabs on to Kiara’s hips and slowly pulls out of her.

“I haven’t had sex in like six months by the way,” Kiara slowly turns herself around to face Harry who has now tucked himself back in his boxers. “It could be longer honestly… it's been pretty dry here until now.”

“Yeah, same. Busy with work and what not.”

There is a moment of uncomfortable silence. Kiara has the sheets up to her bare breast, and Harry is not only taking in the raw beauty of the girl in front of him, and still beyond shocked he forgot to put on a damn condom.

“Well, I can get you some plan B. I think there is like a Target down the block from your apartment.”

“No, it's fine!” Kiara responds way too quickly. “I mean like, Trina has a stash in her car. I can steal from her in the morning. You don't have to rush out if you don’t want to. It’s not safe to drive at night, and you probably have such a long way to go.”

“You want me to stay?”

“Is that a bad thing?”

Harry shakes his head. “No...errr it's not. I would really like to stay.”

“Okay well I’m gonna pee. And clean myself up. I can bring you some water?”

“Water would be great.”

Kiara nods at him, standing up so that her white sheet is wrapped tightly around her body. She knows that there is no reason to hide from Harry. He just took her from behind and called her a whore, but Harry isn’t just any man. He is a man who looks like a greek god, and fucks like one too. So Kiara couldn’t help but be a little self conscious.

Kiara quickly comes back with two glasses of water. She has even changed into an old ratty T-shirt and a fresh pair of underwear.

Kiara hands Harry a glass and he takes a sip, “You know,” she starts, crawling into bed next to him. “If you told me you fuck like that maybe I wouldn’t have put up a fight at the cafe.”

Harry blushes, setting the glass on the nightstand next to him. “Didn’t plan this, you know. Not that I mind. Trust me, I like this.”

“I would be lying if I didn’t say I thought you were cute.”

“Oh,” Harry playfulls wiggles his eyebrows, scooting himself closer to Kiara on the bed. “Please do tell me more.”

Kiara pouts at Harry until he places a kiss on her bottom lip, another sloppy wet one on her cheek. He grabs at her sides, tickling her.

“Har- Harry! Stop, please!” Kiara begins to laugh uncontrollably. She even attempts to pull Harry’s enormous hands from her body but has no luck.

“Okay, okay,” she gives up, Harry pulling his hands off of her. “It was the whole curly hair, suit thing. I love a man in a suit, and you know you got an Americano. You have good taste in coffee.”

Harry smiles. “You make good coffee.”

Kiara hums awkwardly, not making eye contact with Harry, instead opting to stare at his mermaid tattoo with abnormally large tits.

“I like your hair too,” Harry speaks up. “It frames your face nicely. It was the first thing I noticed about you.” Harry’s ringed hands make their way to the top of Kiara’s thigh, rubbing her soft skin. “Then it was all the pins you had on your apron. You have a lot.”

“Oh. Yeah I’ve been collecting them over the years.”

“You had one that said, ‘Don’t be a damn.’ What does that mean?”

“I’m not sure,” Kiara shrugs, breathing out a relaxed sigh. “It was like my third year of undergrad. I studied abroad at the University Of Edinburgh, in Scotland and this guy who had a jewelry shop said it to me. The next day I came back he just gave me the pin and told me to always keep it with me.”

Harry smiles at Kiara with adornment, “I have family in Scotland. I’m from London though. Grew up there with my mum most of my life.”

“What brought you to New York then?”

“School then work. I went to Columbia,” Harry says, giving her the shortest answer possible. “I noticed you had it on your sweater earlier…. You know before you tore it off.”

“Shut up!” Kiara groans, striking Harry’s chest. “But yes I do go to Colombia. Just for my teaching credentials. I want to teach history.”

There is a beast of silence. “Are you sure if I stay the night? I don't want to intrude-”

“I want you to stay the night.”

Harry’s heart warms because no girl has ever said that to him. The feeling of butterflies swarming around in his tummy has come back, and he knows his cheeks are heating up in embarrassment.

“Alright.” Harry pulls Kiara’s body closer to him which makes her squeal in surprise. “Only if you keep me warm for the night.

+++

Harry is awake before Kiara.

Harry is used to waking up early for his job, and usually, he would be on his way to get his morning coffee and then head on down to the club.

However, he just can't leave the girl he just fucked last night.

Her breaths are short, and he can feel her heart thumping against his chest. She was properly attached to him, and Harry really liked it. Having her this close to him.

He takes the time while Kiara was asleep to not only watch her sleep peacefully but look at all the artwork she has displayed on her walls. There are no family pictures that Harry can spot, just a picture of her and Trina on her desk. It looks like they are at some club. Trina has a drink in her hand that looks like she is about to spill and Kiara is downing a shot.

Kiara stirs a bit in her sleep and Harry watches as she slowly blinks her eyes open.

“You're warm.” She blinks. “Do you want breakfast?” Kiara offers, nuzzling herself in the crook of Harry’s neck. “I make a really good omelet.”

Harry laughs. “Kiara I really can’t keep up with you.”

Kiara begins to innocently pepper kisses all over Harry’s neck. “What do you mean?” she pouts.

Harry groans once Kiara sucks on a sensitive right beneath his jawline. “For starters, you didn’t like me at all when we first met. Then we fucked because you claimed I was here just for sex. And now you are offering to make me an omelet.”

“What are you here for then?” Kiara presses.

Harry sighs, looking down at the pretty girl all tangled up in his arms. Harry knows exactly what he wants. He is twenty-seven and he is really looking for love. A life-long partner who he can come home to after a hard day at work. A partner who makes getting up in the morning all worth it. Someone who he can take out on dates, maybe even take to meet his brother.

He wants to take a leap of faith with Kiara. He wants to ask her on a date, however, he can’t bring himself to do that. He doesn’t want to put this girl in harm’s way because he likes her.

And it's not even about Kiara getting hurt. He would never let anything physically happen to the people he cares about in his life. It’s honestly about the hurt she would experience if something happened to him.

“I-”

Harry is interrupted by Trina barging into the bedroom.

“We will be late for the train if you don't get your ass up! You always sleep in--” Trina pauses once she realizes her best friend is wrapped up in her other best friend’s arms. “Oh fuck.” Trina points back to the door. “I’ll wait outside for you.”

“Shit,” Kiara grumbles to herself. “I forgot I had work.”

Harry watches as Kiara frantically pulls her underwear up her body. When she realizes Harry is staring at her, she turns around to slide on her black lace bra.

Harry isn’t trying to be that much of a dick, staring at Kiara while she is getting changed. It's just that her ass is littered with marks from his heavy handy, and a light bruise on her loved handles from holding her securely on his lap, while he pounded into her.

The bruises were tainted with the memory of last night, and Harry notices how every little mark told the story of their rough and passionate sex. Looking back on it Harry doesn’t know if he was too rough with the young girl. He doesn’t like that it was possible that he may have hurt her.

“You need to go,” Kiara demands, pulling her jeans on, and then her white shirt.

Harry picked up his white button-up shirt off the floor and threw it over his shoulder. “Kiara, was I too rough? Maybe you should put something on the bruises--”

“I’m going to be late for work Harry,” she snaps.

“Are you mad?”

Tears well up in Kiara’s eyes and this is very unusual for her. She never cries. She is not even sure why she is crying. She pauses for a moment not answering his questions.

“I’m fine,” Kiara answers with her back still facing away from Harry.

“You’re crying, Kiara.”

“I’m not!” Kiara yelled, throwing her hands up in the air turning around. “I- I’m just a little overwhelmed.” Kiara’s breath gets caught in the back of her throat. “I have school, and I work full time, and I’m interning at this elementary school...and that…” Kiara points to the bed. “That was the best sex I have ever had, and now I look like a complete freak.” She wipes a tear with the back of her hand. “I look like a complete freak because all we did was have sex and now I’m crying. It doesn’t have much to do with you I think. I’m just a little stressed.”

That was a complete lie and Kiara knows it. At this moment, she could care less about school or the stress of work. Its that empty feeling you have after sex knowing that this isn’t a forever thing. Harry will go back to being Harry, and she will go back to being Kiara. It is simply just sex...nothing more.

Harry gets off the bed in just his unbuttoned shirt and boxers. He tests the waters by placing a comforting hand on her back. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Just show yourself out please.” Kiara walks away from Harry’s hold, grabbing a scrunchie off her desk, and her purse. “I have to go.”

Harry doesn’t stop her. He knows that if he stops her he is gonna want to kiss her. Then he is gonna convince her to come back to bed with him, and he can’t do that. For her sake.

+++

“Are we not gonna talk about it?” Trina asks while she is driving her SUV.

Trina and Kiara usually take the subway together. It works out much cheaper for the both of them, but they can’t be late for work. Not during the Monday rush. Kiara is in the passenger seat pulling up her hair and frantically covering up a few hickies on her neck from last night. Trina is driving just a little bit above the speed limit, trying to make sure they both get there on time, and also worrying about her best friend who isn’t her usual bubbly self.

“There is nothing to talk about, other than I need some plan B,” Kiara replies dryly.

“You're joking.”

“Nope. Pass me your purse.”

Trina keeps one hand on the wheel and hands Kiara her purple purse from the back seat.

“Kiara you had sex with my best friend. Unprotected sex.”

“Exactly just sex,” Kiara shruged, digging up the pill from the bottom of Trina’s bag. “And I’m your best friend!”

“You are both my best friends!” Trina argued. “You know the poor boy actually likes you right?”

Kiara rolls her eyes. “Did he tell you that?”

“Yes! Actually, he did! More than once!”

“He is lying. I’m just a normal broke student. And him? He is a fucking rich man but he looks like a literal greek god! Trina you know I googled him. His past girlfriends are models! White, skinny blonde models. I’m not white, skinny, or blonde!”

“He was a party boy in the past!” Trina retorts. “He likes you, okay? He just has trouble communicating his feelings. I know you like him too. You just have this strange idea in your head that you are not good enough for him! Which is ridiculous.”

“It's whatever,” Kiara huffs, pooping the pill in her mouth and swallowing it, “It was a hook-up. A simple one night stand.”

“It’s okay to want something more Kiara.”

“He doesn’t want something more! It's so painfully obvious,” Kiara throws her hands up in the air.

Trina knows how stubborn her best friend is. It's why they get along so well. They both have this hot headed temperament. However, Kiara never really likes to give herself time to relax. She likes to be busy but it is clearly taking a toll on her mental health.

“Let me take you out drinking after work.”

Kiara turned her head towards her friend and smiled. “Thank you. Now we are speaking my language.”

+++

While Kiara’s working, a part of her secretly wishes that Harry would show up for his americano. She is trying her hardest to convince herself that he is not worth her energy or time, but the sex is still fresh in her mind and it doesn’t help that her body is showing evidence of what took place last night.

There is still that dull satisfying ache between her legs, the sound of Harry calling her a dirty whore plays on rewind all day. She is practically daydreaming about having sex with Harry again while making coffee.

Harry was the first man to meet her needs in that manner. Sure she has cum during sex a couple times, but it wasn’t anything mindblowing. In fact her orgasms were usually underwhelming, but with Harry he knew what he was doing. His dominance was a complete turn on.

And sure Kiara could be fuck buddies with Harry. But she thinks she deserves a little more than just casual hookups. She wants a relationship because at the end of the day, she wants to build a family. A family that makes up for her broken one.

Kiara has sat down and contemplated this before. Is it inherently selfish to want to fix her childhood trauma with a family of her own, but fuck. Can you really blame her?

+++

When Kiara gets home she quickly changes into a simple black dress. It hugs her curves nicely and it's the dress she usually pulls out when she used to go clubbing with Trina (which has come to a halt because of her pregnancy).

The subway ride to the club is filled with laughter and Trina having to help Kiara actually get on and off the train (because she pregamed at the apartment).

Once they got to the club, Trina walks up to the front of the line with Kiara.

The bouncer's eyes lit up as soon as he saw Trina, “Hi Trina. Umm, should I tell Harry you are here? James is also here too. I can let him know as well.”

“Harry is here?” Kiara questions.

Trina whispers in her ear, “Yes, this is his club.”

“I’m gonna need more drinks if I have to look at his stupid face again.”

Trina playfully rolls her eyes, “Yes, you can let James and Harry know we are both here.”

The bouncer pulls out his walkie talkie and opens the door for Trina and Kiara.

Kiara supports herself on Trina’s arm as they walk into the club, “You didn’t tell me we were going to Harry’s club?”

“I know, I thought you might put up a fight about it.”

She probably would have put up a fight about it, however she wouldn’t actually mind seeing Harry's stupid, beautiful looking face again.

The club itself is beautiful. The ceilings are covered with mirrors, and hanging down from them were stunning crystal chandeliers. The chairs are red, and glass tables are placed strategically in each booth. There is also a bar with some red stools, and a huge red door near it.

“What’s back there?” Kiara asks.

“The strip club. But we don't need to go over there. C’mon you wanted some wine, didn’t you?”

Trina and Kiara made their way to the bar and a heavily tattooed girl with a name tag that says Drew is working on the opposite side of the counter mixing drinks.

“Hey, Trina! What are you doing here? You can’t drink.”

“It’s for my friend, Kiara.” Trina gestures to her Kiara, who drunkenly waves back at Drew “She will take some wine, something sweet. I’ll just have some sprite”

Drew grabs a wine glass and puts it on the table before walking away. “Coming right up”

“James is that new guy you are seeing, right?”

“Yes. He works for Harry.”

Kiara has heard Trina mention James on multiple occasions. She even thinks he has come to the cafe a couple of times for lunch, but Kiara can’t put a name to the face. She is unsure if Trina and James are dating, but she is not sure how far she should pry. She does briefly remember Trina telling her that James does not care about Trina being pregnant. In fact Trina told her one day during their thirty minute break at work that James is just happy to be a part of Trina’s family.

“Mhmm. So Harry owns this club?” Kiara asks, taking a sip from her wine that Drew provided for her.

“Yeah. He owns a few more too. I believe it's a family business or something?”

Kiara sighs before downing the rest of her wine. “Just eat the fucking rich already.”

“Kiara? Trina?”

Kiara spins around on her chair, holding up her second glass of wine that Drew had given her and made eye contact with Harry.

He looks breathtaking. Hair neatly combed out of his face, tailored suit, ring decorated fingers that Kiara thought was repulsive, but now she can't stop thinking about how they feel against her heat.

“Trina, it's Wednesday,” Harry sternly told her, pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose, slowly breathing in and out, trying not to lose his temper at his best friend.

“Are you not happy to see me?” Kiara says, standing up. She almost trips on her heels but Harry grabs her arm.

Kiara places her hand on Harry’s cheek. “I know you have to be happy to see me. You don’t fuck someone like that unless you hate them or love them. And who could hate me?”

“Okay!” Trina chippers up, grabbing her friend and bringing her back to the barstool. “Maybe we should get some water in you, okay?”

Harry is flustered because way too much is happening at once. Harry has told Trina multiple times that Wednesdays are not a good time to show up at the club. He has his meetings on Wednesday, and dangerous people are always floating in and out of the club talking business with Harry. He just wants to keep Trina and Kiara safe.

“Drew put all their drinks on my tab,” he tells the dark-haired bartender. “Trina, did you drive here?”

“No, we took the subway,” Trina answered.

Harry sighed frustratingly. “Okay. I'll take you two home. Just don’t leave here until I come get you.”

“Harry,” Trina starts. “I'm sure we will be fine. It’s not that big of a deal. James is here anyways--”

“Trina please.”

It's the crack in Harry's voice that caused Kiara to stop drinking her wine and look up at him.

Trina shoots Harry a look of sympathy. “Okay fine. We will stay here until you're done.”

Harry exhales the air he was holding in, a nervous habit he is still trying to break. “Okay. I will be done soon.”

“What's got his panties in a twist?” Kiara snorts as Harry walks away.

“I’m not sure actually,” Trina responds. “He is always stressed at work. I’ve been trying to get him to take a break for ages, but pulling that man away from his job is an impossible task.”

“He always seems so tense.”

Trina laughs, “Yeah maybe you can help him with that.”

“Well I see you have been helping his fellow associate...James.” Kiara wiggles her eyebrows at Trina.

Trina dramatically sighs. “Don’t even get me started on him.”

“What? I thought things were going great!”

“They are!” Trina assures Kiara. “But I’m still not sure what he wants. I’m pregnant and thirty. I really don’t want to fool around anymore. I want to settle down. The baby is coming soon and I won't have time for hookups and flings. He says he doesn’t mind that I’m pregnant, but he hasn’t said he wants a relationship with me.”

“Why don’t you just be upfront with him and ask?”

“Because I don’t want to scare him off!”

“You deserve someone who is upfront with their feelings, Trina. You are never gonna know until you ask.”

Trina sticks her index finger in Kiara’s face. “I’m not doing shit until you figure out what's going on with you and Harry.”

“Fine I’ll admit. The dick is good.”

Trina squealed. “I knew it, you filthy whore!”

“I'm just a little nervous. What if he is just hooking up with me for some weird black girl fetish? What if he is a racist?”

“I can tell you that's not Harry.”

“Am I ready for this?”

Trina takes a sip of her sprite. “I dunno. You know the answer to that question, not me.”

“Well I don’t know, and you don’t know. So that's my cue to keep drinking.”

Trina rolls her eyes and is about to tell Drew that this will be Kiara’s last glass of red wine until she makes eye contact with a man walking towards them.

“Fuck,” Trina grabs her purse then grabbed Kiara’s wrist. “Don’t talk to him okay? Just don’t look at him and maybe he will go away--”

“Trina... Haven’t seen you in a while.” The man's voice is heavy and dark. When Kiara looked up at him the first thing she noticed is that he is extremely well dressed, with a bling out watch on his wrist. “Who is the lovely lady you brought with you?”

“Leave her alone Dorian.” Trina says.

“What's your name?” The man reaches out to touch Kiara’s lower back but she flinches away.

“Don't touch me! Who do you think you are?”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “Feisty. Pretty too. You are one of Harry’s girls?”

“Excuse me? One of whose girls?”

“Are you not a dancer for the club?” the man asks in a condescending town that sets Kiara off.

“Oh hell no. You know damn well I’m clearly not stripping so what is it that you want from me?”

Trina leans into Kiara’s ear. “Kiara please leave it alone,” She grabs her wrist but Kiara quickly pulls it out of her grasp. “Let's just go.”

“No, let the girl talk Trina. She has quite a mouth on her anyway. Maybe she can put it to a much better use.”

Slap

Kiara’s hand connects with Dorian’s face before Trina could stop her. Trina knows her friend has a temper but so does Dorian. The slap slightly echoes over the music and gains a few people's attention including Drew, who stops mixing her drink and keeps her eyes on Dorian, who clenches his jaw and fixes his suit on his shoulders, trying to regain his composure.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he mutters quietly.

“And what the fuck are you gonna… Ow!” Dorian roughly grabs Kiara wrist and drags her towards him.

He holds her hand above her head. “You don’t know who you are messing with. Do I need to show you?”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Kiara begins to squirm. “Let go of me before I kick you in the crotch--”

“Hmmmm. Maybe I should teach you a lesson. Don’t think Harry would mind if I borrowed one of his girls.”

“Refer to me as one of Harry’s girls one more time and I will do more than just slap you.”

“Dorian. Let her go.” Kiara’s eyes float from the man holding her wrist to Harry who is stalking up to her with a man right next to him. His voice was deep and assertive. Something Kiara never thought Harry to be other than when he was in bed.

Dorian lets Kiara’s wrist go and she stumbles back a bit towards Trina.

“Harry!” Dorian loudly greets. “I was just telling one of your whores she needs to watch that mouth of hers.”

“She is not a dancer, Dorian.”

“Oh, is she not? Such a shame,” Dorians eyes shamelessly rake Kiara up and down. “With a body like that I’m sure she could attract some clients for you.”

Kiara launches at Dornian but Harry is quick to grab her this time pulling her into his chest.

“Behave. Please,” he whispers in her ear.

“Dorian, you need to go.”

“Harry, you know better than that. Came here for my money. Come here every Wednesday to get my payment.”

“Well, you're not getting it today. Come by tomorrow.”

“Funny you say that since you know the history between me and your father--”

“I don't give a fuck about the history between you and my father!” Harry seethes stepping closer to Dorian. “You don’t see him here do you? I made you a deal. You will get your money, just not tonight. You don’t get to threaten my friends and then just demand money.”

“You don’t want to test me boy--”

“No, you don't want to test me. Not tonight. Leave.”

Dorian smirks at Harry before raising his hands up in defeat. “I’ll be here tomorrow. If you don’t have my money there will be problems.”

Harry watches Dorian walk fully out the door before turning to Trina and Kiara. “Both of you. My car now.”

“What just happened?” Kiara questions.

“Trina just take her to the car.”

+++

The car ride back to Kiara’s apartment is silent. Kiara sits in the back confused as to why Trina and Harry kept whispering to each other. A whole conversation is happening and Kiara’s trying to keep up, but she can only get bits and pieces of what the two are saying.

“I might be still drunk but I can hear you know.” That is a lie.

Harry’s eyes glance up to the rear view mirror. “Are you okay Kiara? He didn’t hurt you right?”

“No but I did hurt him. Slapped him. And if you didn’t come and interrupt I was about to kick him in the balls.” Kiara hiccups at the end of her sentence.

“She is right,” Trina agrees. “She is more of a fighter than she leads on to be.”

“Exactly!” Kiara yells. “So if you would have given me the chance I would have fucked him up.”

Harry, who was clenching his hand at the wheel during the whole drive, lets go and smiles. “I believe you Kiara.”

+++

Harry makes sure to walk Trina into her apartment safely, before helping Kiara to hers which was a challenge in itself because she can’t even walk in a straight line.

“Woah,” Harry says, wrapping his strong arms around Kiara’s waist trying to keep her balance. “How about you sit down on the bed?”

Harry helps Kiara walk into her bedroom and he slowly sits her down on her bed. Her hair is completely ruined, her dress slightly bunched up at her hips and her lips gloss slightly smudged. Harry thinks she looks beautiful. He is staring a little too long before he realizes he should help her take off her heels.

He gets down on one knee and his fingers begin to work on the claps of Kiara’s heels until she wraps her leg around Harry’s neck and pulls him closer to her thigh.

“Wine makes me horny.”

“I know,” Harry pushes himself away from her, no matter how tempting she looks, and goes back to undoing her heels. “But I think it would be smart if I get you to bed.”

“Why was that guy asking you for money?”

“Asking me anything but that.”

“Okay. Did you mean it?”

Harry slides one heel off her foot and looks up at her. “Mean what?”

“When we met.” He grabs Kiara’s other foot. “You said I was pretty. You meant it?”

Harry is silent for a couple seconds, his voice low. “Of course. Why would I be lying about that?”

Kiara shrugs as Harry glides her shoe off. “Guys are assholes. Well most guys are.”

“Mhmm. Where can I find some clothes for you?”

“Top drawer.” Kiara points at her dresser right in front of her bed. Harry walks over to get some clothes and places them on the side of her bed. “When I moved here I hooked up with this one guy from my class. I thought there was something going on between us ya know? He was nice at first. So I was gonna ask him if he wanted to go on a date because well, at that point we were hooking up. Turns out he had a girlfriend.”

“Sounds like a dick. Can I unzip your dress?”

Kiara nods her head and stands up hastily, turning around so her back is facing Harry. “I feel like I’m never good enough to be the girlfriend.” Harry listens closely as he zips Kiara’s dress slowly. Her delicate skin has goosebumps on it. When he gets all the way down to the top of her butt he pushes the dress off her shoulders, and allows her to step out of it.

“I’m good enough to hook up with. But never good enough to meet the parents or keep around longer than a couple weeks.” She turns around to face Harry, and grabs the shirt he picked out for her, throwing it over her head, and ignoring the pair of sweats he brought her, opting to stay in her underwear.

“So do you find me pretty in a fuckable way? Or do you find me pretty enough to keep me around longer than a few weeks?”

“Do you want me to answer that? Because you are really drunk, and my goal isn’t to scare you off.”

“Yes please,” she hiccups. “If you want to fuck around lets just be up front about it. Think I’ve gotten my hopes up about too many guys and I just wanna know.”

“Well I always think it's time for me to settle down,” Harry explains to her. “I’m twenty seven and my mum will not stop bugging me about it.” He laughs but Kiara stays silent. “I guess dating is just a bit confusing for me.”

“Confusing?” Kiara questions, tugging at the bottom of her shirt to make sure it is covering her butt.

“I really didn’t expect to be around this long. I’ve done a lot of stupid stuff Kiara, stuff that I really shouldn’t have done because it put my life at jeopardy. I think I never settled down because I didn’t think I was able to.”

“And what about now? Do you think you can settle down.”

Harry inhales and exhales quickly. “I’m not sure.”

“Okay.” Kiara turns her back to Harry and walks to her bed. She is definitely disappointed in his answer, but she knew she shouldn’t have gotten her hopes up.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t want to keep seeing you Kiara,” Harry quickly responds, breathlessly. “I want to take you to dinner.”

“You don’t have to pity me Harry-”

“I’m not pitying you,” Harry cuts her off. “I like you Kiara. You're a nice girl, beautiful too, and I mean that. My life can be… menacing to say the least. I like you enough not to drag you into my bullshit.”

Kiara tiredly rubs her eyes with the back of her hands. “What exactly is the bullshit?”

“It's my family business and my family… Well, they are interesting people.” That is all Harry could tell her without explicitly saying, “Instead of going into finance with my business degree from Columbia, I had to join my dad’s mafia and fix all his mistakes while he lives in a mansion, even though all I have ever wanted was to have absolutely nothing to do with the “‘family business.’”

“You seem like you don’t want to talk about it.” Kiara is now sitting with her knees up to her chest on her bed and Harry is towering over her small frame.

“No. I’m not a big fan of my past. But I want to get to know you, and you can get to know me. I’m busy with work, and sometimes it's hard for me to open up, but I’d really appreciate it if we took this slow.”

Kiara pouts. “So that means I can’t convince you to stay the night? Even if I suck you off?”

Harry smiles at her. “No.” He places a kiss on her forehead. “But I will come get you tomorrow at seven for dinner. Does that work?”

“Yes it does. Thanks for bringing me home tonight.”

“Anytime. I mean that.”

Kiara flips over to her side, hands resting underneath her head. “Drive safe.”

Harry is unsure about his life. In fact he is unsure about leaping into this with Kiara. He knows they aren’t dating, and that's good for him. He needs time to figure out his life. He knows if he wants to be in Kiara’s life, he has to pay off his fathers debt’s and get out of the mafia, or else he will never truly have the life he wants.

Right now, he can see a future with Kiara. He can see himself waking up next to her, making breakfast. He can see himself enjoying a domestic life with her.

He knows he can’t have that right now. But he sure is gonna work like hell for it. For her.

[harryforvogue]

ok @westcoastrry and i don’t love it but we hope the album has more real singing

[westcoastrry]

Suddenly she is French yall

[ghstyles]

[6] Scrub in | H.S

Pairing: Surgeon!Harry x Stuborn!internY/N

Summary: Harry Styles is a brilliant but infuriating surgeon who’s constantly butting heads with his stubborn intern. Their bickering is practically a daily surgery in itself.

A/n: Suprise!! Double update. This might include the storm I teased last chapter 😗

Masterlist

Read Part 1 here first

Part 1.5 in his POV

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Two weeks pass in a blur of stolen moments and heated glances across the OR.

They've become experts at maintaining professional distance during work hours, though Harry's eyes still track her movements during rounds, and Y/N catches herself staring at his hands more often than she should. The tension between them is palpable, electric, and she's certain the other residents have noticed even if they haven't said anything.

But the moment they're off the clock, all bets are off.

Tuesday night finds them at her apartment, takeout containers abandoned on the coffee table as Harry presses her into the couch cushions, his mouth hot against her throat.

"We were supposed to eat dinner," Y/N gasps as his hand slides under her shirt.

"We will. Eventually." His teeth graze her collarbone. "Right now I'm hungry for something else."

Thursday they barely make it through his front door before he's lifting her against the wall, her legs wrapped around his waist as he kisses her breathless.

Saturday afternoon they actually venture out into the city as Harry insists on taking her to some tucked-away bookshop he loves. They browse the stacks, his hand warm in hers, and he buys her a first edition of her favorite novel without her knowing until they're at the register.

"You didn't have to do that," she protests as they walk along the waterfront afterward.

"I wanted to." Harry pulls her closer, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Besides, watching your face light up when you found it was worth every penny."

That evening they end up back at his place, and he cooks for her again but this time attempting Thai food with mixed results.

"Okay, so maybe I'm not as good with curry as I am with pasta," he admits, surveying the slightly burned pad thai.

"It's perfect," Y/N assures him, and she means it. Not because the food is perfect, but because he tried, because he wanted to make something for her. They eat at his kitchen island, knees touching, trading bites and stories about their day. It feels domestic in a way that should terrify her but doesn't.

Sunday morning she wakes up in his bed. She's been staying over more often now, her overnight bag a permanent fixture by his dresser. Harry is already awake, propped up on one elbow watching her with soft eyes.

"Morning," he murmurs, brushing hair from her face.

"How long have you been staring at me?"

"Not long enough."

They spend the morning tangled in his sheets, taking their time, learning each other's bodies with lazy thoroughness. When they finally emerge, it's past noon and neither of them cares.

Monday brings them back to reality with separate cars to the hospital and professional distance in the hallways. But during a particularly long surgery, Harry's eyes meet hers over his mask, and she knows he's thinking about last night, about the sounds she made when he—

"Dr. Y/L/N, suction," Harry says, his voice perfectly clinical even as his gaze burns.

"Yes, Dr. Styles."

Wednesday they meet for lunch at a café three blocks from the hospital. It's risky, anyone could see them, but Harry insisted.

"I needed to see you," he explains, reaching across the table to lace his fingers with hers. "Eight hours is too long."

"We work together."

"Not the same." His thumb traces circles on her palm. "I can't do this at the hospital."

That night at her place, he proves exactly what he can't do at the hospital. Taking his time undressing her, worshipping every inch of skin, making her forget her own name.

Friday evening finds them walking through Central Park, bundled against the early autumn chill. Harry's arm is around her shoulders, and she's tucked into his side, and it feels so normal, so right, that she almost forgets they're supposed to be keeping this quiet.

"We should probably talk about it," Y/N says eventually. "About what we're doing. What this is."

Harry stops walking, turning to face her fully. "What do you want it to be?"

"I don't know. I just know I don't want it to end."

His expression softens, and he cups her face in both hands. "Neither do I. So let's not overthink it. We're together. We're happy. The rest we'll figure out as we go."

"What about the hospital? The rules?"

"I've been looking into it more." His thumbs stroke her cheekbones. "As long as I'm not directly supervising your evaluations or assignments, we're in the clear. I can recuse myself from anything involving your advancement."

"You'd do that?"

"Y/N, I'd do a lot more than that for you."

The honesty in his voice makes her chest tight. She pulls him down for a kiss, pouring everything she can't quite say yet into it.

She smiles against his lips, “Have you put in the request yet?” 

“Not yet, but I will” 

The hospital cafeteria is bustling with the usual lunch rush when Y/N slides into the booth across from Niall. He's already halfway through a sandwich, his scrubs rumpled from what was clearly a long morning in the pit.

"There she is," Niall grins, gesturing with his sandwich. "The elusive Dr. Y/L/N. I was starting to think you'd forgotten about your favorite Irish bastard."

"Never." Y/N unwraps her own lunch. A sad-looking salad that she's already regretting. "We've both been swamped."

"Swamped. Right." Niall's blue eyes gleam with mischief. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

Y/N keeps her expression neutral, stabbing at her lettuce. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, come off it. You've been practically glowing for two weeks. Either you've discovered some incredible new skincare routine, or—" He leans forward conspiratorially. "The sexual tension with Dr. Dreamy finally combusted."

She nearly chokes on her water.

"I'm right, aren't I?" Niall's grin widens. "Holy shit, you finally shagged him."

"Keep your voice down," Y/N hisses, glancing around the cafeteria. Thankfully, no one seems to be paying attention to them.

"So you admit it!"

She sighs, setting down her fork. "Fine. Yes. We're...seeing each other."

Niall sits back, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "I knew it. I fucking knew it. Louis owes me twenty quid."

"You bet on my love life?"

"Love life, is it?" He waggles his eyebrows. "So it's serious then?"

Y/N feels heat creep up her neck. "I don't know. Maybe. We're not putting labels on it."

"Y/N." Niall's teasing expression softens into something more genuine. "You know I'm happy for you, yeah? Even if he was a right prick to you for months."

"He wasn't—" She stops, reconsidering. "Okay, he was. But it's different now."

"Different how?" Niall takes another bite of his sandwich, watching her carefully. "Because I remember you coming to me almost in tears after he ripped apart your appendectomy technique in front of the entire surgical team."

Y/N winces at the memory. "That was months ago."

"And the time he made you redo your pre-op notes three times?"

"He was teaching me to be thorough."

"And when he—"

"Niall." She cuts him off gently. "I know. Trust me, I remember all of it. But something changed. In San Francisco, and then after...He's not like that anymore. Not with me."

Niall studies her face for a long moment. "You really like him."

"I really do."

"And he treats you well? Outside of work?"

A smile tugs at her lips before she can stop it. "He's...amazing, actually. Attentive and sweet and—"

"Please don't say romantic. I might actually vomit."

Y/N laughs. "Fine. But yes, he is. He cooks for me. Takes me to bookshops. He's—" She pauses, trying to find the right words. "He makes me feel special."

"Good." Niall's expression turns serious. "Because if he hurts you, attending or not, I'll kick his arse."

"Noted."

"So what's the plan? You two just sneaking around forever?"

"We're being careful at work. But he's looked into the hospital policies. As long as he's not directly evaluating me, we're okay."

Niall nods slowly. "And you trust him? To keep it professional when it needs to be?"

Y/N thinks about the surgery on Monday, the way Harry's eyes had met hers but his voice remained completely professional. The way he never shows favoritism, never goes easy on her just because they're together.

"I do. If anything, he's harder on me now. Holds me to a higher standard."

"Sounds exhausting."

"It is." She grins. "But in the best way."

Niall shakes his head, but he's smiling. "Look at you, all smitten. Never thought I'd see the day."

"Shut up."

"Does he know about all those times you used to rant about him? Because I have receipts. Text messages, voice memos—"

"Niall Horan, I swear to God—"

"I'm just saying, might be worth something. Blackmail material and all that."

Y/N throws a packet of dressing at him, which he dodges easily, laughing.

"Seriously though," Niall says once he's caught his breath. "I'm glad you're happy. You deserve it."

"Thanks, Ni."

"Just promise me one thing?"

"What?"

"If it goes south, you'll tell me. So I can either help fix it or help you key his car."

Y/N snorts. "Deal."

They fall into comfortable conversation about other things such as Niall's disaster of a Tinder date, a particularly difficult patient from the morning, and most important of all, hospital gossip. But as they're clearing their trays, Niall gives her a knowing look.

"So when do I get to give him the shovel talk?"

"Never."

"Come on, it's tradition. Best friend threatens the boyfriend—"

"He's not my boyfriend."

"Right. The man you're 'seeing' who cooks for you and takes you to bookshops and makes you glow like a bloody lighthouse." Niall grins. "Totally not your boyfriend."

Y/N's phone buzzes. She glances down to see a text from Harry.

Missing you. How much trouble would I get in if I pulled you into an on-call room?

She bites back a smile.

"That's him, isn't it?" Niall peers over her shoulder. "Christ, you're blushing."

"I am not."

"You absolutely are. This is disgusting. I love it."

Y/N shoves him playfully as they head toward the exit. "Don't you have patients to see?"

"Don't you have a secret boyfriend to snog in a supply closet?”

“Shut up, Niall."

As they round the corner toward the trash bins, Y/N nearly collides with someone coming from the opposite direction.

"Oh—sorry!" She steps back, then freezes when she recognizes who it is.

Daniella stands there with a bright smile, holding a bakery box. She's dressed in her usual polished style. Designer scrubs that somehow look runway-ready, her dark hair in a perfect ponytail.

"Y/N! Perfect timing." Daniella's smile doesn't waver. "I was hoping I'd run into you before I left."

Niall shifts beside her, his presence a quiet support.

"Left?" Y/N manages.

"Yes, today's my last day. I'm heading back to Johns Hopkins tomorrow." Daniella adjusts her grip on the box. Y/N was so occupied with Harry that she forgot about the day she had practically marked on her calendar. 

 "I wanted to say goodbye. And..." She pauses, her expression becoming more serious. "I owe you an apology."

Y/N blinks, caught off guard. "You do?"

"I do. I may have caused you some hurt during my time here, and that wasn't fair. You're a talented surgeon, and I shouldn't have—" She waves a hand vaguely. "Well. I'm sorry."

The apology feels rehearsed, but Y/N nods slowly. "Thank you."

"As a peace offering—" Daniella opens the box, revealing an assortment of muffins. "I got these for the whole department. But I saved a few special ones for you."

Niall leans in, eyeing the selection. "Are those chocolate chip?"

"They are." Daniella's smile returns. "Help yourself."

Niall doesn't need to be told twice, reaching for one of the chocolate muffins. "Cheers."

Y/N looks at the remaining muffins. Two left in what appears to be their own section of the box, separated slightly from the others.

"Go ahead," Daniella encourages. "I made sure to get extras just for you."

Something about the emphasis makes Y/N hesitate for just a moment, but she pushes the feeling aside. It's just muffins. She's being paranoid.

"Thank you." She takes both remaining ones. "What flavor are these?"

Daniella shrugs, her expression innocent. "I'm not entirely sure. The bakery had a mixed selection. But they looked good."

"I'm sure they are." Y/N tucks one into her pocket carefully. "I'll save one for Harry."

Something flashes across Daniella's face, too quick to read, before her smile returns. "How thoughtful. Well, I should get going. Lots to wrap up before I leave."

"Safe travels," Y/N offers.

"Thank you. And Y/N?" Daniella pauses. "Take care of yourself."

She walks away, her heels clicking against the linoleum floor.

Niall watches her go, then turns to Y/N with raised eyebrows. "That was weird, right?"

"Extremely."

"Since when does she do nice?" He takes a bite of his muffin. "These are good though."

Y/N looks down at the muffin in her hand, then at the one in her pocket meant for Harry. The gesture should feel kind, but instead it sits strangely in her gut.

"Yeah," she agrees quietly. "Weird."

Y/N makes her way through the cardiothoracic wing, the muffins still in hand. As she approaches Harry's office, Niall calls after her from down the hall.

"Remember…these walls aren't soundproof!"

She turns just long enough to flip him off with her free hand, making him laugh as he disappears around the corner.

She knocks once before entering Harry's office. He looks up from his computer, and his entire expression transforms. The stern attending melting into something warm and open.

"There you are." He's already standing, rounding his desk to meet her.

The moment the door clicks shut behind her, Harry pulls her in for a kiss that's far too heated for the middle of a workday. His hand cups the back of her neck, tilting her head to deepen it.

"Missed you," he murmurs against her lips.

"I was gone for forty-five minutes."

"Too long." He steals another kiss before finally pulling back. "How was lunch with Niall?"

"Good. Enlightening." She holds up one of the muffins. "Brought you something."

Harry eyes it warily. "What is it?"

"A muffin. Daniella gave them out to the department. She's heading back to Johns Hopkins."

Something shifts in Harry's expression at Daniella's name, but he masks it quickly. "That's...nice of her."

"I thought so too. Here." She offers it again.

"I just ate, actually." He pats his stomach. "Had that protein bowl from the cafeteria."

Y/N rolls her eyes. "Of course you did. Your obsession with micros and macros is getting out of hand."

"It's called maintaining peak performance," Harry defends, though there's amusement in his voice. "Some of us care about proper nutrition."

"Some of us also enjoy carbs."

"I enjoy carbs. In moderation. Calculated portions."

"You're annoyinh."

He grins, stealing a quick kiss. "You like it."

They settle into work as Harry pulls up several case files on his computer while Y/N perches on the edge of his desk. It's become their routine during these stolen moments: reviewing cases, discussing techniques, him teaching her things that go beyond what she'd learn in rounds.

"Look at this valve replacement," Harry says, turning the monitor so she can see better. "What would your approach be?"

Y/N leans in, studying the scans. As she talks through her surgical plan, she absently takes a bite of her muffin. It's good. Some kind of lemon flavor and a subtle nutty crunch.

Harry listens intently, occasionally interjecting with questions or suggestions. His hand finds her knee, thumb tracing absent patterns through her scrubs.

"Good," he says when she finishes. "Though I'd suggest a slightly different angle on the initial incision—"

She takes another bite, nodding as he explains. The conversation flows easily between them, professional and personal blurring in the privacy of his office.

By the time they've reviewed three cases, she's finished the first muffin and started on the second one she'd meant to save for Harry.

"These are actually really good," she comments, licking a crumb from her thumb.

Harry watches the gesture with dark eyes. "You're distracting."

"I'm eating a muffin."

"Distractingly." His hand slides higher on her thigh. "Should be illegal, the way you—"

His pager goes off, cutting him short. He groans, checking it.

"Trauma incoming. I need to scrub in." He stands reluctantly, but not before pulling her in for one more kiss. "Dinner tonight? My place?"

"Can't. I promised my mom I'd FaceTime her."

"Tomorrow then. And you're staying over."

"Bossy."

"Mhm" He says before kissing her cheek and heading for the door, but pauses to look back at her. "Lock up when you leave?"

"Will do."

She watches him go, finishing the last of the second muffin. Her stomach feels pleasantly full, warm. She gathers the case files they'd been reviewing, making notes on her tablet about the techniques Harry had shown her.

It's nearly 10 PM when Y/N finally hangs up with her mom. The conversation had run long as her mother wanted to know everything about work, about life, carefully not asking about whether Y/N was seeing anyone.

She's barely set her phone down before she's picking it back up, pulling up Harry's contact and hitting FaceTime.

He answers on the second ring, and the sight of him makes her smile. He's in bed already, shirtless, hair damp from a shower.

"Hey, love," he greets, his voice warm. "How was your mum?"

"Good. Exhausting." Y/N settles back against her pillows. "She spent twenty minutes telling me about my cousin's engagement. Very subtle hints about my own relationship status."

Harry chuckles. "Did you tell her you're seeing someone?"

"God, no. She'd have me married off by next week."

They fall into easy conversation. Harry telling her about the trauma case, a motorcyclist with a torn aorta. Y/N shares a funny story from rounds that morning. It's comfortable, natural.

Until it isn't.

"So Daniella's gone," Y/N mentions casually. "Back to Johns Hopkins."

Harry's expression shifts slightly. "Yeah, I heard."

"Did you talk to her before she left?"

"Briefly. She stopped by my office yesterday."

Something in his tone makes Y/N pause. "What did she want?"

"Just to say goodbye. Clear the air." He shrugs, but it doesn't look quite natural. "It was fine."

Y/N bites her lip, then decides to just say it. "Have you requested another evaluator for me yet?"

Harry's jaw tightens. "Not yet."

"Why not?"

"I've been busy, Y/N. It's not exactly a quick process—"

"You said you'd look into it two weeks ago." She sits up straighter. "What are you waiting for?"

"I said I'd handle it, and I will."

"When? Because last I checked, we're still breaking hospital policy every time we—" She stops herself, frustration building. "What are you waiting for? For us to get caught and this mess with my career?"

Harry's expression hardens. "Your career? You think I'd let anything happen to your career?"

"I think you're stalling. And I don't understand why."

"I'm not stalling. Christ, Y/N, I told you I'd take care of it."

"Saying you'll take care of it and actually doing it are two different things, Harry."

He runs a hand through his damp hair, clearly trying to keep his temper in check. "What exactly are you accusing me of?"

"I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm asking why you haven't done what you said you'd do."

"Because it's complicated!" His voice rises slightly. "I can't just snap my fingers and reassign your evaluations. There are protocols, paperwork, explanations I'd have to give—"

"Explanations you don't want to give."

"That's not—" He stops, jaw working. "I'm trying to protect both of us here."

"By doing nothing?"

"By being strategic about it. If I suddenly request to be removed from your evaluations with no good reason, people will ask questions. They'll start looking closer at both of us."

Y/N feels her chest tighten. "So what, we just keep hiding? Keep pretending at work while we're together everywhere else?"

"That's what we agreed to."

"No, we agreed you'd handle the evaluation situation so we wouldn't be in violation of hospital policy. But you haven't handled it, Harry. You've just...avoided it."

His eyes flash with anger now. "I've been a little busy keeping people alive, Y/N. Forgive me if navigating hospital bureaucracy to protect our relationship wasn't at the top of my priority list."

The words sting more than they should.

"Right. Because that's what this is about. You being too busy. Not about you being afraid to actually commit to making this work properly."

Harry's expression goes cold. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you want all the benefits of being together without any of the actual work of making it legitimate."

"I cook you dinner. I take you out. I—" He stops himself, clearly biting back something harsh. "I'm doing everything I can here."

"Except the one thing I actually asked you to do."

Silence stretches between them, tense and uncomfortable.

"Maybe..." Harry's voice is quieter now, but there's an edge to it. "Maybe you should have thought about all this before we started sleeping together."

Y/N feels like she's been slapped. "Excuse me?"

"You knew the situation. You knew it would be complicated. But you wanted this just as much as I did."

"Don't you dare put this all on me. You're the attending, Harry. You're the one who should have been thinking about the consequences."

"I did think about them. I'm still thinking about them. That's why I'm being careful—"

"You're not being careful, you're being a coward."

The word hangs in the air between them.

Harry's face goes completely blank, his voice dropping to something dangerously calm. "I think we're done here."

"Harry—"

"No. You want to call me a coward? Fine. But I'm not doing this right now." His finger moves toward the end call button. "We'll talk when you've calmed down."

"Don't you dare hang up on me—"

But he does.

The screen goes black, and Y/N is left staring at her own reflection, heart pounding, chest tight with anger and hurt and something that feels uncomfortably like regret.

She throws her phone onto the bed, pressing her palms against her eyes. What the hell just happened?

Y/N arrives at the hospital the next morning with dark circles under her eyes. She'd barely slept, replaying the fight over and over in her head. Part of her wants to apologize. The other part is still furious that he hung up on her.

She spots Harry almost immediately. He's at the nurses' station reviewing charts, surrounded by the usual morning chaos of the cardiothoracic wing. Their eyes meet across the corridor. And he looks away.

Not just a casual glance-away. A deliberate, pointed dismissal.

Y/N's stomach drops.

She approaches the station, keeping her expression neutral despite the way her heart is hammering. "Dr. Styles, I wanted to discuss the valve replacement scheduled for this afternoon—"

"Dr. Chen will be scrubbing in on that case." Harry doesn't look up from his chart. "Check with him for details."

His voice is perfectly professional. Perfectly cold.

"But you said yesterday I could—"

"Plans change." He finally meets her eyes, and there's nothing in them. No warmth, no anger, just...nothing. "I need someone with more experience for this particular procedure."

The words land like a punch. More experience. As if their entire relationship, professional and personal, has been erased overnight.

Madison, one of the nurses, glances between them with raised eyebrows.

Y/N forces herself to nod. "Understood."

She turns to walk away, but Harry's voice stops her.

"Dr. Y/L/N."

Hope flares stupidly in her chest as she turns back.

"Your post-op notes from Tuesday's CABG were incomplete. I need them on my desk by noon."

The hope dies.

"They were complete. I submitted them Wednesday morning."

"They were insufficient." He finally looks at her fully, and the blank professionalism in his gaze makes her want to scream. "Redo them. Include detailed analysis of the bypass grafts and post-operative hemodynamics."

This is bullshit. Those notes were thorough. She'd spent an extra hour on them specifically because she knew Harry would review them.

"Of course, Dr. Styles." She keeps her voice level through sheer force of will. "Anything else?"

"That's all."

He turns back to his charts, effectively dismissing her. Y/N walks away before she says something she'll regret. Her hands are shaking slightly as she pulls out her phone, firing off a text to Niall.

He's ignoring me. Actually fucking ignoring me.

Who? Prince Charming?

He's being a complete child. Won't even look at me.

What happened?

We fought last night. He hung up on me. Now he's acting like I don't exist.

Christ. Want me to accidentally spill coffee on him?

Despite everything, she almost smiles.

Tempting. But no.

The morning drags on. Every time Y/N sees Harry, he either ignores her completely or treats her with the kind of distant professionalism he'd shown before everything changed.

During rounds, he calls on every other resident except her. When she tries to present a case, he cuts her off halfway through and has someone else finish.

It's petty. It's childish. And it hurts more than she wants to admit. By lunch, she's oscillating between wanting to corner him in his office and demand they talk like adults, and wanting to key his stupidly expensive car.

She finds Niall in the cafeteria, dropping into the seat across from him with more force than necessary.

"He's a man child," she announces. "An actual man child."

"That bad?"

"He pulled me from a surgery I was supposed to scrub in on. Told me my post-op notes, which were perfect by the way, need to be redone. Won't even make eye contact with me."

Niall winces. "What did you fight about?"

Y/N sighs, pushing her untouched salad around. "I asked him why he hasn't requested another evaluator yet. Like he said he would. It escalated."

"How badly?"

"I may have called him a coward."

"Ah." Niall nods sagely. "Yeah, that'll do it."

"He hung up on me, Niall. Who does that?"

"Apparently Dr. Styles does." He takes a bite of his sandwich. "So what are you going to do?"

"I don't know. Part of me wants to apologize. The other part wants to throw his precious protein bowl at his head."

"Both valid options."

Y/N's phone buzzes. For a stupid, hopeful second, she thinks it might be Harry.

It's not. It's a notification about a staff meeting.

She drops her phone on the table with more force than necessary. "When did he become like this? The Harry I've been seeing for the past two weeks would never—"

"Maybe that's the problem," Niall says gently. "You've been seeing the version of him he is with you. Behind closed doors. But at work? He's still Dr. Styles. Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery. And when he feels threatened or hurt, he falls back on what he knows."

"Being an asshole?"

"Being in control." Niall shrugs. "Look, I'm not defending him. He's being a dick. But you did hit a nerve."

Y/N knows he's right. Doesn't make it hurt less.

"I just want him to talk to me," she admits quietly. "Like an adult. Not...whatever this is."

"So make him."

"How? He won't even look at me."

Niall grins. "Then make it impossible for him not to."

By 2 PM, Y/N had had enough.

She marches through the cardiothoracic wing with purpose, her jaw set. When she reaches Harry's office, she doesn't knock, just pushes the door open.

Harry looks up from his computer, surprise flashing across his face before it hardens into that same blank professionalism.

"Dr. Y/L/N. I don't recall scheduling—"

"We need to talk." She closes the door behind her with a decisive click.

"I'm busy."

"I don't care." She crosses her arms. "You don't get to do this."

Harry leans back in his chair, his expression cool. "Do what, exactly?"

"This. Ignore me all day, pull me from surgeries, treat me like I'm incompetent—"

"I'm treating you like any other resident."

"Bullshit." The word comes out sharp. "You're punishing me because I called you out last night."

His jaw tightens. "I'm doing my job."

"Your job? Your job is to throw away two weeks of—" She stops herself, lowering her voice. "You hung up on me. You won't even look at me. And now you're acting like I'm just another intern who can't do anything right."

Harry stands, planting his hands on his desk. "Maybe if you hadn't accused me of being afraid to commit—"

"I asked you a legitimate question!"

"You called me a coward." His voice rises to match hers. "In the middle of a conversation about me trying to protect both our careers, you called me a fucking coward."

"Because you are being one! You said you'd handle the evaluation situation and you haven't—"

"I told you it's complicated—"

"It's not that complicated, Harry! You're just scared—"

"Scared?" He comes around the desk, anger finally breaking through that professional mask. "I've been navigating this entire situation while you've been—what? Questioning my commitment? My intentions?"

"Your actions! Or lack thereof!"

"I've been careful. Strategic. Making sure we don't both end up fucked by this—"

"By doing nothing!"

"By not rushing into something that could destroy everything we've both worked for!" Harry's voice echoes off the walls. "But clearly that's not good enough for you—"

"Don't twist this around. I'm not asking you to rush into anything, I'm asking you to do what you said you'd—"

The overhead speaker crackles to life, cutting through their argument.

"All surgical staff report to Conference Room B immediately. Mandatory meeting. All surgical staff to Conference Room B."

They both freeze, chests heaving, staring at each other across the small space.

Harry runs a hand through his hair, that muscle in his jaw still working. "We have to go."

"We're not done—"

"We have to go." He's already moving toward the door, his professional mask sliding back into place like armor.

Y/N follows, frustration coiling tight in her chest.

Conference Room B is packed when they arrive. Surgeons from every department crowd in: cardiothoracic, neuro, general, ortho. The energy in the room is tense, confused.

Y/N spots Niall near the back and makes her way over. Harry positions himself near the front with the other attendings.

"What's going on?" she whispers to Niall.

"No idea. But it must be serious if they're pulling everyone."

Dr. Morrison, the Chief of Surgery, stands at the front of the room. She's a stern woman in her sixties, known for running the surgical program with an iron fist.

"Thank you all for gathering on short notice." Her voice cuts through the murmuring. "I'll keep this brief. Effective immediately, all surgical staff will undergo random drug testing."

A ripple of surprise moves through the room.

"This is a routine measure," Morrison continues. "Part of our ongoing commitment to patient safety and professional standards. Testing will begin today and continue over the next week. You'll each receive notification of your testing time. Failure to comply or a positive result will result in immediate suspension pending investigation."

Y/N doesn't think much of the drug testing announcement. She's never touched anything, not even during the stress of med school. It's routine, she tells herself. Just hospital protocol.

She's one of the first called that afternoon. A quick trip to the testing facility on the second floor, a urine sample, and she's back to work within twenty minutes.

The rest of her shift passes in a blur of post-op checks and chart reviews. She actively avoids Harry, and he seems content to do the same. The fight from his office still sits heavy in her chest, unresolved.

By 7 PM, she's exhausted, both emotionally and physically. She heads to the locker room to change, looking forward to going home, taking a long shower, and maybe stress-eating an entire pint of ice cream. She's just pulled her scrub top over her head when the locker room door slams open with enough force to make her jump. Harry storms in, his face thunderous.

"Are you fucking mental?" he demands, crossing the space between them in three long strides.

Y/N clutches her scrub top to her chest, more shocked by his sudden appearance than his anger. "Excuse me?"

"Don't play dumb with me right now—"

"Oh, so you're talking to me now?" She crosses her arms, anger from earlier flooding back. "Spent all day pretending I didn't exist, but now you want to have a conversation?"

"This isn't a joke, Y/N." His voice is low, dangerous. "Why the fuck is your test positive?!"

The words don't register at first. "What?"

"Your drug test. It came back positive. For opiates."

The world tilts slightly.

"That's impossible."

"Morrison just called me into her office. Showed me the results herself." Harry's hands flex at his sides. "You want to tell me what the hell is going on?"

"Nothing is going on! I don't—I've never—" Her mind races. "There has to be a mistake. A lab error or—"

"The lab doesn't make mistakes like this."

"Well they did this time because I haven't taken anything!" Her voice rises. "I don't even take Tylenol unless I absolutely have to!"

Harry studies her face, and she can see him trying to read her, trying to determine if she's lying.

"Harry." She drops her arms, meeting his eyes directly. "I swear to you, I haven't taken anything. This doesn't make sense."

Some of the anger drains from his expression, replaced by something closer to concern. "When was the last time you were in the med room? Had access to any controlled substances?"

"I—" She tries to think. "Two days ago? I assisted on that thoracotomy, helped log the fentanyl dosage. But I didn't take anything."

"Who else was there?"

"Dr. Chen, two nurses, you..." She trails off. "Harry, what's happening?"

He runs both hands through his hair, pacing away from her. "Morrison wants to suspend you pending investigation. I convinced her to give us twenty-four hours to figure out what happened."

Suspended. The word makes her stomach drop.

"This will destroy my career." She whispers 

"It won't. We'll fix this." But he doesn't sound entirely convinced.

"How? If the test came back positive—"

"Then we retest. Request a confirmation test. The initial screening can have false positives." He's already pulling out his phone. "I'll call the lab, demand they run it again with a more specific test."

"And if it comes back positive again?"

"It won't." His certainty wavers for just a second. "Have you eaten anything unusual? Taken any medication, even over-the-counter? Supplements?"

Y/N shakes her head. "Nothing. I had coffee this morning, the salad from the cafeteria for lunch—"

"Any prescription medications?"

"Just birth control."

Harry's jaw works as he thinks. "We'll document everything. Every meal, every drink, everywhere you've been for the past seventy-two hours."

"This is insane."

"I know." He moves closer, his voice softening slightly. "But we're going to figure it out. I'm not letting this ruin you."

Everything started to weigh on here. The fight, the anger, the hurt, Y/N feels tears prick her eyes. It all crashes over her at once: their argument last night, Harry's cold treatment all day, and now this nightmare that could destroy everything she's worked for.

Her hands start to shake.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, her voice breaking. "About last night. Calling you a coward. I was angry and—"

The tears spill over before she can stop them. Four years of medical school, two years of residency, every sacrifice, every sleepless night, every patient she's fought for, all of it could be gone because of a test result that makes no sense.

Harry stands frozen for a moment, watching her fall apart. His mind is racing…if he'd already switched her evaluator back when he'd promised, this would be so much simpler. He could advocate for her without anyone questioning his motives. But now? Now they'd think he was being biased. Protecting his...what? His girlfriend? His intern he was sleeping with?

The guilt hits him all at once

This is his fault. Not the positive test, but the position she's in now, vulnerable and alone because he'd been too cautious, too afraid of the complications.

"Y/N—" His voice cracks slightly.

"My career is over." She's spiraling now, the words tumbling out between sobs. "Even if we prove it's a false positive, there'll always be questions. People will always wonder. And my parents—god, my parents—"

"Stop." Harry closes the distance between them, his hands coming up to cup her face. "Look at me."

She does, her eyes swimming with tears.

"I'm going to fix this," he says firmly. "Do you hear me? I will fix this."

"How? You can't just—"

"I don't know yet. But I will." His thumbs brush away her tears. "I'll call in every favor I have. I'll get the best lawyers, the best lab techs. I'll tear this hospital apart if I have to."

"Why?" The question comes out small, broken. "I thought you were mad at me."

Harry's expression softens, and something in his chest cracks open.

"Because I love you," he says quietly. "And I'll be damned if I sit around while this is happening to you. Argument be damned."

Y/N's breath catches. "What?"

"I love you." The words come easier the second time. "I'm an idiot and an asshole and you were right. I should have handled the evaluation situation weeks ago. But I love you, and I'm not letting this destroy you."

Fresh tears spill down her cheeks, but these feel different.

"You hung up on me."

"I know. I'm sorry." His forehead drops to rest against hers. "I was hurt and angry and I handled it like a complete prick. Ignoring you all day, pulling you from surgeries—" He exhales roughly. "I was punishing you because you hit a nerve. Because you were right."

"I shouldn't have called you a coward."

"Maybe not. But you weren't wrong." His hands slide down to her shoulders. "I've been stalling. Making excuses. Because changing your evaluator makes this real in a way that scared me. Makes us official in the eyes of the hospital."

"And now?"

"Now I don't give a fuck what the hospital thinks." His voice hardens with determination. "First thing tomorrow, I'm requesting the evaluator change. And then I'm fighting this drug test result with everything I have."

Y/N lets out a shaky breath, her hands coming up to grip his wrists. "I really didn't take anything."

"I know you didn't." There's not a trace of doubt in his voice. "Which means someone made a mistake, or something contaminated the sample, or—" He stops, jaw tightening. "Or someone did this deliberately."

"Who would—"

"I don't know yet. But we're going to find out." He pulls back slightly to meet her eyes. "I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"

She nods, even though fear still coils tight in her stomach.

"Good." Harry's expression shifts into something more clinical, more focused. "Go home. Get some rest. I'm going to make some calls."

"It's almost eight at night—"

"I don't care what time it is." He kisses her forehead, lingering there for a moment. "I'm calling Morrison. I'll push for a secondary test. Hair follicle analysis. Results take a few days, but it'll show your actual usage pattern over the past three months. It's more comprehensive, harder to dispute."

His hands slide down her arms, gentle and reassuring.

"What if she says no?"

"She won't. Not when I explain the stakes." Harry's voice is soft but certain. "And if she does, I'll go over her head. I'll call the board if I have to."

Y/N's lower lip trembles. "You'd really do that?"

"Baby, I'd do a hell of a lot more than that." He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch achingly tender. "You think I'm going to let some bullshit test result destroy the woman I love? Not a chance."

There it is again. That word. Love.

"You really mean it?" she whispers. "You're not just saying it because—"

"I mean it." He cups her face again, making sure she's looking at him. "I love you. I've definitely loved you since San Francisco, maybe even before that. I was just too stubborn and scared to admit it."

"I love you too," she whispers, the words tumbling out before she can stop them. "I've been so scared to say it, but I do. I love you."

Harry's expression softens completely, all the hard edges melting away.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." A watery laugh escapes her. "Even when you're being an asshole. Even when you ignore me all day like a child."

"Christ, I'm sorry about that." He pulls her closer, wrapping his arms around her. "I was hurt and stupid and—fuck, I wasted an entire day being angry when I could have been—"

"It's okay."

"It's not." He presses his lips to her hair. "But I'm going to make it up to you. Starting with fixing this mess."

She burrows into his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with hospital antiseptic.

"I love you," he murmurs against her hair.  "I love how brilliant you are. How you challenge me even when it drives me mental. How you care about every single patient like they're family." His voice drops lower, more intimate. "I love the way you scrunch your nose when you're concentrating. How you steal my coffee even though you have your own. How you look in my shirts in the morning."

Fresh tears slide down her cheeks, but she's almost smiling now.

"I love you," he repeats, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, then her temple, then the corner of her mouth. "And we're going to get through this. Okay?"

"Okay." The word comes out shaky but trusting.

"Now go home. Take a shower, try to eat something." His hands slide down to squeeze hers. "I'm going to make some calls, do some digging. I'll text you updates."

"Harry—"

"And tomorrow?" He cuts her off gently. "Tomorrow we fight back. But tonight, I need you to rest. Can you do that for me?"

She nods, even though she's not sure she'll be able to sleep.

"That's my girl." He kisses her properly this time, slow and sweet and full of promise. "I've got you. I promise."

When he pulls back, his green eyes are fierce with determination.

"No one hurts you and gets away with it. No one."

🏷️: @triski73 @angeldavis777 @ivegotthecinema @bethiegurl19 @sstylezzz @myfavfanficsever @spinninc  @fruity-harry @maddiemikaelson28 @notsosweetcreature @cinema-fics @sassamanda77 @watarmelon212 @pillkits @readingrockstar23 @mema10 @slutfortigertattoo @stylesftcher @f1and1d4eva @cowboylikelivie @run-for-the-hills @silastylesswift @cherreigh @okdenmepolinoiazei @bibliophile369 @gilwm @puzio19 @witch-rry @matildasatellite @hookedonromance @fangirl509east @mads3502 @gem1712 @panicattheeverywherekid @myharrington @maladaptivescorpio @ggaayyystar @mothersversiononly @aileen1237 @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @hermionelove @harryskiwijuice @pari-1 @angelbunny222 @berrycherry28 @lilfreakjez @sideboobrry11 @couldntwantyoumore @preferstyles @sarahs-house @fleuretpluie @harrystylesconcepts @stormsaresupercool @wildcstdrexms

[ghstyles]

[4] Scrub in | H.S

Pairing: Surgeon!Harry x Stuborn!internY/N

Summary: Harry Styles is a brilliant but infuriating surgeon who’s constantly butting heads with his stubborn intern. Their bickering is practically a daily surgery in itself.

A/n: Thank you all for all the love these two. Thank you for your patience while i took a break from Tumblr. To make up for it, this part is extra long. Hope you enjoy :)

Masterlist

Read Part 1 here first

Part 1.5 in his POV

Part 2

part 3

Harry strides down the corridor toward his office, his jaw tight with tension he's been holding since leaving the residents' lounge. The look on Y/N's face when he'd used her title, that flicker of hurt she'd tried to conceal, haunts him with every step.

He'd done the right thing. The professional thing. The only thing that made sense given their positions.

So why does he feel like he's made a terrible mistake?

He pushes open his office door, already loosening his tie, and stops short at the sight of Louis sprawled in his desk chair and Zayn perched on the edge of his bookshelf, both wearing identical expressions of barely contained amusement.

"Gentlemen," Harry says flatly, closing the door behind him. "To what do I owe the pleasure of finding you've invaded my office?"

Louis glances around, exaggeratedly checking his watch before leaning back in the chair. "Should I be worried we didn’t make an appointment? "

Harry rolls his eyes, dropping his bag onto the desk with a dull thud. "Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t do appointments. This isn’t office hours."

"Ah," Louis nods solemnly. "So we’re trespassing on personal time. Even better."

"We heard you were back from San Francisco," Louis adds, spinning lazily in the chair. "Thought we’d pop by and see how our favorite cardiothoracic surgeon survived three whole days away from his precious OR."

"And with such...interesting company," Zayn adds, his dark eyes glinting with mischief.

Harry moves to his filing cabinet, deliberately keeping his back to them as he retrieves a patient folder he doesn't actually need. "The conference was productive. Dr. Y/L/N's presentation was well-received. The networking opportunities were valuable."

"That's it?" Louis exchanges a look with Zayn. "Productive? Valuable? You sound like you're writing a grant report, mate."

"What else would you like me to say?" Harry asks, finally turning to face them, his expression carefully blank. "It was a medical conference. We attended panels, presented research, made professional connections."

Zayn pulls out his phone, scrolling through something with exaggerated casualness. "Funny, because I heard from Dr. Grey over there that you and your 'colleague' performed quite the heroic rescue at some fancy restaurant. Saved a man's life right there between courses."

Harry's composure wavers slightly. "Word travels fast in the medical community."

"It does," Louis agrees, leaning forward with predatory interest. "Especially when the notoriously solitary Dr. Styles is spotted having an intimate dinner with his gorgeous surgical intern, then rushing off together to play hero."

"It wasn't intimate," Harry says, perhaps too quickly. "It was a professional dinner to discuss her research trajectory."

"At 9 PM?" Zayn raises an eyebrow. "At a restaurant that requires reservations three weeks in advance?"

"I happened to have a connection," Harry deflects, moving to stand by the window, looking out at the hospital grounds rather than meeting their knowing gazes.

Louis and Zayn exchange another loaded glance.

"Pay up," Louis says, holding out his hand toward Zayn.

"Not yet," Zayn counters. "The bet was whether something happened, not whether they had dinner."

"What bet?" Harry turns, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

"Oh, just a friendly wager," Louis says breezily. "I bet Zayn five hundred quid that you'd finally make a move on Dr. Y/L/N during this trip. He thought you were too emotionally constipated to act on your feelings."

"I do not have feelings for— " Harry begins.

"Harry." Zayn's voice is gentle but firm. "We've known you for seven years. We've watched you date exactly two people in that time, one of whom you dumped because they 'didn't challenge you intellectually.' And now there's this brilliant, beautiful resident who argues with you in the OR, who pushes back against every criticism, who you can't seem to stop talking about..."

"I don't talk about her that much," Harry protests weakly.

"Last month you spent an entire surgery telling me about how she'd identified a complication you'd missed in a pre-op scan," Louis points out. "You were practically glowing with pride."

"That was professional admiration for a promising surgeon," Harry insists, but even he can hear how hollow the words sound.

Zayn hops down from the bookshelf, approaching Harry with the careful movements of someone approaching a skittish animal. "What happened in San Francisco, Harry? Really?"

The silence stretches between them. Harry turns back to the window, his reflection showing the conflict playing out across his features.

"We kissed," he admits finally, the words barely audible. "The night of the cardiac event. We went back to the hotel, she came to my room because neither of us could sleep, and we..." He runs a hand through his hair, disrupting its careful styling. "It just happened."

"YES!" Louis pumps his fist in the air. "Pay up, Malik!"

Zayn ignores him, his attention focused on Harry. "And then what?"

"Then we fell asleep," Harry continues, his voice strained. "We overslept, nearly missed our flight, didn't have time to talk about it. And now..."

"Now you're pretending it never happened," Zayn finishes, realization dawning on his face. "That's why you've been walking around like someone killed your favorite patient all morning."

"I'm her supervisor," Harry says, finally voicing the justification he's been clinging to. "There are ethical considerations. Power dynamics. Hospital policies. My entire reputation— "

"Bollocks," Louis interrupts, standing up from the chair with sudden intensity. "That's bollocks and you know it."

Harry turns, surprised by the sharpness in his friend's tone.

"You're not hiding behind professionalism because you're worried about ethics," Louis continues, moving closer. "You're hiding because you're terrified. Because for the first time in years, you actually feel something for someone, and that scares the hell out of you."

"Louis— " Harry begins.

"No, he's right," Zayn interjects. "Harry, I watched you after your breakuo. I watched you build walls so high that no one could get close enough to hurt you again. And I understood it, I did. But it's been five years. At some point, you have to let yourself live again."

Harry's jaw tightens at the mention of his last relationship. It was a topic they rarely discussed. "This is different. She's a resident. My resident."

"She's also an adult who can make her own choices," Louis points out. "And from what you've described, she chose to kiss you back. So what did you do today? How did you handle seeing her?"

Harry's silence is answer enough.

"Oh, Harry," Zayn groans, covering his face with his hand. "Please tell me you didn't go full Ice King on her."

"I maintained appropriate professional boundaries," Harry says stiffly.

"Which translates to: you treated her like she meant nothing after sharing an intimate moment," Louis says, his voice rising with frustration. "Do you have any idea how that must have felt for her? She probably thinks you used her, or that you regret it, or that she imagined the whole connection— "

"I didn't use her," Harry snaps, genuine anger flashing in his eyes. "I would never— "

"Then act like it!" Louis throws his hands up. "For God's sake, Harry, you're a grown man. You can navigate a complicated situation without resorting to emotional avoidance."

"What the hell do you want me to do?" Harry demands. "Declare my intentions in front of the entire surgical staff? Pull her into an on-call room and— "

"Talk to her," Zayn says simply. "Like a human being. Acknowledge what happened. Tell her how you feel. Figure it out together instead of making unilateral decisions about what's best for both of you."

Harry sinks into the chair Louis vacated, suddenly looking exhausted. "What if I've already ruined it? You should have seen her face when I called her 'Dr. Y/L/N.' Like I'd slapped her."

"Then you apologize," Louis says, his tone softening slightly. "You explain that you panicked, that you handled it badly, that you need time to figure out how to navigate this. But you don't just pretend it never happened and hope she'll forget."

"She won't forget," Zayn adds quietly. "And neither will you. The only question is whether you're going to let fear ruin something that could be genuinely good for both of you."

Harry stares at his hands, the same hands that had cradled Y/N's face so gently the night before, that had held hers as they fell asleep. "I don't know how to do this," he admits, his voice rough. "I don't know how to be...that person anymore. The one who takes risks, who lets people in."

"You start by trying," Louis says, settling onto the arm of the chair beside him. "And maybe by not being a complete wanker to the woman you clearly care about."

Zayn moves to Harry's other side, placing a hand on his shoulder. "She's not your ex, Harry. She's not going to leave because you showed vulnerability. From everything you've told us about her, she's the type who'd respect you more for it."

Harry considers their words, the weight of his behavior settling heavily on his conscience. He thinks of Y/N's face in the residents' lounge. The hope that had flickered there briefly before he'd extinguished it with his coldness.

"I need to talk to her," he says finally.

"Yes, you do," Louis agrees. "Preferably before she decides you're not worth the emotional whiplash and moves on."

Harry nods slowly, a plan beginning to form in his mind. "Tomorrow. After the Zimmer surgery. I'll ask her to stay behind, and we'll...talk."

"Actual talking," Zayn emphasizes. "With words and feelings and honesty. Not your version of talking, which usually involves medical jargon and emotional deflection."

Despite everything, Harry feels a small smile tugging at his lips. "I'll do my best."

"That's all we ask," Louis says, clapping him on the shoulder. "Now, about that five hundred quid Zayn owes me..."

"The bet was that something would happen AND that Harry would handle it like a functional adult," Zayn argues. "He's only fulfilled half the criteria so far."

"I hate you both," Harry mutters, but there's no heat in it.

"You love us," Louis corrects cheerfully. "We're the only ones who tell you the truth. Speaking of which, don't mess this up, Styles. Dr. Y/L/N is one of the best residents this hospital has seen in years, and more importantly, she makes you act like an actual human being instead of a surgical robot. That's worth protecting."

Harry nods, the gravity of the situation settling over him. "I know. Believe me, I know."

As Louis and Zayn finally leave his office, Harry turns back to the window, watching the afternoon light shift across the hospital grounds. Somewhere in this building, Y/N is going about her duties, probably convinced that he doesn't care about her at all.

Tomorrow, he'll fix this. He has to.

Because the alternative of losing her before he ever really had her is unthinkable.

The Zimmer surgery runs nearly seven hours of meticulous work on a particularly complex aortic root replacement. Harry is in peak form, his hands steady and precise, his instructions clear and measured. Y/N assists with focused determination, refusing to let her personal turmoil affect her performance in the OR.

When they finally close, Harry strips off his gloves and turns to the assembled team. "Excellent work, everyone. Dr. Y/L/N, a word in my office when you've finished post-op notes?"

It's not a question, and Y/N feels her stomach flip at the request. "Of course, Dr. Styles."

She takes her time with the notes, partly out of professional thoroughness and partly to steel herself for whatever conversation awaits. By the time she makes her way to Harry's office on the fourth floor, nearly an hour has passed.

As she rounds the corner toward his door, she nearly collides with a woman walking in the same direction. She was tall, elegant, and with sleek dark hair pulled back in a sophisticated chignon and the kind of effortless poise that comes from years of confidence. She's dressed impeccably in a tailored blazer and silk blouse, a visitor's badge clipped to her lapel.

"Oh, excuse me," the woman says, her smile polished and professional. "I'm looking for Dr. Styles's office?"

"It's just here," Y/N replies, gesturing to the door they're both standing in front of. "I was actually headed there myself."

The woman's perfectly shaped eyebrows rise slightly. "Ah, well, I have an appointment with him. Daniela Marx." She extends a manicured hand. "I'm an old colleague."

Y/N shakes it, noting the firmness of the grip, the subtle assessment in the woman's gaze. "Dr. Y/N Y/L/N. Surgical resident."

"A resident," Daniela repeats, something unreadable flickering across her features. "How lovely. Harry always did have an eye for talent."

The casual use of his first name sends something cold settling in Y/N's chest. An appointment. Of course. Whatever Harry wanted to discuss with her clearly wasn't urgent enough to block out time for someone else. Someone who apparently knew him well enough to call him 'Harry' without hesitation.

Y/N steps back from the door, her decision crystallizing in an instant. "Please, go ahead. I'm sure Dr. Styles is expecting you. I can speak with him another time."

"Are you certain?" Daniela asks, though she's already reaching for the door handle. "I wouldn't want to interrupt anything important."

The words feel pointed somehow, though Y/N can't pinpoint exactly why.

"It's nothing that can't wait," Y/N says, forcing a professional smile. "Nice to meet you, Dr. Marx."

She turns and walks away before Daniela can respond, her heels clicking against the linoleum with measured precision even as her heart pounds erratically in her chest. She doesn't look back, doesn't allow herself to wonder what Harry's face will look like when Daniela walks in instead of her.

It doesn't matter. Clearly, she'd been foolish to think their conversation was a priority.

Niall finds her in the cafeteria twenty minutes later, stabbing viciously at a salad she has no intention of eating.

"There you are," he says, sliding into the seat across from her. "So? How did the big conversation go?"

"It didn't," Y/N mutters, spearing a tomato with unnecessary force.

Niall's eyebrows shoot up. "What do you mean it didn't? I thought he asked you to meet him after surgery?"

"He did. But when I got there, some woman showed up for an 'appointment' with him." She makes air quotes with her fingers, nearly flinging her fork across the cafeteria. "So I left."

"You left?" Niall stares at her incredulously. "Without even checking what was going on?"

Niall's expression shifts from curious to exasperated as she finishes. "So let me get this straight. Harry finally asks to speak with you privately, which is exactly what you wanted, and you just...walked away? Because some random woman showed up?"

"She had an appointment," Y/N protests. "I wasn't going to interrupt— "

"Y/N." Niall leans forward, his blue eyes serious. "He asked you to come to his office. That means he wanted to talk to you. Whatever this other woman wanted, it probably wasn't more important than finally having the conversation you've been agonizing over for two days."

"You didn't see her," Y/N mutters. "She was...polished. Confident. Called him 'Harry' like they were old friends."

"And that intimidated you?" Niall asks incredulously. "You, who argues with the man in the middle of surgery? "

"That's different. That's professional."

"That's you being a coward," Niall says bluntly. "You're looking for excuses not to have this conversation because you're scared of what he might say."

Y/N opens her mouth to argue, then closes it again. He's not wrong.

"What if he was going to tell me it was a mistake?" she asks quietly. "What if he asked me there to formally establish that nothing happened and nothing ever will?"

"Then at least you'd know," Niall replies, echoing his words from the night before. "But you won't find out by running away every time things get uncomfortable."

Before Y/N can respond, her pager buzzes with a summons to the main conference room for an emergency team briefing.

"Saved by the bell," Niall says dryly, standing up. "But this conversation isn't over."

The conference room is already filling with surgical staff when Y/N arrives, residents and attendings alike finding seats around the large table. She spots Harry at the front of the room, his expression characteristically unreadable, and carefully positions herself near the back, partially obscured by Dr. Max's considerable height.

What she doesn't expect is to see Daniela Marx standing beside him, now wearing a white coat with hospital credentials.

"Thank you all for coming on short notice," Harry begins, his voice carrying easily through the room. "I wanted to introduce someone who will be joining us for the next several weeks. Dr. Daniela Marx is a cardiothoracic surgeon from Johns Hopkins who previously completed her fellowship here at this hospital. She'll be collaborating with our department on a series of complex cases and scrubbing in on select surgeries."

Daniela steps forward with a gracious smile. "Thank you, Harry. It's wonderful to be back. I have such fond memories of my time here, and I'm looking forward to working with all of you."

Her gaze sweeps the room, landing briefly on Y/N with a flicker of recognition before moving on.

"Dr. Marx will have full privileges during her time with us," Harry continues. "I expect everyone to extend her the same professional courtesy you would any attending surgeon. She'll be assisting on the Clarkson triple bypass tomorrow, and we'll be co-leading a mitral valve repair later this week."

Y/N observed the exchange between them. The easy familiarity, the brief touch to Harry's arm Daniela made when emphasizing a point, and his acceptance of the contact. It was a stark contrast to his usual aversion. To anyone truly watching, their shared history was evident.

And Y/N is paying very close attention.

She doesn't like the way Daniela looks at Harry. The proprietary edge to her smile, the way her eyes linger on him a beat too long. It's the look of someone who knows him intimately, who has seen the man behind the surgeon.

The briefing concludes with scheduling details and case assignments. Y/N slips out before Harry can catch her eye, her chest tight with emotions she doesn't want to examine too closely.

She's charting in the residents' workroom an hour later when Niall appears, dropping into the chair beside her with theatrical exhaustion.

"So," he says without preamble. "Dr. Daniela Marx."

"What about her?" Y/N asks, not looking up from her notes.

"You really don't know?" Niall's voice carries genuine surprise. "I thought everyone knew."

Y/N's pen stills. "Knew what?"

Niall glances around, ensuring they're alone, then leans in conspiratorially. "Daniela Marx was Harry's fellow when he was a senior resident here. They were together for almost three years."

The words hit Y/N like a physical blow. "Together as in..."

"Together as in together," Niall confirms. "It was apparently quite the scandal at the time. Attending and fellow, very hush-hush but everyone knew. Word is it ended badly when she took the position at Johns Hopkins. Some people say she's the reason he became so...you know." He gestures vaguely. "Emotionally unavailable."

Y/N stares at him, pieces clicking into place with sickening clarity. The casual first-name basis. The familiar touches. The way Harry hadn't seemed surprised to see her.

"He knew she was coming," Y/N says slowly. "He must have arranged it."

"Probably," Niall agrees. "Department heads usually have input on visiting surgeons."

Y/N thinks about the kiss in San Francisco, the way Harry had held her hand as they fell asleep, the gentle promise to talk about it in the morning. Then she thinks about him inviting his ex-girlfriend to work alongside him mere days later.

"Hey," Niall says softly, noting her expression. "This doesn't necessarily mean anything. People work with their exes all the time. It's a small field."

"He asked me to his office to talk," Y/N says, her voice hollow. "And she was there. With an appointment."

Niall winces. "Okay, that's...not great optics. But maybe— "

"Maybe what?" Y/N interrupts, finally looking at him. "Maybe he wanted to let me down gently before his ex arrived? Maybe San Francisco was just a momentary lapse and now he's moved on to someone more...appropriate?"

"You don't know that," Niall insists. "You're catastrophizing."

"Am I?" Y/N laughs bitterly. "She's a cardiothoracic surgeon from Johns Hopkins. Accomplished, sophisticated, his equal in every way. And I'm just a resident who was stupid enough to think one kiss meant something."

Niall reaches out, covering her hand with his. "Y/N, you are brilliant and beautiful and absolutely his equal, regardless of what stage of your career you're in. If Harry Styles can't see that, he's an idiot."

Y/N squeezes his hand gratefully, but the cold weight in her chest doesn't lift.

"I need to focus on work," she says finally, pulling her hand back to pick up her pen. "I have patients who actually need me. That's what matters."

Niall looks like he wants to argue, but something in her expression stops him. "Okay. But I'm here when you're ready to talk more."

He leaves her alone with her charts and her thoughts, both equally demanding of her attention. But as she tries to focus on medication dosages and post-op protocols, her mind keeps drifting back to the image of Daniela's hand on Harry's arm, the history written in every familiar gesture between them.

She'd been foolish to hope. Foolish to think that one kiss in the dark could compete with years of shared experience.

Tomorrow, she'll be professional. She'll assist on surgeries, take direction, learn everything she can. She'll be the best damn resident this hospital has ever seen.

And she'll pretend that her heart isn't quietly breaking every time she sees Harry Styles look at someone else the way she'd hoped he might one day look at her.

Her phone buzzes with a text message. She pulls it out, her heart stuttering when she sees Harry's name.

Hey. You never showed up. Everything okay?

Y/N stares at the message for a long moment, her thumb hovering over the keyboard. Part of her wants to respond, to give him a chance to explain. But another part, the part that's tired of feeling uncertain and confused, decides she's done waiting for Harry Styles to figure out what he wants.

She doesn't reply.

Instead, she shoves her phone back in her pocket and throws herself into her work, determined to prove that she doesn't need his attention or validation to be an excellent surgeon.

Even if her heart isn't quite convinced yet.

The locker room is blessedly empty when Y/N finally allows herself to stop moving. She's been running on autopilot for hours. Checking vitals, updating charts, assisting on a routine appendectomy that required none of her higher brain functions. Now, at nearly 9 PM, the exhaustion hits her all at once.

She opens her locker, mechanically exchanging her white coat for her jacket, her mind still churning over the events of the day. Daniela Marx's polished smile. Harry's unreadable expression during the briefing. The text message she'd left unanswered, still burning a hole in her pocket.

The door swings open behind her.

She doesn't need to turn around to know who it is. The air in the room shifts, charged with a tension that's become achingly familiar.

"You didn't come to my office."

Harry's voice is low, controlled, but there's an edge to it she's never heard before. Y/N continues gathering her things, refusing to give him the satisfaction of her full attention.

Y/N keeps her back to him, sliding her bag off the bench and shouldering it deliberately. "I changed my mind."

"That's not an answer." His footsteps echo against the tile as he moves closer. "I asked you to meet me after surgery. You agreed. And then you just...didn't show."

Y/N finally turns to face him, her bag clutched against her chest like a shield. "You had an appointment. I didn't want to interrupt."

Harry's brow furrows. "Appointment? What are you— " Understanding dawns on his face. "Daniela. You saw Daniela. It wasn't an–"

"Dr. Marx was very clear that she was there to see you," Y/N interrupts, proud of how steady her voice sounds despite the turmoil beneath. "I assumed whatever you needed to discuss with me could wait."

"It couldn't, actually." Harry takes another step forward, close enough now that she can see the tension in his jaw, the tightness around his eyes. "I've been trying to talk to you for two days, and you keep finding ways to avoid me."

"I'm not avoiding you," Y/N lies. "I've been working. You know, doing my job? The one you're constantly reminding me requires my full attention?"

Harry's eyes narrow. "Don't do that. Don't deflect with sarcasm when we both know what this is really about."

"And what is this really about, Dr. Styles?" She emphasizes his title deliberately, watching him flinch almost imperceptibly. "Because from where I'm standing, it seems like you've made your priorities perfectly clear."

"My priorities?" Harry's voice rises slightly, frustration bleeding through his careful control. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you asked me to your office to 'talk,'" Y/N air-quotes aggressively, "and when I got there, your ex-girlfriend was waiting with an appointment. It means you introduced her to the entire department today without so much as a heads-up. It means— "

"How do you know she's my ex?" Harry interrupts, something complicated crossing his features.

Y/N laughs bitterly. "This is a hospital, Harry. People talk. And apparently, your history with Dr. Marx is common knowledge to everyone except the idiot resident who thought— " She stops abruptly, pressing her lips together.

"Thought what?" Harry presses, stepping closer still. "What did you think, Y/N?"

The use of her first name cracks something in her carefully constructed composure. "It doesn't matter what I thought. Clearly, I was mistaken."

"You weren't— " Harry runs a hand through his hair, visibly struggling. "Daniela showing up wasn't planned. The hospital board arranged her visit weeks ago as part of a research collaboration. I only found out she was arriving today when she walked into my office."

"And yet you seemed perfectly comfortable with her during the briefing," Y/N shoots back. "All those familiar touches, the way she calls you 'Harry' like she has every right to— "

"Are you jealous?" The question comes out sharp, almost accusatory.

Y/N's cheeks flush with anger and embarrassment. "Don't flatter yourself."

"Because you have no reason to be," Harry continues, ignoring her denial. "Whatever Daniela and I had ended years ago. She's here as a colleague, nothing more."

"That's really none of my business," Y/N says stiffly, moving toward the door. "Your personal life is your own, Dr. Styles. I have no claim on it."

Harry blocks her path, not touching her but close enough that she'd have to push past him to leave. "What happened in San Francisco— "

"Was a mistake," Y/N finishes for him, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. "I know. You've made that abundantly clear by pretending it never happened."

"That's not— " Harry's composure finally cracks, real emotion bleeding through. "I wasn't pretending it didn't happen. I was trying to figure out how to handle it without destroying both our careers."

"How noble of you," Y/N says acidly. "Making that decision all on your own without bothering to consult me."

"I was going to talk to you today!" Harry's voice echoes off the lockers. "That's why I asked you to my office. That's why I've been trying to get you alone for two days. But you keep running away before I can— "

The door swings open, cutting him off mid-sentence.

Daniela Marx stands in the doorway, her expression shifting from surprise to something more calculated as she takes in the scene. Harry and Y/N standing far too close, both flushed with emotion, the air between them practically crackling.

"Harry," Daniela says smoothly, recovering quickly. "I've been looking for you. The board wants to discuss tomorrow's procedure, and I thought we could review the imaging together over dinner."

The interruption shatters whatever fragile moment had been building between them. Y/N steps back, putting distance between herself and Harry, her walls slamming back into place.

"Dr. Styles was just leaving," Y/N says, her voice perfectly professional despite the tremor she's fighting to suppress. "I'm sure he'd be happy to join you."

"Y/N— " Harry starts.

"Goodnight, Dr. Styles." She slips past him, past Daniela, her shoulder brushing the doorframe in her haste to escape. "Dr. Marx."

She doesn't look back as she walks down the corridor, even when she hears Harry call her name again. Her vision blurs slightly as she pushes through the hospital's main doors into the cool night air, from exhaustion she tells herself, not tears. 

Behind her, she imagines Harry standing in the locker room with Daniela, imagines them leaving together for their dinner, imagines all the history and familiarity that exists between them that she can never compete with.

She was right to leave. Right to protect herself from hoping for something that clearly isn't meant to be.

So why does walking away feel like the biggest mistake she's ever made?

Her phone buzzes in her pocket. She pulls it out, half-expecting another message from Harry.

It's Niall.

How did it go? Do I need to bring wine or ice cream?`

Y/N types back with shaking fingers.

Both. And maybe something stronger.

She shoves the phone away and keeps walking, putting as much distance as possible between herself and the man who keeps finding new ways to break her heart without even trying.

Three weeks.

Twenty-one days of navigating the surgical floor like a minefield, of timing her rounds to avoid crossing paths with Harry in the corridors, of perfecting the art of being present but unreachable.

It was exhausting in a way that residency alone had never managed to be.

Y/N had survived Harry's exacting standards before. She'd weathered his sharp criticisms, his impossible expectations, the way he pushed her harder than any other resident. That version of their dynamic had been difficult, yes, but it had also been clarifying. She'd known exactly where she stood as a surgeon in training, nothing more.

This was different. This was worse.

Because now she knew what his hands felt like threaded through hers. She knew the sound of his laugh when he wasn't guarding it, the softness in his eyes when he looked at her across a hotel room in the early hours of the morning. She knew the taste of his mouth, the gentle pressure of his lips against her forehead as she drifted to sleep.

And she had to watch him every day with Daniela Marx.

The woman was frustratingly everywhere. In the OR assisting on Harry's most complex cases, in the conference room presenting research findings, in his office with the door half-open as they reviewed patient files together. She moved through the cardiothoracic department like she belonged there, like she'd never left, and perhaps most infuriatingly, she was genuinely lovely.

Y/N had tried to hate her. God, how she'd tried.

But Daniela was unfailingly professional, offering helpful guidance to residents without condescension, remembering names and details with impressive recall. She'd complimented Y/N's suturing technique during a valve replacement last week with what appeared to be genuine admiration. She brought coffee for the nursing staff and remembered birthdays and laughed at jokes that weren't particularly funny with gracious warmth.

It would have been so much easier if she'd been awful.

Instead, Y/N was left with the bitter taste of jealousy she couldn't justify and heartache she couldn't explain to anyone except Niall, who had taken to checking on her with increasing frequency.

The worst part, the absolute worst part, was catching Harry's eyes on her.

It happened constantly. During rounds, when she'd feel the weight of his gaze and look up to find him watching her with an expression she couldn't decipher. In the OR, when their hands would brush during an instrument pass and he'd hold her stare for a beat too long. In the hallways, when she'd turn a corner and find him there, his mouth opening as if to speak before she'd pivot and walk the other direction.

She never gave him the chance. Every time he tried to approach her outside of strictly surgical contexts, she found somewhere else to be. Found a patient to check on, a chart to update, a consultation that suddenly required her immediate attention. It was cowardly, and she knew it, but the alternative felt impossible.

How was she supposed to have a conversation with him when she didn't even know what she wanted him to say?

Thursday afternoon finds her in the residents' workroom, buried in research for a case presentation she's been assigned. The room is quiet, most of her fellow residents either in surgery or catching precious hours of sleep, and she's grateful for the solitude.

The door opens, and she tenses automatically before recognizing Louis Tomlinson's compact frame.

"Dr. Y/L/N," he greets, dropping into the chair across from her with characteristic informality. "You look like hell."

Y/N huffs out something that might be a laugh. "Thank you, Dr. Tomlinson. Your bedside manner is, as always, impeccable."

"I save the gentle approach for patients," Louis replies, propping his feet on the edge of the table. "With colleagues, I find honesty more efficient." His blue eyes study her with uncomfortable perceptiveness. "You've lost weight. You're not sleeping. And you've been dodging Harry like he's carrying a communicable disease."

Y/N stiffens at the casual mention of Harry's name. "I haven't been dodging anyone. I've been focused on my work."

"Mmm." Louis doesn't sound convinced. "Is that why you switched your schedule three times last week to avoid being on his service?"

She feels heat rise to her cheeks. "I needed more experience in other specialties. It's important to be well-rounded."

"It's important not to bullshit a bullshitter," Louis counters mildly. "I've been doing this a long time, Y/L/N. I know avoidance when I see it."

Y/N sets down her pen, meeting his gaze directly. "With respect, Dr. Tomlinson, whatever is or isn't happening between Dr. Styles and myself is none of your concern."

"See, that's where you're wrong." Louis swings his feet down, leaning forward with sudden intensity. "Harry is one of my closest friends. Has been for years. And I've never— " He pauses, seeming to choose his words carefully. "I've never seen him like this."

Despite herself, Y/N feels her heart clench. "Like what?"

"Sad," Louis says simply. "Not angry, not frustrated, not his usual brand of emotionally constipated. Just...sad. He goes through the motions, performs his surgeries, attends his meetings. But the light's gone out of him somehow."

Y/N swallows hard, trying to maintain her composure. "I'm sure Dr. Marx's presence has been...an adjustment for him."

Louis actually laughs at that. "Daniela? You think this is about Daniela?"

"They have history," Y/N says stiffly. "Everyone knows that."

"They have past tense," Louis corrects. "History that ended five years ago when she chose her career over him and moved across the country without looking back. Whatever you think is happening between them now, I promise you, it's purely professional."

Y/N wants to believe him. Wants it so badly it aches. "She's always with him. Every surgery, every meeting, every— "

"Because she's a visiting surgeon collaborating on his cases," Louis interrupts. "That's literally her job while she's here. Do you think Harry invited her? Do you think he wants her following him around, reminding him of a relationship that nearly destroyed him?"

The vehemence in his voice gives Y/N pause. "Destroyed him?"

Louis sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Look, it's not my story to tell. But Daniela leaving...it changed him. Made him build walls so high that nobody could get close enough to hurt him again." His eyes meet hers meaningfully. "Until recently."

Y/N's throat tightens. "Dr. Tomlinson— "

"Louis," he corrects. "And before you tell me again that this isn't my business, let me just say one thing. Then I'll leave you alone."

She nods, not trusting her voice.

"Whatever happened between you two, and I'm not asking you to confirm or deny anything, it mattered to him. More than I think even he realized." Louis stands, straightening his white coat. "He's been trying to talk to you for weeks. Every time he works up the courage to approach you, you disappear. And I get it, I do. Self-preservation is a powerful instinct. But if you care about him at all...maybe consider giving him a chance to explain."

Y/N stares at the table, unable to meet his eyes. "What if I don't like what he has to say?"

"Then at least you'll know," Louis says gently. "And you can both stop torturing yourselves with uncertainty." He moves toward the door, pausing with his hand on the frame. "For what it's worth, Y/L/N, I've watched Harry with a lot of residents over the years. The way he looks at you...that's not professional interest. That's not mentorship. That's a man who's terrified of his own feelings and has no idea how to handle them."

He leaves before she can respond, the door clicking softly behind him.

Y/N sits motionless for a long moment, Louis's words echoing in her mind. She thinks about all the times she's caught Harry watching her, the weight of his gaze heavy with something she'd been too afraid to interpret. She thinks about his voice in the locker room, cracked with frustration and something that might have been desperation: I was going to talk to you today.

She thinks about Daniela Marx, polished and accomplished and everything Y/N isn't, and yet apparently not what Harry wants at all.

Her phone buzzes. A text from Niall.

Lunch? You need to eat actual food and not just coffee and spite.

She almost smiles, typing back a quick agreement before gathering her things. But as she leaves the workroom, her mind isn't on food or research or even Niall's reliable comfort.

It's on Harry. On the sadness Louis described. On the possibility that she's been so focused on protecting herself that she's been hurting them both.

Maybe it's time to stop running.

Maybe it's time to let him explain.

The thought terrifies her more than any surgery ever could.

The walk to Harry's office feels like the longest of Y/N's life.

She'd barely tasted her lunch, pushing food around her plate while Niall watched with knowing eyes. When she'd finally told him what she was planning to do, he'd simply nodded and said, "About damn time." No fanfare, no lengthy pep talk. Just quiet support and a squeeze of her hand before she left the cafeteria.

Now, standing outside Harry's door, she can hear muffled voices inside. Her courage wavers, old instincts screaming at her to turn around, to find an excuse, to protect herself from whatever rejection might be waiting on the other side.

But Louis's words echo in her mind: I've never seen him like this. Just...sad.

She knocks before she can talk herself out of it.

"Come in."

Harry's voice, professional and measured. Y/N pushes the door open.

The scene that greets her is painfully familiar with Daniela seated in the chair across from Harry's desk, papers spread between them, their heads bent together over what looks like surgical imaging. But it's Harry's reaction that catches her attention.

He looks up, and his entire demeanor shifts. Surprise flickers across his features, followed by something raw and unguarded that he doesn't quite manage to hide before his professional mask slides back into place.

"Dr. Y/L/N." His voice comes out slightly hoarse. "I wasn't expecting— " He stops, swallows, starts again. "What can I do for you?"

Daniela turns in her chair, her expression pleasant but her eyes sharp as they assess Y/N. "Dr. Y/L/N. We were just finishing up the case review. Did you need something?"

The dismissal is subtle but unmistakable. Y/N feels her resolve waver.

But Harry is already standing, gathering the papers between them with quick, decisive movements. "Actually, Daniela, I think we've covered everything we need to for today. Would you mind if we continued this tomorrow?"

Daniela's face quickly betrayed her displeasure, a brief tightening of her expression that she couldn't quite hide."Of course. I'll leave the imaging with you." She rises gracefully, smoothing her skirt. "Dr. Y/L/N."

The acknowledgment is polite enough, but as Daniela passes Y/N on her way out, there's an unmistakable coldness in her gaze. A warning perhaps, or a claim being staked. Y/N barely registers it, her attention already fixed on Harry.

The door clicks shut behind Daniela, and suddenly they're alone.

The silence stretches between them, heavy with three weeks of avoidance and months of unspoken tension. Harry moves around his desk but doesn't sit, instead leaning against its edge with his arms crossed. It’s a defensive posture that doesn't match the vulnerability in his eyes.

"You came," he says finally, as if he can't quite believe it.

"I came," Y/N confirms, staying near the door. She's not sure her legs will carry her any further. "Louis talked to me."

Harry's jaw tightens. "Of course he did. I'm going to kill him."

"Don't. He was..." She searches for the right word. "Illuminating."

Another silence. Harry studies her face like he's trying to memorize it, like he's been starving for the sight of her and is finally allowing himself to look.

"I've been trying to talk to you for weeks," he says quietly.

"I know." Y/N's voice is barely above a whisper. "I wasn't ready to listen."

"And now?"

She takes a breath, steeling herself. "Now I'm here. So talk."

Harry pushes off from the desk, running a hand through his hair in that familiar gesture of frustration. "I don't even know where to start. Everything I planned to say sounds inadequate now."

"Try anyway."

He begins to pace, his long legs eating up the small space of his office. “San Francisco wasn't a mistake. I need you to know that. I know I handled everything wrong afterward, but what happened between us, that kiss— " He stops, turning to face her. "That was the most honest I've been with anyone in years."

Y/N feels tears prick at her eyes but refuses to let them fall. "Then why did you act like it never happened? Why did you treat me like a stranger the moment we got back?"

"Because I was terrified," Harry admits, the word seeming to cost him something. "You're my resident, Y/N. There are power dynamics, ethical considerations, hospital policies— "

"You said all that before," she interrupts, frustration bleeding into her voice. "And I understand those concerns, I do. But you didn't even give me a chance to discuss them with you. You just decided, unilaterally, that distance was the answer."

"I know." His voice cracks slightly. "I know, and I'm sorry. I've spent so long protecting myself that I didn't stop to think about what I was doing to you."

"What happened with Daniela?" The question escapes before Y/N can stop it. "Louis said she nearly destroyed you."

Harry's expression shutters momentarily before he forces it open again. "We were together for three years. I thought we were building something permanent. And then she got offered the position at Johns Hopkins, and she took it without hesitation. Didn't ask me to come with her, didn't try to make long distance work. Just...left." He laughs bitterly. "I found out she'd been interviewing for months without telling me. Our entire relationship was apparently less important than her career advancement."

Y/N's heart aches for him despite everything. "Harry..."

"I'm not telling you this for sympathy," he says quickly. "I'm telling you because I need you to understand why I am the way I am. Why intimacy terrifies me. Why my first instinct when something real starts to develop is to sabotage it before it can hurt me."

"Is that what you were doing?" Y/N asks. "Sabotaging us?"

"I don't know." Harry's voice is raw with honesty. "Maybe. Probably. All I know is that pushing you away has been the most miserable three weeks of my life, and I can't keep doing it."

Y/N feels something loosen in her chest, some knot of tension she's been carrying since San Francisco. "I've been miserable too," she admits. "I kept telling myself I was protecting myself, but really I was just...running. From you, from my feelings, from the possibility that this could be real."

"Is it?" Harry steps closer, close enough that she could touch him if she reached out. "Real, I mean?"

Y/N looks up at him— at the vulnerability etched into every line of his face, the hope warring with fear in his green eyes. "I don't know how to answer that. I know that I think about you constantly. I know that seeing you with Daniela has been slowly killing me. I know that when you called me 'Dr. Y/L/N' in the residents' lounge, it felt like you'd ripped something out of my chest."

"Y/N— "

"I'm not finished." She holds up a hand, needing to get this out. "I also know that you're my supervisor. That this is complicated and messy and potentially career-ending for both of us. I know that you have a history of shutting down when things get difficult, and I have a history of running away. We're not exactly a recipe for success."

"No," Harry agrees quietly. "We're not."

"So what do we do?" The question hangs between them, heavy with possibility.

Harry reaches out slowly, giving her time to pull away, and takes her hand in his. His fingers are warm, slightly calloused from years of surgery, achingly familiar from that night in San Francisco.

"I don't have all the answers," he says. "I can't promise I won't mess up again, because I probably will. I'm not good at this…at being vulnerable, at letting people in. But I want to try. With you. If you'll let me."

Y/N stares at their joined hands, watching his thumb trace gentle circles on her skin. "And what about the professional complications? The power dynamics you were so worried about?"

"We navigate them carefully," Harry says. "We keep things private until you've completed your residency. I recuse myself from any evaluations that affect your career. We're transparent with each other about any conflicts that arise." He squeezes her hand. "It won't be easy. But I'd rather do hard with you than easy without you."

A tear finally escapes, sliding down Y/N's cheek. Harry catches it with his free hand, his touch impossibly gentle.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. "For the locker room, for not explaining about Daniela, for every moment I made you doubt what you mean to me. I'm sorry for being a coward when you deserved bravery."

"I'm sorry too," Y/N whispers. "For not giving you a chance to explain. For assuming the worst. For running every time you tried to reach me."

"So we're both disasters," Harry says, a ghost of his usual humor flickering in his eyes. "At least we're well-matched."

Y/N laughs despite herself, the sound watery but genuine. "Is that supposed to be romantic?"

"I'm working with limited material here." His hand slides from her cheek to cup the back of her neck, drawing her closer. "Give me time. I'll get better at it."

"Promise?" The word comes out breathless as she tilts her face up toward his.

"Promise." Harry leans down, resting his forehead against hers. "So is that a yes? To trying this? To seeing where it goes?"

Y/N considers the question. Considers all the ways this could go wrong, all the complications and obstacles and potential heartbreak waiting in the wings. Then she considers the alternative: walking away, going back to professional distance and lonely nights and the constant ache of wanting something she won't let herself have.

There's really only one answer.

"Yes," she breathes. "Yes, I want to try."

Harry's smile breaks across his face like sunrise, transforming his features from handsome to breathtaking. "Yeah?"

"Don't make me say it again," Y/N warns, but she's smiling too. "Your ego is already insufferable."

"My ego has taken quite a beating lately, actually," Harry murmurs, his lips brushing against her forehead. "I could use some building up."

"Later," Y/N says, pulling back slightly to meet his eyes. "Right now, I think we need to establish some ground rules."

"Always the pragmatist." But Harry nods, releasing her to lean back against his desk. "Alright, Dr. Y/L/N. What are your terms?"

They spend the next hour talking, really talking, in a way they never have before. They discuss boundaries and expectations, how to handle situations at work, what to tell their friends (everything, in Niall's case; need-to-know basis for everyone else). They argue about Harry's tendency to make unilateral decisions and Y/N's habit of catastrophizing. They apologize again, multiple times, for different things.

By the time Y/N finally leaves his office, the sun has set and the hospital corridors are quiet with the hush of evening shift. Nothing is resolved really as there are still complications to navigate, conversations to have, trust to rebuild.

But as she walks toward the exit, her phone buzzes with a text.

Dinner tomorrow? Somewhere private. I want to take you on a proper date.

She types back quickly, unable to suppress her smile.

Are you asking as my supervisor or as something else?

His response comes almost immediately.

Something else. Definitely something else.

Y/N pockets her phone and pushes through the hospital doors into the cool night air. For the first time in weeks, the weight on her chest has lifted.

She barely makes it into the driver's seat before she's fumbling for her phone, fingers trembling as she scrolls to Niall's contact. The engine isn't even running yet when she hits call, pressing the phone to her ear with barely contained energy.

He picks up on the second ring.

"Well? Did you— "

"NIALL."

The scream that tears from her throat is entirely undignified, the kind of sound she'd be mortified to make in any other context. It's half-shriek, half-laugh, the release of three weeks of tension exploding out of her in one glorious burst.

"Jesus Christ!" Niall's voice crackles through the speaker, equal parts alarmed and amused. "Are you being murdered? Should I call 911?"

"I talked to him," Y/N gasps, her words tumbling over each other in their rush to escape. "I actually went to his office and talked to him and Niall, oh my God, first of all, he kicked Daniela out for me. Then he said— he told me— we're going to try. We're actually going to try this."

There's a beat of silence, then: "Wait, seriously? Like, actually try? Not 'try' in the way you two have been 'trying' to avoid each other for three weeks?"

"Actually try!" Y/N is grinning so hard her cheeks hurt. "He apologized. He explained everything about Daniela, about why he shut down, about being scared. And I apologized too, for running away and not letting him explain, and then we talked about boundaries and how to handle work and he asked me to dinner tomorrow and— "

"Breathe," Niall interrupts, laughter threading through his voice. "For the love of God, Y/N, breathe. You're going to pass out."

She forces herself to take a breath, then another, her heart still racing. "I just can't believe it actually happened. After everything, after all the misery and the avoiding and watching him with Daniela— "

"Speaking of Daniela," Niall interjects. "How did she take being kicked out of his office?"

Y/N pauses, remembering the flash of cold displeasure in Daniela's eyes. "Not well, I think. She gave me this look when she left...but honestly, I barely noticed. I was too focused on Harry."

"Harry," Niall repeats, his tone teasing. "Not 'Dr. Styles'? We're on first-name basis now?"

"Shut up." But she's smiling as she says it. "He called me Y/N. Multiple times. Do you know how long it's been since he used my actual name?"

"I'm aware. You've only mentioned it about forty-seven times in the past three weeks."

Y/N laughs, the sound bright and unrestrained in a way it hasn't been in weeks. "He held my hand, Niall. And he touched my face. And he almost kissed me but we decided to wait until the actual date because we're trying to do this properly and— "

"Okay, okay, I need you to calm down before you crash your car," Niall cuts in, though his voice is warm with affection. "You haven't even started driving yet, have you?"

Y/N glances at the steering wheel, realizing she's been sitting in the hospital parking lot this entire time. "...No."

"Right. So maybe start the car, drive home safely, and then you can call me back and scream some more. Because I'm genuinely happy for you, love, but I'd prefer you alive to attend this dinner tomorrow."

"You're right, you're right." She fumbles for her keys, sliding them into the ignition. "I just needed to tell someone. I felt like I was going to explode if I didn't— "

"I'm honored to be your explosion receptacle," Niall says dryly. "Now focus on the road. The last thing you need is to get into an accident and end up in the ER."

A thought occurs to him, and she can practically hear the grin spreading across his face.

"Actually, wait. Maybe that wouldn't be so bad. You crash, they rush you to the hospital, Harry hears his girlfriend— ” 

“I’m not–” “Shut up! His girlfriend is injured and he comes running. Has to operate to save your life. Sees you naked on the table. Very romantic, very Grey's Anatomy."

"Niall!" Y/N chokes on a laugh. "That's terrible!"

"I'm just saying, there are worse ways to move a relationship forward. Nothing says 'I love you' like emergency surgery and a glimpse of your bare— "

"I'm hanging up now," Y/N announces, still laughing. "You're a menace."

"A menace who was right about everything," Niall counters smugly. "I told you to just talk to him. Did I not tell you? I believe my exact words were— "

"Goodbye, Niall."

"Text me when you get home! And send me a picture of whatever you're wearing tomorrow so I can approve it!"

"Goodbye!"

She ends the call, tossing her phone onto the passenger seat with a grin she can't seem to shake. The parking lot is quiet around her, the hospital looming in her rearview mirror as she finally starts the car.

Her phone buzzes almost immediately. A text from Niall.

`For the record, I'm taking full credit for this. Best wingman ever. You're welcome.`

Then, a second later:

`Also Liam owes me twenty bucks. I bet him you two would figure it out before the month ended.`

Y/N shakes her head, pulling out of the parking space.

`You and Liam were betting on us?`

His response is immediate.

`Everyone was betting on you. You two were painfully obvious. The sexual tension was suffocating the entire cardiothoracic department.`

She's still laughing as she turns onto the main road, the lights of the city stretching out before her. Tomorrow, she has a date with Harry Styles. A real date, not a professional dinner or a conference obligation. Just the two of them, figuring out what this thing between them actually is.

Her phone buzzes one more time.

Harry.

`Got home safe?`

She pulls over briefly to respond, unable to keep the smile off her face.

`Almost there. Someone distracted me with life-changing conversations.`

His reply comes quickly.

`Sounds like someone worth keeping around.`

`Maybe. The jury's still out.`

`Harsh. And here I thought we'd made progress.`

Y/N bites her lip, warmth spreading through her chest.

`We did. I'm just not going to make it easy for you.`

`I wouldn't expect anything less, Dr. Y/L/N.`

She stares at the screen for a moment, at this new ease between them, this playfulness that feels like a promise of things to come.

`Goodnight, Harry.`

`Goodnight, Y/N. Dream of me.`

`Arrogant.`

`Confident. There's a difference.`

She laughs out loud, alone in her car on a quiet street, happier than she's been in weeks.

`Goodnight, Harry.`

`You already said that.`

`I'm hanging up on you too.`

`This is texting. You can't hang up on me`

She locks her phone and tosses it aside, still grinning as she pulls back onto the road.

Tomorrow can't come fast enough.

The morning starts like any other or at least, that's what Y/N tells herself as she steps through the hospital's automatic doors, coffee clutched in one hand like a lifeline.

She'd barely slept. Every time she closed her eyes, her mind replayed the conversation in Harry's office on an endless loop. The crack in his voice when he admitted he was terrified and the warmth of his hand wrapped around hers, it all created a fuzzy feeling in her chest. 

And then, of course, there were the texts. The easy back-and-forth that had continued until nearly midnight, Harry's dry wit softening into something almost tender as the hours wore on. She'd finally forced herself to put her phone down when she realized she was grinning at the ceiling like an idiot, her cheeks aching from smiling.

Now, walking through the familiar corridors of the cardiothoracic wing, she feels almost nervous. Which is ridiculous. She's walked these halls hundreds of times. She's faced down impossible surgeries, demanding attendings, life-and-death decisions that would break lesser people.

But somehow, the prospect of seeing Harry in the daylight after everything they'd said and everything they'd agreed to, makes her palms sweat.

She spots him almost immediately.

He's standing at the nurses' station at the far end of the corridor, white coat pristine, stethoscope draped around his neck. He's reviewing a chart with Dr. Chen, nodding along to whatever the older surgeon is saying, the picture of professional focus.

But there's something different about him this morning.

It takes Y/N a moment to identify it Maybe it was the set of his shoulders, or the way he's standing. He looks...lighter. The tension that's been carved into his features for weeks has eased somehow, smoothed away like fog burning off under morning sun. There's a looseness to his posture that she hasn't seen since before San Francisco, maybe even longer.

He looks like a man who finally got a full night's sleep after months of insomnia.

Y/N forces herself to look away, turning toward the nurses' station closer to her. She has work to do. Patients to check on. She can't spend her entire shift mooning over Harry Styles like a lovesick teenager.

"Dr. Y/L/N!"

Nurse Martinez waves her over, tablet in hand. "I wanted to go over Mr. Patterson's post-op vitals with you. His blood pressure was slightly elevated during the night shift, and I wasn't sure if— "

"Of course," Y/N says, grateful for the distraction. "Let me take a look. His surgery was complex, so some fluctuation is expected, but we should keep an eye on— "

She feels it before she sees it. That prickle of awareness at the back of her neck, the sensation of being watched.

She glances up automatically, her gaze drawn across the corridor like a magnet finding north.

Harry is looking at her.

Not just looking but studying her. His green eyes warm with something that makes her stomach flip. Dr. Chen is still talking beside him, gesturing at the chart in his hands, but Harry's attention has clearly drifted. His lips curve into the smallest of smiles, private and knowing.

And then he winks.

Just once. Quick and deliberate, so fast she might have imagined it if not for the way his smile deepens in the aftermath, dimples creasing his cheeks.

Y/N's heart stops.

Actually, genuinely stops…or at least that's what it feels like, a sudden vacuum in her chest where her pulse should be. Her knees go weak, actually weak, like she's a character in one of those ridiculous romance novels Niall keeps trying to force on her.

She stumbles over her next words, her sentence fragmenting mid-thought.

"—we should keep an eye on the, um, the— " She blinks, trying to recover. "The systolic readings. If they continue to...to elevate, we might need to adjust his..."

Nurse Martinez is staring at her with barely concealed concern. "Dr. Y/L/N? Are you alright?"

"Fine," Y/N manages, tearing her gaze away from Harry with heroic effort. "Sorry. Didn't sleep well. What was I saying?"

"Systolic readings," Martinez supplies helpfully.

"Right. Yes. If they continue trending upward, we should consider adjusting his beta-blocker dosage. Can you flag it for Dr. Tomlinson's review during rounds?"

Martinez nods, making a note on her tablet, and Y/N uses the moment to take a steadying breath. Her cheeks feel warm. Her heart has resumed beating, but at roughly twice its normal rate.

A wink. A single wink, from thirty feet away, and she'd nearly collapsed in the middle of the nurses' station like a Victorian maiden with a case of the vapors.

This is going to be a problem.

She risks another glance in Harry's direction and finds him fully engaged with Dr. Chen now, his expression professionally attentive. But there's a hint of smugness in the set of his jaw, a self-satisfaction that tells her he knows exactly what he did.

Bastard.

She sees him pull his phone out. Then…her phone buzzes in her pocket. She pulls it out, already knowing what she'll find.

`You're blushing.`

She types back furiously, angling her body away from Martinez's curious gaze.

`I am NOT.`

`You are. It's adorable.`

`I'm going to kill you.`

`Promises, promises.`

Another buzz, almost immediately.

`You look beautiful today, by the way. That color suits you.`

Y/N's familiar navy blue scrubs did nothing to hide the traitorous heat rising in her cheeks as she glanced down at them.

`They're scrubs, Harry. Everyone wears the same ones.`

`And yet somehow you make them look better than everyone else.`

She shoves her phone back in her pocket before she can respond, because if she keeps texting him, she's going to smile, and if she smiles, Martinez is going to ask questions, and if Martinez asks questions, the entire hospital will know something's going on within the hour.

Hospital gossip travels faster than any virus.

She busies herself with patient rounds, checking vitals, reviewing charts, consulting with the nursing staff. But she's hyperaware of Harry's presence throughout the morning. It was driving her crazy: catching glimpses of him in the corridor, hearing his voice drift from an open doorway, feeling the weight of his gaze whenever they pass within sight of each other.

Each time, there's something new. A small smile. A raised eyebrow. Once, when they passed each other in the hallway, his hand brushed against hers. It was so brief it could have been accidental, except for the way his fingers deliberately curl against her palm before pulling away.

It's torture. Exquisite, wonderful torture.

Louis finds her in the break room around mid-morning, refilling her coffee for the third time.

"You look different," he observes, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. "Less like someone ran over your dog."

"I don't have a dog."

"It's an expression." His blue eyes narrow thoughtfully. "Something happened. Between you and Harry."

Y/N focuses very intently on adding creamer to her coffee. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Mmhmm." Louis doesn't sound convinced. "So it's just a coincidence that he's been walking around all morning like someone replaced his blood with sunshine? That man has been a miserable bastard for weeks, and suddenly he's practically whistling in the corridors."

"Maybe he had a good night's sleep."

"Harry doesn't sleep well. Hasn't for years." Louis pushes off from the counter, moving toward the door. "Whatever you did, Y/L/N, keep doing it. I haven't seen him this light since..." He pauses, something complicated crossing his features. "Well. In a long time."

He leaves before she can respond, and Y/N is left alone with her coffee and the warm glow spreading through her chest.

Her phone buzzes again.

`Dinner tonight. 7pm. I'll pick you up.`

She bites her lip, typing back.

`You don't know where I live.`

`I have my ways.`

`That's creepy, Harry.`

`I asked Niall. He was disturbingly eager to help.`

Of course he was. Y/N makes a mental note to kill her best friend later.

`Fine. 7pm. But I'm choosing the restaurant next time.`

`Next time. I like the sound of that.`

Y/N pockets her phone, unable to suppress her smile any longer. Let the nurses talk. Let the whole hospital gossip.

She has a date tonight with Harry Styles, and for the first time in weeks, everything feels possible.

The coffee in Y/N's hand has gone lukewarm by the time she finally leaves the break room, her mind still pleasantly fuzzy with thoughts of Harry's smile, Harry's wink, Harry's fingers brushing against her palm in the corridor.

She's so lost in her haze that she almost doesn't notice Daniela Marx until the woman is directly in front of her.

"Dr. Y/L/N!"

Daniela's voice is bright, her smile wide and welcoming. The kind of expression that belongs in a toothpaste commercial. She's impeccably dressed as always, her white coat pristine, her hair falling in perfect waves over her shoulders. Everything about her radiates competence and polish.

Y/N's stomach drops.

"Dr. Marx," she manages, forcing her own smile into place. "Good morning."

"I was hoping I'd run into you." Daniela falls into step beside her as Y/N continues down the corridor, matching her pace with ease. "We haven't really had a chance to talk properly since I arrived. I've been so busy with the research collaboration that I feel like I've barely gotten to know anyone outside of the surgical team."

"It's been a busy few weeks," Y/N agrees carefully, unsure where this is heading.

"It has. But I've heard so much about you." Daniela's smile doesn't waver, but something in her eyes sharpens. "Harry's star resident. That's what everyone calls you, isn't it? The prodigy. The one he's supposedly molding into the next great cardiothoracic surgeon."

There's a slight edge in her tone beneath the sweetness that makes Y/N's guard rise.

"I don't know about prodigy," she says, keeping her voice neutral. "I'm just trying to learn as much as I can."

"So modest." Daniela's laugh tinkles like wind chimes. "Harry always did appreciate humility. Though I have to say, when I heard about his 'star resident,' I expected someone a bit more... established. You're what, first year?"

"Second," Y/N corrects, a thread of defensiveness creeping into her voice.

"Second, of course. My mistake." Daniela waves a manicured hand dismissively. "It's just impressive, that's all. Getting so much of Harry's attention at such an early stage in your career. He must see something special in you."

The words sound like a compliment. They're shaped like a compliment. But the way Daniela delivers them with that slight tilt of her head, that knowing glint in her eye, transforms them into something else entirely.

"I work hard," Y/N says simply.

"I'm sure you do." Daniela pauses outside an empty conference room, turning to face Y/N fully. "You know, I remember what it was like, being a young resident trying to prove myself. The pressure to stand out, to be noticed by the right people. It can be...overwhelming."

Y/N nods slowly, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"The thing is," Daniela continues, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone, "sometimes the attention we receive isn't really about us at all. Sometimes attendings take an interest in residents for reasons that have nothing to do with talent or potential. Political reasons. Personal reasons." She shrugs elegantly. "It's important to be realistic about these things. To not let flattery go to our heads."

The implication lands like a slap.

"I'm not sure what you're suggesting," Y/N says, her voice carefully controlled.

"I'm not suggesting anything." Daniela's smile widens, all innocence. "I'm just offering perspective. Woman to woman. Harry can be very...charming when he wants to be. Very focused. It's easy to mistake professional mentorship for something more personal."

Y/N feels heat rise to her cheeks and not from pleasure this time. From a toxic mixture of anger and humiliation.

"I don't think I've mistaken anything."

"Of course not." Daniela reaches out, patting Y/N's arm in a gesture that's meant to seem supportive but feels patronizing. "I'm sure you're very talented. It's just...well, I've known Harry for a long time. I've seen how he operates. He has a tendency to invest in people who remind him of himself; brilliant but rough around the edges. People he thinks he can shape."

She pauses, letting the words sink in.

"The problem is, his interest tends to fade once the shaping is done. Once the challenge is gone." Daniela's eyes meet Y/N's, and there's no warmth in them now. "I'd hate to see you build your career on a foundation that might...shift."

Y/N's throat tightens. She wants to argue, to defend herself, to tell Daniela exactly where she can shove her 'perspective.' But the words won't come. Because buried beneath the obvious manipulation, there's a kernel of doubt that Daniela has expertly planted.

What if she's right?

What if Harry's interest in her, professionally, personally, all of it, is just a phase? A temporary fascination that will fade once the novelty wears off? She's seen it happen before, attendings who champion residents only to discard them when someone newer and shinier comes along.

What if she's not special at all? Just convenient?

"I should get back to my rounds," Y/N manages, her voice coming out smaller than she intended.

"Of course." Daniela steps aside graciously, her mission clearly accomplished. "It was lovely chatting with you, Dr. Y/L/N. I hope I haven't overstepped. I just believe in honesty between colleagues. Especially between women in this field. We have to look out for each other."

The hypocrisy is staggering, but Y/N can't summon the energy to call it out. She nods mutely and walks away, her coffee now completely cold in her trembling hand.

She makes it to the supply closet before the tears start.

It's stupid. She knows it's stupid. Daniela is obviously bitter about Harry and about whatever is happening between them that she's clearly picked up on. This was a calculated attack, designed to undermine Y/N's confidence and drive a wedge between her and Harry before their relationship can even properly begin.

But knowing something intellectually and feeling it emotionally are two different things.

Daniela's words echo in her mind, poisonous and persistent. Rough around the edges. His interest tends to fade. A foundation that might shift.

She thinks about all the times Harry pushed her harder than other residents. Was that because he saw potential in her, or because she was a project? A puzzle to solve? Something to occupy his attention until something better came along?

She thinks about Daniela. Polished and accomplished Daniela. The kind of woman who belongs in Harry's world. A peer, not a subordinate. Someone who can stand beside him as an equal rather than trailing behind as a student.

She thinks about the wink this morning, the texts, the dinner planned for tonight. Had she been foolish to believe any of it meant something real?

Her phone buzzes in her pocket. She pulls it out with shaking hands.

Harry.

`Counting down the hours. Is it 7pm yet?`

Yesterday, this message would have made her glow. Now it just makes her feel sick.

She shoves the phone away without responding, pressing her palms against her eyes until she sees stars.

Get it together, Y/L/N. You're a surgeon. You don't fall apart in supply closets because some bitter ex said mean things.

But the doubt lingers, curling through her chest like smoke, and suddenly the day ahead feels impossibly long.

The supply closet door swings open and Y/N steps out blindly, her vision still blurred with unshed tears, her mind a chaotic swirl of Daniela's poisonous words.

She collides directly with a solid chest.

"Whoa— "

Hands catch her elbows, steadying her before she can stumble backward. Large hands, warm and familiar, the grip firm but gentle.

Harry.

Of course it's Harry. Because the universe apparently has a sick sense of humor.

"Y/N?" His voice is tinged with surprise, then sharpens with concern as he gets a proper look at her face. "Hey, what's wrong?"

She can't meet his eyes. Can't look at him without hearing Daniela's voice in her head: rough around the edges, his interest tends to fade, a foundation that might shift.

"Nothing," she manages, trying to step back, to put distance between them. "I'm fine. Just— allergies. The supply closet is dusty."

Harry doesn't release her elbows. If anything, his grip tightens slightly, anchoring her in place.

"Y/N." Her name in his mouth, soft and serious. "Look at me."

She doesn't want to. Looking at him means he'll see the doubt, the insecurity, the way Daniela's words have burrowed under her skin like splinters. Harry has always been too perceptive, too attuned to the things she tries to hide.

But his hand moves from her elbow to her chin, tilting her face up with impossible gentleness, and she has no choice.

His green eyes scan her features, cataloging every detail. The redness at the corners of her eyes, the tension in her jaw, the way she's holding herself like she's bracing for impact. Something shifts in his expression, concern deepening into something fiercer.

"You've been crying," he says quietly. It's not a question.

"I haven't— "

"Don't." The word is gentle but firm. "Don't lie to me. Not after everything we said yesterday."

Y/N's throat constricts. She wants to tell him. Wants to spill everything about Daniela's backhanded comments, the insecurities they've awakened and the fear that's been gnawing at her since she walked away from that conversation. But the words stick in her chest, tangled up with pride and shame and the desperate need to not seem weak.

"It's nothing," she repeats, but her voice wavers.

Harry's jaw tightens. He glances around the corridor that was empty for now, but that could change at any moment. He makes a decision.

"Come with me."

He takes her hand, not waiting for agreement, and leads her down the hall toward his office. His stride is purposeful, his grip on her fingers secure, and Y/N finds herself following without protest.

The door closes behind them with a soft click, and suddenly they're alone. Private. Away from prying eyes and hospital gossip.

Harry releases her hand but doesn't step back, positioning himself between her and the door like he's afraid she might bolt.

"Talk to me," he says simply.

Y/N wraps her arms around herself, a defensive gesture she can't quite suppress. "It's stupid. I'm being stupid."

"I highly doubt that." Harry walks to his desk, leaning against it, arms crossed, watching her with that intense focus she's come to both crave and fear. "Something happened between this morning and now. You were fine earlier. Better than fine actually. And now you look like someone's ripped your heart out."

The accuracy of the description makes her flinch.

"Was it a patient?" Harry presses, his voice softening. "A surgery? Did something go wrong with— "

"It was Daniela."

The name falls from her lips before she can stop it, landing in the space between them like a grenade.

Harry goes very still.

"What about Daniela?"

Y/N laughs bitterly, the sound catching in her throat. "She wanted to 'get to know me.' Harry's star resident, apparently. That's what everyone calls me."

She sees confusion giving way to dawning understanding, then something darker.

"What did she say to you?"

"Does it matter?" Y/N's voice cracks despite her best efforts. "She was just being honest. Woman to woman. Looking out for me."

"Y/N." Harry pushes off from the desk, closing the distance between them. "What. Did. She. Say."

The intensity in his voice breaks something loose in her chest.

"She said— " Y/N swallows hard, forcing the words out. "She said your attention doesn't mean anything. That you take interest in residents who are 'rough around the edges' because you like the challenge of shaping them. And that once the shaping is done, once the challenge is gone, you lose interest."

Harry's jaw muscles tightened.

"She said I shouldn't build my career on a foundation that might 'shift,'" Y/N continues, the words tumbling out faster now. "That I shouldn't mistake professional mentorship for something personal. That she's known you a long time and she's seen how you operate."

Silence stretches between them, heavy and charged.

When Harry finally speaks, his voice is low and dangerous in a way she's never heard before.

"She said that to you."

It's not a question, but Y/N nods anyway.

"And you believed her?"

The question struck her. She opens her mouth to deny it, to insist that of course she didn't believe a word of Daniela's bitter manipulation…but she can't. Because the truth is more complicated than that.

"I don't know," she whispers. "I don't know what to believe. Yesterday everything made sense, and now— " She gestures helplessly. "Now I can't stop thinking about whether any of this is real or if I'm just...convenient. A distraction. Something to occupy your time until you get bored."

Harry makes a sound low in his throat: frustration, anger, something wounded.

"Y/N— "

"She's accomplished," Y/N barrels on, unable to stop now that the floodgates have opened. "She's your peer. She's the kind of woman who belongs in your world, who can stand beside you as an equal. And I'm just…I'm a second-year resident who can barely keep it together in a supply closet because someone said mean things to me."

Her voice breaks on the last words, tears spilling over despite her desperate attempts to hold them back.

Harry moves.

In two strides he's in front of her, his hands cupping her face, thumbs brushing away the tears that streak down her cheeks.

"Listen to me," he says, his voice rough with emotion. "Are you listening?"

Y/N nods shakily, her vision blurred.

"Daniela is a brilliant surgeon and a deeply insecure person who has never forgiven herself for walking away from me five years ago." Harry's eyes bore into hers, intense and unwavering. "Whatever she said to you, whatever poison she poured in your ear, it wasn't about you. It was about her. About her regret, her jealousy, her inability to accept that I've moved on."

"Harry–"

"I'm not finished." His grip on her face tightens slightly, not painful but insistent. "You are not convenient. You are not a distraction. You are not rough around the edges–and even if you were, I wouldn't want to smooth them away. I like your edges, Y/N. I like that you challenge me, that you push back, that you don't let me get away with being an arrogant bastard."

A wet laugh escapes her. "You are an arrogant bastard."

"I know. And you're the only person in this hospital brave enough to tell me so." His thumbs continue their gentle sweep across her cheekbones. "Do you know why I noticed you in the first place? It wasn't because you were a project or a puzzle. It was because you walked into my OR on your first day and corrected my suture technique in front of the entire surgical team."

Y/N winces at the memory. "You yelled at me for twenty minutes."

"I was impressed," Harry corrects. "Furious, yes, but impressed. No one had challenged me like that in years. And then you kept doing it. Kept pushing, kept questioning, kept refusing to be intimidated by my reputation or my temper. You made me better, Y/N. You make me want to be better."

The sincerity in his voice is almost unbearable.

"Daniela never did that," he continues quietly. "She admired me, supported me, but she never challenged me. And when things got hard—when she had to choose between her ambition and our relationship—she didn't even hesitate. She just left."

His forehead drops to rest against hers, their breath mingling in the small space between them.

"You're not her," Harry murmurs. "And what I feel for you is nothing like what I felt for her. This is— " He breaks off, struggling for words. "This is terrifying and overwhelming and completely unprecedented. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't have a plan. All I know is that when I'm with you, everything makes sense. And when I'm not, I'm counting the minutes until I can see you again."

Y/N's tears have stopped, replaced by a warmth spreading through her chest.

"That's very romantic," she whispers. "For an arrogant bastard."

Harry huffs a laugh against her lips. "I'm trying. Give me some credit."

His hands slide from her face to her shoulders, then down her arms, finally settling at her waist.

"Don't let her win," he says softly. "Don't let her take this from us before it's even started. She doesn't get that power. Not over you, not over me, not over whatever this is between us."

Y/N takes a shaky breath, letting his words wash over her like a balm.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I should have come to you instead of spiraling. I just— "

"You're human," Harry interrupts gently. "You're allowed to have doubts. You're allowed to be hurt by cruel words from cruel people. Just...talk to me next time? Before you convince yourself that I'm going to abandon you?"

She nods, leaning into his touch. "I can do that."

"Good." He presses a kiss to her forehead, lingering there for a long moment. "Now. Are we still on for dinner tonight? Because I have reservations at a very expensive restaurant and I'd hate for them to go to waste."

Y/N laughs a real laugh this time, watery but genuine. "Trying to impress me with your money?"

"Is it working?"

"Ask me after I see the menu."

Harry grins, and the sight of it, warm and genuine and just for her, chases away the last lingering shadows of Daniela's poison.

Before she can overthink it and before the doubt can creep back in, Y/N rises onto her toes and presses a quick kiss to the corner of Harry's mouth.

It's barely a kiss, really. More of a brush, a whisper of contact, her lips grazing the edge of his smile for a fraction of a second before she pulls back.

But the effect is immediate.

Heat floods her cheeks, rushing up from her neck to the tips of her ears. She turns her head away sharply, suddenly fascinated by the medical certificates on Harry's wall, her heart hammering against her ribs like it's trying to escape. Oh God. She just kissed him. In his office. During work hours. After spending twenty minutes crying over his ex-girlfriend's mind games.

"I shouldn't have—" she stammers. "That was unprofessional. We're at work and I just—"

Harry's laugh cuts her off.

It's not his usual sardonic chuckle or his professional courtesy laugh. This is  warm and delighted, rich with genuine amusement. The sound rumbles through his chest where her hands still rest against him.

"Adorable," he murmurs, and before she can protest, he's pulling her into a tight hug, wrapping his arms around her and tucking her head beneath his chin. "You're absolutely adorable when you get flustered."

Y/N makes an indignant noise against his chest. "I'm not adorable. I'm a surgeon. Surgeons aren't adorable."

"You're both." She can hear the smile in his voice. "A brilliant, talented, occasionally terrifying surgeon who also happens to turn the color of a tomato when she kisses me."

"I do not turn the color of a—"

He pulls back just enough to look at her face, one eyebrow raised in challenge. Y/N catches a glimpse of herself in the reflection of his office window and winces. Her cheeks are definitely several shades darker than normal.

"Okay, fine," she concedes.

Harry's expression softens as he looks down at her, his green eyes crinkling at the corners. He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture impossibly tender.

"There she is," he murmurs. "There's my girl."

My girl. The words send a shiver down her spine.

"It’s only because you make me nervous." she continues, ignoring the swarm of butterflies in her stomach

"Good." Harry's arms tighten around her waist. "You make me nervous too. Have since day one."

That surprises her enough. "I make you nervous? You're Harry Styles. You don't get nervous."

"Shows what you know." His thumb traces idle patterns against her lower back through her scrubs. 

The moment stretches between them, weighted with significance. Y/N's heart does that stuttering thing again, but this time it's not from anxiety or doubt. It's from the way Harry's looking at her, like she's something precious he's afraid to break.

"We should probably get back to work," she says reluctantly. "Before someone notices we're both missing."

"Probably." But Harry doesn't release her, his arms still locked around her waist. "Though I am the department head. I could argue we're having an important mentorship discussion."

"Is that what we're calling it?"

"Sounds better than 'the chief of surgery was caught cuddling his resident in his office.'"

Y/N laughs, the sound muffled against his chest. "Cuddling is definitely not in the hospital handbook."

"Then it's a good thing I helped edit the handbook." Harry finally, reluctantly, loosens his grip. "I know where all the loopholes are."

She steps back, immediately missing his warmth, and tries to smooth her hair into something resembling professional. "How do I look? Can anyone tell I was crying?"

Harry reaches out, gently brushing away a smudge of mascara from beneath her eye with his thumb. "Beautiful," he says simply. "But if anyone asks, you can blame it on the fluorescent lighting. Makes everyone look like they've been crying."

"That's a terrible excuse."

"Best I've got on short notice." He walks to his desk, scribbling something on a prescription pad, then hands it to her with a completely straight face.

Y/N looks down at the paper. In his distinctive scrawl, he's written:

Rx: One (1) fancy dinner with devastatingly handsome surgeon. Take at 7pm tonight. May cause excessive smiling, butterflies, and general swooning. Side effects include falling hopelessly in love. Refills available upon request.

She stares at it, torn between laughing and crying again.

Harry Styles, Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery, wrote her a fake prescription for a date. Like a lovesick teenager passing notes in class.

It's stupid. It's cheesy. It's utterly beneath his dignity.

She loves it.

"You're ridiculous," she manages.

"And yet you kissed me anyway." Harry's smirk is insufferable. "So what does that say about your judgment?"

Y/N carefully folds the prescription and tucks it into her pocket, something to keep, to look at later when she needs reminding that this is real. "That it's clearly compromised."

"I'll see you at seven," she says, carefully folding the prescription and tucking it into her pocket. "Don't be late."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Harry pushes off from the desk, closing the distance between them one more time. "And Y/N?"

"Hmm?"

He leans down, his lips brushing against her ear. "Next time you want to kiss me? Don't aim for the corner."

Before she can respond, before she can do anything but stand there with her heart in her throat, he pulls back, winks, and opens the office door for her.

"After you, Dr. Y/L/N. Those rounds won't complete themselves."

Y/N walks out on unsteady legs, hyperaware of his gaze on her back as she heads down the corridor. Her pocket feels warm where the prescription rests against her hip, a tangible reminder that this is real, that they are real, that whatever games Daniela wants to play, she's already lost.

Seven o'clock can't come fast enough.

Harry stands in front of the bathroom mirror, fussing with his hair for the third time in as many minutes.

It's ridiculous. He's thirty-three years old, a department head, one of the most respected cardiothoracic surgeons on the East Coast. He's performed surgeries that would make lesser physicians weep. He's stared down death and won more times than he can count.

And yet here he is, nervous about a dinner date like he's seventeen and taking a girl to prom.

He runs his fingers through his curls one more time, letting them fall in that artfully disheveled way that took him twenty minutes to achieve. His shirt is a deep burgundy silk. Definitely expensive, tailored, and chosen specifically because Niall mentioned once that Y/N liked rich colors. The top two buttons are undone, revealing just a hint of the tattoos scattered across his chest.

He looks good. He knows he looks good.

So why does he feel like he's about to vibrate out of his skin?

His phone sits on the bathroom counter, and he picks it up, pulling up his message thread with Y/N. The last text is from an hour ago: 

Y/N: Be honest. Is this place actually as good as you said, or are you just trying to impress me?

Harry: Statistically speaking, the odds of a bad meal are extremely low. The odds of me being distracted because you’re sitting across from me are…significantly higher

Now, with fifteen minutes until he needs to leave, he types out one last message.

`Fun fact: surgeons have steady hands because we train ourselves to stay calm under pressure. And yet somehow the thought of seeing you tonight has my hands shaking like a first-year med student. What have you done to me, Dr. Y/L/N?`

He hits send before he can second-guess himself, then pockets the phone with a smile.

The knock at his door comes just as he's reaching for his jacket.

Harry frowns, glancing at the time. He's not expecting anyone. The reservation is in forty minutes, and he still needs to pick up Y/N— 

Another knock, more insistent this time.

He crosses to the door and pulls it open, already preparing an excuse to send away whoever's interrupting his evening.

The words die in his throat.

Daniela stands in his doorway.

She's dressed to kill in a crimson dress that hugs every curve, plunging neckline, heels that put her nearly at eye level with him. Her hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders, her makeup immaculate, her perfume hitting him like a wave of memory.

Five years ago, this sight would have brought him to his knees.

Now, all he feels is a creeping sense of dread.

"Daniela." His voice comes out flat. "What are you doing here?"

"Can't an old friend stop by?" She smiles, but there's something brittle beneath the warmth. "I was in the neighborhood. Thought we could catch up."

"I'm on my way out."

"This won't take long." She steps forward, and Harry finds himself moving back automatically, allowing her into his apartment before his brain catches up to his body. "I've been thinking about you, Harry. About us. About everything we had."

She moves through his space like she still belongs there, trailing her fingers along the back of his couch, taking in the details of his living room with a proprietary air that sets his teeth on edge.

"There is no 'us,'" Harry says carefully. "There hasn't been for five years."

"And whose fault is that?" Daniela turns to face him, her expression shifting into something softer, more vulnerable. "I made a mistake, Harry. I know that now. Leaving you—leaving this—it was the biggest regret of my life."

She moves closer, her hand coming up to rest on his chest. He can feel the warmth of her palm through the silk of his shirt, and he steps back, putting distance between them.

"Daniela— "

"Do you remember that weekend in the Hamptons?" Her voice drops, husky with manufactured nostalgia. "That little bed and breakfast by the water? You said you'd never been happier. You said you wanted to spend the rest of your life making me feel the way I made you feel."

Harry's jaw tightens. "I said a lot of things back then. I was young and stupid."

"You were in love." She steps closer again, closing the gap he'd created. "We both were. And I think, I know, that kind of love doesn't just disappear. It's still there, Harry. I can feel it."

Her hand reaches for his face, and he catches her wrist before she can make contact.

"Stop."

"Harry— "

"I said stop." His voice is harder now, the professional mask slipping. "Whatever you're trying to do here, it's not going to work. I'm not the same person I was five years ago, and I'm not interested in revisiting the past."

. A flicker of  wounded pride, or simple frustration, crosses Daniela's eyes."Is this about her? Your little resident?"

Harry's grip on her wrist tightens involuntarily. "Her name is Y/N."

"I know her name." Daniela's voice takes on a bitter edge. "I also know that she's barely out of medical school, that she has no idea what she's doing, and that she's completely wrong for you."

"You don't know anything about her."

"I know she's not me." Daniela pulls her wrist free, her composure cracking. "I know that whatever you think you feel for her, it's not real. It's infatuation. It's the thrill of something new and forbidden. But it won't last, Harry. It never does."

Harry takes a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm. "I have a date tonight. With Y/N. So whatever you came here to accomplish, I need you to leave."

The words land like a slap.

Daniela's expression transforms. The soft vulnerability vanished, replaced by something ugly and raw. Her lips curl into a sneer, her eyes hardening with barely contained fury.

"A date," she repeats, her voice dripping with contempt. "With that bitch."

"Watch your mouth."

"Oh, please." Daniela laughs, the sound harsh and mirthless. "You're defending her? Harry, open your eyes. She doesn't care about you. She's a nobody. A first-year resident with mediocre skills and an overinflated ego. The only reason she's interested in you is because of what you can do for her career."

Harry feels anger rising in his chest, hot and dangerous. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" Daniela's voice rises, her composure shattering completely. "I've seen the way she looks at you. The way she positions herself to get your attention. She's calculating, Harry. Everything she does is designed to make you notice her, to make you invest in her, to make you think she's something special."

She steps closer, jabbing a finger at his chest.

"She's using you. For your reputation, your connections, your status. The second she gets what she wants, the second someone better comes along, she'll drop you without a backward glance. Just like— "

"Just like you did?"

The words cut through Daniela's tirade like a scalpel. She freezes, her mouth still open, her finger still pointed at his chest.

Harry's voice is quiet now, controlled, but there's steel beneath the calm.

"You left me, Daniela. You took a job across the country without even discussing it with me. You threw away three years of our lives because Johns Hopkins made you a better offer." He steps forward, and for the first time, she steps back. "And now you have the audacity to stand in my apartment and call Y/N a gold digger? To accuse her of using me for status?"

"That's different— "

"How?" Harry demands. "How is it different? You made a choice. You chose your career over our relationship. And that's fine—I've made my peace with it. But you don't get to come back now, five years later, and poison what I have with someone else because you've decided you made a mistake."

Daniela's face has gone pale, her bravado crumbling. "Harry, I— "

"I want you to leave." His voice is final. "I want you to stay away from Y/N. And when your research collaboration is finished, I want you to go back to Baltimore and forget this conversation ever happened."

"You can't just— "

"I can." Harry moves to the door, pulling it open. "I'm the Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery, and you're a guest in my department. If you can't maintain professional boundaries, I'll have no choice but to end the collaboration early."

Daniela stares at him, her chest heaving with barely suppressed emotion. For a moment, he thinks she might argue or scream, might cry, might do something dramatic and destructive.

But then the fight drains out of her.

She straightens her spine, smooths her dress, and walks toward the door with as much dignity as she can muster. As she passes him, she pauses, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper.

"You'll regret this. When she breaks your heart, and she will, you'll remember that I tried to warn you."

"Goodbye, Daniela."

He closes the door behind her, the click of the latch echoing in the sudden silence of his apartment.

Harry stands there for a long moment, his hand still on the doorknob, his heart racing with residual adrenaline. The encounter has left him shaken in ways he doesn't want to examine too closely. OOld wounds reopened and old fears stirred up.

But beneath the turmoil, there's something else. Something solid and certain.

Y/N.

He pulls out his phone, checking the time. He's going to be late if he doesn't leave now.

He locks the door behind him and heads for his car, leaving the ghost of Daniela's accusations behind.

Tonight is about the future. About possibility. About a woman who challenges him and infuriates him and makes him feel more alive than he has in years.

Everything else can wait.

Harry parks his car outside Y/N's building and sits for a moment, hands still gripped around the steering wheel.

He should be nervous. By all rights, his stomach should be in knots, his palms sweating, his mind racing through worst-case scenarios the way it always does before important moments.

But as he steps out of the car and walks toward her building, something unexpected happens.

The anxiety doesn't intensify. It doesn't build with each step, doesn't crescendo as he enters the lobby and presses the elevator button.

Instead, it dissolves.

With every floor the elevator climbs, Harry feels something else settling into his bones. Something warm and steady and utterly foreign. It's not excitement, though that's there too. It's not anticipation, though he's practically vibrating with the need to see her.

It's peace.

The realization is so startling that he actually stops in the hallway outside her apartment, one hand raised to knock, just...processing.

Y/N makes him peaceful.

Not calm in the way surgery makes him calm. That focused, controlled state where everything else falls away and only the work remains. This is different. Softer. It's the feeling of coming home after a brutal shift, of sinking into a hot bath after a marathon surgery, of finally taking a full breath after holding it for too long.

She's chaos and challenge and constant provocation. She argues with him, pushes back, refuses to make anything easy.

And somehow, inexplicably, being near her is the most settled he's felt in years.

Harry knocks before he can spiral further into that particular revelation.

Footsteps approach from inside—quick, light, accompanied by what sounds like a muffled curse and something clattering to the floor. Despite everything, he smiles.

The door swings open.

And Harry's entire world tilts on its axis.

Christ, she looks—

His brain, usually so reliable with its vocabulary and quick wit, completely short-circuits.

The dress is simple, elegant. A sleeveless sheath that skims her curves without clinging, falling just above her knees. Nothing overtly provocative about it. Nothing that should make his mouth go dry and his heart forget how to function properly.

But it's her.

Her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, catching the light from her apartment. She's wearing makeup—not much, just enough to emphasize her eyes and the curve of her lips. There's a slight flush to her cheeks, nervous energy radiating from her in waves.

She's breathtaking.

And Harry realizes, with the kind of clarity that comes once in a lifetime, that he's completely and utterly fucked.

Because he's in love with her.

Not falling. Not heading in that direction. Already there. Completely, irrevocably, terrifyingly in love.

When did this happen?

Was it San Francisco, when she fell asleep on his shoulder and he spent the entire flight memorizing the rhythm of her breathing? Was it the conference, watching her command a room full of surgeons twice her age with nothing but confidence and brilliance? Was it the hotel room, her lips against his, the taste of her burning itself into his memory?

Or was it earlier than that? The first time she challenged him in the OR, fire in her eyes and steel in her spine? The first time she made him laugh, actually laugh, not the polite chuckle he offers to colleagues, but a real, surprised burst of joy? The first time he caught himself looking for her in the halls, his day feeling incomplete until he'd seen her face?

It doesn't matter. The when is irrelevant. The point is that it's happened, and there's no going back.

Harry Styles, who swore he'd never let anyone close enough to hurt him again, who built his reputation on control and precision and emotional distance, has fallen completely and utterly in love with his resident.

And the strangest part?

He's okay with it.

The knowledge hits him like a defibrillator to the chest. Sudden, violent, and impossible to ignore.

He's a cardiologist. He's spent his entire adult life studying the human heart, learning its rhythms, understanding its mechanics. He knows every chamber, every valve, every electrical pathway. He can diagnose arrhythmias from an EKG at fifty paces. He's performed hundreds of surgeries, held the organ in his hands, felt it beat against his palms.

But gun to his head, he couldn't tell you what the bastard is doing right now.

It's not racing...not exactly. It's not skipping beats or fluttering or doing any of the things that would indicate a medical emergency.

It's just...full.

Impossibly, overwhelmingly full, like someone's pumped it full of something warm and golden and completely foreign to his usual emotional landscape.

Y/N is looking at him, her expression shifting from nervous to concerned.

"Harry? Are you okay? You're just...standing there. Is it the dress? I knew I should have gone with the blue one—"

"No." The word comes out rougher than he intended, scraped raw by the emotions threatening to overwhelm him. "No, the dress is...you're..."

He trails off, shaking his head, a disbelieving laugh escaping his lips.

"I'm a surgeon," he says slowly. "I'm supposed to be articulate. I give presentations to rooms full of people. I explain complex procedures to patients and their families every day. And right now, looking at you, I can't form a complete sentence."

Y/N's blush deepens, but she's smiling now, that shy, pleased smile that makes his chest ache. "That's either very flattering or very concerning."

"Flattering," Harry assures her. "Definitely flattering."

He reaches out, his hand finding hers like it's the most natural thing in the world. Her fingers are cool against his palm, and he brings them to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs against her skin. "You're so beautiful it's actually making me stupid."

Y/N laughs that bright, unguarded sound that he's become addicted to."Stupid looks good on you."

"Everything looks good on me."

"And there's the arrogance. I was worried you'd been replaced by a pod person."

Harry grins "Never. You're stuck with the real me, I'm afraid. Ego and all."

Harry steps forward, close enough that he can smell her perfume, something light and citrusy that he knows he'll associate with this moment for the rest of his life. "You could be wearing scrubs and you'd still be the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

Y/N's eyes widen slightly. "That's...very smooth, Dr. Styles."

"I'm not trying to be smooth." He reaches out, his other hand finding hers, their fingers threading together with an ease that feels like muscle memory. "I'm just telling you the truth."

She looks down at their joined hands, then back up at him, and he sees his own feelings reflected in her expression

"We should probably go," she says softly. "Before we're late to our reservation."

"Probably."

Neither of them moves.

Harry's thumb traces circles on the back of her hand, and he marvels at how something so simple can feel so monumental. This quiet moment in her doorway, her hand in his, the city humming with life beyond her windows, this is what contentment feels like.

Not the rush of a successful surgery. Not the satisfaction of a difficult diagnosis. Not the thrill of professional recognition or academic achievement.

Just...her.

He's spent years building walls, maintaining distance, keeping people at arm's length because it was safer that way. Easier. Less complicated.

He should be terrified. This feeling, this bone-deep certainty that she's changed everything should send him running in the opposite direction.

But standing here, watching the way the light catches in her hair, feeling the warmth of her hand in his, Harry realizes something else.

He's okay with it.

More than okay. For the first time in five years, maybe longer, he's exactly where he's supposed to be.

Harry smiles, bringing their joined hands up to press a kiss to her knuckles.

"Come on, Dr. Y/L/N. We have a very expensive dinner reservation and a prescription to fill."

She grabs her purse and locks the door, falling into step beside him as they walk down the hallway.

And if Harry keeps hold of her hand the entire way and in the elevator, through the lobby, all the way to his car, well…

He's a cardiothoracic surgeon. He knows better than anyone how important it is to protect the heart.

Even when it's already been given away.

What do we think of this part? :) Thank you all for reading and for your support! I read every comment, ask, and reblog. It means the world to me 🫶🏻

🏷️: @triski73 @angeldavis777 @ivegotthecinema @bethiegurl19 @sstylezzz @myfavfanficsever @spinninc  @fruity-harry @maddiemikaelson28 @notsosweetcreature @cinema-fics @sassamanda77 @watarmelon212 @pillkits @readingrockstar23 @mema10 @slutfortigertattoo @stylesftcher @f1and1d4eva @cowboylikelivie @run-for-the-hills @silastylesswift @cherreigh @okdenmepolinoiazei @bibliophile369 @gilwm @puzio19 @witch-rry @matildasatellite @hookedonromance @fangirl509east @mads3502 @gem1712 @panicattheeverywherekid @myharrington @maladaptivescorpio @ggaayyystar @mothersversiononly @aileen1237 @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @hermionelove @harryskiwijuice @pari-1 @angelbunny222 @berrycherry28 @lilfreakjez @sideboobrry11 @couldntwantyoumore @preferstyles @sarahs-house @fleuretpluie

[madragingven]

finally just about finished with our caterpillar bead curtain :3

[watchmegetobsessed]

SAILING AWAY II.

A/N: i hope you all enjoyed the first part of the story, now here is the second half! with this part the story is complete!

WORD COUNT: 11.5k

SUMMARY: A boy, a girl and a boat. They are inseparable, certain that nothing can break their bond as long as they see her sail on the horizon. But nothing lasts forever and the kids grow up and apart. Over a decade later, Y/N finds herself back at the sailing club for just a few weeks, temporarily. But the moment she sees Harry, the boy she once knew, now a man with the same steady eyes and cheeky smile, she realizes some things never really fade.

PART I. | MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!

It’s a bit of a cloudy afternoon, but still warm, Y/N is sitting on the steps leading down from the terrace, laughing with Marta, who’s taking a quick break from her shift. Harry is nearby, fiddling with a toolbox, trying to fix a cart that has had a loose wheel for the past few weeks and it gave up this morning. Y/N reaches for a biscuit from the small plate between her and Marta, brushing a crumb off her knee.

“I think you’re doing it wrong,” Marta comments as Harry tightens a screw, but this way the wheel is not turning at all.

“Would you like to take over?” Harry huffs, shaking his head to flip his hair out of his forehead.

“Nope, I’m good just directing.”

Y/N laughs at her, biting into the biscuit.

“What’s so funny?” Harry asks her. “Do you want to join the work?”

“Oh, I’m only here for the snacks,” she holds her hands up in defense. 

All three of them laugh which is suddenly interrupted by a deep, authoritative voice.

“Y/N.”

John is standing on the terrace, perfectly crisp in a navy polo and tan slacks, sunglasses perched on his head, his expression unreadable but unmistakably disapproving. 

“I’ve been looking for you,” he says, tone cool. His eyes drift briefly to Marta, then to Harry, both of them went quiet. Harry slowly stands upright, wiping his hands on a rag.

“Just stopped here for a minute,” she answers, staring ahead of her as if not looking at John would make him go away.

“Didn’t realize the club hired you,” John says and she doesn’t miss the sharpness in his tone. 

“I help sometimes,” she replies evenly, though her shoulders are already stiffening. “Marta needed an extra hand.”

“Y/N’s better than most of the seasonal hires,” Marta offers with a warm smile, trying to lighten the mood, but John doesn’t acknowledge her.

His gaze flicks to Harry next. 

“Still running the dock?”

Harry gives him a nod. “Among other things.”

John hums, but it lands flat, no interest in it at all.

“You always were… resourceful.”

The silence that follows is thick. Harry doesn’t react, he simply looks away, like he’s already learned it’s not worth engaging.

“I’ll see you later,” John tells Y/N, then adds, “We should talk.”

Without waiting for her reply, he turns and walks away, polished shoes tapping against the terrace stones.

Y/N exhales slowly, trying not to let her embarrassment show. Marta places a hand on her arm but doesn’t say anything. Harry’s eyes meet hers briefly, something soft there, but she can tell he’s holding back.

“Sorry,” she says under her breath.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Harry replies.

She hates how he made her feel like a little girl again who is doing something bad by befriending people who don’t have funds and assets worth millions, something she worked hard to get rid of even though she always knew it wasn’t right.

“So, are you on a strike or are you back on snack duty?” Harry asks, lightening the mood, nodding towards the biscuits.

“Coming your way, Sir!” she nods seriously, grabbing a biscuit and stepping over to Harry. His hands are full so she doesn’t hesitate holding the biscuit up to his mouth, which he takes easily, his lips brushing against her fingers for a split second. He smirks at her as he chews while she hopes he can’t hear how wildly his heart is thudding in her chest. 

Later that day she forces herself to go up to the villa instead of locking herself up in the pool house, knowing well if she doesn’t talk to her father willingly it will just get worse. It’s better to tear the bandaid off right now. 

Walking into the spacious living room she finds John sitting in his armchair, a drink in hand, a pile of files on the side table next to him. The lamp beside him casts a soft yellow glow that feels too calm for what she knows is coming.

“You wanted to talk?” she asks.

He gestures to the armchair opposite him. “Sit down.”

She nods, making herself comfortable, but she notes how it feels more like a job interview rather than a father-daughter conversation. 

“You’ve been here for a few weeks now,” he begins, voice measured. “It’s been… good to have you around again.”

Though they haven’t spent much time together, she adds in her mind, but only nods with a small smile. 

“I’d hoped this break would be good for you. Give you a chance to reset. You’ve looked tired lately.”

“That was my plan too.”

“You’ve been spending time around the club,” he continues, sipping his drink. “Helping with boats, working with the club staff, acting like you’re one of them.”

She stiffens.

“They’re good people,” she retorts.

“I didn’t say they weren’t. But you’re not one of them.”

She blinks. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks flatly.

“You know what I mean. You were raised in a different world than them. You don’t have to play staff just to feel useful. You have a very respectable job, a solid career. You don’t need to be… pretending.”

She feels the muscles tighten in her shoulders and jaw, forces herself to take a few deep breaths before speaking up. 

“I’m not pretending,” she says softly. “And spending time with people like Marta and Harry…there’s nothing wrong with that. They are good, hardworking people.”

“Harry. He’s been around since you were kids, hasn’t he?” he asks, taking another sip. She nods shortly. “That kid was basically raised by the staff here, his playground was the tool shed and he’s been working in the club for longer than most.”

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t trust her voice not to shake.

“I’m not criticizing. I just want you to remember who you are. You don’t have to blend in to be liked.”

She stares back, head pounding from all the unsaid things she would love to throw at John, but she keeps them swirling only in her mind.

“I should go,” is all she says. He watches her for a second, then gives a short nod. 

“Dinner tomorrow? The boys would love to see you some more."

“I have a lot of work,” she lies without hesitation as she heads for the sliding doors. She walks out without looking back, but could feel John’s burning gaze on the back of her head. 

As she makes her way back to her place, her phone buzzes in her pocket.

HARRY: Bonfire by the staff cabin, join us if you’re in the mood.

She smiles typing back.

Y/N: On my way.

She hears the sound of laughter before seeing the glow of the fire. Lanterns are strung between trees like fireflies, casting soft yellow light over mismatched chairs and driftwood logs. Music drifts faintly from someone’s speaker, Fleetwood Mac, she notes. The scent of roasted marshmallows and woodsmoke hits her like nostalgia.

She spots Harry instantly, sitting on a log with a few other guys, laughing on something. Marta waves her over from near the cooler. 

“You made it,” Marta grins, handing her a drink before she can say anything. “Harry said you’re coming, but I didn’t believe you’d actually come.”

“Of course I would come,” she smiles warmly at her.

She catches Harry’s eye across the fire. He gives her a small smile, barely more than a twitch of the lips, but she feels it like gravity pulling her forward. The group shifts, stories are told, someone starts tuning a guitar. Slowly, as it always does, the fire circle rearranges itself and Harry ends up beside her. 

Their knees bump once, then stay that way. He doesn’t say much, he just leans back on his hands, watching the flames. After a while, he turns to her.

“You okay?”

“Better now,” she nods, smiling softly at him. 

The evening carries on, they play games, sing songs and even dance a little. No one makes Y/N feel like an outsider, her presence is welcomed and appreciated. Someone hands her a can of beer that she accepts and she joins conversations with people she only saw in a passing around the club, but Harry stays near all along. Small touches become more and more frequent, a brush of fingers on her forearm, a gentle hand on her lower back or a head resting on his shoulder as they listen to a story. The force that’s pulling them closer gets stronger with each passing minute. 

A slower song comes on and he looks at her, really looks, and something shifts in his expression. She doesn’t know what it is exactly, but it warms her more than the fire.

“Come with me?” he says after a moment, already rising from the log they’ve been sitting on.

“Where?” she asks, but he just holds a hand out. She takes it with no hesitation.

They move through the trees, down the dark path toward the docks. The night air is cooler here, the sound of crickets mixing with the water washing the shore. When they start walking down the dock Harry’s hand wraps around hers, the warmth of his hold is comforting and exciting at the same time. They pass boat after boat, then Matilda comes into view and she is growing suspicious as they get closer and then stop right in front of her.

“What are we doing here?” she asks in a whisper, as if they shouldn’t be down here, though the dock is not closed at night, anyone could go there.

“Do you want to sail out with her?” The dim lighting casts a yellow hue on his boyish smirk and she notes how handsome he looks when he is being a little cheeky. 

“What?” Her eyes widen. 

“You heard me,” he chuckles, already stepping onto the boat while Y/N’s mouth hangs open before she hurriedly looks around.

“What are you doing? You can’t just walk on someone’s boat!” she whisper-yells at him, but it just makes him laugh. He lazily turns around, hands on his hips, head tilted to the side. 

“You’re right. But I can walk on my boat.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but then it registers what he just said and her voice dies down. She stares back at him in disbelief. 

“What–Are you serious right now?” She steps closer, but still stays on the dock. 

“Yeah,” he simply says.

“When? How?... What?!”

“Why don’t you get on board and I’ll tell you while we sail out.” He holds a hand out for her, she looks at it hesitant at first, but then she places her hand in his palm and finally steps on board.

A moment she dreamed of all her childhood. 

A thrill runs through her as the boat rocks gently beneath her feet, the night air cooler on the open water. Harry moves confidently, untying lines and prepping sails like it's second nature, like the boat is an extension of himself.

She watches him for a moment, eyes adjusting to the darkness as they move farther away from the dock, Matilda gently creaking beneath them, as if waking from sleep.

“So,” she starts. “Matilda?”

“I mean, are you surprised?” Harry chuckles. “She wasn’t just your favorite.”

“I know, but I just never thought that…”

“That I would ever afford to buy her?” He arches an eyebrow and guilt washes over her.

“That’s not…”

“I know.” His face softens. “It’s okay, I never thought either, to be honest. And even if I did, I didn’t even know who owned her, so it felt impossible.”

“So then what happened?” 

Y/N watches as Harry brings the boat to a stop and then drops the anchor over the bow so they stay in place, far away from the shore and what feels like real life. Here, it’s just the three of them, Y/N, Harry and Matilda.

“I saved up for years, I did a bunch of side jobs, there was a summer when I worked three jobs and didn’t have a single day when I didn’t work. Took me a pretty long time.”

They are standing with the mast between them, both of them holding onto it, but not touching each other.

“Three years ago I finally saved up enough and I also tracked down the owner. By that time she was in a pretty rough shape. Because of that she was sold to me cheaper, but I ended up spending the rest and even more on repairing her. I worked on her for an entire year in my spare time before I could finally sail out on her.”

She is at a loss of words. It’s a plot twist she never expected, not after talking about Matilda with Harry just not long ago and he didn’t even mention being the new owner of her. 

Hugging herself she looks around, smiling in disbelief. She remembers all the time they spent watching her glide on the water in the distance, her baby blue painting setting her apart from all the other boats, they talked about what it would be like to sail her out, only ever dreaming of it but now Harry made it reality. 

“Take a look around her,” he smiles softly. “I know you’re dying to explore,” he adds with a chuckle. 

Y/N doesn’t hesitate. With a grin tugging at her lips, she pushes herself away from the mast and starts moving around the boat, her fingertips brushing over the polished wood, the freshly painted blue trim, the ropes neatly coiled and secured. Every detail feels intentional, cared for and cherished. Just what she deserves. 

She ducks her head, checking out below the deck, a spot she never saw, not even when she was tied off and she wandered near her out of curiosity. It’s small, just as she expected. Harry has put a mattress in there, she sees a few blankets and boxes filled with tools and what not. 

“It’s not a yacht, but sometimes I take her out before sunrise and just let her drift, watching the sky change from there,” he says, nodding towards the mattress. 

“It’s perfect,” she quietly says. “Yachts are overrated,” she adds, giving him a playful smile. 

Harry grins at that, a soft huff of a laugh leaving his lips as he steps back up beside her. 

“Tell that to your dad,” he mutters teasingly, then motions toward the deck. “Come on. Let’s sit.”

They settle side by side on the wooden deck, their legs stretched out, the water lapping gently against the hull. A breeze skims over the lake, warm and calming. For a while, they’re quiet, just watching the lake shimmer under the stars.

Then she breaks the silence, or maybe he does, it doesn’t matter. Their conversation starts flowing easily, sharing anything and everything that comes to their mind, filling in each other about all the time they spent apart. School, work, family, failed hobbies and deep obsessions, moving, maturing… growing up. 

At one point Harry brings some blankets out and they lie on the deck, watching the twinkling stars as the conversation never ends. Hours go by, maybe even days, she wouldn’t be surprised if a whole week passed by. She could stay there for eternity. 

They are lying close, shoulders and arms touching. At one point they end up lacing their fingers together, the physical connection strengthening the importance of the moment. 

When there’s finally a pause, it’s comfortable, both of them just taking in what it feels like to be so close in every possible way. Then Y/N turns her head, looking at his side-profile for a few moments before he turns to face her as well.

“Why did you buy her?” she asks. Harry’s eyebrows knot together for a moment, but they quickly smooth out. His eyes are speaking, but she wants him to say it. 

He stares back at her, then his eyes jump down to her lips before back to her gaze. The air is thick between them, full of things they’ve been circling around for the past weeks. 

He stays silent and she starts to think he won’t even answer, but then he breaks the silence.

“Because she reminded me the most of you.”

Her breath catches, the weight of his words settling over her like the warm blanket around their legs. It’s the kind of thing that should feel too heavy, too intense, but somehow it doesn’t. It just fits. She watches the way his jaw tightens like he’s bracing for something, how his fingers twitch slightly against hers like he’s afraid she’ll pull away. But she doesn’t. She tightens her grip instead.

“You kept thinking of me all this time?” she asks quietly, not teasing, not fishing, just trying to understand.

“I tried not to,” he admits, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Didn’t work.”

She takes a deep breath, turning back towards the sky. “Same.”

She sits up, pulling her knees up to her chest and Harry follows her, leaning onto a hand, watching her intently while she avoids looking at him just yet. 

“I hated that my dad made me stop talking to you. I lost my best friend and it also made me realize you were more than that. By the time I had the courage to not live by his rules I thought it was too late and you hated me for cutting you out of my life.”

“For a second I did hate you,” Harry admits with a chuckle and she finally looks at him with a small smile. “But then I saw you around and you seemed different. Like you weren’t yourself and I figured there was more behind it all than just… you waking up and deciding I wasn’t good enough for you anymore.”

“You were always good enough,” she replies, then adds in a whisper: “The best.”

Harry goes still for a moment, like her words have physically stopped the air in his lungs. His gaze is locked on hers, heavy with everything they’ve both left unsaid for too long.

“You really think that?” he asks softly. She nods. 

Something shifts in the air. It’s not dramatic, not fireworks or lightning, just a soft, electric pull between them that’s undeniable. Harry leans in a little, his eyes dropping briefly to her lips, then flicking back up.

“You can still stop me,” he murmurs, barely audible, every word cautious and thick with vulnerability.

“I won’t,” she whispers back, already leaning in.

Their lips meet in the middle, slow and searching. It’s tentative at first, like a question asked with trembling hands. But then the kiss deepens and all the time and distance between them fades away.

Harry’s hand comes up to cup her jaw gently, his thumb brushing along her cheekbone, grounding her. She shifts closer, knees still drawn to her chest, leaning into him and his touch. Then the pull strengthens and they shift around until she is straddling his lap, her arms locked around his shoulders, the blanket that’s been wrapped around her now envelopes them both. His hands roam her back, rumpling her shirt before slipping under the fabric. 

The kiss soon turns from gentle and warm to something rougher, needier and hotter, blurring all lines when his lips travel down her neck, his hands pulling her even more against him. The blanket falls off them when her shirt is tugged over her head and while she is eager to take it further, Harry pulls back.

“A-are you sure?” he asks, out of breath. 

“Yes,” she nods.

“And just to clear things up, you’re not doing this because I have a boat, right?”

Y/N barks out a laugh as a smirk stretches across his face. 

“Shut up, you idiot,” she shakes her head before kissing him again.

No more questions are asked as they move below the deck and get tangled in each other on the small mattress, not that they need a lot of space, they work hard to get as close to each other as possible. 

***

When Harry wakes it’s still not the morning, but the dawn is slowly approaching, lightening the sky. He blinks a few times, looking around in the small cabin only to realize he is alone. 

He sits up, the blanket falling to his lap as he glances out to the dock. That’s where he sees Y/N, sitting at the end of the boat, watching the water. Her hair is messy and she is wearing his shirt, a sight that tightens his chest. He loves watching the lake from here, but this is by far the best view he has ever had. 

He puts on his pants and climbs out, sitting behind her, legs on either side of her, arms circling her waist. She leans back against him as he rests his chin on her shoulder. 

“If I told my sixteen year-old self that one day I would have you on Matilda, wearing my shirt and nothing else, his mind would have been absolutely blown,” he murmurs against her cheek. She chuckles, rubbing her hands up and down his legs. 

“So you were fantasizing about me while every girl in the club fantasized about you?”

“Oh, you are overestimating my charm, I’m afraid.”

“No, I’m pretty sure I’m not. All my girlfriends from the club had a crush on you.”

“Really?” he asks, genuinely surprised by the information. 

“Yeah,” she huffs out a laugh. He stays quiet, then kisses her cheek. 

“Well, I only cared about you.”

She bites into her bottom lip, failing to hide her smile. She turns her head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of him from the corner of her eye. 

"You were really good at hiding it then," she says, voice still soft and sleepy from the early hour.

“I was terrified,” he hums.

“Of me?” she teases, leaning her head back a little more against his shoulder.

“Of you, of your dad, of messing everything up,” he admits. “You were always this… bright, golden thing. I didn’t want to ruin it.”

Her smile fades just a little, not gone, but softened.

“You never would have ruined anything.”

He kisses the place behind her ear gently. “We’re here now.”

She nods, eyes drifting back to the water, to the pinks and oranges now starting to creep into the sky. The lake is still, glassy, the world not quite awake yet. The only sound is the gentle lap of water against Matilda’s hull and the soft rhythm of their breathing.

For a while they just sit like that, wrapped in each other and the slow quiet of dawn. No rush, no expectations. Just the feeling of finally being in the right place at the right time.

“Did you really only care about me?” she murmurs, breaking the quiet.

“I mean, I thought about Natalie Portman once in tenth grade after seeing Star Wars.”

She gasps, but fails to make it believable she is hurt. She turns in his arms to look him in the eyes.

“So I lost to Natalie Portman.”

“Wouldn’t say that,” he grins back at her. “I didn’t buy a boat because it reminded me of her.”

Her heart thuds harder, lips curling into a shy smile.

“Right,” she whispers as Harry tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear before kissing her softly. 

They head back to the dock when the Sun breaks the horizon. Matilda returns to her usual spot and Harry ties her off before helping Y/N out, only to pull her in for another kiss before they walk back on the dock, holding hands. 

The world feels still and quiet as they walk the club’s grounds, down the path that takes them to the road that leads to John’s villa. It feels like they are sneaking around as they quietly approach the pool house. Just as they reach the door Harry tugs on her hand, turns her towards him and kisses her deeply. He inches her backwards, until her back bums against the wall and the moan that slips through her lips makes it extra hard for him to leave. They kiss like teenagers, teeth class, they giggle but then it turns into moans as they get even more lost in each other.

Somewhere not far away a bird jumps off a branch abruptly, rustling the leaves loudly and that’s what brings them back to reality.

“See you later?” she asks, brushing his hair out of his forehead. His eyes are still focused on her lips.

“I’m off today.”

She doesn’t miss the disappointment that settles in her stomach.

“But we can go for a sail in the afternoon if you want to,” he then offers and she nods before he could even finish his words.

“I want to.”

Harry smiles softly, then kisses her one last time and gathers all his will to push himself away from her. He takes a few steps backwards, eyes still glued to her as she stays leaning against the wall, because she doesn’t trust her legs just yet to take her inside instead of back into his arms. 

Then he grunts something under his breath, rushes back to her and captures her lips in a rough, hurried kiss before he turns away and jogs over to the path that will lead him back to the club.

She watches him, teeth sunk into her bottom lip, secretly hoping he would return again, but he just gives her a cheeky look over his shoulder before disappearing behind the hedge. She takes a quick shower and goes to bed to catch up on the sleeping she missed tonight, though she regrets nothing, but as she lies in bed all she can think about is Harry’s kisses, the way his hands felt all over her body, how he whispered her name over and over again, like a desperate plea as they moved together on that tiny mattress below deck as Matilda gently swayed them on the water. 

***

Their days don’t change all at once, but everything feels different. There’s a quiet newness to the way they orbit each other now, like something has shifted, clicked into place. They still follow their separate routine, Y/N’s morning run, meeting by the van, she works in the noon while he works in the kitchen or by the tool shed, lunch, more work and then some sailing. Only that they somehow find each other more often and when they are hidden from preying eyes, they indulge in each other like horny teenagers. 

The newest addition to their routine is the occasional night sail on Matilda when the club has gone to sleep and they can hide in the darkness. That small mattress below deck easily becomes their favorite place, they often don’t even return until in the morning when they go their separate ways only to meet again by the dock in the evening. 

There’s still so much unsaid. But there’s time. And for now, the days feel lighter. The lake looks bluer. And in the smallest, quietest ways, they’re both starting to believe this summer might not be temporary after all.

***

She should have known something was off when her father asked her to wear the white dress she used to wear to regattas.

“It’s just dinner,” he said. “Nothing formal. Some friends are in town.”

But it’s clearly a set up, she realizes, not just dinner. 

Across from her sits a man in a pale blue button-down and too-perfect teeth. His name is Elliot and he works in finance, of course. He speaks like he’s practiced, polite, controlled, and already referencing potential internships and connections she might find helpful. His father is beside him, she sees the resemblance between the two men, only that Elliot’s dad, Robert, seems way more insufferable than his son. Always talking about business and what others do wrong in their lives, like he could fix everything with just a snap of his fingers, but he chooses not to.

What an asshole, she thinks to herself as she pretends to be extremely busy with choosing from the menu she already knows by heart. 

She is plotting a way to pull herself out of this situation when it suddenly gets a million times worse. 

From the corner of her eyes she spots the waiter heading their way and she recognizes the figure before she even looks at him. Her stomach flips.

Harry is wearing a crisp white shirt rolled to his elbows, a navy apron tied around his waist and he is heading towards their table out of all the ones around them. 

“Your dad’s told me all about your sailing days. He says you used to win every race under sixteen?” Elliot tries to chat with her, but she can barely take her eyes off Harry who just then spots her. He freezes, just for a second, his eyes quickly assess the other three people around the table, but then quickly recovers, puts a polite smile onto his face as he keeps walking.

“I had a good team,” she replies, offering a mild smile, tearing her gaze away from Harry.

“Good evening,” Harry says smoothly. “Are we ready to order?”

His voice is steady. Professional. But his eyes flicker to hers, just for a split second, and that glance says everything.

“Let’s start with drinks,” Robert announces, not bothering to look up at Harry. “I’ll have a scotch. Neat. John?” 

“Same for me.”

Elliot peers at the menu like he’s studying a tax report. 

“Gin and tonic for me, please.”

Y/N doesn’t answer right away. She’s looking at Harry, who’s already scribbling down the orders, when he is done he turns to her. They exchange a look, one that speaks, but only for them. She tells him she is sorry for this situation and he lets her know it’s alright.

“I’ll just have sparkling water,” she finally says.

“Coming right away.” He turns, and she watches him retreat toward the bar.

Robert dives into another anecdote about how networking is more important than passion and she tunes it out. Her thoughts easily wander to the time she spent with Harry last night on Matilda, wrapped up in their little bubble and now she is stuck in this uncomfortable situation where she is being set up with a guy who is so far from what she is while the man she actually wants serves them drinks and food. 

Y/N presses her lips together, trying to appear as though she’s listening to the conversation. She nods once, twice, but her eyes flicker toward the entrance of the kitchen again, her chest tightening at the memory of Harry’s hand slipping into hers just last night, the sound of his laugh, the way his breath tickled her neck as the sun rose over the lake.

Elliot turns to her while the older men by the table keep talking about business. 

“Maybe we could go sailing together sometime. I got a new boat just last month, very sleek and modern, I think you’d enjoy her.”

Harry returns just then, placing the drinks down with quiet precision. His hand grazes the table near her as he sets the water in front of her and she looks up at him again, this time not bothering to hide the softness in her gaze.

“Um, I’m a bigger fan of older boats with stories and memories.”

Though she is answering Elliot, her eyes find Harry and she spots the tiny smile on his lips.

“Are we ready to order food?” he asks, pen and notepad in hands.

Y/N could have easily guessed the orders of the men, steak, lobster and salmon. 

“I’ll have the roasted vegetable risotto,” she says, keeping her eyes on Harry, not breaking the connection. 

“Excellent choice,” he murmurs. Then he turns and walks away again.

Elliot is talking again, something about mergers and start-ups and how work-life balance is really just a myth. Her father nods along with approval, laughing in all the right places, but Y/N can’t stop glancing toward the kitchen, willing Harry to return. 

But he doesn’t just yet. He has other tables to cover and orders to put in, but occasionally, they lock eyes from across the room. 

She sits back in her chair, takes a slow sip of water, and begins plotting how to make her exit, but something is telling her she will have to endure this hell for a little longer.

“So,” Elliot leans forward slightly, swirling the gin in his glass like he’s about to deliver the best business pitch of the year. “Your dad mentioned you’re thinking about grad school. Have you considered anything in New York?”

“I’m still figuring it out,” she says vaguely, her eyes wandering across the room toward the waitstaff. She catches sight of Harry as he speaks to the chef near the back, the sleeves of his crisp shirt pushed up, revealing the same tattooed arms that held her just hours ago. The contrast is disorienting. She looks away quickly.

“Well, you should consider Columbia. My cousin is in admissions, I could probably sneak your name into the right pile.” He smiles like he’s offering her the world.

“That’s generous,” she answers flatly, but Elliot doesn’t seem to catch it. 

“Networking, right?” he grins, shooting a look at their fathers.

“That’s what I keep telling her,” John chimes in with a light chuckle, sipping his scotch. “Opportunities don’t just fall into your lap, not in the real world.”

Y/N forces a smile, one that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Whatever you say,” she mumbles into her glass, gulping some water to cool herself down.

There’s a pause. Robert chuckles, but John glances at his daughter sharply, a flicker of irritation behind his composed expression. He knows that tone, knows she’s slipping out of his carefully written script.

“Y/N,” John says, voice lower in that fatherly manner he likes to use to warn her, “we’re just saying you’ve worked hard to get where you are. No harm in aligning with people who can help you stay on track.”

“Yeah.” She answers enthusiastically. “But let’s not forget that we should only align with the people you approve of.” To top it off she flashes him a sweet smile, one that beams of anger and defiance at the same time. 

John’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, but his smile doesn’t waver. 

“It’s called looking out for you,” he says evenly, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. Robert lets out a knowing laugh, like he’s watching a scene he’s seen a hundred times before. 

“She’s got your fire, John,” he says, though it sounds less like a compliment and more like an observation on an inconvenience.

“I call it independence,” Y/N replies smoothly, still smiling, though her grip on her water glass tightens. Elliot shifts in his seat uncomfortably.

“I think independence is great,” he offers in that too-perfect tone again, desperate to keep things pleasant. “It’s a sign of… leadership potential.”

Y/N glances at him briefly. 

“I’m not looking to lead anyone. I just don’t like being told where to go.”

The table goes quiet for a second, tension simmering just under the hum of the restaurant. And then…

Harry reappears, this time with their orders balanced neatly on his tray. He moves with practiced ease, setting Robert’s plate down first, then John’s, then Elliot’s. When he gets to her, his hand lingers a second longer than necessary on the edge of the plate before he lets go. 

“Enjoy,” he says softly, eyes flicking to hers. The tiniest smirk cracks through his professional mask.

“Thank you,” she replies, her voice low but warm, just for him. Harry moves on and she watches him walk away, feeling John’s gaze on her from across the table.

She doesn’t look back at her father. Instead, she picks up her fork, takes a bite and pretends the conversation didn’t feel like throwing gasoline on fire that’s been quietly burning somewhere, threatening to burn the whole house down. 

The night air is cooler than she expected when they step out of the restaurant. They say their rounds of goodbye, Robert is clapping John on the back like they’ve just closed a deal and Elliot seems to be thinking of another way to chat Y/N up, but then reads her coldness and decides against it. 

John and Y/N take the path towards his villa in silence that’s first broken by him.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“Okay,” she nods.

“You want to tell me what that was?” John asks, voice low and tight.

“What do you mean?” she asks with pretentious innocence, her heart thudding in her chest. She hates how he affects her.

“You were dismissive. You barely engaged with Elliot. Do you know how that makes me look? How it makes you look?”

She scoffs in disbelief.

“Like I’m not interested in being paraded in front of men I didn’t ask to meet?”

His jaw tightens, the polite mask finally slipping.

“This isn’t about dating, Y/N. It’s about opportunities. Connections. You’ve been… distracted lately. I’m trying to make sure you’re not wasting your time.”

“By wasting my time?” she shoots back, folding her arms.

John exhales sharply, glancing to the side before his head snaps back towards her.

“I saw the way you looked at him.”

“At who?” 

“I’ve seen you around with him.”

“Who are we talking about?” she asks again, wanting to hear him at least say Harry’s name, to acknowledge his existence.

“You know exactly who I’m talking about. The waiter. The gardener. Whatever he is now.” His tone is sharp but threaded with disappointment, like she’s a kid caught sneaking out. “That’s not the kind of life I want for you.”

She stares at him for a beat, her throat tight but her voice steady. “Good thing it’s my life then.”

John stops, but Y/N keeps walking, she gets a few feet ahead before she turns around and walks back to him.

“His name is Harry, by the way. And he is making me happier than anyone ever did. That includes you as well.”

She brushes past him, shoulder bumping against his arm as she heads back towards the club.

“Where are you going?” he calls after her, but she doesn’t even stop.

“Make a guess!” is all she answers and then breaks into a jog to get away from him as fast as possible.

***

Y/N is sitting in an old sunchair by the staff cabin when Harry emerges from the restaurant’s direction. He has the top few buttons undone on his shirt that now looks a little less crispy, but he is still a sigh that brings a smile to her lips. 

He’s surprised to see her, even stops in his tracks for a second as she stands from the sunchair.

“Hey,” she says softly, but his “Hey” comes out more guarded. She takes a step closer. 

“I thought you’d be done earlier.”

“Got held up,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets, eyes flicking toward the lake instead of her. “Did you have a nice dinner?”

It’s meant to sound casual, but she hears the weight behind his words.

“Yeah, if your definition of ‘nice’ is being paraded in front of Elliot, future investment banker, and his charming father who thinks he knows how the entire world should work,” she says dryly.

Harry’s mouth lifts in the corner, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“Could’ve fooled me. You looked like you belonged there.”

“Belonged there? You think I liked sitting through that?”

“I don’t know, Y/N.” His shoulders rise and fall, but his gaze stays fixed somewhere beyond her. “Maybe I’m just realizing you fit into their world a hell of a lot easier than mine. Maybe… your dad was right.”

The sting in her chest is instant. Her first instinct is to jab back, but seeing the hurt in his eyes cools her down enough to take it easier on him.

“Harry…” She steps into his space now, forcing him to look at her. “If you honestly think I’d rather be with someone who measures life in stock prices, you’re out of your mind.” She reaches for his hand, takes in between her palms and though he doesn’t pull it back he is not engaging with her touch either just yet. “And my dad is never right. Not when it comes to me, just so you know.”

He finally meets her eyes, but there’s still uncertainty there. 

“I just… sometimes wonder if you’d be better off with someone who can give you more.”

You give me more. More than Elliot, more than anyone in that room could. They can’t give me everything you’ve given me since I came here. They can’t give me you.”

For a moment, they just stare at each other, she watches as her words sink in, then Harry’s shoulders loosen, his jaw unclenches. He finally grabs her hand, but only to pull her into his arms, hers hooking around his neck right away. He rests his forehead against hers and they sway a little, basking in the moment for a second longer. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“It’s okay.”

He exhales, then finally kisses her, apologizing without words this time. 

Not long later, the dock creaks under their feet as they make their way to Matilda. The night has settled deep and quiet over the lake. Harry lets her climb aboard first, his hand lingering at her waist a moment longer than necessary, like he needs to make sure she’s really here.

They don’t bother with the cabin light—just the faint glow from the distant shore and the silver of the moon spilling across the deck. Y/N kicks off her shoes and settles between Harry’s legs, back melting against his chest as they watch the club from afar. She gently runs her hands up and down his thigh in a reassuring manner as if she’s trying to prove they are okay.

“I know that this is very… new and unknown,” she speaks, breaking their comfortable silence. “But it just feels so right to me. Like I’ve been waiting for this all my life.”

His arms tighten around her waist, squeezing her gently as he presses a sweet kiss to the side of her head.

“This feels like the best fucking thing I’ve ever had,” Harry replies, the steadiness of his tone strengthening the meaning of his words.

“Better than Matilda?” she cheekily asks, turning her head so she could look into his eyes. 

“If I had to sell her to be with you, I would do it without hesitation,” he says in all seriousness. Her heart skips a beat, touched by the intensity of the moment and the feelings swirling in her.

It’s past midnight when they return to the dock. They tie the boat off together and head down the path leading to the pool house.

“I’m off tomorrow,” he says when they reach the pool house. The villa on the other side of the pool sits dark and silent. 

“So I won’t be seeing you?” she pouts at him.

“Actually… I was thinking…”

“Yes?”

“I’m seeing my mom tomorrow, would you like to come with me?”

She doesn’t even try to mask her surprise. It’s pleasant, but certainly unexpected.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he nods, an obviously nervous smile on his face. 

“I would love to.”

His relief is instant, he hauls her into his arms and kisses her gratefully. 

“What should I wear? Should I bring something?” Now it’s her turn to tackle the nerves as it sinks in that she is going to meet his mother, someone she knows he loves so dearly and values her opinion more than anyone’s.

“Don’t worry about anything. Just… be yourself and you’ll be fine.”

“Jesus, you’re such a man,” she rolls her eyes, already knowing she will wake up extra early to bake something. 

“I’ll pick you up at eleven, okay?” he ignores her comment, pecking her lips gently.

“Okay.”

He nods, then thinks to himself for a second before kissing her once again, gently and taking his time as they melt against each other. 

“Alright,” he sighs once he finally wills himself to step away. “See you tomorrow.”

“Good night,” she nods, the smile on her face feels permanent at this point as she watches him head back towards the club. 

When he disappears from her sigh she turns towards the villa. She spots the light coming from her father’s bedroom right away, along with the lingering shadow by the window. She can’t see his face, but she knows he must have seen them kiss goodbye.

She stares back at the figure, not letting him intimidate her. If anything, she squares her shoulders, a silent message in her stance: Yes, you saw. No, I’m not sorry.

The shadow lingers for a beat longer, then slips away from the window. She exhales slowly, pulse steady as she retreats in the pool house.

***

Y/N wakes extra early the next morning, digs up her grandmother’s lemon loaf recipe from her notes and gets to work, making sure she finishes the baking on time to get ready before Harry arrives.

It comes out of the oven, perfectly golden, Y/N is proud of her work and already can’t wait to hand it over to Anne. 

Ten minutes to eleven, she is dressed in one of her favorite sundresses, something simple but pretty, her nerves making her a little restless as she packs up the lemon loaf and heads over to the gate where Harry is already waiting for her. 

“Someone’s looking lovely,” he says as she gets in the car. He glances down at the covered loaf in her hands. “And bearing gifts. You’ll have her wrapped around your finger in minutes.”

“I just want her to like me,” Y/N admits. He reaches over the console and gives her hand a gentle squeeze before starting the car and hitting the road. 

The drive goes by fast, they sing along to the radio and Y/N asks a million questions about Anne, wanting to know what she likes and what she doesn’t like. Harry takes the car onto smaller roads until they reach a countryside style area. He drives to the edge of it and they stop in front of an old, but charming looking cottage. 

“This is where you used to live?” Y/N eyes the house curiously, but Harry shakes his head with a chuckle. 

“No. We used to live in town, Mum moved here a few years ago. The cottage was my grandma’s and Mum relocated when she passed and inherited the cottage.”

“Ah, I see. It’s really cute,” she smiles and she can’t take her eyes off the wildflowers that grow in the front garden along with some rose bushes and an old oak tree by the fence. 

With the lemon loaf in one hand, holding Harry’s hand with the other, Y/N follows him to the door. He knocks, but Anne was probably on her way to the door already, because it flies open two seconds later, revealing a very excited-looking, beaming Anne.

“You’re here!” She throws her arms around Harry and he envelops her in a warm hug with a chuckle.

“Hi Mum.”

When she peels back she turns to Y/N and the happiness on her face doesn’t waver. 

“And you must be Y/N! I’m so happy to finally meet you!” 

She doesn’t hesitate before wrapping her in a welcoming hug as well. It’s a real, motherly embrace, one she doesn’t know well or maybe at all. 

“It’s lovely to meet you too. I, um– I baked something,” she adds, holding up the loaf she carefully carried all the way.

“Oh, look at you,” Anne beams. “Harry, did you ever bring me anything when you came to visit?”

“What?! I bring myself! That should be enough!” Harry huffs dramatically and Anne just rolls her eyes at him.

“Come on, come inside! Lunch is ready!”

Lunch is simple but perfect. Salad from Anne’s garden, roasted chicken, and the lemon loaf Y/N brought for dessert. Afterwards, they take their tea outside, sitting around a little iron table beneath the shade of another big oak tree, even bigger than the one in front of the house. 

Anne tells stories about Harry as a boy: how he once tried to fix a broken toaster and nearly set the kitchen on fire, how he used to sneak biscuits into his pockets whenever he thought she wasn’t looking.

“All his pockets were full of crumbs all the time!” She scoffs, but gives a loving gaze to her son.

“Stop,” Harry groans again, dragging a hand down his face, but his cheeks are pink and Y/N can tell he doesn’t really mind.

“I’m just making sure she knows what she’s getting herself into,” Anne says with a wink at Y/N.

“She knows enough already,” Harry mutters, but when Y/N catches his eye, the corner of his mouth betrays a smile.

And so Anne carries on with the stories, while the old radio she keeps in the kitchen window keeps cracking some soft tunes in the background. Y/N is having a blast, learning more of what Harry was like as a kid and then as a teenager while Harry argues these stories, telling his own version of them. 

The landline inside rings and Anne excuses herself to answer the call, leaving the two of them outside. 

Harry leans back in his chair, watching Y/N tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. 

“What?” she asks, catching his gaze.

“Nothing.” He shakes his head, then stands, brushing his palms over his jeans. “Come here.”

She blinks up at him. “What?”

“Dance with me.”

“In the middle of your mum’s garden?” she asks, her laugh bubbling up.

“Why not?” He holds out his hand, the faintest grin playing on his lips. “I want to dance with you.”

She hesitates for another second before slipping her hand into his. He pulls her gently to her feet, guiding her into the open patch of grass between the flowerbeds. The music is soft and a little crackly, but the moment is perfect. His arm settles around her waist, her hand rests on his shoulder and they sway slowly, just the two of them. Her head rests lightly against his chest as they sway, the summer air wrapping around them.

“This is ridiculous,” she whispers against his shoulder, though her smile is unmistakable. She just wants to tease him.

“Maybe,” he murmurs back, holding her a little tighter. “But it’s also perfect.”

She tilts her head back, looking up at him, and for a long moment their eyes just hold. It’s quiet and warm and she thinks of how perfectly they fit against each other. Then…

It tumbles out of Harry at once, completely unplanned, unstoppable.

“I love you,” he says softly, almost like he’s afraid if he speaks too loud the moment will break.

Her breath hitches, eyes widening for a beat before her lips curl into the kind of smile he’ll never forget. 

“You do?”

He nods, pressing his forehead to hers.

“Yeah. I do.”

Her hand slides up to the back of his neck, pulling him down for a kiss that’s slow and certain, sealing the words between them. “I love you too,” she whispers when they part, her smile brushing his lips.

Anne walks them out to the little gravel drive when it is starting to get dark, their lunch visit stretched a little long, but they don’t mind.

“You’ll come again soon, yeah?” Anne says warmly, then she turns to Harry. “And don’t forget, you need to call that landlord back about the flat before someone else snatches it.”

Harry freezes. It’s only half a second, but Y/N notices, the way his smile falters, how he avoids her eyes. He mutters something like “Right, yeah,” then quickly kisses his mum goodbye and steers Y/N toward the car.

The drive is quiet at first, a little too quiet. Y/N watches the trees blur past the window, her thoughts spinning. Finally, she turns to him.

“You’re moving?” she asks gently. Harry’s grip tightens on the wheel, his jaw flexing. 

“I was gonna tell you. I just… didn’t want to ruin what we had going. Not yet.”

“Harry.” Her voice is soft but steady. “Where?”

He sighs, eyes fixed on the road. 

“Farther up north. You know Eroda? I got an offer from there, I could be a sailing teacher full time. I’ve been thinking about it for a while if I should take it, even before you came back. I accepted their offer unofficially like a week before you arrived.”

They sit in silence and Harry’s anxiety rises the longer she doesn’t talk. It’s not how he wanted to discuss it, not just his move but their whole relationship and where they are heading, a conversation that’s been hanging over their head for a while but they both ignored it.

“Say something? Please?” he softly asks, glancing at her shortly.

“So what are your plans?” she asks. Her voice is quiet, but steady, not angry or disappointed like he expected.

“That’s the thing, love. I don’t know. I didn’t plan for this, for you. I didn’t think I’d get another chance.” His voice cracks, just barely. “And I don’t want to lose you again.”

She exhales slowly, then reaches over, sliding her hand into his.

“Harry… I don’t have everything figured out either. I don’t even know what comes next for me. But I know one thing. I want to be with you. That’s it. That’s all I’m sure of right now.”

His hand tightens around hers, his shoulders easing. He looks at her briefly, his eyes searching, like he’s making sure she means it.

“What about your life? Your apartment?”

She shrugs “I’m not that attached to my place, I’ve actually thought about selling it recently. My life… I don’t feel like I have anything in the city that I couldn’t give up to be with you. I can start over.”

“You’d really… consider it? Moving?” He doesn’t even try to mask his surprise.

She smiles softly. “I’d consider anything, as long as you’re in it.”

For the first time since leaving Anne’s, Harry laughs, a quiet, disbelieving sound. He lifts her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles as the road stretches ahead of them. And just like that, the bubble doesn’t feel burst. It feels bigger, like maybe it can stretch far enough to hold whatever future they want to build together.

***

Y/N is walking towards the club’s terrace a little unsure if it’s a good idea to join the Mixer. It’s an event they hold every once in a while where new club members have the chance to get to know the older ones, it’s nothing extravagant, they usually plan some kind of game, but the evening is mostly for networking. It’s once again her guilt that’s bringing her out tonight, because she’s been avoiding John, once again, but she is leaving soon as the six weeks she gave herself are coming to an end shortly. 

Once reaching the terrace she finds her father and joins whatever conversation he is having with his friends. She sits stiffly beside him, pretending to listen while he talks about things she couldn’t care less about. 

She’s not surprised when she spots Harry slaloming between tables, he told her he needs to cover for a waiter again. Their eyes meet from across the room and they share a warm smile before he busies himself clearing a table off. 

Y/N never thought this is what these six weeks would bring her. At best, she thought she would get back to sailing, rest, take some time to clear things out of her mind. She would be lying if she said she didn’t think about seeing Harry again, but she never expected to…

Fall in love. 

She is so in love with him and though she hasn’t let go of all the years they wasted not talking, she is excited to move forward with Harry. They don’t want to overplan what they are going to do, only talked about the main details. 

Y/N is going back to the city as she originally planned. Harry is moving to Eroda in two months, they plan to spend that time doing long distance. In the meantime Y/N will try to find someone to rent her place out to and when that’s done, she will join Harry in Eroda. Some might say they are moving way too fast, they have only been together for a couple of weeks, but it just feels right and no one can convince them otherwise. 

She wills herself to engage in the conversation happening around her, but they quickly lose her interest when they circle back to the stock market. She wonders if they ever not talk about money as she spots Harry down below the terrace on the grass, probably having a short break. 

Y/N excuses herself and heads down to join him even if it’s just a few minutes. 

“Hey,” she softly calls out as she is walking closer. Harry looks up from his phone and smiles, tucking it back into his pocket.

“Hey. How’s the Mixer?” he asks with a cheeky smile. He already knows how much she loathes being here. 

“Can I pull the fire alarm so I can leave?”

Harry barks out a laugh, his hand twitches as if he wants to reach for her, but then he lets it fall back to his side. Y/N glances back towards the terrace, then at Harry and stepping closer she wraps her arms around his waist. Her openness surprises him, but his arms circle around her shoulders instantly. 

“You sure? We are pretty visible here,” he chuckles softly. 

“I don’t mind,” she shrugs and pushes closer, her lips press against his in a sweet kiss. 

There’s a moment of hesitance in Harry, but it quickly eases and he returns the kiss eagerly, turning it a tad more heated. 

“I have to head back,” he sighs. She nods and laces her fingers through his as they make their way back to the terrace. When they are up, he turns to her, a beat of hesitance but then leans down for a quick kiss before jogging to the back to continue his shift.

She is still smiling when she returns to her father, but as soon as she sees John’s face she knows he is pissed.

Without a word he takes her by her upper arm and pulls her to the side so his friends don’t hear them.

“What was that?” he hisses.

“What was what?”

“You know what I’m talking about. You walked in holding hands with that waiter and kissed him!”

“Of course I did, because he is my boyfriend. And you know damn well that his name is Harry.”

John’s face turns red, his jaw tightening as his grip on her arm hardens.

“Your boyfriend?” he spits, like the word tastes sour. “Y/N, do you have any idea what people will think when they see you parading with the staff? Do you even care what this does to your reputation? To my reputation?”

Y/N yanks her arm free, her eyes flashing as anger rises to match his.

“Do you even hear yourself right now? You’re worried about your reputation? That’s all you’ve ever cared about, isn’t it? How I make you look to your friends, to this stupid club.”

“Watch your tone,” he warns, low and sharp, the same way he’s done her whole life when she’s come close to stepping out of line.

But this time she doesn’t stumble back. She squares her shoulders, lifts her chin, and lets the truth spill out.

“No. I’m done with this. I’m done with you.” She turns around and bolts towards where she just came from, but John quickly rushes after her, catching her just at the bottom of the stairs.

“Hey! I’m not done talking!”

“But I am,” she snaps back. “I already wasted way too much time on trying to be who you want me to be, but I’m over that, Dad. I don’t need your approval for anything I do, if you haven’t realized.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I’m an adult, I decide what I do and you either accept it or not but in that case I’m done with you for good.”

“I think I do have a say in what you do, since I’m paying–”

“Nothing,” she cuts in. “You’re paying nothing. I haven’t touched a cent you put in my fund for years, I’ve been using my own money. I’ll send you back everything, because I don’t want anything from you. Just so you know, I quit my job, years ago. I’m a freelancer editor now and I’m fucking good in it. And I love Harry, I’m gonna move to Eroda with him in a few months.”

“What are you talking about?” John huffs in full disbelief. “You’re throwing away everything for him? A waiter?”

“No. I’m not throwing anything away. I’m choosing. I’m choosing him and myself and my happiness.”

John scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief, but she doesn’t let him interrupt.

“You want to know what people will think? I don’t care. I don’t care if your friends whisper about me or if this club looks down on me. I’m not living my life for them, or for you, anymore. I’m living it for me. And if that means I’m with Harry, then so be it. That’s my choice. Not yours.”

There’s silence. John’s nostrils flare, his mouth working like he’s searching for something to say that will crush her. But for once, she doesn’t feel small under his glare. For once, she feels free.

Her voice softens, but it’s still steady and sure.

“I love him, Dad. And nothing you say is going to change that.”

His eyes flicker, a crack in the armor, but he quickly looks away, muttering.

“You’re making a mistake.”

“Then it’ll be my mistake,” she says firmly. “Not yours.”

Without waiting for a response, she turns on her heel and takes the path that leads back to the villa and the poolhouse. Her heart’s pounding, her hands trembling, but there’s also a fire inside her she’s never felt before. It’s so liberating, she finds herself laughing once she is back in the poolhouse, all while tears dwell in her eyes. It’s such a mixture of feelings, she needs a handful of minutes to pull herself together. 

She doesn’t stay for the night. Doesn’t want to risk John coming to talk to her, so she waits for Harry by the dock and when his shift is over they sail out into their little world. They talk about what happened and Harry tells her how proud he is of her for standing up for herself and then they talk about their future. What they want, what they don’t want and how perfect it will be.

***

The gentle rocking of Matilda wakes her before the sun does. Y/N blinks into the soft gray-blue dawn, her cheek pressed against Harry’s shoulder, his arm heavy and warm around her waist. For a long moment, she stays still, listening. The faint slap of water against the hull, the lazy flap of the sail cover in the breeze, and his slow, steady breathing. 

When she shifts just a little to look at him, he stirs, lashes fluttering open. His lips curve into a sleepy smile.

“Morning,” he rasps, voice still thick with sleep.

“Good morning,” she whispers back, brushing her fingers across his chest. “We should probably get going soon.”

“Mm, not yet,” he murmurs, pulling her closer, burying his face in her hair. “Five more minutes.”

She laughs softly, letting herself sink into him, the boat rocking them gently like they’re the only two people in the world. For a while they sink further into the peace of the morning. Then Harry tilts his head back, studying her with that look that always makes her heart stumble.

“It will be weird, not having you around.”

“It’s just for a little while,” she softly assures him and he nods. “Then, you’ll be stuck with me. Forever,” she chuckles.

“Ah, poor me,” he grins teasingly. He kisses her then, slow and lingering, like he’s trying to memorize it, the way the morning light catches her hair, the taste of her lips, the creak of Matilda under them. And she kisses him back, wishing she could bottle this moment, carry it with her wherever she goes.

Eventually, they head back to the dock and tie Matilda off. Y/N’s heart is heavy, even though she knows it wasn’t their last time sailing her together. Matilda will be joining them in Eroda and she can’t wait for everyone there to see the beauty she is. But there’s just something bitter in leaving still. 

Harry takes her hand as they head back, giving her a warm look.

“Ready?” he asks, though his eyes tell her he wishes they could climb back aboard and drift until the world forgets about them.

“Not really,” she admits with a faint smile.

He squeezes her fingers. “Me neither.”

Y/N glances back over her shoulder as they walk, Matilda is bobbing gently behind them, as if she is waving at them, but it’s no goodbye, it’s see you soon. 

Later, when it’s time for Y/N to leave the weather turns a little gloomy. She carries her bags toward the car, Harry loads the heavier ones and Y/N sets the GPS up. She’s so wrapped in the rhythm of leaving that she nearly misses the figure standing a little apart, hands clasped behind his back.

John doesn’t come closer right away, only watches as Harry disappears to fetch the last bag. When he finally steps forward, his voice is low, tense, but not cruel.

“You’ve always been stubborn,” he says, eyes fixed on the car instead of her. “Just like your mother. I used to think it would ruin you… but maybe it’ll serve you better than I gave it credit for.”

It’s not an apology, not really, but it makes her chest ache all the same.

“Maybe,” she answers softly, searching his profile for something she’s wanted all her life. “We’ll see.”

He nods once, slow, as though he’s testing the weight of her words. Then, almost awkwardly, he reaches for one of the smaller bags sitting by her feet. He doesn’t say anything as he lifts it, carrying it the last few steps to the car, setting it down beside the others.

“Safe travels,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. 

For a beat, she simply watches him, not sure whether to hug him or let it be. In the end, she gives him a small smile, not forgiveness, not yet, but a thank you for trying. They still have a long way to go, but at least she is now seeing the willingness in him. 

Harry returns, sliding an arm around her shoulders, and John’s jaw tightens. But he doesn’t say a word. Just gives a stiff nod to both of them, before walking back toward the club.

It isn’t much. But it’s something. A crack in the wall. Enough for Y/N to hope, one day, they might find their way to common ground.

***

The smell of lakewater has been replaced by the saltiness of the sea. Y/N has already fallen in love with the little harbor, its crooked docks and brightly painted fishing boats. But nothing compares to the sight of Matilda rocking gently among them, the baby blue color making her stand out.

Harry finishes tightening the ropes just as Y/N wanders down the dock with two cups of coffee in hand. She passes one to him, leaning into his side as they both gaze at the boat. Home still feels new here, but Matilda anchors them in a way no apartment or street ever could.

A sudden giggle pulls her attention to the end of the dock. Two kids sit cross-legged, pointing and whispering excitedly at the blue sailboat like it’s a secret treasure. Y/N’s chest tightens as she watches them, a flicker of her own summers at the lake flashing in her mind.

“Déjà vu?” Harry asks softly, following her gaze.

“Mm.” She smiles, slipping her hand into his. “It’s like looking at us.”

Harry presses a kiss to her temple, his voice warm and certain.

“If they are us, that boy is the luckiest to have her.”

Y/N’s eyes linger on the children with a smile, then she glances at Matilda and back at Harry. The future is wide and uncertain, but right here, she has everything she needs. And for the first time, she doesn’t feel like she wants to sail away. She found her home, her person, who she wants to take on the waves of life together. 

Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!

[sushirrrry]

STILL GROWING UP NOW || a harry styles x you one shot. word count: 13,016 content warning: underage drinking, vomiting, mentions of underage sexual activity, showering together, mentions of teen pregnancy, positive-sex talk

summary: you and harry were teen parents. now, you're finding yourselves having to deal with your own sixteen & fourteen year old, who's finding their own curiosities. you want to be trusting, but how much can trust be pushed until it becomes personal?

author’s note: this literally just came to me so quickly! I loved writing this - I am such a dadrry writer and this is just me going back to my roots.

💌 if you'd like to support my writing, please donate to my Ko-Fi - your support means the world.

📩 if you'd like to request a prompt, please send them my way.

this prompt is based off of this anon message I received - hope I did you proud on this!!!

without further ado, please enjoy <3

Saturday mornings felt like such a different universe sometimes.

You would open your eyes to the sound of feet running down the hall, years ago. Excited feet that would lead down the steps to have breakfast, to spend time with one another, to get an adventure in on the day. These days, it was the sound of Harry singing softly to himself downstairs, a low hum over the faint sizzle of the skillet before either of the kids were awake.

You stretched in bed, catching sight of the sunlight spilling through the curtains, and you knew it was a bit later than usual for you. Your T-shirt had twisted in the night—his shirt, technically, soft from years of washes and still faintly smelling of his cologne which only made your heart clench at the nostalgia. You pulled it straight on your thighs, before you threw on a small pair of shorts, padding toward the stairs barefoot, hair in a loose knot.

Harry was at the stove in gym shorts that sat high on his thigh, and another worn band tee, spatula in hand as he whistled down at the fried egg that sizzled on the stove. His curls were messy, half-falling into his eyes as he flipped the egg.

The corner of his mouth lifted when he noticed you leaning against the doorway.

“Well, good morning to me, hm?” He murmured, eyes sliding down to where the hem of his shirt barely covered your thighs.

“Morning,” You replied, voice still rough from sleep as your eyes felt puffy and face felt cool from moving away from the blankets. You crossed the kitchen, your hand brushing his waist as you passed to get coffee. “How long have you been up?”

“Hour, maybe. Went for a quick jog and came back,” He said, placing the egg on the toasted bagel with cheese he had set up already for a sandwich. “Want something to eat?”

You grabbed a cup of warm coffee before sitting down at the kitchen island and glancing at him for a minute.

“Mm, starving,” You tell him with a sneaky smirk, “Think you can whip up some pancakes?”

He took a bite of his bagel sandwich, still standing at the counter before he nodded to himself – almost as if he had really done something with the fried egg and cheese. “Can do, baby.”

It was just that easy between the two of you – Harry did everything that you asked, you reciprocated his needs, too. Everything between you was always so easy and so nurtured with a way to please one another. Between bites, Harry grabbed the bowl and pancake mix, adding in some chocolate chips and blueberries from the farmer’s market, and had a plate of pancakes ready before you could ask him twice.

It had always been that easy, which is why this had always worked. Harry was the kind of man who never had to be asked twice; he knew what he wanted, and what he wanted was you.

He grabbed you a plate, a fork, and a bottle of syrup before you placed a pancake on your plate.

“Thank you, handsome,” you smirked back at him, before you started to hear the sounds of pair of feet thumping on the stairs towards the kitchen.

The soft creak of the upstairs hallway announced the first arrival. Sawyer appeared, shuffling in like a sleepwalker, one hand rubbing at his eyes, hair sticking up in every direction. He made a beeline for the fridge without so much as a ‘good morning’ before pulling out the carton of orange juice and drinking straight from it.

“A glass, Sawyer,” you said automatically, not even looking up from your mug.

He sighed and poured some into a cup, then collapsed onto one of the stools at the island. “What’s for breakfast?”

Harry grabbed him a plate before sliding it over to him, “Pancakes is what was made, but you’re welcome to anything else.”

Sawyer took a pancake, placing it on his plate before you watch him drown it in syrup. Your eyes meet Harry’s with a soft smile as he gives you one back.

Sawyer grinned at his plate, quick and lopsided; it was the kind of smile that made you think of the little boy who used to bring you flowers from the yard, roots and all.

He was your youngest; at fourteen, he was the one you’d both been a little more relaxed with after learning from every first-time-parent mistake you’d made with Scarlett. His hobbies including spending hours in his room teaching himself guitar from YouTube tutorials, and gaming, and could be fiercely loyal when it came to the people he loved. But he also had this knack for disappearing into his own world, quietly observing instead of jumping into the chaos.

There were many moments when you didn’t seem to realize how great that quality was in a child, because he kept to himself most of the time. You’d often wondered if that was a youngest-child thing—knowing when to fade into the background and when to speak up.

You’d just topped off your coffee when the faint bass of music bled through the ceiling right above you—it was Scarlett’s way of signaling she was awake but on her own schedule.

It took another ten minutes for her to appear, each footstep down the stairs deliberate, like she wanted to make an entrance even in her own kitchen, even for her own family.

At sixteen, Scarlett carried herself like she already knew the world was watching, even if the audience was just her parents and younger brother. She was tall for her age, with Harry’s green eyes and your smile, her dark hair pulled up in a loose bun that looked effortless but probably took fifteen minutes to get just right. She had on black leggings and an oversized crewneck, but the neat flick of eyeliner and the clear gloss catching the morning light told you this wasn’t a ‘just rolled out of bed’ look.

She didn’t say good morning—she never did before she’d had a few minutes to settle into the day, but she moved with the practiced grace of someone who knew exactly where everything was. Phone in one hand, she crossed the kitchen, opened the cabinet, grabbed a cereal bowl, and set it down without glancing up.

“Morning,” you offered up to her, watching her maneuver around the kitchen with her eyes glued to her device but still making her rounds with ease.  

“Hi,” she mumbled, sliding into a stool beside Sawyer and scrolling without looking up.

Harry grabbed the milk and box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch to place in front of her; they didn’t have to speak, he just understood what she needed when she needed it. That had always been the case for their relationship, which made you smile.

The air smelled of coffee, pancakes, and the faint citrus of the juice Sawyer had been downing next to you, and Harry leaned back against the counter watching them with that quiet pride he sometimes tried to hide.

It wasn’t until Scarlett’s phone buzzed again—her eyes lighting up just enough—that you caught the subtle shift. She was already planning something for later, and the way she avoided your gaze told you she didn’t want you to ask.

The banter was easy between the four of you because it was familiar in the way that came from years of figuring out how to be parents while still figuring out who you were yourselves. There had been nights in those early years when you and Harry ate cereal for dinner because it was all you could afford, and mornings when you took turns napping because Scarlett wouldn’t stop crying. Somehow, you’d made it through, and somehow you still loved one another more than anything in the world.

You slid off the stool at the island, wrapping your hands around your coffee mug as you moved to place your plate in the sink. Harry grabbed your waist on your trek to press a kiss to your temple, his fingers lingering against you in a way that made your cheeks warm.

Scarlett groaned at the interaction—of course, the one time she looked up from her phone. “Can you not? It’s too early for you two being gross.”

Harry grinned at her over your head. “One day, you’ll understand, and then I’ll make gagging noises at you.”

“Not happening,” she said flatly, but her lips twitched like she was fighting a smile.

Breakfast held a few conversations that made your mothering heart whole; Sawyer started talking to Harry about a new game he wanted for his computer—something that Harry only tried to keep up with so that Sawyer felt comfortable talking about it, Scarlett was half-listening while firing off texts.

Scarlett got up from her seat before moving to open her bag that she had brought down with her, a bit casually and a bit nonchalant as if she didn’t want you to ask—and you knew that she didn’t.

But that didn’t stop you.

“Got plans today?” you asked casually, taking another sip of coffee.

She shrugged, eyes flicking away to keep the distance between you. “Maya and I are hanging out in a bit. Probably a movie night later.”

“Mmm,” you hummed, filing away the way she avoided your gaze. “What movie? I haven’t been to a movie in so long, I don’t even know what’s out.”

Your conversation bothered her as she rolled her eyes, “Don’t know, mom—I said probably, not definitely seeing a movie. We don’t know yet.”

Harry’s gaze looked over to meet yours at her attitude, which made his lips tip up in a smirk.  

It wasn’t unusual—she was sixteen, and secrets came with the territory. But something about the outfit peeking from the corner of her tote bag which included a short skirt you hadn’t seen her wear before made you tuck the detail away in the back of your mind.

Scarlett wasn’t reckless, but she had a streak of curiosity, a need to push at the edges of whatever box she found herself in. You remembered that feeling vividly from your own teenage years which was sometimes thrilling, sometimes it was dangerous.

Really, it’s how you ended up pregnant at seventeen, just a year older than Scarlett was now. It wasn’t that you would have changed anything, because you would never change how everything worked out. You lived in a beautiful home, had a stable job, had a husband that adored you, and two kids who grew up to be significantly enjoyable human beings in society.

There was nothing wrong about how everything turned out, but it made you weary to know that Scarlett had the same level of danger and thrill that you and Harry had when you were making out in the back cab of his ’90 Ford 150 in the parking lot of your school.

The phone in her hand buzzed once, and though her expression barely changed, you caught the quick light in her eyes before she smoothed it over. Whoever it was, it mattered to her, and the way she tilted the screen away from view with almost an adverse reaction, told you she didn’t want you to ask.

Harry caught your eye as she headed upstairs to grab a jacket. That silent, wordless exchange you’d perfected over the years passed between you: We were sixteen once. We know what that skirt’s for.

_____

A few hours had passed from the morning breakfast routine. This was the kind of calm and ease that life had started to become recently, especially since the kids had grown up; it was the kind you almost didn’t notice until you realized how peaceful everything felt.

Scarlett had breezed out earlier in the afternoon with a casual, “Going to Maya’s!” and a wave from the front door, not waiting for you to say goodbye before she vanished down the street. You and Harry had exchanged a glance but let her go. There hadn’t been a reason to not let her go—she hadn’t given you one yet, which made it that much tougher not to trust her.

She was smart and capable and you would hope that she would ask for help if she needed it, but you just hoped that she never needed help.

By six, the evening light was soft outside in the cloudless late September sky which still felt warm, spilling across the backyard. Harry stood at the grill in bare feet and a faded Springsteen T-shirt, flipping burgers with one hand and nursing a beer with the other. Sawyer sat at the patio table with his guitar on his lap, a spiral notebook open in front of him, his pencil tapping against the page in thought.

You were stretched out on the cushioned chaise with a paperback, though you’d read the same paragraph three times without taking in a word. The warm air carried the faint scent of cut grass, and the low hum of crickets had started in the hedges. Somewhere a neighbor’s dog barked; it felt like the suburbs, but it felt heavenly, in some way.

Harry glanced over his shoulder more than once, not subtle about the way his eyes slid from your face to the bare stretch of your legs under the loose hem of your sundress.

“You’re not reading,” he said finally, spatula in hand as he gave you that stupid smirk.

You smirked, keeping your eyes on the page. “I am.”

“You’re pretending to,” he countered, coming over to set the platter of burgers on the table. He bent, kissed the curve of your cheek, his hand brushing the inside of your knee for just a second longer than necessary, then went back inside for the condiments like nothing happened.

When he returned, Sawyer was bent over his notebook again, strumming a few hesitant chords before stopping to scribble something. Harry dropped into the chair across from him.

“Whatcha working on, mate?” he asked, reaching for the ketchup.

Sawyer shrugged, shaking his head as he stared at his notebook. “Just… something, dunno. I’ve been messing with this progression, but it sounds kinda like every other song I’ve heard.”

Harry leaned forward, nodding toward the guitar. “Play it.”

Sawyer gave him a wary look, but did as he was told. The melody was simple but sweet, a little halted in places as Sawyer tried to identify where he wanted to take it next.

“That’s not bad,” Harry said after a moment. “You just need a change-up in the bridge. Something unexpected so people don’t get bored.”

“Like what?”

“Like… go minor for a few bars, or throw in a chord they’re not expecting. Music’s all about giving people what they think they want, then sneaking in something they didn’t know they needed.” He gave a crooked grin, moving to stand up before Sawyer huffed a bit in thought.

When the burgers were plated and everyone had a drink, the conversation stayed light—Sawyer talking about a new band he’d discovered, Harry telling a ridiculous story about a customer who’d tried to return a hammer in front of him at the hardware store today “because it made a funny sound,” you laughing so hard you nearly choked on your fries.

But as Harry started clearing the plates, you decided to take your chance with Sawyer to test the waters on what kind of information he had.

“So,” you said casually to Sawyer as you both stayed seated in your patio chairs, “do you know what Scarlett was doing tonight?”

He didn’t look up from where he was stacking dishes, his voice perfectly neutral. “She said she was at Maya’s, I guess.”

“Mhm. And you believe her?”

Sawyer finally glanced up, meeting your eyes for half a second before looking away. “I don’t get in her business; she doesn’t get in mine.”

Harry arched a brow at him but didn’t push. You knew that tone—Sawyer wasn’t lying exactly, but he wasn’t going to offer up anything more either.

For Scarlett’s sake, his loyalty was absolute. You let it go, even though you felt that quiet prickle of unease in your stomach.

____

After dinner, everyone had moved to do their own things. Sawyer had decided to retreat to his room to continue to play his games with his friends, while you and Harry decided to open a bottle of wine and to watch a movie.

It had been a while since you two had been intimate together—nights like these were easy ad felt like it was just the two of you when both kids were self-sufficient.

It was around 10 when Sawyer had been sprawled on his bed for the past hour, his gaming headset crooked over one ear while he absently clicked through a menu screen that he’d stopped paying attention to as he heard his friends on the other end. The lamp on his desk cast a small pool of light across the open notebook there, the one where he’d been working on chord progressions earlier.

He was half-thinking about picking up the guitar again instead when his phone buzzed against his thigh. His eyes glared at the message that had come across his screen, seeing who it was from.

Scarlett: can you come get me?

He frowned, sitting up before he let his fingers run across the screen.

Sawyer: Aren’t you just down at Maya’s?

Maya only lived down the street from them, which allowed Scarlett to walk there quite frequently, and vice versa. Three dots appeared, then disappeared, then came back again as he waited for his sister’s reply.

Scarlett: no... at a party. don’t tell mom nd dad. pls

Scarlett: i don’t feel good ad im sad. please S.

A weird weight settled in his chest. Scarlett wasn’t the type to admit she didn’t feel good, not unless she meant it. But the don’t tell Mom and Dad was the catch. They had an unspoken agreement as siblings—don’t rat unless it’s absolutely necessary. She’d covered for him plenty of times, and he knew that the same would go for her.

He set the phone down, staring at the wall for a long moment, trying to decide if this counted as “necessary.” She hadn’t said she was in danger, just that she didn’t feel good—but she was also sad? But… why was she texting him instead of Maya? Or an Uber?

He picked the phone back up with an annoyed sigh, typing and deleting twice.

Sawyer: Where is it?

The reply came with a dropped pin. Sawyer zoomed in on the map; it was a neighborhood he didn’t know well, it wasn’t far away, but it was far enough that he couldn’t walk there on his own to get her. Especially if she wasn’t able to make it back herself.

Sawyer: are you drunk?

He waited a few minutes, seeing her typing in the message before he received her reply.

Scarlett: yea. room spinning nd im just outside. leo left with his friends nd didn’t stay. said he was coming back but then h left

He shoved a hand through his hair. If he went himself, how was he even supposed to get her home? He didn’t drive, and he wasn’t about to call one of his friends’ parents to chauffeur them from a party.

Sawyer: why can’t you get a ride?

Sawyer leaned back against his headboard, running a hand through his hair. He knew about Leo—the boy Scarlett had been texting nonstop for the past month, the one she claimed was just a friend when Sawyer caught her smiling at her phone. He also knew there was no way their parents knew—his dad would’ve had an aneurysm by now if he did. Especially if he knew the kind of kid Leo actually was.

Swayer typed another message on his phone: who’s there with you?

The reply from Scarlett came fast, like she was hanging onto every text that came in.

Scarlett: idk. don’t rly know them that well. i don't know anyone here. all older than me, cept maya

That made the knot in his stomach twist tighter. This wasn’t Scarlett’s usual crowd—the parties at Maya’s were usually just a handful of girls who’d been in and out of their house since middle school. This was different—this was older, and he knew was probably more Leo’s idea than anything.

He didn’t reply, but felt another text come in.

Scarlett: that’s why I texted you. please dont tell mom and dad

He stared at the words, knowing she was asking him to keep her secret like they always had for each other. But the image of her alone at some stranger’s house, tipsy and without a ride, kept flashing in his mind.

The knot in his stomach tightened as he thought about the way she’d looked this morning—smirking, brushing off questions. Something about it had already felt off and he knew that she didn’t do this kind of stuff often. She hung out with people she wasn’t supposed to hang out with, but she didn’t just lie about where she was.

With a muttered curse and roll of his eye, he swung his legs off the bed and padded downstairs. If she hated him for this, he knew she’d get over it… eventually, at least.

Downstairs in the living room, the soft flicker of the TV had been cascaded on the walls, the glass of red wine in your hand catching the light every so often when you moved. You were curled into the couch, with a throw blanket over your lap, your legs stretched over Harry’s lap. His bare feet were propped on the coffee table next to the empty popcorn bowl, one arm slung lazily along the backrest behind you.

The movie playing was halfway decent, but it wasn’t really holding either of your attention. Your focus drifted between the warmth of the wine in your chest and the low, familiar cadence of Harry’s voice as he told you about his business trip next week.

“So, Wednesday night’s just the welcome dinner,” he was saying, his eyes fixed on you rather than the screen. “Thursday’s all meetings and panels. Probably just gonna stay the night again instead of driving home late—”

You gave him a look over the rim of your glass. “Are you going to be networking, or are you just avoiding the four-hour drive?”

He grinned back at you, knowing he was guilty of both ends of that. “Bit of both, really. Don’t want to get stuck in rush hour. Besides…” He shifted closer, his palm grazing your knee under the blanket like he had done a million times. “If I’m gone Thursday night, I’ve got all the more reason to make the most of… tonight?”

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you set your glass down on the table next to you. “You’re terrible.”

“No, baby, I’m hopeful,” he corrected, leaning in enough that you caught the faint scent of the cedar soap he liked which kind of drove you wild—but you’d never tell him that outright.

His thumb traced slow circles on your knee, his other hand draped casually but deliberately behind you. He had that look—the one he always got when the house was quiet, the kids were out, and his mind started working in a very specific direction which practically pushed you both into your locked bedroom.

You were just leaning toward him when the sound of footsteps came from the stairs. At first you thought it was Sawyer heading to the kitchen for a snack, until you realized the steps didn’t pass through the hall toward the fridge. They stopped, hesitated, and then turned toward the living room instead.

Harry sat back slightly as Sawyer appeared in the doorway, holding his phone like it was something he didn’t want to be responsible for. He looked a bit panicked, so your mind tried to stay calm, but you could see the bit of hesitation in his face.

“Need something, bud?” you asked, straightening up as you watched Harry turn his head too.

He hovered there by the archway frame from the kitchen to the living room for a moment, eyes darting between the two of you. “Uh… no, but… Scarlett just texted me.”

Harry’s brow furrowed, his hand dropping from your knee as you could feel his body bristle against you. “Everything okay?”

Sawyer nodded once, then shifted awkwardly. “I mean—I don’t know.”

That prickle of unease moved through you instantly; both of you kept a distinct eye on him, which you know made his start to retreat, but you quietly refrained from pushing a question and rather just asked, “What do you mean?”

Sawyer looked down at his phone, thumb worrying the edge of the case. “She said she’s at a party and she… she wants to come home. She didn’t want to text you guys ‘cause she thought you’d be mad.”

Harry set his wine glass on the table, in his face giving way to a sharper focus. “Is she okay?”

Sawyer’s shoulders lifted in a small, helpless shrug. “She didn’t say. Just that she needs help and wants to come home—I mean, she wanted me to come get her, but… but I can’t.”

You could see the war in him—loyalty to his sister on one side, guilt and worry on the other. The same look he’d had when he was little and knew he’d have to tell on a friend for something dangerous.

“Can we see the texts, bud?” Harry said quietly, encouraging him.

Sawyer hesitated but handed the phone over to his dad. The screen lit with Scarlett’s messages, the last one reading: don’t tell mom and dad.

Harry’s jaw tightened as his eyes moved through the texts between Sawyer and his sister, but before he could speak, Sawyer added, “She… she said she’s kind of drunk. And that Leo was supposed to bring her home, but he left early, I guess.”

The name hit you like a second jolt. You knew enough from Scarlett’s tight-lipped smiles and Sawyer’s occasional teasing that Leo was someone she liked, maybe more than liked, but she’d never mentioned him to you or Harry.

Harry glanced up sharply, at Sawyer first and then at you. “Leo?”

Sawyer shifted, shoving his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie. “Yeah. She’s been talking to him for a while. I didn’t think it was… I didn’t think he’d leave her there—I mean, I never met him or anything, but… I don’t know. I think he’s older.”

The silence stretched between you and Harry for a beat, both of you absorbing that extra layer of the situation.

Harry was already on his feet, sliding his keys from the hook by the door.

“Send me that address,” he told Sawyer. His tone was calm, but you knew that calm—the kind that sat on top of something simmering hot. You knew that he was very good at keeping his cool, especially in times of panic.

“You did the right thing telling us,” you said finally to Sawyer, your voice gentler than you felt. “I know it may not feel that way, but it is.”

Sawyer sank onto the arm of the couch, biting the inside of his lip as he shook his head. He looked nervous, and you put your arm around his shoulder to comfort him. “She’s gonna kill me for telling you.”

“She’ll get over it,” you say to him, shaking your head and knowing how his sister would react... he wasn't too far off, but you just needed to reassure him. “Better she’s mad and safe, than the opposite.”

Harry was throwing his sneakers on, before you and Sawyer walked to the door to where he was standing.

“I’ll go with you,” you offered, moving towards putting some flip-flops on to leave the house.

He shook his head, his eyes briefly meeting yours; you saw the anger that harbored in his eyes, but also the hurt of knowing that Scarlett had lied. There were only a few things in the world that got under Harry’s nails—lying was one of them.

“If she’s drunk or upset, she might not want both of us there right away, and I just want to get her in the car. So, I’ll get her. You stay here in case she texts again.”

You nodded, even as your heart hammered between your ribs as you crossed your arms, standing and watching as Harry moved out walked out into the night, cursing under his breath as he closed the door behind him.

The address Sawyer had forwarded lit up on the screen of Harry’s phone, glowing in the cupholder as he drove. He knew the neighborhood — rows of modest single-story houses that all looked too quiet from the outside to be hiding a hundred teenagers and a few gallons of cheap liquor.

The closer he got, the heavier his chest felt. He’d never been able to turn off that part of his brain that ran every possible scenario when it came to his kids. It was worse with Scarlett—not only because she was the first born, but because she was his first and only girl. He didn’t like hearing that boys were involved, he didn’t like hearing that bad boys were involved. It made his stomach turn at what could have possibly been so bad she would want someone to pick her up.

He turned onto the street, and the house came into view immediately with light spilling from every window, bass thumping so hard he could feel it in the steering wheel, kids clustered in groups on the lawn and the driveway. He noticed that there were red cups everywhere—along the lawn, the porch, the stoop. He pulled to the curb on the opposite side of the road, a bit away from the direct scene before he cut the engine and got out.

The air smelled like beer and something sharper. A couple of boys in backwards caps gave him a once-over but didn’t say anything when they caught the look on his face. He wasn’t really sure where he was to find Scarlett, he hadn’t thought of it that far. But when his eyes crossed along the front porch, he saw her—in the short skirt and jacket that that she taken in the tote bag hours earlier.

Scarlett was sitting on the porch steps with her shoulders hunched, her hair falling forward to hide her face. Next to her, Maya was talking in low, hurried bursts, glancing toward the yard like she was worried someone would overhear what she had been talking about.

Harry started up the concrete walkway, hands in his jacket pockets before his eyes fixed on Scarlett, but it was Maya who noticed him first. She froze almost instantly when she recognized who it was, her mouth parting slightly.

“Mr. Styles,” she said, voice slurring just enough to tell him she’d had a few herself. “Uh—”

Harry’s gaze flicked from her to Scarlett. She looked up at the sound of his voice when he said, “Scarlett.”

Her eyes were glassy, cheeks blotchy from crying. She swiped at her face quickly, as if she could erase the evidence before he got any closer. “Dad—”

A girl from the porch turned her head quickly, "That's your dad? Holy shit."

Harry raised his brows at Scarlett and Maya as they looked back at the small group of girls holding solo cups.

Scarlett looked mortified.

“Let’s go,” he said gently, not trusting himself to say anything more. He offered his hand, watching her watch it. He could tell that she was dealing with inner turmoil of not only having her father rescue her, but whether or not she should accept.

Maya shifted uncomfortably on the step, her words slurring as she spoke. “I… she’s okay, I promise. We were just—”

Harry turned his attention fully to her now, noticing the faint sway in her posture as she began to try and stand up on the wooden steps. “You’ve been drinking too?”

Maya winced at his question, shaking her head before she found herself fully giving in. “Like… just a few.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose, trying his best to bite his tongue. “Get in the car. I’ll take you home.”

Maya blinked, clearly not expecting that. “I don’t—”

“You’re not staying here like this,” Harry said, his tone brooking no argument for either of them. “Come on.”

Scarlett stood, arms still crossed over her chest and followed him down the walkway; Maya trailed behind them both reluctantly. Harry opened the back door for her, then guided Scarlett into the passenger seat before getting behind the wheel.

The drive was quiet at first, just the hum of the tires on the asphalt as Harry maneuvered through the neighborhoods, back to your street. He kept his eyes on the road, but his awareness stretched to the seat beside him when he’d stop at red lights. She was slouched against the window, breathing unevenly, still sniffling now and then.

“Scarlett,” he said finally, his voice low against the even lower sound of the 90s Rock that played on the radio, “how much have you had?”

Her answer was a half-shrug, eyes fixed on the blur of streetlights with the glassiness that reminded him of the room spinning. “Dunno. Not a lot.”

He tightened his grip on the wheel. “You’re drunk.”

“I said I dunno.”

Maya’s voice piped up from the back, soft, “We just had a couple drinks—honestly, it wasn’t that much.”

Harry didn’t answer or respond to that, just took in a deep breath and let it out slowly to stop his heart from beating too rapidly.

When they reached Maya’s house, he heard Maya’s quiet thank you before she got out of the car and made her way up the front porch; he waited until she was inside before pulling away.

Now it was just him and Scarlett in the car together, the silence was almost thick enough to hum in his ears.

Harry could hear the faint tick of the turn signal as they waited at a light, the distant echo of bass still ringing in his head from the party; he knew it was ringing worse in her ears. Scarlett sat turned toward the window with her arms crossed, like the world out there would save her.

“You’ve been crying,” he said at last, softer than before.

Her laugh came short and brittle, like it hurt to force it out—there was an odd bitterness to it like Harry hadn’t heard from her before, “So? You gonna ground me for that too?”

“Don’t speak to me like that, Scarlett,” Harry swallowed down the first sharp retort that came to mind. “I want to know why you’re crying.”

She shifted in her seat, curling in on herself as she started to think about the situation again; a few more tears fell against her cheeks.

“Leo was supposed to bring me home. He said he had to leave early, so I-I just thought he’d take me. And then… he’s just gone.” She shook her head, the movement quick and frustrated. “I don’t even know half the people there—they were all older than me. Everyone’s drunk, the music’s so loud you can’t even hear yourself think. And—And it’s not fun. It’s not like in movies o-or anything. It’s just… stupid.”

Her voice cracked on the last word. She swiped her palm at her cheeks again, this time more out of irritation than shame. “I thought he liked me, you know? I thought he was gonna… I don’t know. Make sure I was okay afterwards, b-but he just left. Didn’t even text.”

The sound of her breaking down made his heart rip into shreds, but he knew that he had to keep the façade up to ensure that she knew that she was in trouble, too. Harry didn’t want to ask any pressing questions, but he knew what she was referring to and he could feel the rage boiling through his veins. But hearing her cry only made him bristle to the point of his hands aching from holding on the steering wheel so tight.

“I-I just—I don’t know,” She bit her lip, “I thought it would be different.”

Harry felt something coil tight in his chest — the same combination of rage and helplessness he’d only ever felt when someone hurt one of his kids. He pulled into the driveway, easing the truck into park but not shutting it off yet.

When he turned toward her and could get a good look, the dashboard light caught the side of her neck… and that’s when he saw it. A dark mark, half-hidden by her hair. It didn’t take a genius to know what it was. His stomach dropped, then twisted into something hot.

“Scarlett,” he said, trying to keep his voice even, “did he—? Did you… with him?”

Watching her turn towards him, he caught sight of her eyes that were red and looked dry from crying; even worse, he saw the little girl he loved so dearly, but so hurt. Her eyes went wide for a split second before she looked away sharply. “Don’t. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Harry gripped the steering wheel for a moment, trying to keep from saying something he’d regret. He had to remind himself she was sixteen, drunk, and already hurting. But the sight of that bruise made his skin crawl.

“Fuck, Scar,” A soft curse came out of his mouth as he shook his head. He leaned his head against the headrest before he shut his eyes. “I don’t even know what you say to you right now because I’m so angry and so disappointed,” He paused for a moment.  “You’re sixteen,” he said finally, quieter but with a steel edge. “No one gets to leave you like that. No one. Not a friend, not a boyfriend, not anyone.”

She gave a harsh sniff, still looking out the window. “Yeah, well… guess I was wrong about him.”

He reached over, brushing her hair back from her face like he had when she was small, though now it was partly to see her eyes, partly to hide that mark from the world a little longer. “We’ll talk more tomorrow. But you did the right thing asking to come home.”

Her mouth wobbled, and she gave a small nod.

When they stepped inside, you were already waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Your eyes scanned over Harry and Scarlett, not sure which to look at first. You could see Harry’s eyes had a disappointment, but a relief that she was walking through the doors at all. One look at Scarlett told you all that you needed to know: pale, glassy-eyed, shoulders drawn tight.

You reached for her hand without asking questions, just murmuring, “Come on, sweetheart,” and started toward the stairs.

Scarlett didn’t say anything — just let you take her hand and guide her up to bed.

Halfway to her room, Scarlett stopped short and mumbled back with some sadness laced to her voice, “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

You pivoted instantly, steering her into the bathroom instead. She sank to her knees by the toilet, her hair falling forward until you gathered it in one hand and held it back for her. She coughed and retched, pausing to breathe as you heard her crying through it, and your other hand rubbed slow circles between her shoulder blades.

A small, sad smile, just out of recognition of the situation, crossed your face as you pet her head and shushed her, “Sweetie, you’re going to be okay.”

When she was finally slumped back against the wall, you dampened a washcloth under cool water and pressed it gently to her forehead. Her eyes were practically shut as she laid against the cool wall.

“Better?” you asked quietly, tucking some hair behind your ear as you tried your best to help her up.

She nodded, weakly, her voice rasping as she spoke. “Sorry.”

You shook your head, looking at her covered in dark eye makeup and tear-stained cheeks, “No apologies. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You helped her into her room, easing her out of her smoky, wrinkled clothes and into an old pair of soft pajamas. She was half-asleep on her feet by the time you guided her under the blankets. You brought the trashcan from her bathroom to sit next to the bed but also sat a glass of water and a small plate of crackers on the nightstand, then crouched to press a kiss to her hairline.

“Drink if you wake up thirsty,” you whispered against her.

By the time you stepped out, closing the door softly behind you, Harry was waiting in the hallway. He was standing in the dim hallway but didn’t ask you how she was or if everything had been okay—he knew that it hadn’t been.

His hands were buried in his pockets, but it didn’t stop the restless energy running through him. The sight of that hickey replayed in his head, sharper each time. She was still his little girl in so many ways, but the night had made one thing painfully clear: she was stepping into a world he couldn’t shield her from completely, no matter how much he wanted to.

And that thought cut deeper than he wanted to admit.

“Let’s go downstairs,” you say to him softly, reaching to grab his forearm before he nods and melts into your touch.

In the kitchen, the quiet felt thick but not entirely uncomfortable; it was like he just needed that peace for a moment. Almost immediately, Harry pulled a quart of ice cream from the freezer and grabbed two spoons, dropping into the chair beside you at the island. The cold carton sat between you before he opened the lid roughly and dove straight in.

For a while, neither of you spoke; you realized that you hadn’t even heard what had really happened, you were just waiting for Harry to give you the version you’d need to parent on tomorrow. You passed the ice cream back and forth, the hum of the refrigerator the only sound. It was the kind of silence that meant you were both still turning the night over in your heads.

Finally, Harry sighed, his spoon clinking against the side of the carton. “She was sitting outside with Maya when I got there. Maya was drunk, too. I took her home first.”

You stayed quiet, letting him unspool it at his own pace. You knew that Maya was her best friend, and while you knew Maya to be a good girl, you felt almost motherly towards her, as well.

“She’d been crying when I got there. Said Leo was supposed to bring her home but left early. Didn’t come back.” His voice was calm, but you could hear the grit underneath. “She told me it wasn’t fun — that she didn’t know half the people there. And…” He hesitated, jaw tightening as he let the ice cream melt in his mouth, trying to talk through it. “She had a fucking hickey.”

You exhaled slowly, meeting his eyes. “Harry… she’s sixteen. We were that age once, remember? Doing…,” You took in a deep breath as you shook your head with a bit of self-realization, “Exactly the same things we’re terrified she’s doing.”

His mouth tugged into a humorless half-smile. “I was mature, though.”

You arched a brow as you let out a soft, quiet scoff. “Oh, please. I clearly remember being sixteen, you seventeen, and we were doing it in the back of your truck behind the football field after your band practice. And look how that turned out — nine months later. ”

That got the smallest huff of laughter out of him, though it was tinged with exasperation. “Yeah, but we were mature.”

“We thought we were,” You leaned in a little. “She’s just giving it back to us ten-fold, H. She’s got your charm and my stubbornness. It was bound to happen, and she’s going to make mistakes.”

There was a moment that you hadn’t prepared for, a pinkness lined his nose as he stared at the ice cream carton and tried to almost push away the emotion that built up in him. You didn’t see that often, but his eyebrows were knit before he spoke again, “I—I don’t know, I just didn’t expect… like she just sounded… hurt.”

The last word seemed to sit heavy on his tongue, as if saying it out loud made it more real.

You let your hand slide over his, your thumb brushing the back of his knuckles.

“She was hurt,” you told him gently, “Someone she liked let her down. And she’s sixteen, so that’s going to feel like the end of the world because it is, in her world. Shame and embarrassment are all apart of this, too.”

His jaw shifted a little bit, eyes still fixed on the melting ice cream that sat on the spoon. “I hate that I can’t fix that. I hate that she’s got to learn it like this — sitting on some stranger’s porch, mascara running, smelling like beer. That’s not… I don’t want that for her.”

“I know,” you say back to him. “And you can’t stop every bad night. But you can be the one who shows up when it happens. Tonight, that’s what you did.”

He finally looked at you then, eyes a little glassy, and for a moment he wasn’t Harry the dad or Harry your husband — he was that seventeen-year-old boy again that you fell so deeply in love with, still figuring out how to protect the people he loved. “Feels like it’s not enough.”

“It is enough,” you said firmly, giving his hand one more squeeze. “It’s what she’ll remember. You showed up—the most important man in her life right now showed up for her.”

Harry let out a slow breath, his thumb absently brushing over your wrist before he reached for another spoonful of ice cream. You sat there in the quiet, finishing the ice cream, knowing the real conversation with Scarlett was waiting for you in the morning.

But for now, the silence, the warm of his hand in yours—that felt enough.

_____

This Sunday in the Styles house felt much different. The usual weekend clatter — the sound of Harry at the stove, the faint guitar from Sawyer’s room, you move through the kitchen with coffee and chatter about the upcoming week — was replaced by a silence that felt too careful, too deliberate.

Scarlett hadn’t come downstairs yet, but you could hear the occasional creak of the floorboards above your head, the slow shuffle of feet as she moved around her room. She was awake, but you doubted she felt like facing anyone. But it was good to know that she lasted through the night.

Harry was at the kitchen table, not cooking this time, just nursing a mug of black coffee. His face was unreadable; his eyes fixed on some point outside the window over your shoulder. Every now and then he’d tap his fingers against the side of the mug, but he didn’t say much. You knew that look — the quiet before he decided exactly how he was going to say what needed to be said.

Sawyer wandered in first, hair sticking up in the back, still in his T-shirt and sweats. He stopped in the doorway like he was checking the temperature of the room before stepping inside—like he was checking to see if Scarlett was down there yet.

“Morning,” you said softly, trying to keep it normal.

“Morning,” he mumbled, heading straight for the fridge. He pulled out the juice carton, caught Harry’s glance, and muttered, “Glass, I know,” before getting one from the cupboard.

He poured, sat at the far end of the table, and started drinking. You could see him sneaking glances toward the stairs, his foot tapping under the table. He’d been loyal to Scarlett last night, right up until he’d decided she needed help, and now he looked like a kid waiting for the fallout.

It was nearly ten when Scarlett finally appeared. She took the steps slowly, holding the railing like it was the only thing keeping her upright. She was pale, her hair pulled back haphazardly, dressed in an oversized hoodie and pajama pants. The faint shadows under her eyes told the whole story of the night prior.

She paused in the kitchen doorway when she saw all three of you there. Her gaze flicked to Sawyer, then to you, then to Harry — and lingered there for a moment. He didn’t say anything right away, just raised his mug slightly in acknowledgment.

You moved toward the counter, giving her a small smile, keeping everything normal, still. “Morning, Scar. There’s water on the counter and some toast if you want it.”

She shuffled in, took the glass, and sat at the table across from Sawyer. He kept his eyes on his juice, but you saw the way his shoulders shifted like he was bracing for something.

The air was thick with anticipation — no one quite wanting to be the first to start, but all of you knowing it was coming. After the three of them were at the table, you found yourself moving yourself to the table, as well.

Harry finally set his mug down with a soft clink. “Alright,” he said, his voice even but firm, “let’s talk about last night, shall we?”

Scarlett took a sip of water; eyes fixed on the glass in her hands. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

Sawyer shifted in his chair. You caught his eye and gave him the smallest shake of your head — not now.

“Oh, there’s a lot to talk about,” Harry said, leaning forward, forearms on the table. “Starting with the fact that you weren’t where you said you’d be, and you were drunk, and you had no way to get home.”

Scarlett winced at the word drunk, her free hand curling into the sleeve of her hoodie as she pulled herself into the chair. “I wasn’t that bad.”

“You were bad enough to text your brother instead of us,” Harry replied quickly, annoyed that she would even say something along those lines. “Bad enough that I had to come pick you up from a party with people you didn’t even know.”

She pressed her lips together, and you could see the tension in her jaw. “I didn’t ask you to come get me, you know.”

You stepped in before it could escalate too quickly; you already felt the heat coming off of Harry at her disgruntled words. “Scarlett, this isn’t about grounding you for going out. It’s about making sure you’re safe. Last night, you weren’t, and that makes us not be able to trust you the way we want to be able to.”

Her eyes flicked to you, softer for a moment, but she didn’t speak. Harry sat back slightly, giving her room to answer.

Scarlett stared at the table, idly running her finger along the rim of the glass. “I told you — I wasn’t that bad. I just… I didn’t feel good and wanted to go home.”

Harry’s voice stayed calm, but there was an edge to it now as he stared across the table at her. “And why didn’t you have a ride?”

She shrugged, her hair falling forward to hide her face. “I—I did, but he,” She paused for a moment, “He—uh, Leo, he left.”

The name landed in the middle of the table like a dropped coin. You didn’t miss the way Harry’s jaw twitched.

Harry said, leaning forward again, almost like in an interrogation room. It's a game of tennis between them. “Who is Leo?”

Scarlett’s eyes snapped up to his, shrugging quickly at his questioning. “Just a guy.”

“A guy you’ve been seeing?” Harry pushed, shrugging as it to mimic her nonchalance, “Just a random man you met on the street?”

“I—I mean,” She bit the inside of her cheek, diverting her eyes away from him, “I—He’s a guy I know.”

Sawyer shifted in his seat, eyes darting between them. “He’s also been here.”

“What the fuck, Sawyer?” Scarlett cut in sharply, glaring at him, but you could tell that Sawyer found his way to let the information slip without getting too much in trouble.

“Language,” you turn to her quietly, shaking your head almost to just keep the peace, “And we’re a family who is honest, we don’t lie for one another.”

Harry looked at Sawyer, practically ignoring you before he questions his son instead with a disbelief that made his voice raise just a bit louder, “He’s been here? When?”

“Uh, over the summer.” Sawyer’s foot tapped under the table, his shoulders curling in as he stared at the table, “He snuck in one night... I mean, one night that I saw, I guess.”

Your eyes shut for a moment—you didn’t even know if you could look at Harry with the information presented before you feel the table shift as he leans forward.

Harry’s brows shot up, his tone turning sharper. “He snuck in?”

Scarlett’s glare darted back to Sawyer, with a death sentence written all over it. “Why the fuck would you say that?”

“Scarlett,” you said, your voice firm but calm as you tried to stop the table. “That’s not how this works. We’re not doing secrets and threats in this house. We deal with things straight on.”

Sawyer shrugged as he turned to his sister, a bit more inclined to fight for himself, "Because I don't like him."

Harry had leaned forward on his elbows, his gaze steady at his daughter across the table. “How old is he?”

She hesitated, tugging her sleeve over her hand. “Seventeen.”

Harry’s jaw ticked; your eyes diverted to him for a quick, sharp moment before your eyes met and you cleared your throat.

Scarlett’s lips twisted into a smirk that didn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah, and I’m not going to get pregnant like you two did. I know what a condom is, so don’t worry.”

The words landed like a slap across the table—like the slowest, most painful slap that none of you saw coming. Sawyer’s eyes went wide, glancing between you and Harry as if waiting for an explosion between you both.

You inhaled slowly through your nose, trying to keep your voice even. “Scarlett, that’s not something you get to throw around like it’s clever or witty. It’s not a joke.”

Harry’s stare sharpened, but he didn’t raise his voice. “If you think what happened with us was some kind of accident we didn’t take seriously, you’re wrong. And if you think you’re untouchable because you know what a condom is, you’re even more wrong.”

Scarlett’s smirk faltered, the defensiveness still there but not quite as steady now. You could tell that she was sorry for her words but just seemed a bit misguided in her thoughts for a moment. She had been playing the defense, and needed to say something that would end the conversation.

“Why didn’t you tell us about him?” you asked, keeping your tone softer.

“Because I knew you’d do this,” she shot back, gesturing to Harry who you could tell had been so wound up that anything could set him off. “Turn it into an interrogation. Make me feel like I’m doing something wrong just for liking someone—sex is normal, you know, everyone does it.”

Harry’s stare didn’t waver; in some ways you found incredibly attractive, but you can not let it get to you in the tense of the moment. “Sex is normal when it’s between two people who respect each other. Is that what you had last night? A guy respecting you?”

Scarlett’s cheeks flushed instantly, and her gaze dropped to the table. She twisted the cuff of her hoodie between her fingers, the fight in her voice softening just a little. “I don’t know… I mean—he likes me.”

“Yeah, teenage boys like sex, Scarlett.” Harry leaned forward slightly, and there was no bite in his tone now — just a steadiness that came from somewhere deep. “Liking someone isn’t enough. Respect means they don’t leave you drunk at a party with people you don’t know. It means they make sure you get home safe. If they can’t do that, they don’t get you. Not like that.”

She didn’t look up, but you caught the subtle shift in her shoulders — not giving in, but not pushing back as hard.

Scarlett’s lips pressed together, and she let out a slow breath through her nose. “I just… didn’t want you to treat me like I don’t know anything.”

Your lips curved up a little bit as you looked between Harry and Scarlett, “You know more than we sometimes give you credit for.”

Harry interrupted, finishing your thought, “But you also don’t know everything yet — and that’s okay.”

Sawyer, who’d been keeping his head down until now, risked a glance at Scarlett. “For what it’s worth, if I was you and dating someone, and they left me at a party… I’d dump them.”

Scarlett shot him a look, but this time it was almost grateful, like he’d given her an easy way out of admitting the same thing herself.

Harry didn’t blink, answering quickly “Liking someone is fine, Scarlett. Sneaking around with someone who leaves you drunk at a party isn’t fine.”

Scarlett’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t know that was going to happen.”

“I know you didn’t,” you said. “That’s why we’re talking about it — so you think about what you deserve before it gets to that point.”

Sawyer muttered under his breath, “Told you Leo’s a jerk.”

“Not helping,” she snapped, but her voice had lost some of its bite.

Harry sat back finally, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a fraction.

“Scarlett, I’m not here to scare you for the sake of it. But if I have to walk into another party and see you sitting on a porch with your mascara running because some boy bailed on you, we’re going to have a much bigger problem.”

She looked down at her hands, chewing the inside of her cheek. “I get it.”

You reached over, resting your hand lightly over hers. “Good. Then let’s start with being honest from now on, okay? No sneaking in, no sneaking out. If you want us to trust you, you have to give us a reason to.”

Scarlett gave a reluctant nod, and though the air in the room was still heavy, some of the heat had burned off. “How long am I grounded?”

You kept your tone steady, even when she tried to meet your gaze with that practiced teenage glare. “Two weeks. No going out except for school or practice. Phone stays in the kitchen at night. And we drive you anywhere you need to be.”

Her mouth fell open in protest. “That’s—”

“Fair,” you cut in, not raising your voice. “And you know it. If you want more freedom, you earn it back by showing us you can be honest.”

Scarlett slumped back in her chair, arms crossed tightly across her body, but she didn’t argue further — which, from her, was as close to acceptance as you were going to get.

Sawyer kept his eyes on his juice, probably just relieved his name wasn’t part of the punishment.

Harry reached for his coffee mug again, practically empty now, his voice quieter now. “We’re done for now. Go sleep it off, sweat it out. We’ll talk more later if we need to.”

Scarlett stood without anything else to say out loud, only muttering something under her breath you couldn’t quite catch, but she headed upstairs without slamming a door — you both took that as another small win.

When the sound of her footsteps faded back into her bedroom, you let out a breath and exchanged a look with Harry — the kind of look only parents who had just survived a round with a teenager could give each other.

______

It was later that evening, the light in the hallway, when you and Harry found yourselves lingering outside Scarlett’s room. The day had been quiet since breakfast — she’d stayed upstairs, alternating between napping and streaming something on her laptop, and the tension in the house had settled into a low, steady hum instead of the sharp crackle from earlier.

You had both decided to check-in on her, just the two of you without her brother possibly intruding on conversation. You knocked softly on her door. “Can we come in?”

There was a pause, then a muffled, “Yeah.”

Inside, Scarlett was propped up in bed, wrapped in a blanket with her laptop balanced on her knees. She set the computer aside, her eyes flicking between you and Harry as you stepped in.

Harry crossed the room and sat on the floor, leaning back against the wall by her desk, knees bent casually. You sat on the edge of her bed, close enough that she didn’t have to look far to meet your eyes.

“You’ve had a day,” you told her gently, letting the words settle in the room between you.  

She shrugged, tucking her legs up under the blanket, sitting crisscross; there was an animosity that Harry could see across the room. “Guess so.”

Harry gave a small smirk, almost like a peace offering. “This isn’t round two of the interrogation, I promise.”

Her lips twitched, but she didn’t quite smile. “Then what is it?”

“We wanted to tell you something we should’ve said earlier,” you took in a deep breath, knowing it may come better from you than from Harry. “We know what it’s like to be your age and feel like you’re figuring everything out. We were right where you are once — sixteen and seventeen, thinking we were making smart choices, thinking we were ready for anything.”

Scarlett glanced at you, curiosity flickering in her eyes.

Harry picked up from there, sincerity lacing his tone, “I was eighteen by the time you were born, but when your mum and I first got together, I wasn’t much older than you. We were in love — we are in love, but we also made decisions that changed our lives forever. We don’t regret you, Scar, not for a second. But it was hard, and it was a lot for two people who were still kids themselves,” Harry thought for a moment, contemplating if he wanted to continue, “We just want to make sure you’re… giving yourself only to people who deserve you, that’s all.”

Scarlett shifted under the blanket, her voice quieter. “I’m not gonna make the same mistakes you did.”

You reached for her hand, squeezing lightly as you make sure she recognizes that you’re not there to tell her how to live. “We’re not saying you will, but we want you to understand — you know, sex, relationships, all of it — it’s not just about knowing the technical stuff. It’s about being with someone who respects you enough to care for you when it matters. Last night, the person you trusted didn’t do that.”

Harry’s voice was softer now. “I’m not angry that you like someone, Scar. I’m angry that he made you feel small. That you were left sitting outside a party crying.”

Scarlett’s eyes dropped to your joined hands, her shoulders curling in.

“And we’re not going to lock you in a tower for the rest of high school, or anything. We just need you to hear us when we say: your worth isn’t measured by whether a boy stays, or calls, or kisses you. You decide what you deserve, and you don’t settle for less.”

There was a long pause between the three of you. Scarlett swallowed, then gave a small nod. “Okay.”

You watch as she contemplates for a moment before her eyes lift to Harry, "Thank you for coming to get me... last night."

Harry's eyes soften, his smile raises just a bit like he had been hit by something that he hadn't expected. He stayed quiet for a moment before he nodded. "I'd do anything for you, Scar."

You looked at him, "And that's why I picked him," You tell her quietly, "I knew he'd always put us first."

There's a heavy silence in the room, and understanding that is starting to lighten the silence moment by moment.

Harry shifted on the floor, moving to make his way closer to the bed where you were both laying. “Alright. That’s enough serious talk for one day. What are we watching?”

Scarlett blinked at him, surprised by the shift in the mood and the situation in the room. “You’ll just make fun of it.”

“Probably, that’s my job,” he said with a grin. “Scoot over.”

Scarlett looked at you both for a moment before you crawled in one side of her, Harry laying down the edge. He reached for her laptop and flipped it open anyway, shifting over so you could lean in beside her.

It wasn’t forgiveness or a full resolution, but it was a start.

The movie Scarlett picked wasn’t exactly your style — too many quick cuts, too much shaky camera work, weird characters, but she was leaning against your shoulder under the blanket, and since Harry had pulled himself up from the floor to sit on her other side, his arm draped along the back of the bed.

At some point, her head began to grow heavier against you, her breathing evening out when she found a heavenly sleep. Harry caught your eye over the top of her head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. You both stayed still until the credits rolled, not wanting to wake her.

When you finally eased yourself out from under the blanket, she shifted only slightly, curling into Harry’s side then instead. He kissed the top of her head, then carefully laid her back against her pillows. You pulled the blanket up to her chin, tucking it around her the way you had when she was little.

She didn’t stir; the world was so quiet inside her small bedroom.

You and Harry slipped quietly out of the room, closing the door to a soft click. The hallway felt quieter than the rest of the day had, the weight of the morning’s tension finally starting to ease knowing now that there had been some resolution.

The kids would go to school tomorrow and everything would be fine; Harry would get up and go to work tomorrow, you would too. The feeling of heaviness was starting to fall on your shoulders as you realized that the day had started to slip away from you—the weekend practically gone, just like that.

Harry’s hand brushed yours as you walked toward your bedroom, his fingers curling around them. “Time for a shower?”

You didn’t even hesitate, because you knew that he had read your mind—just like he always had. “Yes, please.”

Once you both had made it into your bathroom, you realized that Harry had been staring at you. You moved to turn the shower on, letting it warm up around you as the door had closed behind you. Harry hadn’t made a long stare, but enough that made your heart thump a bit heavier in your chest. Your eyes met his for a moment before he moved to tug at the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and over your head.

Harry’s gaze dragged over your bare skin in that slow, reverent way that made it obvious — he’d never stopped looking at you like the girl he’d fallen for behind the football field, only now he had years of knowing exactly how to touch you; where you liked it, how you wanted it, if you wanted it. His palms skimmed your waist before his thumbs caught under the lace of your bra.

“You know that I love you more than anything in the world, yeah?” Harry asked, almost like it was a question that he had never asked you before.

“More than anything?” You ask again, using your fingers to pull his own t-shirt off, revealing the toned muscles and warm, bronzed skin littered with tattoos underneath. Your eyes danced around on the ink, letting it sink into your memory for the umpteenth time.

“Anything,” he concluded, watching as you tilted your head up towards him.

You both continued to undress, leaving each item of clothing behind on the floor in a scattered mess, like always. It was the moment the hot spray hit your shoulders, that made your body relax; Harry was already crowding in behind you, hands spanning your waist like he was anchoring you there.

“Mm,” he hummed low in your ear, lips brushing the wet skin just beneath it. “Been waiting all damn day for this.”

You tilted your head back against his chest, feeling the water and his voice ripple over you. “The shower or me?”

“Yes.” His witty answer came without hesitation, followed by a slow kiss to the curve of your neck.

You laughed softly, turning to face him, your hands sliding up over the slick warmth of his chest. Droplets clung to his lashes, ran down the stubble along his jaw. He looked at you like he had when you were sixteen—like he’d found something he wasn’t about to let go of—but now there was the weight of years behind it, the kind of devotion that had been tested and won.

“You’re staring,” you teased him, poking at his chest. He pushed you against the wall for you both to lean on before he kissed your cheek softly.

“Getting my fill,” he murmured into the softness of your cheek, thumbs stroking your hips. “I can never stare at you enough.”

“You know,” you tell him softly, “We’re basically sneaking around like we told the kids not to do.”

Harry pulls back for a moment, giving you a glance over before he smirks—it’s the same ridiculous smirk as always, which illuminates his dimples and set fire to your lungs, “Baby, we invented sneaking around—we were the king and queen of it. We couldn’t keep our hands off of each other, we still can’t.”

And it was true. You remembered many nights of sneaking down your parent’s trellis, in the backyard so that you weren’t seen by the front porch light. Then you’d sneak down the pathway in the driveway, out to the street where Harry sat with his pickup truck awaiting your arrival. This wasn’t anything new—this was just you.

You’d slip into the passenger seat, cheeks flushed from the rush, and he’d look at you like you’d just rewritten the rules of the world. That was always the danger of Harry—he made trouble feel worth it. He was always where he said he would be, he always chose you, he always wanted you.

Now, decades later, the truck was gone, replaced by a house, two kids, and a lifetime of responsibilities—but the look in his eyes hadn’t changed.

He pressed you gently back against the tiled wall, the spray cascading over both of you. “Only difference now,” he said quickly, brushing his mouth over yours, “is I don’t have to take you home by midnight.”

You grinned against his lips. “Might still give you a curfew.”

His laugh was a deep, low rumble as his hands roamed with that same slow, teenage reverence, like he still couldn’t believe you were his. “Not a chance.”

You swiped the water from your lashes, still smiling against him. “Fine, no curfew. But you’re still helping me clean up the kitchen after this.”

Harry groaned dramatically, though his hands stayed planted on your hips, squeezing firmly, “Romance killer.”

You kissed him back, “You’ll survive.”

He kissed you one more time, slow and deep, before finally reaching past you to turn off the water. The quiet after the spray stopped felt heavier somehow, just the sound of your breathing and the occasional drip against tile.

You stepped out first, wrapping yourself in a towel, and he followed with that lazy, content grin that told you he’d follow you anywhere. By the time you were both in pajamas, hair damp, the house felt still again—Scarlett asleep, Sawyer probably buried in his video game or guitar in his own room.

The two of you padded barefoot into the kitchen like it was your own little after-hours world.

Harry started stacking plates into the washer while you wiped the counters, his hip brushing yours every time he passed—he did it on purpose every time.

“You know,” he said quietly, looking towards the stairs, setting a glass down with a little more care than necessary, “we could just leave this for tomorrow.”

You gave him a pointed look, squinting a bit. “And wake up to ants? No, thank you.”

He smirked, sidling closer, drying his hands on the dish towel before looping it around your waist to tug you in. “King and queen of sneaking around… reduced to responsible homeowners with a sponge and a bottle of dish soap.”

“Speak for yourself,” you teased, but you didn’t pull away, resting your hands on his chest.

When the last pan was scrubbed and the counters gleamed as clean as they could be, you leaned back against the island, watching him turn off the kitchen light. He caught your gaze in the dim glow from the hallway and tipped his chin toward the stairs.

“Kitchen’s clean,” he said softly, brushing past you, hand skimming your lower back. “Now we can get back to the fun part.”

You followed with a quiet laugh, thinking that maybe, after all these years, that was still exactly what you were best at.

[ijustmissyouraccenths]

Picked Up Anyway

✨ summary: Where Harry drinks too much and costs him the things he loves most. 

📝 word count: 8.5k

⚠️ content warning: drinking, cursing. 

💌 support my work

The phone rang at 2:12 a.m.

It didn’t startle her awake—she wasn’t sleeping, just listening to the rain as it pattered lightly on the roof. She hadn’t really been sleeping in weeks, not properly. Just drifting in and out, half-conscious with the fan spinning above her, eyes dry from too much screen time and not enough rest. The sound cut through the stillness like a blade, sharp and sudden, and her body froze before her mind caught up.

She didn’t need to check the screen. Somewhere deep in her chest, she already knew.

She rolled over anyway, the bedsheets tangling around her legs, and reached blindly for the phone on the nightstand. The screen lit her face. H. Just that. One letter. She’d never changed the contact after the breakup. It felt wrong to delete it and even more wrong to leave his full name sitting there like a wound.

The call kept ringing. She stared at it. Her thumb hovered over the screen, trembling slightly.

She should ignore it.

But she didn’t.

“Hello?”

There was a pause. Shuffling. Background noise—harsh fluorescent lighting buzzing, maybe, and the distant echo of someone talking over a crackly intercom.

Then his voice. Thick. Slurred. Familiar in a way that made her heart twist painfully inside her chest.

“Hey. S’me.”

She closed her eyes. “I know.”

“I, uh… I’m sorry it’s so late. I just—I didn’t know who else t’call.”

Of course he didn’t. He never did. Not when things got bad.

Her voice was flat. “Where are you, Harry?”

“Station. Again.”

Jesus.

She sat up slowly, brushing a hand down her face. “Are you okay?”

A soft laugh crackled through the speaker, bitter and tired. “Yeah, m’alright. Bit of a shiner, maybe. They said I weren’t bleedin’ enough to get patched up, so. Just waitin’ for someone t’come get me.”

There was shame in his voice, buried beneath the booze and bravado. And something softer too—something closer to the version of him she used to know. The version she loved.

“I shouldn’t’ve called,” he said after a beat. “I know that. Just—fuck, I didn’t mean t’ruin your night.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” she said quietly, though they both knew it wasn’t true. Her sleep had been ruined for weeks. Her peace, too.

There was a silence that stretched too long.

Then he said, “Could you… come get me?”

She hesitated.

He filled the gap like he always did, voice turning smaller, rougher. “I’ll pay you back for the gas or whatever. You don’t have to speak to me, promise. Just need a lift.”

“Harry.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I just—I didn’t know who else.”

She breathed in through her nose. Out through her mouth.

This wasn’t the first time. It probably wouldn’t be the last. But the thing about love—the hard kind, the ugly kind, the kind that lingers even after it should’ve rotted away—is that it doesn’t always die clean. Sometimes it sits in your chest and makes choices for you.

“I’ll be there in fifteen.”

She heard him exhale, like she’d pulled him up from underwater. “Thank you.”

The line went dead.

She sat still for a moment. Then she stood, quietly grabbing the hoodie off the back of her chair and slipping on the nearest pair of sneakers. Her keys were already by the door.

The police station sat on the edge of town, half-lit and quiet, the kind of place that looked more like a post office than a holding cell. A single streetlamp flickered above the front door, casting a pale yellow glow over the cracked sidewalk and wilted landscaping. She pulled into the empty lot and shut off the engine, letting the silence settle before reaching for the handle.

The chill in the air hit her first—thick with humidity, but sharp enough to raise goosebumps along her arms. She crossed the lot quickly, her sneakers whispering against the pavement, and pushed open the door.

Inside, it smelled like old coffee, sweat, and something sourer—regret, maybe. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright for the hour. At the front desk, a bored-looking officer glanced up, recognition flashing in his eyes. This wasn’t her first time here.

“Hey. He’s in the back,” the officer said, not unkindly. “Didn’t resist this time. Just loud and asking for you.”

She nodded wordlessly, throat tight.

He stood to lead her down a short hallway, past a row of empty chairs and posters about opioid misuse and town hall meetings. The floor creaked under their steps. When they reached the door, he turned to her.

“He’s not hurt, just drunk and mouthy. Calmed down once he knew you were coming.”

She didn’t answer.

The door opened with a loud click, and there he was—sitting on a metal bench, hands folded between his knees, head bowed like a boy in detention. The room was small, gray, sterile. His knuckles were red and scraped. A faint bruise bloomed along his jaw, ugly and half-formed.

He looked up when he heard the door. And when he saw her, his whole face changed.

Like shame moved through him all at once.

“Fuck,” he muttered, pushing a hand through his hair. “Didn’t think they’d actually call you.”

“You gave them my name,” she said.

“Yeah, well,” he shrugged, looking down again. “Still didn’t think you’d come.”

She stepped inside. The officer left them alone, closing the door behind him with a soft snick.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, slowly, he stood.

He looked rough. Clothes rumpled. The collar of his shirt stained with sweat and something darker. Eyes bloodshot. Hair a mess.

But somehow, still him. Still Harry.

“I don’t remember what started it,” he said. “Think some guy said somethin’ and I just—couldn’t let it go. Got stupid. Again.”

She didn’t move. Just watched him.

“I’m tired,” he added, voice lower now. “Tired of fuckin’ up. Tired of callin’ you and makin’ you clean up after me.”

“You didn’t ask me to clean up,” she said softly. “You asked me for a ride.”

He looked at her then. Really looked. Eyes a little glassy. “Still. You didn’t deserve the call.”

She blinked. Her chest ached. “Let’s go.”

He didn’t argue. Just nodded once, like he knew better than to push for anything more. He followed her out in silence, hands in his pockets, head bowed.

When they stepped into the night, he flinched slightly at the air. It was heavier now—humid and thick with the weight of everything unspoken between them. She unlocked the car. He slipped into the passenger seat, still saying nothing.

She sat behind the wheel for a second before starting the engine.

The hum of the car filled the space between them, steady and low.

Then his voice, quiet.

“You look tired.”

She gripped the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “I am.”

He swallowed.

“Did you sleep at all?”

“No.”

A beat passed. Then—

“I used to hate when you didn’t sleep ‘cause of me.”

She glanced at him, just once, then back to the road. “Used to.”

He didn’t reply.

And that silence was louder than anything else.

They drove through town without a word.

The streets were empty—just the occasional glow of a porch light or the flicker of a TV behind thin curtains. Everything felt still, like the world was holding its breath around them. The only sound was the soft whir of the tires and the occasional creak of the suspension over uneven pavement.

She didn’t look at him, but she felt him there. Heavy in the passenger seat. Like a presence she hadn’t fully shaken.

It wasn’t until they passed the gas station on Main Street that she spoke.

“Where do you want me to drop you?”

He didn’t answer.

She flicked her eyes over to him, barely.

He was slumped against the window, one hand curled near his mouth, thumb grazing his bottom lip in thought. His forearm rested against his knee, and she caught the familiar shapes of ink beneath his shirt—smudged swallows, a butterfly, a tiny letter “A,” and the faint outline of something newer along the inside of his wrist she didn’t recognize.

His knuckles were scraped raw. His lip looked like it might split if he smiled too wide.

But he wasn’t smiling.

He turned his head slightly toward her, voice low.

“Could I… stay at yours tonight? Just the couch.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her hands tightened on the wheel, then released.

He kept going, like he felt the need to explain.

“I know it’s a lot to ask. I won’t bother you, I swear. Just—it’s late, and I’m not exactly welcome back at Mattie’s after what happened.”

She stayed quiet for a few more seconds, staring at the road ahead like it might give her the answer.

Then softly, “Okay.”

His shoulders dropped like he’d been holding them up for hours.

“Thanks,” he murmured, almost under his breath. “You’re kind.”

She didn’t respond to that. Kindness had nothing to do with it. Habit, maybe. Muscle memory.

She turned the wheel, took the familiar turn toward her street.

And for the first time since the call, he looked at her like he was really seeing her—like the weight of everything between them hadn’t dulled how much he still remembered her face in the dark, still noticed the way she held tension in her jaw or blinked a little more when she was trying not to cry.

But he didn’t say another word.

Neither did she.

Her porch light flickered like it always did, casting a faint glow across the front steps as she pulled into the drive. The house was quiet, small, the kind of place where sound carried easily and memories stuck to the walls. She turned off the ignition. The silence that followed felt louder than the engine.

Harry sat still beside her, fingers picking at a loose thread on the cuff of his shirt. His rings clinked softly against one another, the sound barely noticeable but familiar.

She didn’t ask if he was coming. Just got out of the car and left the door unlocked behind her. He followed, wordless, dragging one hand through his hair as he stepped into the soft yellow of her entryway.

Inside, the house smelled faintly of lavender and something warm—like sleep. He stood just inside the door, not moving further than the rug. He looked out of place, like a ghost she wasn’t sure she believed in.

She turned to face him. “Blanket’s in the hall closet. You remember where that is?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

But he didn’t move.

And for a moment, neither did she.

Their relationship hadn’t always looked like this—quiet, strained, stitched together by late-night rescues and the weight of what they didn’t say. There was a time when it had been all possibility and open windows, when they moved into the town with nothing but secondhand furniture and too many dreams. She remembered unpacking boxes in the summer heat, both of them laughing, sweaty, barefoot on the hardwood floors. She remembered the way he kissed her neck while holding a stack of books, how they argued over where to hang their first framed photo, how he played guitar on the porch while she watered the plants.

Back then, he drank, but it was fun. Just a beer on the porch. A shot of whiskey to celebrate something small. Harmless.

Until it wasn’t.

Until the bar became a second home, and he started coming back smelling like cigarette smoke and stale liquor, eyes red, words louder. Fights started slipping into their mornings—over dishes, over nothing. He’d come home long past midnight, stumbling into the hallway, waking her with the slam of a door. Sometimes he forgot what they fought about the night before. She never did.

What hurt more than anything was how he was with his friends.

How rowdy he became. The way he got loud when they were around, like he had something to prove. Laughing too hard, talking too fast, calling her babe in that too-casual way that made her feel small. If she tried to pull him back—ask him to quiet down, to go home, to stop drinking so much—he’d wave her off. Tell her she was “overthinking everything,” that he was just “bein’ a lad, love. S’nothin’.”

He never hit her. Never touched her in anger.

But sometimes, the things he said hit harder than he knew.

“You’re lookin’ at me like I’m the worst thing that’s ever happened to you,” he’d muttered once, drunk and swaying in the kitchen, eyes glassy. “Like you’re ashamed of me.”

She was. That night, she was.

And he knew it.

Back in the present, she watched him as he stepped out of his shoes, walking quietly to the hall closet to retrieve the blanket. He moved slower than usual, like his body ached. Like everything inside him had been rung out and left in the sun to dry.

She brought him a pillow without saying anything and placed it on the couch.

He took it with a murmured thanks, sat down heavily, and looked up at her through dark lashes.

“D’you want me to leave in the morning?”

“I don’t care,” she said, and she wasn’t sure if it was true.

He nodded once, adjusting the pillow behind him. His arms were bare now, his sleeves rolled higher. The tattoos she used to trace with her fingers were dulled by the low light—his mermaid, the rose, the anchor by his wrist. They used to mean something to her. Now they just reminded her of who he used to be.

She stood there for a moment longer than she should have, arms crossed over her chest like she needed to physically hold herself together.

Then she turned away and walked down the hall, back to the bed she probably wouldn’t sleep in.

The bed was cold, the kind of cold that settled in the bones. She lay still for what felt like hours, eyes tracing the outline of the ceiling in the dark. Every creak from the living room felt louder than it should have been. She could hear the occasional shift of the blanket, the subtle drag of fabric as he turned on the couch. Neither of them were sleeping.

She rolled to her other side. Then back.

Then sat up.

The floor was cold beneath her feet, but she didn’t bother with socks. She opened the door slowly, careful not to let it creak, though she wasn’t sure why. He knew she was there. He probably hoped she wasn’t.

The living room was lit only by the faint blue spill of moonlight through the blinds. He was lying on his back, one arm folded behind his head, the other resting across his stomach. The blanket was half-kicked off, and his shirt had ridden up just enough to show a strip of his lower stomach, pale and soft in the light. His tattoos stood out like ink on paper—bold, black, familiar. Her eyes flicked over the butterfly, the anchor, the tiny “you booze, you lose” on the inside of his bicep, now faded. All of it still felt like home. And that made her angry.

She took a step forward. The floor creaked.

His head turned, slow. He blinked up at her like he wasn’t sure she was real.

She didn’t speak. Just crossed the room and sat on the edge of the coffee table facing him, her knees between his.

He pushed himself up a little, wincing. The bruise on his jaw looked darker now. She didn’t ask how he got it.

“You okay?” he asked, voice rough with sleep—or something close to it.

She nodded, though it wasn’t true. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He let out a breath, rubbed a hand over his face. “Me neither.”

She studied him. The circles under his eyes. The cut on his lip. The slope of his shoulders, still tense. He was thinner than she remembered. Not in a way that looked good.

He must’ve felt her staring because he looked back at her, something soft flickering behind his eyes.

“Sorry for talkin’,” he said. “I heard you moving. Didn’t wanna be weird. Just… I dunno.”

“You never used to say sorry this much,” she murmured.

He gave a humorless smile. “Yeah, well. S’what happens when you fuck everything up, innit?”

She looked down at her hands in her lap.

“It wasn’t always like this,” she said quietly.

He swallowed. “No. It wasn’t.”

“We used to be good.”

His voice dropped, gentle. “We were better than good.”

Silence stretched between them. Thick. Unbearable.

She glanced up, met his eyes. “What happened, Harry?”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands for a second. When he looked back up, he looked tired. Older than he should have.

“I don’t know. I got comfortable, maybe. Stopped payin’ attention. Started drinkin’ more when things got hard. Didn’t know how to be a version of myself that deserved you. So I just… gave up.”

Her eyes stung, but she didn’t cry.

“You used to love me out loud,” she said. “And then you stopped.”

His throat bobbed. “Didn’t mean to. I never stopped lovin’ you, not even for a fuckin’ second.”

He said it like it hurt.

She believed him.

That was the problem.

She reached out, just barely, fingertips brushing the edge of the blanket near his knee. “Get some sleep.”

His voice was small. “Will you stay out here? Just for a bit?”

She hesitated.

Then she nodded.

And when she curled up on the far end of the couch, blanket pulled over her legs, they didn’t speak again. But he shifted so their feet just barely touched, and neither of them moved away.

The room was still. Just the low hum of the fridge in the kitchen and the slow tick of the clock on the wall. Moonlight slipped through the blinds and striped the floor like something borrowed from a memory.

They hadn’t spoken in a while. Just breathed in the same space, close enough to feel it, far enough to pretend it meant nothing.

Harry had leaned back again, head resting against the arm of the couch. She stayed where she was, legs tucked under her, staring blankly at the floor, too tired to sleep, too wired to get up.

And then, into the quiet—so quiet she almost didn’t recognize the sound of her own voice—she spoke.

“I wish I didn’t love you.”

His eyes opened slowly.

She didn’t look at him.

“It’d make this easier,” she said. “All of it. Getting the call. Picking you up. Sitting here and pretending like I don’t still want to ask if you’ve eaten today or if you’re warm enough or if you’re gonna disappear again for three days and forget how to answer your fucking phone.”

Her voice didn’t shake. It was steady. Not angry—just tired in a way that came from the soul.

“I wish I could hate you. I really do.”

He didn’t speak, but she felt the shift in the air. The sharp inhale. The way his body went tense at her words, like he’d been bracing for them but still wasn’t ready.

She let out a bitter breath and leaned her head back against the cushion, eyes closed now.

“But I don’t. I still love you. And I don’t know what that says about me anymore.”

Silence pressed in again. But heavier now. Thicker.

He sat up slowly, elbows on his knees, staring at the rug beneath his bare feet.

His voice came out low, rough. “I never deserved the way you loved me.”

She turned her head, finally meeting his eyes in the dark.

“Then why did you let me?”

That was the question. And he didn’t have an answer.

Because there were no good ones.

He looked at her like he wanted to say something—something real. But all that came out was a whisper.

“I’m sorry.”

She nodded. It wasn’t enough. Not even close. But in this moment, it was all there was.

She didn’t know why she kept talking.

Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the weight of the hour—the way the world felt too still, like it was waiting for something to break.

Or maybe she was just done pretending.

Her voice was quieter now. Almost gentle. But every word cut like glass.

“This was supposed to be our house.”

He flinched.

She didn’t stop.

“We picked it together. Drove out here in the rain. Remember?” She laughed, soft and sharp. “We got lost on the way. You said we’d figure it out—said we’d make it home.”

Harry didn’t say a word. Just stared at the floor like it might forgive him better than she could.

She pressed her knuckles to her mouth for a second, then dropped her hand.

“I still think about that night,” she whispered. “The one you left. You were angry, I know. But I don’t think you meant it. About me nagging. About me never being satisfied. About how you couldn’t breathe when I walked into the room.”

His jaw clenched. He looked at her now—really looked. And it nearly shattered her.

“You packed your bags in ten minutes,” she said, voice cracking. “Tossed your clothes into that old duffel and said you needed space. That I was suffocating you. That this—us—wasn’t working anymore.”

Tears burned at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them back.

“I sat on that bed after you slammed the door. All night. Just sat there. The closet was still open. Half your shirts still hanging. I kept thinking—I should’ve asked you to stay. I should’ve begged. I didn’t. I wanted you to come back on your own.”

Harry swallowed hard, eyes glassy.

She leaned forward a little, elbows on her knees now, staring at her own hands. Her voice dropped to almost nothing.

“I thought we were gonna get married.”

His breath hitched. She didn’t look up.

“I thought we’d have babies. You’d make breakfast on Sundays. I’d work part-time. We’d take walks with a stroller down by the lake. I had the whole fucking future in my head, Harry.”

Silence filled the room. Heavy. Sharp around the edges.

She finally looked up.

“I bet you didn’t even know that.”

His face was stricken. Pale and stunned and young in the worst way—like someone had just told him he’d broken something he didn’t know was fragile.

“I did,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I knew.”

She stared at him. “Then why’d you ruin it?”

His mouth opened. Closed. No answer came.

Just the sound of her breath, tight and broken.

And the way he looked at her like he’d give anything to take it all back.

But he couldn’t.

And they both knew that.

Harry stayed quiet for a long time.

Too long.

She almost thought he wouldn’t respond—that he’d let her words settle and sour in the silence like he always used to. Shrink into himself. Shut down. Escape in the quiet.

But then—

“I know I ruined it.”

His voice was soft. Unsteady.

She looked up.

He was hunched forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly like he was trying to wring something out of them. His head hung low. Eyes fixed on the rug.

“I ruined us,” he said again. “Not just that night. Not just when I left. I started breakin’ it before that—little pieces. Letting things rot. Sayin’ shit I didn’t mean. Comin’ home drunk. Lookin’ right at you and still makin’ you feel like you were invisible.”

He shook his head slowly, jaw clenched.

“I hated myself for it. Still do. Every time I looked at you back then—every time you were standin’ in the kitchen with your hair pulled back and that worried look on your face—I’d think, ‘She deserves better than this. Better than me.’ And instead of gettin’ better, I just started actin’ worse.”

She didn’t speak. Didn’t dare.

His voice cracked as he went on, barely above a whisper.

“I got in the fight ‘cause someone brought you up.”

Her stomach turned.

“Said they saw you in town the other day. Said I was a fuckin’ idiot for losin’ you. Said you looked happier now—free.”

His mouth twisted. “Then he laughed. Said somethin’ disgusting. Somethin’ I won’t repeat. And I—I fuckin’ lost it.”

He leaned forward, running both hands through his hair. “Didn’t even remember hittin’ him. Just blinked and we were both on the floor and someone was shoutin’. Next thing I knew, I was in cuffs.”

He looked up at her now. Eyes rimmed red. “They put me in the back of the car, asked who I wanted to call.”

A pause.

“And I said your name.”

Of course he did.

He blinked hard, like the memory stung.

“The cop—he laughed. Said, ‘You need to leave that girl alone. She’s done with you.’”

He looked away, shame blooming hot across his face.

“But I couldn’t. I knew it wasn’t fair. I knew you didn’t owe me a single fuckin’ thing. But the minute they asked me who to call, it was you. It was always gonna be you.”

She swallowed hard.

He let out a breath that shook all the way through him. “I never felt good enough for you. Even when we were good. Even when things were bright. I’d look at you and think, ‘She picked me. Why the fuck would she pick me?’”

Her voice came out quiet. “Because I loved you.”

“I know,” he rasped. “And I didn’t know what to do with that.”

The room was spinning with everything unsaid. All the broken parts laid bare between them. It was too much. It was everything.

And still not enough.

She watched him, barely breathing.

There was something about the way he looked in that moment—hunched forward, heart split wide open in his lap—that reached past the version of him she’d spent the last year trying to forget. Past the bitter fights and slammed doors and aching nights she spent wondering if it was her fault he changed.

And maybe it was a mistake, maybe it would make everything worse—but her hand moved before her brain could stop it.

Fingers light, she reached out and touched his knee.

He flinched, just slightly. Then froze.

She let her hand stay there, palm resting over the soft denim of his jeans, thumb grazing a threadbare spot where the fabric had thinned. It was nothing. Barely a touch. But the heat of him hit her like a memory. And just like that, she was somewhere else.

It was a summer evening. Their first apartment. They didn’t have air conditioning and the windows were thrown open, letting in the thick breeze and the sound of kids riding bikes in the parking lot below. She was sitting on the kitchen counter, legs swinging, a popsicle dripping down her wrist because Harry had distracted her by dancing like an idiot in the middle of their linoleum floor.

He was shirtless, his curls damp from a cold shower, tattoos gleaming with sweat. He’d just bought a new speaker and was blasting Fleetwood Mac, singing every word into a wooden spoon. She was laughing so hard her stomach hurt, cheeks sore, heart too full.

And then, out of nowhere, he spun toward her, grinning wide, and said it.

“I love you, you know.”

Just like that.

Like he hadn’t even realized he was going to say it until the words left his mouth.

She blinked at him, popsicle halfway to her lips, trying to pretend her entire world hadn’t just shifted. “You do?”

He’d stepped between her knees, hands on her thighs, forehead pressed to hers with the most ridiculous smile on his face. “Mhm. Properly love you. Like, can’t-think-straight love you. Like, wanna-wake-up-next-to-you-forever love you.”

She’d giggled, kissed him once, then again, deeper. “You’re just saying that ‘cause I let you eat the last of the cereal.”

“God’s honest truth,” he whispered, before kissing her like he meant it. Like he knew he was sealing something into her bones.

After that, they said it all the time. In stupid voices. In serious ones. Shouted across the room, murmured into pillows. Texted in the middle of the day for no reason. Scribbled onto receipts and tucked into coat pockets. It became the air between them. Effortless. Warm.

And now—

Now it lived behind her ribcage like a ghost. Haunting.

She blinked herself back into the present.

Her hand was still on his leg.

He was watching her with wide, cautious eyes, like he could tell something had cracked open inside her.

She pulled her hand away gently.

“Don’t you remember?” she asked, voice barely more than a breath. “Don’t you remember what we were before it all got so… heavy?”

Harry exhaled, slow and unsteady. “I remember everything.”

And he said it with such aching truth that her chest physically hurt.

He sat there watching her, eyes darker than she remembered but still holding that flicker—the one that always undid her. And when he finally spoke, it wasn’t desperate or loud. Just soft. Steady. Like he’d been holding it in for far too long.

“I want to be better,” he said. “Not just for you. For me, too.”

She stared at him, tired and sore and so full of feeling she didn’t know where to put it all. She didn’t want another promise. She didn’t want to cradle his words like a matchstick and hope they lit something that didn’t just burn her down again.

So she didn’t cry. She didn’t ask him what changed. She didn’t tell him she loved him, even though it sat thick in her throat like honey gone sour.

She just looked him in the eyes, lids heavy, and whispered, “Show me.”

That was it.

A challenge. A plea. A door she wasn’t sure she was ready to open again—but wasn’t ready to lock either.

He nodded once. No smile. No drama. Just that small tilt of his head like he’d heard her, truly heard her, and knew what she meant.

And in that quiet space, the exhaustion finally crept in. The adrenaline was gone, leaving behind the hollow ache of too much emotion with nowhere to go. Her body felt heavier by the second, her chest worn out from everything it had held.

She curled back into the couch, pulling the blanket over her legs again. He shifted too, sitting beside her now, not quite touching, but close enough that she could feel the heat of him. The kind of nearness that said everything they hadn’t.

He didn’t try to hold her.

She didn’t ask him to.

And like that, she let her eyes close. Her breathing slowed. The noise in her chest quieted.

For the first time in a long time, she fell asleep next to him without dreaming of the past or fearing the future.

When she woke, the sun was bleeding through the blinds, soft and gold, cutting across the living room floor in wide stripes. Her neck ached from the awkward position she’d fallen asleep in, the blanket tangled around her legs. She blinked slowly, disoriented.

Then she turned her head.

The couch cushion beside her was cold.

Empty.

He was gone.

The blanket was folded neatly on the arm of the couch when she woke. No note. No sound. Just the faint trace of him still hanging in the room like something she’d dreamed.

She sat there for a long time that morning. Staring at the empty space beside her. Waiting for the door to open again.

It never did.

And eventually, she stopped waiting.

Time passed the way it always does—slow, then all at once. Days folding into weeks. Then months. Seasons changing around her before she even realized she’d stopped counting them.

She got a new job. Something small, local, steady. She repotted her plants. Gave up caffeine for two months and then caved. Started keeping her windows open again, even on rainy days. It didn’t happen overnight, but her body stopped bracing every time her phone rang after midnight. Her heart stopped trying to conjure him in every crowd.

She started to feel like herself again—just a little different. Softer in some places. Tougher in others.

And that morning, she was just running errands. Coffee in hand. Browsing a small bookstore she hadn’t been in before, letting herself enjoy the quiet.

Until she saw him.

She was flipping through the fiction shelf, fingers grazing over the spine of a paperback when something shifted in the corner of her eye. A shape. A movement. A posture her body hadn’t forgotten.

He was standing by the window. Back to her. Hands in the pockets of a navy sweater that clung to him in that familiar way—loose at the shoulders, fitted through the arms. His hair was longer, the curls brushing the nape of his neck. He looked… steady. Calm.

She didn’t move. Didn’t make a sound.

Just watched him.

He reached for something on the shelf beside him—a book or a card, she couldn’t see. Turned slightly, enough for her to catch the profile of his face.

It knocked the breath from her lungs.

He looked good. Better, even. His skin had color. His jaw was sharp, his eyes soft. He looked rested. Like someone who’d started again. Like someone who had found something to hold onto.

For a long time, she just stood there.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t make a scene.

She didn’t cry.

She just looked at him and let the ache settle where it belonged—not in the center of her chest anymore, but somewhere deeper. Somewhere quieter.

She didn’t think.

Didn’t talk herself out of it, didn’t weigh the options or second-guess her heart like she used to. She just moved—slowly, purposefully—across the polished floor, each step syncing with the steady hum of her breath.

She stopped behind him.

Close enough to smell the soft cedar of his cologne. Close enough to remember the feel of his sweater under her fingers.

He hadn’t noticed her. He was still flipping absently through a small paperback, the kind with a creased spine and a coffee stain on the corner.

She lifted her hand.

And gently—so gently—tapped him on the shoulder.

He turned.

And for a second, the entire world narrowed.

His face hit her like a memory she hadn’t been ready for. Like something tender and dangerous all at once.

His curls were longer now, darker at the roots. A few strands fell loose across his forehead, and he pushed them back out of habit. His jaw was sharper, cheeks dusted with just enough stubble to make him look older, quieter, more lived-in. There was a scar near his eyebrow she didn’t recognize. His mouth parted slightly as he looked at her, lips still full, still soft.

But it was his eyes that undid her.

Green, yes—but darker than they used to be. Like something had changed behind them. Like time had smoothed the edges of the storm but left the depth intact. He looked—God—he looked beautiful.

Not in the way he did when she used to wake up beside him and trace the curve of his collarbone under golden sheets.

But in a way that felt real.

Worn in. Weathered. Human.

“Hi,” she said, voice steady despite the tremble in her spine.

He blinked, stunned silent for a moment. His lips moved like he wasn’t sure what language to use.

Then—softly—“Hi.”

And in that one word, she heard everything she used to love. Everything she’d lost. Everything that still remained.

He kept looking at her like he wasn’t sure she was real.

Like his eyes hadn’t adjusted yet. Like she was a dream walking up to him in the daylight—heart beating, mouth moving, solid and impossible.

She smiled, but it was tentative. Careful. Her breath was shallow, like her lungs hadn’t caught up to the weight of the moment.

“I—” she started, then stopped. Laughed under her breath, small and shaky. “Sorry. I didn’t really think past ‘hi.’”

His smile flickered across his mouth, soft and stunned. “No, yeah. Same.”

He cleared his throat, closed the book in his hand without looking down at it, and held it awkwardly like he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

She watched him try to speak, the way his mouth opened, then closed again. The way he ran his tongue over his bottom lip like it might steady him. It didn’t.

“I didn’t think I’d see you,” he said, finally.

“Me either.”

Another beat passed. The world kept moving around them—quiet footsteps, the distant hiss of the espresso machine—but they were standing still, frozen in a moment neither of them had prepared for.

“You look—” he started, then paused. Swallowed. Tried again. “You look really good.”

Her face softened. “Thanks. You do too.”

He huffed out a breath, like he didn’t know what to do with the compliment. “I’ve been… trying.”

“I can tell.”

He looked down at the book in his hand, then back at her, like he was searching for some kind of script to follow. There wasn’t one.

“I don’t know what to say,” he admitted, voice low. “There’s too much. And also—nothing.”

She nodded. Her fingers were curled gently around the strap of her bag, but her knuckles had gone white.

“I didn’t expect to feel like this,” she said. “Like I forgot how to talk to you.”

His eyes found hers again, and for a split second, they both smiled. Not because it was funny. But because it was true.

“I used to know everything about you,” he murmured.

Her throat tightened. “You still know parts.”

“Yeah?” His voice cracked, just a little.

“Yeah.”

There were tears behind her eyes, but she held them back. Not out of pride. But because she didn’t want to blur him. Not now. Not when he was standing right there, breathing the same air, close enough to touch if she let herself.

She reached for something to say. Something real. Something simple.

“Do you want to sit?”

He blinked. “Yeah. I’d really like that.”

They found a table tucked near the back, away from the windows and the soft chatter of morning regulars. The chairs were mismatched, chipped paint peeling at the edges, but she liked that. It felt unpolished. Lived-in. Honest.

Harry sat across from her, one hand wrapped around his coffee cup, the other resting on the table like he didn’t quite know what to do with it. She noticed the rings were gone. No chipped nail polish. No tremble in his fingers. Just him—solid and still and a little more grown.

She pulled her sleeves over her hands, glanced out the window, then back at him. “So… what’ve you been up to?”

He exhaled, eyes dropping briefly to the table. “Got a job. In the city.”

She tilted her head, interested. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” He nodded slowly. “Music shop. Records, old guitars. Mostly just organizing stock and talkin’ to people who think they know more about vinyl than they actually do.”

That made her smile, just a little. “Sounds like a good fit.”

“S’not bad.” He looked up at her again, eyes soft. “Pays enough. Keeps my hands busy.”

She nodded. “That’s good.”

“What about you?”

She shrugged, but it was an easy kind. “I’ve been doing a bit of everything. I work at the co-op now—back office stuff. Not exciting, but it’s stable. I started painting again too. Badly, but still.”

He smiled. “You always said you’d get back to it.”

“Yeah, well. I ran out of excuses.”

A soft laugh passed between them. The kind that didn’t try too hard.

She told him about her sister’s new baby. About the weird old man who comes into the co-op every Tuesday and insists the bananas are watching him. About the cat she almost adopted before realizing it hated her.

He listened.

Really listened.

And then—

A pause.

The kind that felt too intentional to ignore.

He looked down at his coffee. Swirled what was left of it absently.

Then, quietly—almost like he wasn’t sure he had the right to say it—he said, “I got clean.”

The words hung in the air like dust.

She didn’t move at first.

Didn’t blink.

Just stared at him.

His eyes stayed down. Like if he looked at her, the truth might dissolve.

“It’s been almost nine months,” he added. “Meetin’s. Therapy. The whole thing.”

She swallowed hard. Her throat felt tight. Her fingers curled under the edge of the table.

“That’s…” She stopped, breath shaking. “That’s really fucking brave.”

He finally looked up.

And for the first time since she tapped his shoulder, there was something in his face that wasn’t shock. Or shame. Or nerves.

It was pride.

Quiet. Earned.

Not for her. Not to impress.

Just his.

“I didn’t think I could,” he said. “And then I had to.”

She nodded, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m proud of you.”

He didn’t smile.

But something in him softened.

He sipped his coffee again, then set it down gently, like he was giving himself a moment to think. His thumb traced a slow line along the rim of the cup.

Then, with a wry half-smile and eyes flicking up to meet hers, he said, “Figured it was time to clean up. Havin’ your ex-girlfriend bail you out gets a bit pathetic after the third time.”

The words slipped out like a joke—light, easy.

But they hit her like a punch to the chest.

Ex-girlfriend.

Of course that’s what she was. She’d known that. She’d lived in that title for nearly a year, tried it on in her mind over and over like it might one day stop feeling like a poor imitation of what she used to be.

But hearing it in his voice—casual, matter-of-fact—landed hard.

Her laugh came out a second too late. A little too sharp at the edges. “Yeah, I imagine the cops started to recognize me by name.”

He smirked, not noticing the flicker in her voice. Or maybe pretending not to.

She looked down at the table, her fingernail tracing a faded scratch in the wood. Something tightened in her chest—something familiar and heavy.

She missed him.

Still.

Even now, sitting across from the better version of the man who broke her heart, she missed the weight of his hand on the back of her neck. The way he used to mouth mine against her shoulder. The way he used to kiss her with his whole chest, like every day was the last time.

She didn’t know if she missed who he was, or just how she used to feel around him.

Maybe both.

She looked back up at him, blinking past the sting in her throat.

“Guess I always did have a soft spot for lost causes,” she teased, her voice gentler now, even as it wobbled.

He looked at her carefully. His smile faded, just slightly.

“I wasn’t just lost,” he said, quiet. “I was drowning.”

Her breath caught.

And this time, neither of them laughed.

Her eyes were still on him, quiet and searching, but something in her gaze had changed. Like she’d stopped trying to protect herself. Like the dam had finally cracked.

He waited.

Didn’t press. Didn’t move.

Just let the silence bloom between them, soft and full of something that felt like surrender.

She leaned back slightly, hands folded in her lap now, fingers twisting together like she needed somewhere to put the nerves building in her chest.

“I used to come home from work,” she said, voice low, “and expect you to be there. For months. Even after you left. I’d unlock the door and—” She exhaled a shaky breath. “There’d be this second where I forgot. Where I still expected to hear your music playing from the kitchen or your keys on the counter. Your shoes by the door.”

Harry didn’t speak. His face was still, but something in his eyes flickered. Broke.

“I didn’t just lose the person I loved,” she went on, staring at the floor now, words unraveling. “I lost the everyday part of you. The Tuesday afternoon you. The rainy morning you. The person who’d hold my ankle under the blanket while we watched TV and hum under his breath while he rinsed dishes. I lost the future we built in my head. And then I had to keep living in the house we picked out together and pretend I didn’t feel like a ghost in it.”

Her voice caught. Just once.

She lifted her eyes to meet his again.

“I thought if I got far enough away from the pain, maybe the love would fade too. But it didn’t. It changed. It quieted. But it never left.”

The silence was thick now. Sacred.

And she didn’t mean to say it. Not really. It slipped out, soft and broken and holy.

“I miss you.”

His lips parted, stunned.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I still love you.”

And the truth of it spread across the table between them like light breaking through a crack in the door.

She wasn’t trying to fix what was broken.

She was just telling the truth.

Because it was time.

Because it mattered.

Because he mattered.

And she needed him to know.

She hadn’t meant to say it.

But now that she had, there was no taking it back. It hung between them, real and trembling. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes glassy, chest heaving with everything she’d just let fall out of her.

He stared at her like she’d knocked the wind out of him.

Her voice shook, barely holding together. “God,” she whispered, the word like a prayer, like a curse. “After everything. After what you did. What you put me through. After how long it took to put myself back together…”

She swallowed hard, a single tear slipping down her cheek before she could stop it.

“I’d still run back into your arms in a fucking heartbeat.”

His mouth parted, like he couldn’t breathe.

Like the words had stunned something in him awake.

The coffee shop around them blurred. She didn’t care who was watching. Didn’t care if her voice shook, or if she looked too eager, too exposed. She had held this in for too long—the wanting, the missing, the grief of still loving someone who left.

Harry leaned forward, elbows on the table, like he physically couldn’t stay away from her now that the truth was out.

He let out a breath. Then another.

And then—

“I still sleep on the left side,” he said softly, eyes locked on hers. “Haven’t let anyone touch the other. Haven’t wanted anyone else to.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

“I kept your mug,” he added, quieter now. “The chipped one. The one you said made your coffee taste better ‘cause it was ugly.”

She laughed—just a small, broken sound.

“I thought if I kept that one thing, it’d be okay. Like maybe some part of you would still be with me. Like if I made enough coffee, maybe one day you’d walk in and pour a cup like nothin’ ever happened.”

She pressed her fingertips to her lips, shaking her head. “Harry…”

“I dream about you,” he said, the words spilling fast now, like he’d waited a year to say them. “I swear—almost every night. Doesn’t matter how many months go by. It’s always you. Always your laugh, your voice, the way you used to hum when you folded laundry.”

He reached across the table, palm up, not pushing—just offering.

Her hand moved before she could think.

She let her fingers fall into his.

He held them gently, reverently. Like he still couldn’t believe she was real.

“I didn’t stop loving you,” he said, voice thick. “I just didn’t know how to love you well. But I’ve been learning. Every day. Since I left. Since I woke up and realized I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t fucking change.”

Tears spilled freely now, silent and hot. She wasn’t ashamed.

He squeezed her hand.

“I don’t deserve you,” he said.

She shook her head slowly, eyes locked on his. “Don’t say that.”

“But it’s true.”

“And still,” she said, a tearful smile tugging at her mouth, “you’re sitting here. And I’m holding your hand.”

He blinked hard. Let out a shaky breath that sounded like the start of something new.

Or maybe the return of something that had never truly left.

She didn’t know how long they sat there, hands joined across the table, the silence between them warm now instead of strained. Everything felt softer. Like the air had shifted. Like it was finally safe to speak without hurtin’ each other.

He rubbed his thumb gently along the side of her hand. It was small, steady. The kind of touch that said I’ll be here as long as you’ll let me.

She looked at him through watery lashes, heart full and fragile.

“I don’t want to fall back into something too fast,” she said, carefully. “I don’t want to pretend the past didn’t happen.”

He nodded, slow and sure. “I wouldn’t ask you to.”

“I still have questions. Hurt that hasn’t gone away. And I think… I think I need help understandin’ all of it. Understandin’ you.”

He swallowed, jaw flexin’ like he was holdin’ something steady in his throat. But he didn’t flinch. “I’d be open to that. Therapy. Together. If that’s what you want.”

“I do,” she said. “But not as a couple. Not yet. I need to know who we are now. Not just who we used to be.”

His eyes turned glassy again, but there was more behind them now. Not panic—just hope. Measured. Real.

“I’ve been goin’ every week on my own,” he said. “Group and solo. Been learnin’ a lot. About the drinkin’. My temper. How I used to bury shit instead of sayin’ what I needed.”

Her chest tightened at that. Quiet pride flickered in her ribs.

“I want to do this right, love,” he added, voice low. “Not just to win you back—but to be someone who could keep you. Someone who’s good for you. For real this time.”

She nodded, another tear fallin’ without permission—but this time it wasn’t heavy. It didn’t burn. It felt like it belonged.

“We take it slow,” she said. “One session at a time. One coffee. One walk. One truth.”

“One truth,” he repeated softly, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “I can do that.”

He looked down at their joined hands, then up at her again.

“Can I see you again?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Soon?”

She smiled, gentle and honest. “Of course.”

And that was enough.

They leaned back in their chairs, still connected. Still fragile.

But for the first time in a long time—steady.

[sushirrrry]

PATIENT | a harry styles x reader one-shot word count: 13,405 content warning: mentions of sickness, hospitals, mentions of surgery, pain, mentions of sex

summary: you’re stubborn; harry knows this, but it’s one of his favorite parts about you. his protectiveness goes into full panic mode when you start to inhibit symptoms of a serious medical emergency. as a medical professional himself, he helps you through the scary parts, the recovery, & the parts of life we fear the most: being vulnerable.

authors note: thank you to the anon who sent in the request for protective!doctorry x stubborn!reader <3 here's my take on it, hope you enjoy - sorry for the wait!

________________________________________

You’re sitting on Harry’s kitchen counter, legs swinging slightly, watching him stir something on the stove; it’s his favorite pasta sauce that he claims is made from scratch but is actually a hybrid or jarred and fresh, with a focused furrow in his brow.

There is a candle burning on the table behind you. It is something warm and woody that smells vaguely like cedar and oranges, and if you weren’t sweating through your shirt, you might actually enjoy the atmosphere.

He glances over his shoulder and offers you a small smile. “You alright?”

You nod, instantly, almost too quickly to think about it. “Fine. Just a bit hot in here,” you reassure him, “Must be the stove.”

He doesn’t push that, knowing the cooking could have been a bit much for the small apartment space. He just tilts his head in that knowing way of his and goes back to stirring.

But you can feel his eyes on you when he thinks you’re not looking

They are sharp and perceptive, like he’s filing something away in that trauma surgeon brain of his.

Truth is, you haven’t been feeling alright for days— days have turned into weeks by now.

It started as a weird heaviness in your stomach. You thought it was just something you ate. But then came the fatigue, the nausea, and the low fever that refused to budge that you tried to work through since it felt like you may just have something viral.

And now your entire lower abdomen feels like it’s trying to fold in on itself. But you hate fuss, and you hate the attention that something like this would bring. You hate being the reason anyone has to stop what they’re doing.

Especially Harry— a surgeon who has a lot more to process in his brain than your simplistic day to day life.

So, you just take a slow, deep breath, trying not to wince. Your fingers clench around the edge of the counter as another wave of sharp pain rolls through your side.

“Seriously,” Harry says again, concern is gracing his features as he tries to be a bit gentler this time, “you look a little pale.”

You roll your eyes and grin like it’s nothing. “I’m just a bit hungry.”

He huffs a soft laugh, scrunching his nose as he pushes his glasses up on his face. “Cheeky.”

There’s a pause as he turns the heat off and grabs two bowls from the cabinet. You shift your weight, but the movement sends another stab of pain through your lower abdomen, and your hand shoots out to grip the counter more tightly.

You don’t say anything, you just breathe through your nose and count backward from ten. Each number lasting longer than you anticipated.

When you open your eyes, Harry’s standing in front of you with a bowl of pasta with sauce and a raised brow.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again, tone still casual but layered with concern. “You’ve been quiet all day and your knuckles are white from gripping that counter a bit hard.”

You shrug, accepting the bowl with a shaky hand and trying not to let the fork rattle too obviously. “Tired. Work’s been a lot and maybe just a bit anxious for the week.”

He crouches slightly so he is eye-level with you, hands on either side of your hips as he stares and your stomach twists—not from pain this time, but because that look that he gives you is so damn gentle. It’s quite infuriating, if you were honest.

“I can check you out, you know,” he says carefully. “Just in case. I’m a doctor.”

You shake your head immediately. “Harry—"

He lifts his hands in surrender, still standing in front of you. “I’m not pushing. Just offering. Doesn’t have to be now.”

You take yourself off of the counter and move towards the small breakfast nook that you use in his apartment for eating meals together; it’s cozy, and it makes you feel domestic together. You take a large bite of the pasta and force it down even though your stomach lurches in protest. Tomato and roasted red pepper—your favorite. He always remembers.

“I’m fine,” you repeat. “Don’t want to waste your time.”

His jaw ticks. That’s the only sign that your words bother him, but he leans against the counter and takes his first bite of his pasta.

“You could never waste my time,” he says quietly, chewing around his words.

You don’t reply to that, and just look down at your pasta, the steam fogging up the lower half of your vision. Your hands are trembling a little, and Harry notices. Of course he does. But he doesn’t say anything else.

Instead, he sits down at the table near you, resting his forearms on the wood as he starts to eat his own bowl.

“So,” he says casually, giving you an out, “I had a guy come in today with a screwdriver embedded in his shoulder. Said it slipped while he was ‘fixing the shed.’” Harry makes air quotes with his spoon. “Pretty sure he was trying to pry open a beer fridge.”

You chuckle softly. “Sounds like a productive afternoon.”

“Oh, he was very committed to the fridge. Stabbed himself, passed out, then woke up and walked into the ER holding it like a party favor. Bleeding all over the floor.”

You smile in spite of yourself, the image absurd enough to cut through the pain. “Did he get to the beer, though?”

“Of course,” Harry says, mock-serious, shaking his head. “It was a matter of principle by then. I think he really just needed his ego to be met at that point.”

You chuckle a little bit, and Harry watches you with something soft in his expression—like the sound eases something tight in him.

“How about you?” he asks. “What chaos did your coworkers create today?”

“Oh God,” you say, perking up a little as you tried to think about your day. “Okay, so you know Ben from accounting—the one who always brings canned tuna in and eats it at his desk?”

Harry grimaces, stabbing another penne noodle. “Unfortunately.”

“Well, he walked into our morning meeting wearing—no lie—sunglasses and a cape. Just stood in the doorway like some kind of budget Dracula and said, ‘I am here to suck the inefficiency from this budget proposal.’”

Harry snorts, shaking his head as he looked back over at you with complete uncertainty that you’re actually telling the truth. “Please tell me you’re making that up.”

“I wish I were. He had charts.”

“Jesus Christ,” he laughs and wipes his mouth with a napkin before he presses his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “You attract the weirdest people.”

“I think it’s a gift,” you say solemnly, pursing your lips.

“Or a curse,” he mutters.

“You’re here, aren’t you?” you ask, tilting your head a bit as you stare at him and notice that his eyes blink up at you with a chilling smirk of his lips. The laughter was good, but your body is rebelling again—tired, hot, shaky. You try not to let it show.

Harry watches you for a beat, noticing that your laugh is cut short. “You sure you’re okay for a movie? We don’t have to do anything else tonight if you’re exhausted.”

“No, I want to.” Your eyes open slowly. “I need something stupid and funny. Something with explosions. Maybe a car chase.”

“Explosions, huh?” He leans back in his chair, considering a few options. “So, like, Fast & Furious stupid? Or actual quality stupid like The Nice Guys?”

“The Nice Guys, please. I have standards, and Ryan Gosling meets all of them.”

He grins, taking the last bite of his meal even though he started eating after you did. “Excellent choice. I’ll set it up after we clean up.”

You slide off the counter carefully, hoping he doesn’t notice how much you’re leaning on it. The pain hits sharper every now and then, like something inside you is straining, waiting for the moment it can give out completely.

But Harry’s eyes are already on the sink, rinsing bowls and talking about how Ryan Gosling in short-sleeved shirts is unfair to everyone involved. You hum your agreement and move toward the couch.

You hate this feeling— the feeling fragile, feeling like something’s breaking apart inside of you and you’re powerless to stop it. But you hate even more the idea of letting Harry see you weak.

That’s the thing about you and Harry: you’ve only been together for about ten months now. It’s hard to find that perfect medium of wanting to be taken care of and making sure you don’t feel like a victim to every situation. Harry has enough to deal with during the day, you don’t want to be a hassle.

You tell yourself that you will make a doctor’s appointment tomorrow if your symptoms don’t cease – Harry doesn’t have to be involved.

So, instead, you smile and say, “I’ll grab the blanket. You get the snacks.”

And you pretend that nothing’s wrong, because it’s easier than admitting your faults.

But now, you’ve curled up on Harry’s couch with a blanket over your lap, the faint blue light of the TV flickering against the windows. The Nice Guys is halfway through, and you haven’t laughed once since the first scene. You want to—Harry’s chuckling quietly beside you, quoting half the lines under his breath like he does in movies that he loves, but everything feels distant, like there’s a thick layer of static between you and the rest of the world.

You shift beneath the blanket and the movement sends a jolt through your right side, and you let out a breath through your nose. The pain has sharpened, localized, like someone has driven a hot poker just below your ribs.

You suck in a breath and try to play it off as a yawn. You lean into the corner of the couch, curling tighter, biting the inside of your cheek as your vision blurs for a second as you start to feel yourself sweating through the sweatshirt you had thrown on over yourself to get more comfortable.

“You cold?” Harry asks gently, his eyes not leaving the screen except for a small movement to glance over at you.

“Mhm,” you hum, swallowing hard. Your throat’s dry, scratchy and soft. “Just cozy.”

He throws a soft arm over the back of the couch and lets his hand settle lightly on your shoulder. He definitely knows you’re lying, but he doesn’t press.

The minutes start to pass, and you lose track of the plot of the movie even though you’ve seen it a million times. Your head starts to pound, and the nausea you had before eating dinner creeps back, stronger now, twisting your stomach with every second that ticks by. Your hands start trembling under the blanket, and your breaths come shorter, faster.

You press your fingers into your side hard, almost like it can cancel the pain. You’re jolted out of your head when you hear Harry’s voice instead of Ryan Gosling’s.

“Alright,” Harry says suddenly, pausing the movie and turning toward you, voice still calm but firmer now, “that’s enough pretending.”

You blink up at him, dazed at his comment, removing your hands to stop yourself from wincing. “What?”

“You’re not okay.” He shifts on the couch, eyes narrowing. “You haven’t been okay all day– all week, really. And I’ve been trying not to push, but… your skins clammy. You’re shaking. And you haven’t touched your tea in twenty minutes, which is your biggest red flag.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out wrong like your vocal cords are tight, cracked. “I’m fine.”

“You are not fine.” He presses the back of his hand to your forehead, and the way his jaw tightens says everything. “You’re burning up.”

“I probably just have a flu or something,” you mutter, shrinking under his touch.

“You’ve had abdominal pain for days,” he says, sharper now. “And a fever. And you keep pressing your side like it is the only thing keeping you from falling apart.”

You look away. He’s right, of course. But you hate this—the exposure, the vulnerability, the way he’s seeing through every wall you’ve built.

“I don’t want to go to the hospital,” you whisper to him, eyes beginning. “I promise I’ll just—”

Harry breathes in slowly, fighting to keep calm. “Let me check you out. Properly—just here, it will be quick and professional.”

You shake your head.

“Why?” he asks softly, voice laced with concern like he feels a bit unsure of your level of trust towards him. “Why won’t you let me help?”

At this point, you really just don’t have a good answer. It stems from the fear of being a burden, of needing too much from someone else. Of being someone whose pain rearranges other people’s lives because you had seen it so many times before, so you decide it’s better to leave him out of it.

“I’ll feel better tomorrow,” you lie— you know it's a lie the second it leaves your mouth.

Harry studies you for a long moment, then sighs, sitting back and running a hand through his hair as he stretches back out on the couch. “Alright. I’m not going to force you. But I need you to promise me—if it gets worse, even a little, you’ll tell me first.”

You nod way too fast and automatically that you feel like you don’t need to say anything else, so you just take a piece of popcorn and place it on your tongue. The salt causes a wave of nausea, but you smile back at him for reassurance.

He doesn’t believe you. But he lets it go, because you can tell that he really, really cares.

But then you only last another thirty minutes of the movie.

The pain turns cruel, truly cruel. It sinks deep, radiating outward, until you can’t focus on anything else. You’re sweating through your clothes and then shivering at the feeling of dampness on your skin under your sweatshirt.

Taking off the blanket, you throw it on the couch next to you, not making eye contact with Harry before you make your way into the kitchen. It may make you feel better to try to make it to the kitchen to splash water on your face, but the moment you stand, the floor tilts under you like a ship.

The wave is intentionally harmful to you as you try to level yourself against the wall in his apartment by the fridge, hanging onto it to keep your balance.

“Harry?” you croak, feeling your tongue slur before everything goes sideways.

You collapse to your knees, gasping, the pain in your abdomen stabbing so violently it knocks the air out of you. You barely register Harry flying upwards from the sofa, shouting your name before you hit the floor.

The last thing you see before the black creeps in is Harry’s face hovering over yours with a look that screams terrified and helpless. There may be some anger in there, but he doesn’t let it show yet.

When you come back to the world, your head is in his lap and you feel the sweat dripping down the side of your face. His fingers are on your neck, checking your pulse. His other hand is brushing hair away from your clammy face, but his voice is anything but soft.

“Jesus, I knew something was wrong,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “What the hell is going on with you?”

You groan, trying to sit up, but the motion tears through your core like glass. “Harry—”

“No.” He shakes his head, eyes flashing. “No more of this. You’re done hiding.”

“I didn’t want—”

“I don’t care what you want right now,” he lifts you with terrifying gentleness, cradling you against his chest like you weigh nothing. “We’re going to the ER. Right now.”

“I just need a minute— I got dizzy.”

“You collapsed, you didn’t just ‘get dizzy’.” His voice cracks at the end, and that’s when you stop arguing.

Because you’ve never heard Harry Styles sound scared before. You decide it’s not worth it to fight anymore, and that maybe it would be best to just allow this to happen – to allow him to have the pleasure of figuring out if something is wrong.

You decide to let your guard down for the moment, and take a deep breath before you concede to his request.

He moves like a man possessed—no fumbling, no hesitation this time. He sets you down, you lean against the kitchen cabinets just long enough to grab his keys, his phone, his ID badge for the ER. You try to speak again, but the pain cuts you off, so you just focus on your breathing instead.

Harry scoops you back into his arms without missing a beat and carries you down to the car, muttering under his breath the entire time—things you can’t make out, except for the way your name keeps slipping through like a prayer and a curse all at once.

In the car, you’re curled against him in the passenger seat, your body lurching with every bump in the road. He keeps one hand on the wheel, the other on your thigh, grounding you.

You’re half-conscious by the time the car pulls up to the hospital entrance, the world a blur of lights and color through half-lidded eyes, you feel yourself groan out. Harry doesn’t waste time; he pulls you from the passenger seat with practiced urgency and strides through the ER doors like he owns the place. Because, in some ways, he does.

“Patient presenting with acute abdominal pain, fever, and collapse,” Harry calls to the intake nurse. His voice is sharp, commanding, not loud, but nothing like the soft way he talks to you at home.

The nurse’s eyes widen as she recognizes him. “Dr. Styles—”

“Let’s do vitals first. Please page Dr. Carson for consult. I’ll stay with her until someone gets here.” He doesn’t wait for a response before steering you into the nearest exam bay, gently easing you onto the bed. You hiss in pain as your body curls inward, instinctively guarding your side.

Harry’s jaw tightens. “You’re okay,” he murmurs, brushing damp hair off your forehead. “I’ve got you.”

You try to speak, but your throat is dry, your lips cracked.

“Kinda hot how you act like you own the place,” you rasp, trying to make a joke before he rolls his eyes.

He lets out a humorless laugh, kneeling beside the bed to stay eye level with you. “Just try and take it easy, will you?”

“I didn’t want to—”

“I know.” His voice softens, nodding as he understood what you meant. “But I don’t care how tough you think you are. You scared the hell out of me.”

You blink up at him, and in the bright hospital lights, his worry is plain: the crease in his brow, the tight grip on your wrist where he’s still checking your pulse, the way his eyes won’t leave yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he looks away.

A nurse appears with a blood pressure cuff and thermometer, giving you a quiet smile as she looks between you and Harry. Harry steps back just enough to let her work, but stays close—hovering, watching every reading with clinical precision. You can see by the way that his fingers pinch his lower lip that he would do anything to be the one checking this – just to make sure you’re okay.  

“Your fever’s over 102,” The nurse states, writing down your vitals on the chart before she watches your blood pressure, “Heart rate’s through the roof. Blood pressure is low.”

You look back at Harry to get his reaction before you take a deep breath. Your body lays on the small bed, feeling the weight of your body now.

“Any chance of pregnancy?” the nurse asks casually, more out of habit than suspicion.

“No,” you both say in unison. Harry’s voice is firm, yours is barely audible before you catch his glimpse.

The nurse jots it down, unbothered by the speed. “Pain on palpation?”

Harry’s eyes meet yours. “I’m going to press on your abdomen, okay?”

You nod weakly, as you look back at the nurse who watches for a moment. His fingers are careful but methodical as he moves across your stomach. When he reaches your right lower side, you jolt violently, a strangled sound escaping your throat.

“Rebound tenderness,” he mutters; the nurse writes down his notes as you take in a breath. Then louder: “We need an ultrasound. Maybe a CT, but let’s start there.”

“Harry—” you manage, a whisper, barely audible as he starts to move away to allow the nurses to take more charge on the case.

“I’m here,” he says immediately, stepping closer, one hand steady on your arm as he moves to squat next to you. “You’re okay, in good hands. I’ve got you.”

The nurse has found a vein and starts drawing blood. You hate needles, always have which may be a subconscious reason you didn’t make your way here on your own earlier, but you don’t flinch. You’re too far gone to care, and you just keep your eyes on Harry.

Someone is speaking to you, asking for your name, your birth date, the onset of symptoms. Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

“She’s had intermittent lower abdominal pain for days,” Harry says, voice even but clipped, like he’s trying to stay calm and professional. “Fever, nausea, and then collapsed at home tonight. RLQ tenderness on palpation. I would suspect probable appendicitis with high risk of rupture.”

“Has she eaten anything in the last few hours?” a nurse asks while sliding an IV catheter into the crook of your arm.

“Yes, we made dinner tonight, but I don’t think she’s eaten or had an appetite for a few days.”

You feel the IV thread into your skin, a deep ache blooming up your arm, and instinctively try to pull away. Harry presses his hand over yours, firm but reassuring.

“Sorry, sweetie,” The nurse tells your gently; her hands are light, and you can tell that she doesn’t like making your uncomfortable.

“Easy, love,” he says gently, his thumb brushing over your wrist. “It’s just fluids. They’re trying to help.”

He doesn’t let go, either. One nurse places a cool hand on your forehead while another adjusts the monitors. The pulse oximeter beeps on your finger before the curtain rustles again, and a technician wheels in the portable ultrasound machine.

Harry steps aside just enough to give them access to your abdomen, but his hand lingers at the edge of the gurney, eyes locked on the screen as gel is applied to your stomach and the wand begins to sweep over your skin. You feel like everything is happening so quickly, but you let yourself breathe.

Your hand starts to tremble, and he takes note of it quickly before taking it in his.

You don’t remember what they say, or how they say it. You just remember the sound of your name spoken in Harry’s voice—soft, steady, anchoring you through the white noise.

“Why didn’t you bring her in sooner?” someone asks, not unkindly.

Harry doesn’t answer right away, but just glances at you.

“Because she’s stubborn,” he finally says. “And I didn’t want to push her.”

You want to apologize, but your body won’t let you. You’re too tired, too sick.

The next hour passes in flashes: the cold gel of the ultrasound wand against your skin, the dim blue light of the imaging room, the sharp sting of the IV drip as fluids rush in. You think you hear someone say “rupture risk” again, but your brain is floating too far away to make sense of it.

As time passes, you let your eyes close for a moment as you try and calm yourself down. Everything feels very overwhelming, but Harry is by your side, arms crossed, talking in low tones with another doctor. You recognize Dr. Carson—she’s senior, good, calm under pressure. She had always talked so highly of Harry and his skill, and you trust that you’re in excellent hands.

“She has acute appendicitis,” Dr. Carson says gently, confirming what Harry already knew. “Looks like it’s close to rupturing which is causing all of the severe pain and fever symptoms. We’ll need to take her in immediately.”

Harry nods once, sure of his choice. “I’ll assist.”

“Are you sure?” Dr. Carson asks, lowering her voice. “You’re close to her.”

“I won’t cut into her,” he replies, steel in his voice. “You can lead. I’ll assist. But I want to go in.”

You watch as Dr. Carson nods and steps away, her arm resting on Harry’s shoulder as he moves to turn back to you. You’re more alert now, the fluids helping, but your stomach still feels like a war zone and every breath sends new pain radiating through your side.

“I have to go scrub in,” he says softly, brushing your cheek. “Dr. Carson’s the best. You’re in good hands. But I’ll be there and get all of the information I need, alright?”

You nod, tears threatening at the corners of your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, feeling yourself sink into the gurney. Everything seems to be slipping away from you as you shake your head and feel like a complete fool for not allowing Harry to help sooner.

His brows furrow, thumb brushing against your cheek. “What for?”

“For hiding it. For making you—”

“Don’t,” He leans down and presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there for a second longer than he should. “You’re the most infuriating person I’ve ever loved.”

You freeze; he doesn’t take it back, but you watch as the smile creeps on his face and lingers. You swallow back the words before you watch as he moves out of the room, leaving you with the nurses and the words floating around you.

+++

It had been a while since Harry had left you – not super long, but long enough. You tried to take a small nap, maybe allowing your body to catch up with how exhausted you really felt besides all the pain.

They wheeled you through the wide corridors of the hospital with purposeful ease, the fluorescent lights above blinking in rhythm as your bed glides beneath them. You try to keep your breathing steady, to focus on the clatter of wheels or the gentle murmur of nurses beside you, but every nerve in your body feels exposed, raw.

Your mouth is dry; your fingers twitch restlessly on the starched sheet draped over you and your new hospital gown that they had helped you change into.

Then, through the hum of motion and soft beeps and antiseptic air, you see him.

Harry.

He’s just outside the surgical suite, standing tall beside Dr. Carson, already dressed in surgical scrubs. The navy-blue fabric clings to his frame in all the right places—familiar, but different now, clinical and commanding. His hair is tucked beneath a surgical cap, a few curls escaping at the nape. A mask hangs loose around his neck, not yet covering his face, and his eyes—those bright, sharp, impossibly expressive eyes are now locked onto yours the moment he sees you through his wire framed glasses.

His spine straightens against the wall; his face softens. And then he’s moving toward you.

You try to sit up but don’t make it far—pain curls hot and fast through your side and steals the breath from your lungs. You flinch, and instantly, Harry is there, crouched beside the gurney, reaching for your hand.

“Hey,” he says quietly, but his voice trembles at the edges. “Looks like you’re still here on Earth with us, huh?”

“You look… unfairly hot right now when I have to look like this,” you murmur, feeling the drugs working through your system.

He lets out a laugh—sharp and short, surprised, but it cracks something in the tight line of his shoulders.

You scan him again, head to toe, trying to take it all in. The sleeves stretched over his forearms. The pale green ID badge clipped to his chest. The way his scrubs hang slightly loose on his hips, the stethoscope still slung around his neck even though someone else will be listening to your heart soon.

Harry raises an eyebrow, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’re drugged.”

“No,” you breathe, letting out a smaller laugh, “Well – yes, but I’m also scared. And you look like you could fight death itself and win.”

He shakes his head softly, eyes glinting in the light as he blinks back at you. “That’s not the part that scares me.”

“What is?”

“That I can’t protect you from this the way I want to – I’m not in charge of this, so that’s difficult for me.”

You lift a hand slowly to brush the backs of your fingers over his jaw. He leans into the touch, just a little.

“You’re here and you made sure I was here,” you tell him. “That’s enough.”

Dr. Carson approaches then, calm and capable in her own scrubs to match his. “I think we’re ready to bring you back, we have a plan of action and we’re going to make sure that everything goes smoothly.”

Harry’s hand lingers on yours before he stands up and moves closer to Dr. Carson.

“I’ll be with you the whole time,” he promises, nodding back at you for assurance. “You won’t be alone for a second.”

You blink up at him, throat tight as you try your best to keep it together. “And you won’t be distracted thinking about how good I think you look in those scrubs?”

He huffs out a broken laugh. “Not a chance.”

The gurney starts to move again, and Harry squeezes your hand once more before letting go—slowly, like he’s reluctant to release you.

The last thing you see before the operating room doors swing open is him, and you think, just before the anesthetic clouds your thoughts: if he’s in the room, you’ll make it out.

+++

The first inkling that you’re awake is the sound of the soft beeping and the distinct chill of a hospital room.

Your mouth is drier than it was before, your throat aches. There’s an oxygen cannula nestled beneath your nose and an IV in your arm, but none of that bothers you half as much as the tight throb in your side, wrapped in bandages and freshly stitched.

You blink slowly. The lights are dim. Outside the window, the sky is a deep indigo, early morning maybe. Everything’s quiet, except the small sounds of the hospital that feel at peace. It almost feels hard to breathe with the tightness at your side.

“You’re awake.”

Harry’s voice is a whisper, hoarse and laced with relief. He’s seated beside your bed, still in his scrubs, hair a mess, exhaustion etched deep into his face. His hand is already on yours, thumb stroking your knuckles.

“You scared me,” he says. Not accusatory. Just honest.

You try to speak, but your voice barely comes out. “Didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” He squeezes your hand, grabbing the ginger ale that sits by the bedside and hands it to you. “Surgery went perfectly well. It was a textbook appendectomy. No rupture, but it was close—maybe another hour and we’d be having a very different conversation.”

Your heart stutters as you look at him, really look at him, and the façade he always wears in his scrubs is gone—no cool detachment, no clinical efficiency. It’s just Harry – the guy you met on Hinge on a random Thursday night, went to dinner with after his long 12-hour shift, and he’s looking at you tired and worried and still so soft.

You take a sip of the ginger ale, gently, through the straw and blink a few times before your throat starts to ease.

“You said you loved me.”

The words hang in the room, and he goes still. You feel the way that his fingers brush over your hand, softly allowing there to be a moment between you.

“I did,” he says, voice barely audible. “And I meant it.”

You stare at him, searching his face. The room feels incredibly intimate, and you wonder if you want to stop talking about this until you’re in a better state of mind, but you continue to joke, “You’re not just saying that because I almost died?”

A weak smile tugs at his lips. “No. I promise I’ve loved you through much less dramatic situations.”

You want to laugh, but it hurts too much; you can feel how tight your stomach feels. So instead, you let the silence settle between you again. You don’t say it back, not yet, but the way your fingers curl tighter into his says enough.

A nurse enters with fresh fluids and checks your vitals, taking notes about your coming out of anesthesia. Harry steps back just enough to let her work, but stays in your peripheral, arms folded, eyes locked on every number on the screen.

“She’ll be in overnight,” the nurse says. “Barring any complications, you should be able to go home tomorrow.”

Harry nods at the direction. “Thank you.”

Once the nurse leaves, you glance at him again starting to get comfortable against the leather sofa in the room, the one direction next to your bed. “You’re really not going home?”

He shakes his head, kicking off his shoes. “Not a chance.”

“You need to sleep.”

“I’ll sleep when you’re back in your own bed.” Harry curls into the chair, letting his head rest against the side of the chair before he throws his legs over the side of the armrest. It’s like he’s done this before, multiple times, so you don’t feel as bad.

You sigh, your heart full and aching all at once. “You’re impossible.”

“Takes one to know one.”

+++

Later, when you drift back awake in the early morning, Harry’s still there. He’s kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the chair beside your bed, legs slung over the armrest, head tilted back. His neck looks like it’s going to regret that nap.

You shift slightly, and it’s enough to wake him. He jolts upright, instantly alert.

“You okay?” he asks, voice very raspy from the momentary nap he's taken.

You nod, because that doesn't hurt as bad as the rest of your body. “Just sore.”

He moves to your side, throwing his legs back over the chair and wiping at his eyes to wake himself up. “You need anything? Ice chips? Pain meds? I can call the nurse.”

“I’m fine.”

He raises an eyebrow, licking his lips as he shakes his head at you. “That phrase is banned until further notice.”

You roll your eyes, but a smile cracks your lips. “Okay. Maybe a little water would be good.”

“See? Progress," Harry smirks, grabbing a cup of water with a straw.

He helps you sip slowly from a cup with a straw, holding it for you like you’re made of glass. You hate how helpless you feel—but you also love that it’s him willing to help.

“How long till I can leave?” you ask after you swallow, wiping at your lips.

“Tomorrow morning, maybe,” he says. “They want to monitor you overnight tonight. Make sure there’s no fever, no signs of infection.”

“And then?”

“Then I’m taking you home.” His tone is final, nodding at you as he sat next to you. “You’re not lifting a finger for at least a week. I already put in leave. My schedule’s clear.”

You shake your head, sighing at his sudden need to protect you, “Harry, you don’t have to—”

“I want to, and I will."

You swallow thickly. “But—”

“You took care of me after that car accident last year. Remember? You didn’t sleep for two nights. You made that weird soup that had the broccoli puree.”

You groan, remembering it well. “That soup was delicious.”

“It was awful,” he says with a grin, which only makes you grin back in response. “But I drank every bowl of it. Because I love you.”

Your eyes sting when you blink; taking in a breath when you hear him say it again. You still haven't said it— but you feel it. You know what it feels like, and you just don’t know when you're going to feel it.

“Let me return the favor,” he says gently, taking your hand in his. “Please.”

You nod, finally. And he kisses your hand again, this time without hesitation. This time, with solidity that he won't hurt you.

+++

You had spent the night in the hospital again— much to your dismay, as you really didn't get too much sleep when you were there. You didn’t show any negative symptoms and seemed to be doing fine walking on your own to the bathroom and back to your bed.

So, it meant that Harry could bring you home to care for you. Harry was happy that all of you seemed to check out, leaving him with a proud look on his face as he kept you company and took care of you when the nurses weren’t available.

You barely make it to the couch back in his apartment before you’re ready to collapse.

Harry has one arm around your back holding you up as you took many little steps, ignoring every protest you’ve muttered since you left the hospital. He practically carries you across the threshold like it’s a wedding night instead of post-op day one and gently helps you settle down on the plush cushions, adjusting the pillows behind you with absurd precision.

“I could’ve walked on my own,” you grumble when you're finally settled.

He raises a brow, settling your items down on the counter. “You nearly passed out getting into the car.”

“I stood up too fast,” you tell him, defensively, “Blood pressure dropped.”

He points at you with the same finger he uses when lecturing interns. “You had surgery less than thirty-six hours ago. You’re not standing at all unless I say so," He furrows, biting on his lip, "Or you need to use the bathroom, then we can figure it out."

You open your mouth to argue again, but he’s already moving to start to figure out your recovery plan. He folds a blanket over your legs, checks your temperature with a forehead scanner, fluffs your pillow one last time, and disappears into the kitchen to start getting food together for you.

From the couch, you hear cabinets opening and the soft sound of a kettle clicking on.

“What are you doing now?” You call back, licking your lips as you pull the blanket over you a little bit. Harry’s kept the cooling temperature of the apartment to ensure that you don’t get too hot.

“Making tea and heating up your broth,” he calls back. “You’re not getting solids for another day, and you need some useful fluids.”

You roll your eyes, but a small smile tugs at your lips. He’s in full-on doctor mode—bossy, precise, focused on the end goal of making you feel better. But there’s something else underneath it; it’s something that’s been only meant for you.

When he returns to the living room, it’s with a tray: a warm mug of peppermint tea, a bowl of steaming broth, a water bottle with a straw, and a little notepad where he’s apparently tracking your medication times and vitals. He’s written your most recent temperature and a log of medication times.

“You’re actually keeping a chart?” you ask, incredulous as you take the cup of tea in her hands.

“I trust myself more than your memory right now,” he says smoothly, sitting at the end of the sofa where your feet lie. “Now, some small sips. Ten minutes between liquids and meds. And if you so much as try to get up alone, I will have to personally tie you to the couch.”

You snort, holding the warm tea between your hands as you bring it to your lips. “Kinky.”

He grins, but the look in his eyes is anything but playful.

“I mean it,” he says, more softly now. “You were really sick. You need rest. Let me take care of you, yeah?"

The gentle edge in his voice pulls the air from your lungs. You nod, pressing your lips together. Something about this feel so safe; it’s such a different situation than you’ve ever been in, and you feel so lucky that he has taken charge.

He gives you a quiet smile, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you in the quiet room. There’s no more sounds of the hospital, no more beeping or interruptions, or squeamish sounds and feelings. You, half-draped in blankets, are just recovering. Him, sitting on the edge of the sofa like he can’t afford to lean back until he’s sure you’re 100 percent out of the woods.

You glance at the notepad again. Temperature log. Pain rating. Medications. Everything lined up in neat rows with Harry’s sharp, slightly slanted handwriting like he did a million times in med school, you’re sure.

It’s the kind of personality that made you fall from him; it’s so different, but it’s so him.

“You’re kind of amazing, you know that?” you murmur, nodding a few times. You want to express your attention to his detail, and want him to know that he’s made it beyond all expectations.

He shrugs, eyes flicking down at his lap like he’s almost embarrassed. “I’m just… really relieved you’re okay.”

There’s something about the way he says it—quiet, tightly reined in—that makes your chest pull.

“You were scared.” Your words are barely a whisper.

He doesn’t deny it, shaking his head. “Terrified.”

You reach out, hand trembling a little, and rest your fingers lightly over his wrist. “I’m sorry I let it get that bad.”

His eyes lift to yours again, hidden behind the glasses. “Just promise me you’ll never do that again. I don’t care how stubborn you are or how much you hate hospitals—if something feels wrong, you tell me. No toughing it out, no hiding it. Not from me, at least.”

You nod, slowly, taking in every word. “I promise.”

“Good,” he says, but there’s something thick in his voice, like he doesn’t quite trust his emotions to behave if he says anything else.

You let the silence settle, because it feels natural. It never felt natural before; only replacing the feeling of awkwardness.

Eventually, when the mug of broth is nearly empty and your eyelids are getting heavy again, he sets the tray aside and helps you shift further into the cushions.

“You okay to sleep for a bit?” he asks, already reaching to smooth your hair away from your face.

You nod, throat tight with a kind of gratitude you don’t have words for, so you just nod.

“I’ll be right here,” he says, settling beside you, hand resting gently on your leg through the blanket. “Just rest. You’re safe.”

+++

Over the next few days, your body slows to the rhythm of recovery—and Harry is always two steps ahead of it.

He sets alarms for every pain med dose, checks your incision daily with the careful precision of someone who’s done this a hundred times but never with this much worry in his chest. He monitors for signs of infection like he’s preparing for rounds. But it’s the little things that get you that you can’t imagine without him there.

The way he practically carried you to the bathroom the first night because your legs were too shaky, so he stayed and was so patient. The way he set up a mirror in the living room so you can brush your hair from the couch, even taking the brush a few times himself to help you with the back. The way he sits beside you during every meal, making sure if you need help, he's right there.

At one point you say, “You know, I can do somethings myself.”

He lifts an eyebrow, almost like you had said something so absurd. “You want to re-open your incision over pride?”

You glare back him, biting the inside of your cheek. He kisses your forehead, and you feel the way that he wants to linger. "Thought so.”

That night, he sleeps in the recliner beside you, one hand always within reach almost like you would disappear if he didn’t reach out. The third evening, you wake from a nap to find him checking your temperature, thinking you’re asleep.

“You’re still running a little warm,” he murmurs in the darkness. “But you’re okay. You’re okay.”

You pretend to stay asleep, just so you can hear him say it again; just so you can hear him in your dreams.

+++

By the fourth day, you feel marginally more like a human being. So much so, that you actually convince Harry to let you walk to the kitchen – of course, with him hovering behind like a bodyguard, and you even manage to sit upright for breakfast.

“I will need a shower,” you announce at the table, “Desperately.”

He puts down his spoon from his yogurt bowl that he’s constructed. “You’re not cleared for that yet.”

“Harry—” you argue, glaring up at him with a huff.

“Nope. Not arguing. Sponge bath or nothing.”

You blink at him, taking a bite of apple slice that he’s cut – in extremely small pieces so you don’t choke. “Are you offering?”

He smirks, shrugging like he knew exactly what you were asking, but didn’t want to say. “Are you asking?”

You throw an apple slice at him. He catches it with a cackle, and you feel the blood in your veins starting to heat with anticipation for the way that he looks at you.

It had only been ten months together, but this past week had felt like a year alone.

He sets the apple slice on the table and leans forward just enough to narrow the distance between you, elbows braced on the wood. His grin is lazy, knowing, but there's a softness behind it—something warmer than teasing, something quieter than lust.

“You know,” he says, voice low and slow, “if you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to forget you’ve got stitches and make a very poor medical decision.”

You lean your back on the chair, the ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. “I’m not doing anything.”

His eyes flick down to your mouth, then slowly trace their way back up. “You don’t have to.”

Your pulse jumps at his words, soft and subtle and full of extraordinary remarks that blow you away each time. He sees it in the way your breath stutters, in the way your fingers curl a little tighter around your spoon.

He leans back a bit, giving you room to breathe but not taking his eyes off you. “You’re healing,” he says gently, knowing, “I know that. But don’t think for a second I haven’t been thinking about you every night I slept in that recliner next to you.”

You smile—soft, surprised at his statement. “Every night?”

He nods, acknowledging with certainty. “You’d shift in your sleep, make these little noises when your incision tugged. And I’d want nothing more than to crawl over with you and make it all better.”

Your throat goes dry, shaking your head with a serious flush on your cheeks that is definitely not a fever. “Harry…”

“But I couldn’t,” he continues. “Because the only thing I wanted more than to hold you was to make sure you didn’t break open again.”

That shuts you up. The moment hangs—sweet and aching. Then he clears his throat and smiles again, something lighter this time.

“So unless you’re asking for a very awkward sponge bath with medical-grade wipes and an extremely flustered nurse—”

You laugh a little at that, owning the surrender. “Okay, okay! Message received, thank you.”

“Good.” He pops the last apple slice in his mouth, smirking. “Because when you’re better, I won’t be this restrained.”

You swallow hard, thinking of the last time he spoke to you this way and knowing that it may have only been this one time. “And if I said I’m already feeling better?”

He grins, licking juice from his thumb, the flush now on his face. “Then I’d just tell you to prove it. But only after a full abdominal check, clear vitals, and a signed-off discharge from your primary care provider. Which is me, by the way.”

You groan, rolling your eyes as you take another bite of oatmeal. “You’re impossible.”

However, much to your dismay and utter begging, he doesn’t let you shower.

In fact, he actually pushes for the sponge bath more than you wanted, but in a clinical way that allows him to check on the incision and make sure that infection won’t happen. When he does help you clean up with warm cloths and gentle hands, it’s quieter. More tender than he originally stated, which makes your muscles loosen.

His fingers move carefully over your skin, like he’s afraid you’ll break again or make you think otherwise of him. You don’t speak much, just look at him while he works, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Stop huffing,” you murmur eventually.

“I’m not huffing,” he states defensively, shaking his head as he wipes away a bit of water on your skin, “I’m being thorough.”

You smile, biting on your lip. “You’re a good doctor.”

His hand stills on your arm. “I wasn’t scared like this with patients before,” he says. “Not like this.”

You look at him, heart thudding slow and deep. “Because it was me?”

He meets your gaze for a moment before pulling away. “Yes, because it was you.”

After your sponge bath, he dresses you back into another set of pajamas that aren’t tight and that feel comfortable. You feel clean and like you can breathe again, and it makes you feel better that he’s satisfied with how the recovery is going.

It was finally time that you were allowed to sleep in a bed rather than on a sofa with him next to you. He helps, but you finally make it back into your bed and under the covers, and for the first time in nearly a week, he lies beside you.

“You can sleep in your bed again,” you murmur as he slides under the covers. “I’m not a fragile porcelain doll anymore.”

“No, you’re always a fragile porcelain doll, but now I know how easy it is to break you,” he says, pulling you in close without jostling your sore side. “But I’ll keep you from breaking again, don’t worry.”

You lean your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. It feels nice to be close to him again, knowing that the pain is getting further away and you’re feeling stronger each day.

“Still love me even though I’m gross and stitched together?”

He laughs, the sound vibrating through you as he held you close, not hard. “I loved you when you were hiding a fever and yelling at me for fluffing pillows wrong. I’ll love you until you’re ninety and yelling at me for taking your walker away.”

You grin, the smell of cologne lingering on the t-shirt he wore to bed so now it’s just a remedy of essential scents by him. “Sounds romantic.”

“It is,” he whispers, brushing a kiss to your temple. “You just don’t see it yet.”

+++

You wake up without pain.

It’s the first time in over a week that your body doesn’t feel like it’s on fire or stitched together with barbed wire. You’re still tender, still moving carefully, but you can breathe without flinching, stretch your legs without feeling like you’ll crack open.

Harry’s already up; he’s not next to you anymore, which is shocking. The past few days, he hadn’t let you leave his sight. But now you lay there in the bed, alone, and let your mind wander for a moment – thinking about how he’s in the kitchen, just a few feet away.

You hear him puttering around with pots and pans—eggs, probably, or toast, and that god-awful green smoothie he insists is “medicinal.”

You find that you can finally get up from the bed on your own. So, you shuffle out, dressed in the sweatpants and a t-shirt that you realize is his. He’s standing at the stove in his joggers and a hoodie, hair damp from a shower that morning, flipping something in a pan, listening to it as it sizzles. The Eagles play softly next to him, he whistles along to the soothing sounds of Life in the Fast Lane play out of his Spotify.

He turns and sees you leaning on the counter; your breath halts when he looks at you because it’s almost atrocious how beautiful he is in the mornings. “Morning, love.”

“I think I’ve overcome – I’m alive again,” you cross your arms, “Though I do feel like a troll.”

The smile on his face is a big and proud one, and he crosses to you in three steps, his hand ghosting over your waist like he’s still afraid to touch too hard. Instead, he just kisses your forehead and lifts your jaw to look up at him.

“You do look good,” his voice is soft as he pushes some of your bedhead out of the way, “Color’s back in your face.”

You rest your forehead against his chest. “I feel less like a Victorian orphan.”

“You smell better, too.”

You slap his chest weakly. He kisses the top of your head as he walks back to the breakfast on the stove.

He feeds you eggs and toast and you sit at the table like a real human, even though he still insists on giving you your pills with a full glass of water and checking the incision before you’re allowed to stand back up. But you catch him watching you differently now—less like a patient, more like a person he wants to wrap in his arms and keep forever.

“You’re gonna go back to work soon,” you ask softly, “Aren’t you?”

He nods, reluctantly. “Tomorrow, supposedly. Just a night shift. But I’ll be close, if you need me.”

You try to act nonchalant, like you wouldn’t be calling him right if you admitted you were quite scared to be on your own for a moment. “I’m sure the hospital has struggled without your dramatic hand-flourishes and bossy clipboard routine.”

He smirks, laughing a bit at your joke. “I’m sure they have.”

The next day, Harry had his first shift back at the hospital – you had your first night at home without any issues. It felt like you were on top of the world when he got back in the morning; you felt like a human being.

So, you don’t want to say anything at first, at the onset of the symptoms.

You’ve come so far—out of the woods, out of the hospital, out of Harry’s eagle-eyed surveillance every time you so much as sigh too heavily. You’ve had three full days now of sitting on the balcony of his flat with tea, of laughing without wincing, of Harry letting you walk to the kitchen unsupervised.

Everything had started to go back to normal – you were preparing to go back to work.

But tonight, you’re cold. Freezing, even under two blankets.

And there’s a low throb in your belly again—familiar and nauseating, not painful like the incision but just a low roar that you wished would go away. You brush it off as too much movement, maybe something you ate. You don’t want to alarm him. But, of course, Harry notices.

You’re curled on the couch with your knees tucked up, a movie flickering on the screen in front of you that afternoon, when he turns from the kitchen mid-sentence and freezes. “Hey,” his voice is a bit low; his scrubs sat on his body as he prepared to get himself back to work that night, “You doing okay?”

You try to nod, watching the TV without another thought. “Just tired.”

He’s already moving toward you, crouching by your side, palm to your forehead before you can stop him from touching you altogether.

“You’re clammy,” he murmurs, his voice already tight as you watch the expression on his face start to get a bit frustrated. “You’re shaking. When did this start?”

“I don’t know,” you say quietly, almost ashamed of your quietness to the matter that obviously is important – your health is important, but you promised him you would speak up. “An hour ago? I thought it would pass.”

“God damnit,” He scoffs, breathing out with his hands on his hips. “You should’ve said something.”

You bite your lip and didn’t know what else to say, “I didn’t want to worry you.”

He’s already halfway across the room, grabbing the thermometer, checking your pulse. His fingers move fast, methodical—but there’s a tremble in his jaw that he can’t hide, and you aren’t sure if it’s anger or terror.

“Your temp’s up to 101.6,” he shakes his head, setting the thermometer down, almost like he can’t believe you would just let this go. And you can’t either, but you stay quiet. “How’s the pain? Tell me exactly.”

“It’s dull,” you tell him honestly, “Just kind of… tight? I don’t know – not as painful as before.”

“Any nausea?”

You nod, reluctantly this time.

That’s all it takes. Harry’s voice goes clipped, firm, the way he gets during trauma intake.

“Okay. No more moving until I know what we’re dealing with.”

He stands back up, and you watch him pace the room, phone in hand, dialing the on-call nurse he trusts most. He rattles off the symptoms you’ve given with a clear urgency, asks to schedule back-up labs, then glances back at you.

He disappears into the hallway with the phone pressed against his ear. You start to hear cabinets opening, something dropping onto the floor, a sharp curse under his breath.

When he returns, he’s already in motion—wrapping the blood pressure cuff around your arm with quick, practiced hands, stethoscope slung around his neck. His movements are efficient and quiet, and you don’t question him because you feel like you’ve disappointed him. But you can feel the tension rolling off him in waves.

“Harry, I—” you state quietly, but are cut off firmly.

“Don’t,” he says, not harshly, but with finality. “Just let me check you.”

You do. Because even your stubbornness can’t compete with the shift in his voice. He listens to your heart. Counts your breaths. Watches the clock. Then checks your temperature again and exhales through his nose like it takes effort to stay composed.

“Blood pressure’s low,” he mutters. “Pulse is elevated, mostly due to the fever, but fever would indicate an infection or illness.”

You start to sit up, pushing yourself against the sides of the sofa. “Let me just—”

“No.” He looks at you then, level and serious, and you back down for a moment. “You’re not getting up. We’re not waiting this out. You need to be seen.”

You hesitate, chewing on your lip as you shake your head and start to feel like you made a huge mistake by just letting it go. “I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

He straightens up, hands on his hips, staring at a spot on the floor like he’s trying to keep his temper in check. “You passed out in my apartment less than a week ago. Do you really think I give a shit about you ‘making a big deal’? Your appendix almost ruptured on my kitchen floor, I sew people up for a living and you think you’re making a big deal?”

You flinch slightly, but not because he’s raised his voice—because he hasn’t. That flat tone is worse, you think.

“I’m sorry,” you say, quietly, the apology hanging in the air as you dare to look up at him.

He looks over at you, jaw tight. Then softer since he knows that you are just as scared and annoyed at the way that your body is reacting, “You promised you’d say something.”

“I know.” You nod, licking your lips.

“Then why didn’t you?”

You don’t answer, because there’s nothing good to say – you really don’t have a good answer to give him. He doesn’t push, either. Just crouches in front of you, pulling the blanket tighter around your legs as you start to shiver again.

The way that his voice sounds like velvet even when he’s angry is something that you can’t understand, but you appreciate. “I’ll grab your shoes. Don’t move. I’ll drive you in.”

You nod, finally.

He doesn’t say anything more. He just moves with purpose—grabs your bag, your coat, his keys. He helps you into your shoes, lifting your leg when you struggle to bend. He’s calm, efficient, but you see it now—he’s pissed. And maybe rightfully so.

When he comes back over, he places a hand at the back of your neck and steadies you, lowering you into the passenger seat before strapping you in himself. You don’t argue, because you just want to appease him, want to make him feel like he’s doing the right things.

The car ride to the hospital is quiet – no music plays, you don’t talk. Just the sound of the road, the heater blasting warm air against your cheeks, and his hand flexing once in a while on the gearshift like he’s holding something back.

He doesn’t say I told you so. He doesn’t ask why again. He just drives faster than usual, eyes flicking to you at every red light, jaw set the whole way. And somehow, that quiet says more than anything.

At the hospital, everything moves fast. You’re ushered into a room immediately, which you think is due to Harry’s reputation at the hospital. Harry hands off the chart after completing it to the best of his knowledge to a nurse but stays in the room with you. Always at your side.

Your fever’s climbing; 102.3 now. Your head starts to feel murky as you lay against the gurney and feel your eyes start to shut at just how bad you feel, emotionally and physically.

He sits at your bedside, holding your wrist in both hands, silently counting your pulse again like he doesn’t trust the monitor.

“You’re scaring me,” you whisper.

He looks up, eyes glassy but locked on yours. “I’m just being thorough.”

“Harry.”

You can see the look on his face shift from pissed to annoyed to an unrecognizable one; your tongue glides over your lips as you study him.

“You scared me the first time,” he tells you honestly, quiet murmurs from his accent. “But this? This is worse. I let myself breathe – I was going to go to work, I thought you were okay. And now –”

“I’ll be okay again.”

And you say that to yourself because it makes you feel better, but you can see that he’s just shaking his head. He can’t tell himself you’ll be okay, because if you’re not, then everything he’s ever known has fallen to pieces.

Harry’s stepped out to talk to one of the attending physicians; you don’t know if it’s about you, or just a friendly face to keep him occupied while you wait. You didn’t ask him to—you didn’t have to. He knows this routine better than you do. And while part of you is grateful, the other part is… embarrassed.

You told him you’d speak up next time. You meant it – you really did, at the time. And yet here you are, laying back in a gurney and listening to the sounds of the heart rate monitors.

You pick at a thread on the blanket and try to figure out what exactly is broken in you that makes it so hard to ask for help. It’s not pride, not really. It’s more like… you’ve spent so long pretending everything’s manageable that the idea of saying “I need you” still feels like a kind of failure. Like admitting weakness will confirm every fear you’ve worked so hard to outrun.

And in some ways, you feel guilty for needing Harry. He’s needed constantly – every move he makes at work is because he’s needed, and in some subconscious way, you feel like that makes you the burden. You’re the one that’s supposed to be his go-to when he gets home from work.

You don’t want to be the reason someone worries, you don’t want to be the weight someone else has to carry. Especially not him. But the truth is, Harry isn’t just carrying it. He’s choosing to. Over and over.

It’s Harry’s love language.

And maybe the real weakness is pretending you can do this alone when you don’t actually have to anymore.

The labs come back quickly, which is a relief to all of you. Dr. Carson informs you and Harry that it’s a post-op infection. Thankfully, it’s mild, but enough to flare your fever and irritate the healing site. Nothing that IV fluids, antibiotics, and a couple more days of close monitoring won’t fix, she tells you.

Still, Harry insists on doing every damn thing himself. He helps place the IV, reviews the bloodwork three times, checks in with the infectious disease team to confirm the antibiotic regimen for the next few days.

He never leaves the room, not even once.

+++

Three days later, your fever finally breaks without the need of medications. Of course, you’re still on antibiotics and will continue the dosages that Harry maintains for you.

You wake up bathed in sweat but feeling lighter, alive again. And Harry’s beaming so wide it’s like someone let the sun back into the room.

“You’re okay,” he whispers, kissing your forehead, your temple, your hair. “You’re really okay.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” you say groggily.

“Yeah,” he says, voice breaking a little. “But it’s nice to know.”

+++

A few days later, back at home, he’s gentle in a different way. Less clinical, more personal. Less doctor, more man who is just caring for his sick girlfriend.

He still checks your chart, yes. Still times your pills to the second. But there are longer hugs now, more forehead kisses, more moments where he just looks at you like he can’t believe you’re real.

You recover slower this time, but you never feel alone. You’re on the couch, you must’ve fallen asleep there in the middle of the night when Harry had made his way to work, when the door clicks open.

It’s early—barely past dawn—but you’ve been awake for a while. The house is still, quiet except for the soft hum of the kettle warming in the kitchen. The air smells like lemon balm tea and the faint remnants of lavender from your blanket.

You hear footsteps. Heavy. Slow.

Then, “Hey, sweetheart,” comes Harry’s voice, low and rough with exhaustion.

You turn—and your breath catches.

He’s still in his scrubs. The navy ones. A bit wrinkled from hours of wear. The top clings to his chest in the best way, the drawstring of his pants tied in a loose knot that dips low on his hips. His hair is mussed from the surgical cap, and his eyes—though heavy with fatigue—light up the second he sees you blinking at him with flushed cheeks and your own clear eyes.

“Well, don’t you look snug,” he murmurs, dropping his bag by the door, toeing his sneakers off.

“I made it to the couch on my own last night and stood up to make myself a can of soup for dinner,” you say proudly, stretching your arms above your head.

He grins and walks over to you then, “That deserves a medal.”

You open your arms, and he doesn’t hesitate. He sinks to the couch beside you and pulls you into him like gravity’s in charge, one arm curling protectively around your waist, the other smoothing over your thigh. His lips find yours instantly, letting himself fall into your touch almost like you’re there to revive him.

“You okay?” he murmurs into your hair once you pull apart. “No more fever?”

“Not since yesterday morning. And I kept my breakfast down.”

He pulls back just enough to press his palm to your forehead. Not because he doubts you—because he needs the confirmation on his own.

“Have I ever told you my thoughts of you in scrubs?” you say softly, looking at him to break him away from his fixation on your fever.

He raises a brow, quick-witted. “No, tell me again.”

“It’s an absolute fantasy,” you shake her head, “Truly an eight wonder.”

His lips twitch into a smile. “You saying I look good right now?”

You shrug—noncommittal, teasing. But your eyes drop again, flicking over his chest, down to where his sleeves stretch a little over his biceps, then back up to the cut of his jawline still dusted with stubble.

Harry notices. Of course he does – he never misses anything, the eyes of an eagle.

You shift slightly in his lap, just a little, just enough that his eyes darken.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “You’re still healing.”

“Are you going to medically restrain me to the couch?” You ask, nose nuzzling into his jaw before he lets his head lean back.

“Don’t tempt me,” he bites his lip as he lets you tease him, “I’m trained in medical sedation and restraint.”

Your fingers trail over the fabric at his collar, the small v-neck below your fingertips. You look up through your lashes, tucking your hair behind your ear. “I’m just saying. M.D. or not, you look really hot right now.”

He groans softly, tilts his head back before he looks at you again. “You’re killing me.”

You grin, feeling bold, feeling like yourself again. “You’ve seen me puking, unconscious, stitched up – you’ve literally seen my organs, and sweating through a fever, and now you’re the one blushing?”

Harry draws in a breath and lets his hand slide slowly around your waist—not pulling, not rushing, just grounding you there. It’s like he’s testing the waters, but he doesn’t test very well – not when he knows what’s on the line and how he can hurt you.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks quietly, nose nuzzling into your temple as you kiss along his jaw. “You don’t have to prove anything. Not tonight.”

“I’m not trying to,” you tell him, biting the inside of your cheek. “I just… when I look at you now, I don’t see just my hot doctor boyfriend. I see the Harry who drove me to the ER, who didn’t sleep, who tracked my meds like he was prepping for boards.”

You pause, your voice going softer.

“The Harry who spoon-fed me broth, and held my hair when I was sick, and made sure my shows were queued up on Netflix so when I woke up, they’d already be there,” you smile at that small tidbit and brush some hair off of his forehead, “The Harry who still looked at me like I was whole when I didn’t feel like it.”

His eyes are glassy when they meet yours again. You rest your forehead against his, and his hands slide up your back, holding you close, steady.

“I’m in love with that Harry,” you whisper, letting your words dance across his skin like you only want him to hear it, not the whole universe. “All of him.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for days, most likely because he has. “You always manage to say things when I’ve got no good response lined up, and my brain is complete mush from setting a kid’s broken collarbone from a ski accident.”

You smile, shaking your head with a laugh. “I know. It’s one of my more dangerous talents.”

“You’ve got terrible timing,” he mutters, brushing his nose against yours. “You know that?”

You smirk, letting your lips pucker to meet his in a quick peck. “You’re the one kissing your patient.”

He huffs a soft laugh and kisses you anyway—slow, deliberate, and entirely unhurried because it makes more sense to let things sit in this world for a moment. It’s the kind of kiss that says finally, and carefully, and I meant it. You press your fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck and lean into him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And it is because you haven’t felt this good in a long time, it feels like.

When you break apart, his lips hover near yours.

“Let’s just stay like this a while,” he says. “Until you’re steady.”

You smile, tracing your finger along his jaw as you catch yourself staring at his lips. “And when I am?”

His grin curves against your cheek into one like the cheshire cat. “Then I’ll show you why surgeons are very, very good with their hands. Steady, some may say.”

Your laugh bubbles out of you before you can help it, and he just kisses your smile like he wants to memorize it – and good news for you, he’s got a photographic memory.

Somewhere, between the tea he puts in the kettle after you snuggle on your couch, and the medicine and the kiss and the way your heartbeat skips every time he walks into a room, you realize something: you almost broke trying to keep things to yourself.

But Harry? He put you back together—with feverish nights, sponge bathes, and stitches, sure. But also with care, presence, and love so patient it hurts.

And you think… you just might let him do it forever.

+++

The scar is barely visible now. It sits low, a thin pink line just above your hipbone—quiet proof of everything you’ve survived.

You’re standing at the bathroom mirror when you hear Harry call from the kitchen, “Do you want almond milk or oat milk in your coffee?”

You smile, pulling your oversized sweatshirt back down over your bare legs. Your body feels a sense of liberation from the morning that the two of you had. “Surprise me.”

He hums something tuneless from the other room, and you hear the soft clink of mugs and the whir of the coffee grinder. The scent drifts down the hallway like something holy.

When you pad into the kitchen, he’s already got everything waiting on the little breakfast table: coffee, toast, fruit. The sunlight catches the edge of his glasses—he’s been wearing them in the mornings now, before he has to squint at patient charts all day.

That smirk you know too well curls across his face. “Struggling to walk?”

You shrug, as you watch him start to watch as you make your way to the table, all faux-casual. “Someone decided this morning was the perfect time to test the limits of post-op clearance.”

He shuts the water off and turns toward you, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “I was being gentle, was I not?”

“You said, and I quote, ‘You better hold on to the headboard.’”

He steps closer, standing just in front of you now. “Which you did,” he licks his lips, kissing your forehead, “You’re very good at following directions.”

“Barely,” you laugh, and he smiles, but there’s something else behind his gaze—something warm and proud and a little possessive.

“I wasn’t allowed to touch you for weeks,” he murmurs, biting on his lip as he shrugged, buttering some bread. “I was trying to make up for lost time.”

“You did,” you say, looping your arms loosely around his waist as he stood by the counter. “My thighs are still shaking.”

He groans under his breath, ducking his head. “You can’t say stuff like that and expect me not to lose my mind.”

“You said you’d be good.” He turns in your hug, facing you now as he leans against the countertops.

“I said I’d be careful,” he corrects, brushing his lips just beneath your jaw. “Never said anything about being good.”

You tilt your head back slightly, letting him graze his nose along the edge of your collarbone, your skin still carrying the faint scent of his body wash from earlier. It would be so easy to pull him closer again, to let it start all over, but the laundry buzzes, and a pot simmers on the stove, and somehow you both feel… full. Satisfied.

Still, the way his hands rest on your hips, thumbs moving in soft circles, tells you he hasn’t stopped thinking about it. Neither have you.

You press your mouth to his ear. “Tonight, if I can still move…”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his own darker now as he likes where your promises are going. “Yeah?”

You nod. “I want you again. Slow this time. Less headboard, more…” You trail off, letting your smile finish the sentence.

His mouth curves with intent, and he leans in to kiss you, soft and slow. Just a taste. Just a promise.

“Done,” he whispers.

The memory from earlier is still humming low in your limbs—lazy and molten. His mouth trailing down your stomach just after sunrise, fingers splayed warm and reverent across your hips like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch you again. There had been no rush, no teasing—just need. Messy, sleepy, real, and quite nasty if you weren’t kidding yourself. Your legs wrapped around his waist, laughter muffled into the curve of his neck when the bed creaked too loud and neither of you cared.

He’d kissed your shoulder as he moved, breath hot against your skin, mumbling something about how he’d waited weeks to make you feel good again. And God, he had. The ways that his hands moved were no joke, and you couldn’t believe the weight of them on your lower abdomen as he pushed himself into you.

You could feel every inch of him.

You’d gone boneless beneath him by the end; sweaty, grinning, and completely undone.

“You’re spoiling me, you know,” you say, sitting down.

Harry glances over, grinning. “You got your stitches out. I figured that deserves strawberries.”

You sip your coffee. He got it right: oat milk, two sugars, just how you like it.

“Thanks,” you say softly, your tongue too quick, “But it also deserved the absolute nasty morning bone session, so I appreciate both.”

He leans over and kisses your temple. “I’d do it every day for the rest of my life.”

You blink. He freezes a little, realizing what he said. Then you both smile, slow and certain.

A month ago, you couldn’t stand up without help.

Now, you’re dancing in the kitchen to a song from the radio while Harry flips pancakes and sings off-key beside you. You’re sleeping tangled together. You’re holding hands at the grocery store. He has a photo of you on his desk at work. You’re kissing in public sometimes just because you can, because you need to know that he’s there.

Later, after breakfast, you water the plants while Harry reads the paper with his glasses slipping down his nose. There’s a new ease between you—a comfort that didn’t exist before the chaos. You’ve been through something sharp and ugly together and come out on the other side softer for it.

The scar on your skin has faded. But the love you hold for him, and he holds for you? It sat in the room with you, like a third character, just the beginning of it’s wonderous story.

[purplecoffee13]

NFWMB - PART SIX

Summary: “Y/N goes to a self defense class filled with unexpected confrontations, confessions, and an undeniably beneficial deal…”

Tropes: innocent!reader x boxer!harry

Wc: 3.8k

Warnings: sexual tensioooonnn, and a tiny bit of angst

A/N: Heeyyy…. How y’all doing….

I got tagged bc someone was trying to look for this series and it made me realize I had this chapter sitting in my drafts and I just kind of missed writing on here so here y’all go🫶

General Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Y/N stood at the front doors of the gym, her breath fogging the window as she watched the people inside.

She felt like a proper creep staring into the building like this, but her social anxiety was getting the best of her. It was a form of stalling, and Y/N was aware that she it was a bit ridiculous, but she stayed put nonetheless. So far, she could only make out the receptionist and a couple of janitors.

"Who are we watching?"

A shriek fell from Y/N's lips as she jumped in shock at the sudden whispering voice in her right ear. She turned around and slapped Harry on his arm as soon as she saw the smug grin on his face. He had his hands behind his back, feigning innocence as he cackled at her misery.

"You prick!" She tried to sound mad, but the chuckle in her voice betrayed her. Her heart was beating faster and the hairs on her arms were still standing up, but she'd felt the calmest she had all day. Harry was good at that; making her comfortable.

He only laughed, holding open the door for her. Still squinting at him, she walked through the door and entered the gym. Scanning her membership card, she passed through the little gates and made her way to the room where their lessons always took place.

"Why were you lurking outside?" Harry asked playfully, shutting the door behind him while Y/N puts down her bag. She grabbed her water bottle and turned around.

"I wasn't lurking." She corrected him. "I was just checking if you were inside already."

He only let out a skeptical hum, walking over to the box and plugging his phone into the aux. Immediately, a great song came on, and Y/N smiles as the melody sounded through the speakers in the room.

"How do you always have this perfect music mix ready?" She smiled, strolling toward where he was standing. "Do you have a playlist or something?"

She hadn't expected him to even answer that question. But when he shrugged, she realized it wasn't just an empty theory meant as a joke; it was true.

"Can I see it?" She pleaded, and Harry rolled his eyes. "Please?"

That was enough to have the phone handed over to her, unlocked and ready to see what kind of playlist he had found.

Only, she came across a self-made playlist. It had all the songs Y/N had ever mentioned, and other ones she enjoyed, all neatly packed into one list. Her heart skipped a beat when she spotted the title of the playlist: an angel wings emoji.

Y/N swore she felt her heart malfunctioning as she scrolled through the list, every last one of them being one she liked. Most of these, she hadn't even mentioned. How did he know she liked them so much?

It took her great strength keeping the tears in her eyes from flowing over as she stared at Harry's cellphone screen. Handing the phone back to him, Y/N mustered a light, grateful smile. His lips quirked up in return, but when his eyes grazed over her hand as he took back the device, his entire face expression fell. Y/N frowned, glancing down at her hand.

A blush painted her cheeks as she observed her bruised hand. Her knuckles hadn't yet healed from punching Oscar in the face, and her wrist was still marked from his painfully tight grip. It would have been a lie to say that her right hand didn't still hurt like hell and had become a constant reminder of what had happened Friday night, but she hadn't wanted to think about it too much anymore. Instead, Y/N had been trying to focus on the temporary bliss that Harry had graced her with.

But the look on Harry's face told her that she wouldn't be able to escape the topic of Oscar anytime soon.

"How much does it hurt?" Harry's voice was soft, and the tinge of sadness that accompanied it caused a quick lie to fall from Y/N's lips.

"It doesn't."

Harry frowned. "Don't lie to me. I know these kinds of bruises, they fucking hurt."

Y/N let out a breath, shrugging her shoulders. Mindlessly, she went to pull her hand back, but was stopped by Harry's hands wrapping themselves around hers. Stroking her knuckles with his fingers, he looked up at her.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't feel comfortable," Harry started, and Y/N's heart rose to her throat. "but if that asshole— if he did something to you without your consent, I need to know."

"Why?" Y/N scanned his eyes; they were filled with a simmering rage that echoed in the hidden growl behind his otherwise stoic tone.

"Because I'll fucking kill him, that's why." He said it like it was an obvious thing, as if she should have seen this reaction coming. But she hadn't, and her eyes widened at his words, though she couldn't deny she had the slight urge to smile at his protectiveness. It felt nice, people caring about her feelings.

Silence filled the room as Harry waited on Y/N's answer. She could see on his face that he was hoping she'd say no, that she'd tell him not to worry because he never touched her like that. But Oscar had touched her like that, and threatened her afterwards, and it was fucking humiliating. Y/N's heart ached as she felt the bitterness spread across her mouth, but she couldn't get the words past her lips. The lingering fear of trouble, a possible escalation, stopping her from telling Harry the full truth. Instead, she opted for something different.

"Where would you hide the body?" She joked, hoping it would distract Harry from noticing she couldn't answer his question truthfully. Nerves swirled when Harry's brows lowered, and before Y/N knew it, he turned around and began walking towards the door.

"Harry!" She called out, hurrying after him. He wasn't listening to her at all, proudly marching over to the exit of the gym. "Where the hell are you going?!"

Y/N only caught his hands when he was outside, at the parking lot. She let out a quiet gasp upon seeing the look on his face. The anger on his face was downright scary. He breathed out through his nose, looking to his left; any other way than into her eyes.

"I told you I'm going to fucking kill him." He said— or rather growled as he frowned into the distance. Y/N clenched her jaw, desperately trying to catch Harry's eyes. With a sigh, she grabbed his chin and spun it towards her so he was forced to look at her. The second Harry's eyes took in hers, that fiery rage of his melted into sorrow.

"Harry—"

"He hurt you." He interrupted Y/N, and she was quite sure she felt her heart cracked at the words. He looked so devastated... for her.

"I know." Y/N breathed. "But I need you to let it go."

His mouth fell open. "What? No! I'm not going to let him get away with—"

"I meant for now." She was quick to put a stop to his rant. Harry still looked confused. "Technically, I work for him, Harry. Besides, he's way more important at the firm. I need to figure out the best way to deal with this without ruining my own career in the process."

Harry's gaze travelled to the ground, the corners of his mouth tilted downwards. After mulling over her answer for a second or two, he reluctantly began to nod. It didn't take long before his green eyes found hers again, filled with more calm and certainty this time.

"I'm sorry, I didn't want to jeopardize anything. It's just—" He sighed, defeated. "He's an asshole, and I would just like to physically remind him of that all the way to the nearest hospital."

Y/N couldn't help the chuckle that escaped her mouth at Harry's vague and aggressive muttering. She hummed in agreement, grabbing his wrist and pulling him towards the gym again. She kept her eyes on him as she walked backwards.

"Maybe if you teach me that left hook I've been trying to perfect, we can give him that reminder together." She said, and her belly fluttered when she saw a smile slowly appear on Harry's face.

"Yeah?" He asked, letting her guide him back inside. She nodded.

"Call it team building." Y/N shrugged as she pushed the door open, not noticing how Harry's eyes lit up at her joke. There seemed to be no one inside anymore, the last staff probably gathering their things at the lockers. Still, Harry swept a quick glance of his surroundings before grabbing Y/N's waist and turning her around. Not expecting the sudden turn, she stumbled into him, hand on his chest to keep herself from falling over. She peered up at him like a deer in headlights. He thought it was adorable.

"We're a team, then?" Harry gave her a little nod that nearly sent her knees near buckling. Y/N swallowed—hoping it wasn't too obvious—and smiled awkwardly at him.

"Uh— I mean, I guess— I was just—"

Harry could only smirk at her, tongue running over his teeth. "I like the sound of it."

The nerves settled in her stomach and arose again all at once. He looked so good in this light and his jawline seemed even more prominent than it did before. Y/N could've sworn he was shaped by the hands of a divine extraterrestrial being; it would be the only logical explanation for his face.

The distant sound of footsteps snapped Y/N out of her analysis of Harry's impossibly handsome face, and she felt as red as a tomato as she writhed out of his grip and hurried over to hide in their training room as the rest of the staff said goodnight to their boss. She heard his casual response, and when the front door closed, he came stalking into the room.

"You're nervous around me." He stated, not even looking at her as he said it. Y/N frowned, head whipping towards him.

"What?" She scrambled to find cohesive words but Harry already began talking to her again.

"Is it because of what happened last week?" He asked, squinting his eyes at her. He had been quite anxious about what happened on Friday. He could imagine how much it must've afffected her, and he didn't want to do anything that might make her feel uneasy. He liked her— scratch that, he thought she was an angel sent to earth. But he wouldn't want to pursue her if that was not what she needed, especially regarding the circumstances.

"I'm not nervous—"

"You are, I can tell." He argued, gesturing towards her. "Listen, if I made you uncomfortable in any way—"

Y/N frowned. "You didn't! I swear, you didn't. I just—"

Harry raised his brow, signaling her to go on. She let out a heavy sigh.

"I was worried they'd see." Y/N confessed, anxiety lodged up her throat as the words reluctantly leave her mouth. She didn't want to offend Harry, and by the way his face expression didn't change one bit, she couldn't tell if she did or not.

"Who? My employees?" He tried to clarify. When she nodded, a hum fell from his lips. "Why?"

"Because it's unprofessional! I don't want them to think I'm like... a slut."

Harry couldn't fight the corner of his mouth tugging up ever so slightly at the way she whispered the last word. Though, the genuine look of distress on her face made him get back to business as quickly as possible.

"First of all, you're not a slut. Second of all, I don't think my employees care enough about my love life to be invested in who I'm sharing a bed with."

Not only the allusion to sex, but the insinuation that Y/N was a part of Harry's love life caused her ears to burn. She was quick to look down, and when in a curious moment she glanced up, Harry's head was tilted.

"There's something else you're not telling me." He said with a determination that had Y/N stomach twist. How could he read her so well? Or was she just being that obvious?

"W— what do you mean?" She stuttered, any hope of coming across nonchalant ruined by her nervousness. She scratched the back of her head, taking a step back. Harry took a step forward.

"Something else is holding you back, and it has nothing to do with other people's opinions. I just can't figure out what it is."

Y/N's heart was racing so hard by now, she felt like it was going to fall right of her chest. How did he make nausea feel so good? "Harry..."

"Do you think I'm attractive?"

Her eyes widened, the question catching her completely off guard. "Uhm, I—"

"Answer the question, angel. Do you?" Harry repeated, building even more proximity between them as he took some steps forward. Y/N took a deep breath, summoning all the courage she had to look him in the eye without appearing like a deer in headlights. She wasn't sure if she was succeeding.

"Yes."

He hummed, eyes flicking down to her lips, before staring back at her again. "Okay, do you want me to kiss you?"

A deep sigh. "Yes."

Y/N swallowed at the grin that spread across Harry's face. It was hard to steady her breathing with him looking at her like that. Leaning forward, he opened his mouth again.

"Do you want me to fuck you?"

The question felt like a car crash.

Too flustered to actually speak, Y/N lowered her gaze away from Harry's observing eyes as she nodded timidly. The soft touch of his fingers under her chin had her weak in the knees, and when he nudged Y/N's head up, the expectant look on his face was demanding enough to verbalize her answer.

"Y—yes." She responded, and the twinkle in his eyes told her what he wasn't saying out loud. Good girl.

Bending over even more, Harry brought his face nearer and nearer to Y/N's, his eyes softly closing for a second when he was close enough to take in her scent. It was as if she was floating a cloud; that's what being near to Harry felt like.

"Then what's holding you back?"

The whispered question made her take a physical step back. Harry didn't look offended, only curious as he awaited an answer from Y/N. She crossed her arms.

"It's stupid..." She scoffed. "and embarrassing."

"Is this about what you told me yesterday? About not being 'experienced' as you put it." Harry asked, and took it as a yes when she didn't immediately respond. "Angel, you know that doesn't matter to me. Like, at all."

She sighed. "It's just— the experiences that I've had—with the exception of yesterday of course—haven't really been great, and I don't want to like... disappoint or something."

"So now, I— I tend to backtrack when things get too intimate." She confessed, crossing her arms. Her ears were burning from the vulnerability of her words and the proximity to Harry. He still hadn't stepped away. "It just doesn't feel comfortable for me."

She looked at Harry, who looked like he was thinking it over for a bit. It almost felt intrusive, the way he stared at her, as if she was a capturing painting in a museum. She could tell he was trying to make sense of it— of her. She just hoped he'd interpret her the right way.

"You felt comfortable yesterday, right?" He asked.

"I think I did." Y/N answered, and by the way Harry's face pulled she immediately regretted the answer. "I mean, I just wanted... it— you... really bad so I wasn't really focused on anything else."

That made Harry smile. He was allowed to, Y/N thought, he did a good job with those fingers of his. "Well then, what's the problem?"

"I just... I know the pressure is probably going to get the best of me. It's gonna make me close up and screw up." She half-smiled, but her heart broke. This was it, she was basically rejecting Harry and now he was going to back of like the gentleman he was, and Y/N would have to spend the rest of her life fantasizing about what he could've felt like.

"What pressure?" He wondered. Y/N shrugged.

"I think... the pressure of 'dating' or 'hooking up' I guess. Labels freak me out. Feels like so many expectations hang from them." She tried to articulate how her body had failed her romantic life for years now, hoping there was some part of Harry that would understand her. But he was quite silent, and with each second that passed, Y/N's faith in that sunk further and further down. Until Harry finally spoke.

"Then we won't date."

"What?" Y/N blinked, this answer being the last one she expected. Harry only shrugged.

"You don't want the expectations? Then we won't date. Won't give anyone anything to talk about either."

She frowned; that confused her. "So... you want to go back to how it was before?"

Y/N's impending stomach ache was miraculously lifted when Harry shook his head. "No... I was thinking, I could— assist you."

She tilted her head. "Assist me?"

Harry's mouth quirked up slightly as he hummed. "Find out what you like or don't like, explore a little bit. Y'know... take some of that pressure off."

With her eyes wide and lips slightly parted, there were one too many things flying through Y/N's head. So many, in fact, that the only comprehensible response was one word and one word only.

"Oh."

Harry sniffed a laugh and out his hands behind his back. "We don't have to of course, if you don't feel comfortable—"

"No! I do." She said quickly, a bit more desperate than to her own liking. "I mean— I feel comfortable."

Y/N's skin felt like it was on fire when Harry reached for her face and tilted her chin upwards with his fingers. She looked at him expectantly as he analyzed her face again. He was looking for traces of doubt, but Y/N thought he best be looking forever because there wasn't any on her part. She'd been attracted to Harry since the day that they met. And he was right, the knowledge that there would be no prying eyes suddenly incited a certain... craving in her.

"Okay, let's do that." Y/N said, her tone a bit more confident this time. She could tell he was equal parts surprised as amused by it.

"Yeah? You gonna let me help you out?" He was teasing her, his fingers spreading a little bit, almost as if his hand was going to wrap around her neck. A sensitive ache started growing in Y/N's lower stomach. She was in a for a rollercoaster and she liked it.

"Technically, you're already helping me." She just had to point it out. Her awkward laugh caused Harry to let out a genuine one, and her belly swirled at the sight of his tongue grazing his teeth.

"I am, aren't I?" He said, a bit softer. His eyes radiated it too, the fondness he seemed to hold for her. She had no idea why, she felt like she was the human embodiment of a baby deer that was figuring out how to walk. Somewhat endearing, yes, but mostly awkward and after a while, annoying. For some reason, the light in which Harry saw Y/N didn't paint her that way. Lucky her, she guessed.

"You're sure about this?" He asked again, and Y/N felt the need to roll her eyes. She didn't feel like she could be much clearer.

"Yes." She answered hurriedly. Harry quirked up a brow and caught Y/N off guard when his hand suddenly did wrap itself around her neck. She looked up at the man in front of her, heat pooling between her legs.

"Still sure?" He asked. When she hummed, his hand trailed down her body. Y/N felt her body tense up as his finger traced down her stomach and stopped right at the waistline of her leggings. Maintaining eye contact, Harry hooked two of his fingers into the legging, pushing it down just an inch.

Y/N felt the fabric of her panties getting wet with each second that his fingers were touching her skin. She was downright throbbing down there, which made her feel a little bit hazy because she hadn't felt that for someone in— ever, she thought.

"And now?" Harry asked, his fingers dipping into her leggings and lowering down towards her underwear. Y/N shut her eyes, nodding aggressively. She figured a non-verbal answer probably was inadmissible on his part, and decided to speak up.

"Yes." The word came out as a gasp for air, which it basically was, because as soon as his hands disappeared in those leggings it knocked the wind out of her.

But then he was gone.

Suddenly, Harry slipped his hand out of her legging and by the time Y/N opened her eyes he had already taken a step back. It was almost as if she dreamed it, with the ache between her legs and his devilish smirk being the only proof of what just occurred.

Y/N just stared at him, confusion—give or take a profanity—written all over her face. She saw the pride he took in it— her wanting him. If only he knew how attracted she was to him, his ego would never recover.

"Let's start working on that left hook, yeah?"

Taglist: @meetmeatyourworst @mema10 @seafoamwhispers @namoreno @inkedskin @fangirl509east@mellamolayla @lizsogolden @prettydelilah @kierramcduffie @harry2121 @babegoals @hermionelove@bitchidontpost @lomlolivia @harringtonhundreds @fruit-harry

[elizabitchtaylor-deactivated202]

simply the fact that different body types for women go in and out of style throughout the decades should be enough to tell you that women’s bodies are considered consumable goods under capitalism

[gabriestat]

it's so hard to gaf about anyone romantically. truly what if you get home from work tired and there's someone inside your house. i feel like id get mad sometimes and it'd not be their fault. anyways im going to start a new book

[pinkboaclub]

Musician Ex-Boyfriend

Summery: You and Harry are exes, on the day of your wedding, he pays you a visit, causing you to rethink things.

Words: 3.1k

Warnings: smut, cheating (not on Harry), fem!reader

"You look perfect."

You turned at the sound of his voice, and there he stood—Harry, in a sharp black, the sincerity on his face was palpable.

It was your wedding day, but not the one you’d envisioned. The love of your life wasn’t the man currently getting ready. No, he was standing in the doorway, on the verge of being caught.

You’d snuck away to collect yourself. You’d told your bridesmaids all day that you were close to tears from happiness, but that wasn’t the truth. It was fear, anxiety, regret—things you’d spent months ignoring, burying under a carefully constructed smile.

You quickly scanned the open room, making sure no one could see him.

“You can’t be here,” you said, your voice tight with urgency as you strode over to him, heels clicking sharply against the hardwood. “If someone sees you, they’ll start talking, they’ll—”

Before you could finish, Harry grabbed your arm, pulling you into the empty hallway. His hands found your waist, pulling you into him, his warmth and familiar scent filling your senses. You glanced over your shoulder, your heart racing as you checked again. No one was around.

"Harry, please," you whispered, trying to steady your breath, feeling the sting of tears rise again. "This isn’t right."

"I didn’t think you would go through with it." His voice was flat, emotionless, his eyes avoiding yours.

You swallowed, the weight of his words sinking in. You had met Harry when you were both 25. It was supposed to be casual—two people who shared a love for music, books, and movies. He’d been on tour with his band, and you’d happened to be in the same restaurant with friends when they all decided to head to a club. That’s where you two started talking, the connection immediate, as if you’d known each other forever.

The texts started right after, every day, just a few words at first, then entire conversations that lasted into the early hours of the morning. His tour ended, and soon enough, long-distance visits turned into real dates. Three years of love, laughter, and dreams of a future together. A future that seemed so certain until life, with all its complexity and distance, pulled you apart.

It wasn’t sudden. It was gradual—the small, constant strain that turned into arguments about who was too busy, who wasn’t putting in enough effort. And then, finally, the break-up. The day you sat on the couch in your shared home, too many unsaid words filling the air, the silence louder than anything you could say.

“I love you so much and I don’t think I’ll ever stop,” Harry had sobbed, turning toward you with pleading eyes. You didn’t answer, unable to speak through your own tears.

You didn’t even know how it had happened, but you went from sitting on your couch crying, to laying on the couch, kissing with drying tears on your cheeks, ripping each other's clothes off. Maybe it was a last resort to salvage something, maybe it was an intense goodbye, you never really knew.

After that, you stayed friends. You kept up the pretense for everyone else. Friends, family—they all still thought you’d get back together. Harry even brought it up a few times, and you’d feel that pull, that ache in your chest. Of course, you thought about it. How could you not? But the idea of losing him again, of having to grieve the loss for a second time, felt unbearable.

And yet, here he was, on the most important day of your life, not as the man you were about to marry, but as the man you once thought you’d spend forever with.

“I have to,” you said, your voice a little softer this time. “I have to marry him.”

“Why?” Harry’s voice cracked, his frustration palpable. “Why him? Why do you need to? Nobody believes you actually want this.” His eyes searched yours, desperate, pleading for something.

You didn’t have an answer that would make sense to him—or to yourself. All you knew was that your future, the one you’d once pictured with Harry, had slipped away, and now the only choice left was the one that terrified you the most.

You stood there, caught between two worlds—two versions of yourself, each one tugging you in a different direction. Harry’s eyes stared into yours, demanding something you couldn’t give. You wished you could explain it all to him, but the words were stuck in your throat.

“I do want this,” you said, though you weren’t sure if you believed it. “But... I don’t know how to explain it. I’ve tried to move on. I’ve tried to do the right thing, and I’ve convinced myself it’s what I want. But—” You stopped yourself before the tears could fall. “I don’t know what else to do.”

Harry’s hands were still around you, his grip tight, like he was trying to pull you into a reality where the two of you could make it work. But it wasn’t that simple. You’d both changed, grown in ways that made that dream of forever feel distant, impossible.

“I just wanted you to know,” Harry’s voice softened. “That I never stopped loving you. I never stopped hoping… I didn’t think you would go through with this. Not like this.”

Your chest tightened at the words. They hit harder than you anticipated. “I know,” you whispered. “I didn’t think I could either. But… I need to. For me.”

“For him, you mean,” Harry corrected, his tone heavy with something you couldn’t quite place. Hurt? Anger? Maybe both. But there was a quiet desperation in his voice that made it hard to breathe.

You hesitated. “He’s a good man. And I do love him. I do. But it’s not... the same.”

Harry’s jaw clenched at your words, but he didn’t pull away. He just stared at you, his eyes dark, like they were holding back everything he wanted to say.

“You’re lying to yourself,” he said softly, almost too quietly for you to hear. “You’re pretending because it’s easier than facing the truth. You know it’s not right. But you’re too scared to admit it.”

The weight of his words made your heart skip a beat. You shook your head, trying to dismiss the gnawing feeling in your gut, the one that told you he was right.

“I’m not scared,” you said, but the words felt hollow. “I’m just trying to do the right thing.”

Harry took a step closer, his voice urgent now, low and rough. “What if the right thing isn’t what you’ve convinced yourself it is? What if you’re meant to be with me?”

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, it was like time stopped. His presence enveloped you—the same pull you’d felt all those years ago, that same undeniable chemistry that had made you fall in love with him in the first place. But now, everything is different.

“I can’t,” you said, more to yourself than to him. “I can’t go through that again, Harry. I can’t lose you and have to pick up the pieces of me after. I don’t think I’d survive it a second time.”

“I’d never hurt you again,” he promised, his voice cracking with emotion. “I swear. I’d never let you go, not like I did before. Please, just—just think about it. Really think about what you’re about to do.”

The silence stretched between you two, heavy with everything that had been left unsaid.

Finally, you spoke, your voice trembling. “I can’t do this right now, Harry. Not today. Not when I’m about to be married, something I’ve promised to commit to. Please… just go.”

His face fell, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he stepped back, looking at you one last time, his expression full of pain and love and the remnants of hope.

“Okay,” he whispered. “But I’ll always be here, waiting for you. No matter what.”

And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving you alone in the hallway, the echo of his footsteps still ringing in your ears.

You stood there for what felt like an eternity, your mind spinning with everything Harry had just said. His words—his love, his pain—still hung in the air, refusing to dissipate.

But you had made a promise. To him, to yourself, and to the man you were about to marry. You had to keep moving forward, even if it felt like you were walking into the unknown.

You wiped the tears from your eyes, taking a deep breath as you turned to face the door at the end of the hall. The moment was passing, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that, somehow, it wasn’t over. Not yet.

The sharp click of another pair of heels echoed from the other end of the hall, and you barely registered it before Aaliyah rounded the corner, her expression a mixture of relief and concern.

“There you are! I was starting to think I’d lost you for good! I-what’s wrong?” She halted in her tracks, eyes scanning your face, a frown forming as she looked at the tear stains streaking down your cheeks.

You quickly wiped your face, not caring that your makeup was surely ruined. "I—uhm," you faltered, struggling to find the words. "I’m just... nervous."

You almost told her everything. You wanted to. Aaliyah had been there for you through all of it—through the endless debates over whether or not you should try again with Harry. She knew the truth. She’d always known. But today wasn’t the day for honesty. Today was for pretending, for keeping the peace, for stepping into the life you thought you’d chosen.

“Oh, I know it’s stressful, but it’ll all be okay!” Aaliyah said, wrapping her arms around you in a comforting hug. You leaned into her warmth, her helping for only a moment. "I think I just need a little more time alone. To clear my head. Maybe go up to my room for a bit, have some water, a snack, you know?"

She hesitated for a split second, her eyes lingering on you as if she could see right through your smile, but she nodded, understanding your need for space. “Alright, I’ll stay down here. Just… don’t stay away too long, okay?”

“Promise,” you said, offering a small smile as you hugged her back, then hurried past her, your heels clicking against the floor as you made your way toward the elevator.

You had rented a hotel suite for the bridal party to get ready, a place where you could unwind and prepare. Your fiancée had his own room, staying with his groomsmen, where they were now. You had also reserved a hotel room for you and your fiancé to stay in before your honey moon in two days… so, now you had a free room to be alone in—well, almost alone.

As soon as you stepped into the room, you closed the door behind you with a soft click. You slowly slipped off the silk robe you’d been wearing, the one that said “Bride” in sparkling letters across your back, and traded it for the simple hotel robe draped on the back of the bathroom door.

Then you pulled out your phone, scrolling far down your contacts. Your thumb hesitated for just a second before you started typing.

“If you’re still in the hotel, I’m on floor 4, room 415. If you meant what you said, I’ll be here, waiting.”

A sharp knock at the door made you jump. Your heart pounded in your chest as you forced your legs to move toward it, each step heavy and unsteady. When you opened the door, there he stood, his brow furrowed with concern.

"I can't marry him," you murmured, barely audible. The weight of the words broke something inside you, and tears began to spill down your cheeks.

Without hesitation, Harry stepped forward, pulling you into his arms. He closed the door softly behind him, the world outside suddenly fading away. You clung to him, your sobs muffled against his shoulder, as if his presence was the only thing keeping you in reality.

When you finally pulled away, your eyes locked, searching for the words you had meant to say. But they escaped you. Instead, with a sudden, desperate impulse, you pressed your lips to his. The kiss was everything you’d missed, everything you’d been longing for—and it felt like home.

"I am scared by how much I want this, how much I want you." You finally said after you pulled away from your kiss. Harry tucked your hair behind your eye, taking a moment to admire your features before speaking.

“I don’t want you to be scared of me…of us…because I know-I know it would work this time. Were not as young, we know how to balance our schedules, and we know what it’s like to not be with each other. I love you so much Y/N”

Before you could cry anymore, you caved in to everything you knew you wanted. You kissed him again, this time leading him to the hotel bed.

"I am devoted to you," He murmurs as he unties your robe, his eyes not leaving your face. You both lay back. He watches the way your eyes widen when he moves one hand between your thighs to tenderly touch your core. "Let me please you," He knows he sounds needy, but he can't help it as he looks upon the woman he would do anything for.

“Please do.”

He took his eyes from your face and let them travel down your body, this was the first time he had seen you like this since you had broken up. He took in every inch of you, your beautiful bra-clad breasts, your rapidly moving stomach as you breathed. Then, your legs. Your left leg had a white lace garter belt on it. His hand slowly traveled up until he got to the garter belt.

“Supposed to be a tradition…a very odd one.” You broke the silence.

“I’m not complaining.”

He slowly pulled off the belt, your underwear following it.

He moves forward and leaves a trail of kisses along the soft skin of your abdomen and then down over your quivering thighs as his hand moves between your legs, letting his finger slip into you.

After watching the first drop of your arousal slide down his index finger, he had enough. He pulls his hand back and grips your thighs to keep you still while his mouth devours you.

Your soft little moans and attempts at saying his name make him grip you tighter, using his tongue in even more intricate ways just to coax out more of your sweetness, more of your angelic sounds. He squeezes one of your thighs and then slides his hand up along your side until his hand finds yours. He twines your fingers together, and then he gets back to devouring you like he was starving.

"I need more, Harry, please," You beg so prettily that he considers asking you to do so again, but he feels like it would be cruel after you’ve been so patient.

"Of course,"

He kisses you deeply to drown the pained whimper when he pushes his cock inside you without a pause, thinking it’s best if he gets the painful part over with as fast as possible. He grunts against your mouth as your nails dig into his shoulders. He stays still and kisses away your tears until you start laughing beneath him.

You’re the one who indicates that he is allowed to move by grinding your hips up against his. He hums in understanding and starts to thrust into you again. You too get lost as he find a perfect rhythm.

He flips you over with one quick motion after he has watched your breasts bounce for too many agonising moments without being able to do anything with them, his mouth becomes focused on them, finding the spots that make you cry out his name as loudly as you could.

“Fuck, baby.” He says, admiring your body continuously bouncing up and down. You move quicker at his encouraging words, riding him faster than you thought you could.

He takes one of your breasts in his mouth, twisting his tongue around your nipple, kneading the other with his hand.

You rock your hips back and forth, feeling the familiar surge of warmth spread through your body like—the same warmth he could only give you, one that was 10x stronger than your fiancé could have ever given you.

Your orgasm soon followed. You didn’t care about how loud you were. You didn’t care if someone walked in right now, you’d almost prefer it, maybe it would be your fiancé, or someone you both knew, they would tell him you snuck up to your room to ride the musician ex boyfriend, then you wouldn’t have to do it yourself.

“I-fuck Harry, it’s…” You stop, letting yourself moan from the euphoria you’re feeling. “It’s so good.” You finally spit out.

He chuckles at your inability to properly express your blissful feelings and tangles his fingers in your hair to pull you down for a deep kiss. He lets out a low groan as your fingers dig into his chest, followed by the shuddering of your body and the clenching of your walls around him that prompt him to spill his cum inside you.

"Fuck," he mutters as he tears his mouth away from yours. He knows neither of you should have done that, however, as Harry looks up at your blissed expression, he does not regret it, not one bit.

His arms wrap around your torso, letting you rest your head on his shoulder. He lightly rubbed his fingers up and down your back. The only thing that could be heard in the room was your heavy breathing.

“I love you, Harry.”

[bitchesgetriches]

{ MASTERPOST } Everything You Need to Know about Saving Money and Being Frugal • Bitches Get Riches

The Colosseum teems with unruly members of the plebeian class. As the sun beats down upon their heads, a riotous energy gathers and surges t

{ MASTERPOST } Everything You Need to Know about Saving Money and Being Frugal

We’re all in this together. Don’t give up.

On food and groceries:

How to Shop for Groceries like a Boss

Why Name Brand Products Are Beneath You: The Honor and Glory of Buying Generic

If You Don’t Eat Leftovers I Don’t Even Want to Know You

You Are above Bottled Water, You Elegant Land Mermaid

You Should Learn To Cook. Here’s Why.

On entertainment and socializing:

The Frugal Introvert’s Guide to the Weekend

7 Totally Reasonable Ways To Save Money on Cheap Entertainment 

Take Pride in Being a Cheap Date

The Library Is a Magical Place and You Should Fucking Go There

Your Library Lets You Stream Audiobooks and eBooks FOR FREEEEEEE!

What’s the Effect of Social Media on Your Finances?

You Won’t Regret Your Frugal 20s

On health:

How to Pay Hospital Bills When You’re Flat Broke

Run With Me if You Want to Save: How Exercising Will Save You Money

Our Master List of 100% Free Mental Health Self-Care Tactics

Why You Probably Don’t Need That Gym Membership

How to Get DIRT CHEAP Pet Medication, Without a Prescription 

On other big expenses:

Businesses Will Happily Give You HUGE Discounts if You Ask This Magic Question

Understand the Hidden Costs of Travel and Avoid Them Like the Plague

Other People’s Weddings Don’t Have to Make You Broke

You Deserve Cheap, Fake Jewelry… Just Like Coco Chanel

3 Times I Was Damn Grateful for My Emergency Fund (and Side Income) 

When (and How) to Try Refinancing or Consolidating Student Loans

The Real Story of How I Paid Off My Mortgage Early in 4 Years 

Season 2, Episode 2: “I’m Not Ready to Buy a House—But How Do I *Get Ready* to Get Ready?”

The Most Impactful Financial Decision I’ve Ever Made… and Why I Don’t Recommend It

On buying secondhand and trading:

Almost Everything Can Be Purchased Secondhand

I Am a Craigslist Samurai and so Can You: How to Sell Used Stuff Online

The Delicate Art of the Friend Trade

On giving gifts and charitable donations:

How Can I Tame My Family’s Crazy Gift-Giving Expectations?

In Defense of Shameless Regifting

Make Sure Your Donations Have the Biggest Impact by Ruthlessly Judging Charities

The Anti-Consumerist Gift Guide: I Have No Gift to Bring, Pa Rum Pa Pum Pum

How to Spot a Charitable Scam

Ask the Bitches: How Do I Say “No” When a Loved One Asks for Money… Again? 

On resisting temptation:

How to Insulate Yourself From Advertisements

Making Decisions Under Stress: The Siren Song of Chocolate Cake

The Magically Frugal Power of Patience

6 Proven Tactics for Avoiding Emotional Impulse Spending

On minimalism and buying less:

Don’t Spend Money on Shit You Don’t Like, Fool

Everything I Know About Minimalism I Learned from the Zombie Apocalypse

Slay Your Financial Vampires

The Subscription Box Craze and the Mindlessness of Wasteful Spending

On saving money:

How To Start Small by Saving Small

Not Every Savings Account Is Created Equal

The Unexpected Benefits (and Downsides) of Money Challenges

Budgets Don’t Work for Everyone—Try the Spending Tracker System Instead

From HYSAs to CDs, Here’s How to Level Up Your Financial Savings

Season 2, Episode 10: “Which Is Smarter: Getting a Loan? or Saving up to Pay Cash?”

The Magic of Unclaimed Property: How I Made $1,900 in 10 Minutes by Being a Disorganized Mess

We will periodically update this list with newer articles. And by “periodically” I mean “when we remember that it’s something we forgot to do for four months.”

Bitches Get Riches: setting realistic expectations since 2017!

Start saving right heckin’ now!

If you want to start small with your savings, consider signing up for an Acorns account! They round up your every purchase to the nearest dollar and save and invest the change for you. We like them so much we’ve generously allowed them to sponsor us with this affiliate link:

Start investing today with Acorns

[westcoastrry]

I’m so good at being alone until I’m on period. All of sudden I’m lonely and wanna fuck 😑.

[un-father]

[avatar-anna]

hi loveee ur writings can you pls write an angst where y/n is a stripper and is insecure with her relationship with harry bc she thinks that he deserves so much better

*cracks knuckles" let's do this

this is very long and very unedited. enjoy!

tw: mentions of assault

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You met Harry at a very precarious time in your life. You were confident enough in yourself to know that the assholes who wanted you didn't deserve you, but just insecure enough to believe that you were undeserving of a real prince charming, or that they would want nothing to do with you.

Growing up, you had dreams of grandeur: become a prima ballerina, live large in New York City, and one day meet someone who would sweep you off your feet. It was childish and perhaps a little naive, but growing up, those dreams were all you had, so you clung to them and hoped they would take you far away from the life that had been handed to you.

And they did, but they only took you so far.

Suffering an injury you wouldn't ever recover from was one of the toughest pills you ever had to swallow. You were so close to achieving your dreams: a good performing arts school, a hefty scholarship, a decent boyfriend (who turned out to not be so decent), and now you had nothing.

You had to drop out of school because you no longer had any art to perform, or enough money to pay for it. Before you knew it, you were out on the street, selling off personal item after personal item until you could afford to sleep in a cheap motel room and figure out how you were going to spend the rest of your life from there.

Those weeks were dark. You were hypervigilant on the street and in your motel, which made you exhausted and irritable during the day, but you did your best to cover it up and look like a model citizen so you could find a job. You wandered all over, trying and failing to find a job. At first, you wanted something respectable, like working as a waitress, or a receptionist, or a maid, or a nanny, but no one wanted to hire you. And the longer you went without a job, the more willing you became to find money. Whoever said that money didn't buy happiness was either a liar, had a lot of it, or both, because as someone with only a couple bills to your name, you were miserable.

It was in those deep, dark days that you came across her. A woman, perhaps a couple years older than you, leaning against the side of a brick building and having a smoke. She was pretty, with long legs and long blonde hair, though you were almost positive it was a wig. She was scantily dressed, too, which was odd for how chilly it was.

Having caught your stare, she glared at you. "What are you looking at?"

"N—Nothing. I wasn't looking," you said quickly, starting to move again.

"Wait a minute," she said, her voice silky smooth, with a slight husk from years of cigarette smoke in her lungs. "I've seen you around before. You looking for a job?"

You blanched. It didn't take you long to realize what the woman's profession was, or that she was now hinting that you could do the same. You didn't want to, your brain told you you could still find work elsewhere, but your stomach was very tired of vending machine snacks for breakfast, lunch and dinner. So you nodded, coming closer to the woman when she told you to.

She looked you over, examining you from head to toe. "You obviously don't have any experience as a stripper."

"No, but I can dance," you said, feeling the need to prove yourself to this woman all of a sudden.

"You're gonna need to bulk up a bit more. They like a little more meat on your bones, but...you have potential."

The woman pinned you with a stare, one you couldn't have looked away from if you tried. You realized then that she was older than you'd originally suspected. Not by a lot, but she was definitely closer to thirty as opposed to early or mid twenties. For a moment you wondered how long she'd been doing this for, if she ever had dreams of grandeur too.

"I'll vouch for you, help you get on your feet. But it's up to you to convince Derek you're fit for the job. Think you're up for it?"

Turns out you were up for it. You were a natural, working a pole or dancing on the club's stage. It wasn't the stage you used to dream about, but it was one that awarded you food and shelter, and those were your new dreams. Your new boss even leaned into your ballet training, your costumes always soft pinks and purples and your performances demure and innocent-appearing.

It was a gift and a curse. Customers were crazy about you, but some thought that your appearance was an extension of who you actually were. You received plenty of comments from older men about being taken care of, of them wanting you to be your little girl. The club you worked at ensured that no one touched you, but the words were enough to make your skin crawl and made you so paranoid that someone would follow you home that you slept with a knife under your bed.

Still, you wracked in tips, and made enough money to leave the motel and rent an apartment. It was cheap and basically a closet with a toilet, but it was yours, you'd earned it all by yourself. And you made friends with the other girls too. You came in early to cheer your friends on and stayed late so you could walk home together. It wasn't the family you envisioned yourself having, but these were your sisters, and though you used to consider stripping a "not respectable" occupation, there was no one you respected more than them.

It was your injury that set you back at times. You couldn't go one for as long as some of the other girls because your knee would start to hurt. Dancing at the strip club wasn't nearly as strenuous as ballet, but you were still putting more pressure and strain on it than you probably should've. It got to the point where Derek told you to see a doctor about it or he'd have to fire you for not bringing in enough revenue for the club, so you went on one of your off days, and that's when you met Harry.

He was the resident at the doctor's you went to, and you couldn't help but be smitten. He was kind, gentle, and spoke to you like an actual human being, something you hadn't heard from a man in a long time.

When he asked you what you were doing to make your already injured knee so angry with you, you couldn't help but lie. You didn't know why, but you just couldn't tell him what you really did for a living. He looked at you like an equal, and you just knew that telling him you were hurt because you worked as a stripper six out of seven days a week would make him look down at you.

He was skeptical when you told him you just ran a lot, but didn't ask you for more information. "Take these when it gets really bad, and schedule some physical therapy appointments with us, I think that'll really help."

You didn't have the money for physical therapy, but you nodded like you were going to do just that, not wanting to disappoint him.

From then on, you saw him sporadically. Every few weeks when you needed a new prescription, you'd go in, and each time he would tell you the same thing: lay off the running and go to physical therapy. There were moments where you thought he was flirting with you, but you told yourself that you were crazy. He was a doctor, your doctor, there was no way he'd be interested in you.

Your relationship changed slightly when you came into the doctor's office one day, this time accompanied by one of your friends. At the sight of your friend practically holding you up and the sound of you crying, the receptionist ushered you into an examination room and told you that Dr. Styles would be in shortly.

"What the hell happened to you?" he asked when he came in.

Half your face was black and blue, your lip was split, and you were trembling in your friend's arms. Crying too hard, you couldn't form the words to answer your doctor's question, so your friend spoke up.

"You gotta help her, sir. She's in a bad way. I think she went into shock or somethin'."

He came closer, but when he tried to move your hair away from your face to get a better look, you flinched, huddling into your friend even more. "Hey, it's okay, I'm not going to hurt you," he said, his voice gentle as it ever was. "I just need to see what I'm dealing with so I can help you. What's your name, Miss?"

"Daisy," your friend replied, though it wasn't actually. You all went by fake names at the club.

"It's nice to meet you, Daisy. Would you mind helping me? It seems she's comfortable with you touching her, so I just need you to hold her hair back while I get her face cleaned up and see if she needs stitches."

"Of course, sir."

Together, Harry and Daisy patched you up, starting with the top of your head and working their way down. There weren't very many cuts besides the gash on your cheekbone and your split lip, but there were a lot of bruises. On your neck, your wrists, half your abdomen.

"Is she in an abusive relationship?" he asked. You'd only ever come in for your knee, but this was completely out of control.

"Uh...No, sir. Just a bad day at work is all," Daisy said.

The truth was you were asked to dance in a private room tonight for a group of guys. Not uncommon, but the problem was with your bodyguard. Every dancer in a private room had one to ensure their safety and make sure that customers only looked and didn't touch. He was new, clearly not as experienced, and underestimated the power of unassuming young men. They knocked him out in an instant, and then their attention was on you.

Help came, but not soon enough. You'd never felt more violated your whole life. When more bodyguards came in and kicked the men out, your costume was in tatters, bruises forming everywhere.

By the time Harry patched you all up, Daisy had to leave and finish the rest of her shift. Derek allowed her to take her thirty minute break to get you help, but she had bills to pay too.

"Please don't go," you whispered, the first thing you said since you stopped screaming at the club. It hurt to speak, but you didn't want to be alone.

"I have to," Daisy said, sounding sorry, but not enough to oppose Derek and stay with you.

"I can't be alone right now. I can't—I don't want to walk by myself. It's the middle of the night, Daisy—"

"Wait, you're walking home alone?"

Harry had gone to write you another prescription for the pain, and you'd taken the opportunity to beg your friend not to leave you.

Hearing him come in shut you up, and you immediately curled back into yourself, not meeting his eyes.

"I have to go back to work," Daisy said. "I'm really sorry, Angel."

If you hadn't been terrified at the prospect of walking back to your apartment by yourself this late at night, you would've cringed at the way Daisy used your stage name instead of your real one, the one Harry knew.

"Wait here," he said suddenly.

A few minutes he came back with the receptionist. "This is Margaret. She said she'd drive you home. Would that be alright?"

Not seeing a better option, you nodded, and from there, everything was in motion. Daisy left, Harry went back to his office, and you and Margaret quietly got in your car. The older woman tried to ask you a few questions, but you didn't answer, blinking and staring out the passenger window until you fell asleep. When she came upon the address you gave her, her heart sunk. Picking up the phone, she called Harry.

"I can't in good conscience leave her here," she said into the phone as she looked around your neighborhood.

"Take her to my place. I have a guest room she can sleep in for the night," he said immediately. If Margaret didn't think you would be safe, then he would take her word for it. All he kept seeing was the broken look in your eyes. He missed the light, he missed seeing your smile.

Harry wasn't an idiot. He knew there was something going on with you, and now he was kicking himself for not intervening sooner. He still didn't know what you did exactly, but it obviously wasn't safe.

Bringing you to his place was a risk, seeing as you'd barely let him touch you, but it was one he was willing to take. After tending to you for a while, he cared about you, and seeing how badly you were hurt tonight made the urge to protect you even stronger. For the last few days, he'd been thinking of ways to casually ask you out for coffee, hoping you'd give him the time of day. You were kind and witty and beautiful, and he was waiting for the next time you'd come in and see if he had a chance, but now that was out of the question. He just wanted to make sure you were safe.

-------------------------------------------------

A month later, you were back to performing. You worried Derek would fire you since you couldn't perform with all the bruises you had, but he stuck you behind the bar and told you to make yourself useful behind the scenes. But now that you'd made a full physical recovery, you were back to stripping on the main stage of the club. The private rooms, which were closed because none of the other dancers wanted to give private shows after what happened to you, but enough time had passed that they were open for business again, with two security guards instead of one.

You still hadn't done a private show since that night, but you knew Derek would only have so much grace. You were quite popular with customers, and a lot of them wanted your undivided attention.

But for now you were focused on doing one dance at a time. Controlling your breaths and keeping your heart from beating too hard as you made eye contact with customers was your main priority, collecting tips at the end being the second. You didn't think you'd ever be completely comfortable stripping again, but you were as close as one got. The other girls helped you, two of them walking you home and standing guard while you changed in and out of your costumes. It was the little things that made you feel safe, and you were thankful that the people around you were doing what they could to help you heal.

One night, you were given one of the main slots for performances. Apparently there was a bachelor party, and the groom wanted to see you perform. It was longer, and you'd needed to come up with a couple new steps to really elevate your performance. You practiced a lot in your apartment, and you found yourself enjoying it a bit, something you hadn't felt since that night.

When it came time to get onstage, you didn't have any fear. Big performances like these meant everyone was quiet as they watched you dance, only cheering and whistling when you discarded your costume piece by piece until you were left in very flimsy lingerie.

You'd clocked the bachelor party when you walked onto the stage, but before you could get a good look at anyone but the groom, it was time for you to begin. You danced, letting the music move you about the stage and working customers for their bills. You made a point of going over to the bachelor party, all of which had lots of money in their hands. You meant to focus on the groom, but your eyes snagged on a different member of the party.

It was Harry, who looked just as shocked to see you in nothing but a lacy pink bodysuit as you would've looked had you not been in the middle of a performance. You felt weird dancing in front of the groom now, someone who was clearly Harry's friend, but it was the job.

Harry had helped you out a lot after the worst night of your life. He let you stay in his home for a few days until you were comfortable sleeping alone in your apartment again. He never asked questions about what happened or why, which you were thankful for, but you knew he wanted to.

It was fun playing house for a few days, and it took your mind off of everything that had happened. But of course life went on, and both of you had to go back to each of yours. You hadn't seen him since you left his place. When you came home, you were ashamed and embarrassed about having to need him so much. He was your doctor, not your friend, he shouldn't have had to do all that. You knew you probably should've thanked him for his kindness, he'd seen you at your absolute worst. You didn't know how to face him.

On stage while you were practically naked wasn't how you wanted to see him for the first time in a month, but life was funny like that.

When the performance was over, you were quick to leave the stage, letting the club staff collect all the bills that landed around you. Now that you were alone, you could freak out properly.

"Hey, Angel, isn't that your doctor over there?" Daisy asked you, pointing to where Harry was visible from the side of the stage.

You nodded, but still couldn't find the words to speak.

"That's your doctor? Damn, where do you go? I want to go there too," another one of the girls said. Before long, everyone but the girl who was next to perform was huddled around you, eyeing Harry and talking about how cute he was.

"He looks like one of those doctors on TV!"

"Did you see those dimples?"

"God I hope he asks for a private dance."

"Hey, this is Angel's man. She met him first," Daisy said, cutting through all the oggling.

He wasn't your man, but damn if a small part of you didn't want him to be.

"He's a doctor, you guys. He's not interested in girls like us," you said glumly.

"Speak for yourself," one of the girls said, looking at you incredulously. "I am a catch. Dr. Sexy over there should be so lucky."

All the other girls agreed, and while you admired, and somewhat envied, their confidence, you didn't agree. You were used goods, and you had nothing going for you except your next performance. Harry would never go for someone like you.

Thoughts of Harry were wiped from your mind when Derek came backstage and told you you'd been requested for a private dance. Your blood ran cold, fear sinking like a rock in the pit of your stomach. You knew this day was coming, but knowing that Harry was somewhere in the club while you did a private dance for someone somehow made it worse.

Steeling yourself, you slipped on the robe you used for private performances, and followed Derek back to one of the rooms. Being flanked by two huge bodyguards helped, but you were still nervous. And when the door opened, your heart sunk to your feet.

It was Harry. He was sitting in one of the plush chairs for customers.

You thought he was different, but how well did you really know him? Not meeting his eye, you made your way over to the stage to begin your dance.

"Wait! You don't—You don't have to do that," he said when you started peeling off your robe and reached out to stop you.

"Customers aren't allowed to touch the dancers," you said, like you were repeating it from some kind of handbook.

"No, sorry, that's not what I—that's not what I meant. Not at all," he said in a rush. "I just wanted to talk to you."

"You...ordered a private room so you could talk to me?"

"Yes, I thought this was the only way I could get you alone. Is it possible for us to talk privately without...listeners?"

"The guards stay," you said. You couldn't believe he just asked you that.

"Of course. I'm sorry, I must've sounded so insensitive just now," he said. He looked nervous. Scratching the back of his neck and not meeting your eyes.

"I've missed you coming by the office. Is that a weird thing to say?" he said suddenly, pink blooming on his cheeks.

"What do you want, Harry?" you asked, only feeling slightly bad for your short tone. But you were embarrassed enough as it was. Why he felt the need to prolong this terribly awkward moment was beyond you.

"I—I understand it's maybe not the most appropriate time, but I've actually wanted to do this for a long time, and—and you not coming to the office as much is actually helpful because doctors aren’t supposed to date their patients obviously—"

"Wait a minute," you said, stopping him before he got ahead of himself. "You're not asking me out or something like that are you?"

"Well, I'm trying, but the very large men glaring at me are slightly intimidating and not helping me find my words at all."

Harry certainly looked serious, but you couldn't quite believe him. "You don't want to date me, Harry."

"What do you mean? Of course I do. That's what I'm trying to get at here."

Was he really that dense? "Look at where we are. In what world would you want to go out with someone like me?"

You didn't like that he was playing with you this way, you almost would've preferred giving him a private dance.

“Y/n, I—I don't care about what you do for a living. If this is how you make money, that's fine with me, but don't tell me who I do and don't want to date. I like you, and if you give me a chance, I think you might really like me too."

Hearing Harry use your actual name and not your stage name made you want to cry.

Since getting this job, you'd let go of a lot of your childhood dreams. Hoping that your Prince Charming would one day come and sweep you off your feet was one of the first to go. Working in a strip club made you lose faith in men, in the world, and now, here was this perfectly decent man, asking you on a date while you were barely dressed. It was then that you noticed his eyes never dipped down once, looking at only your face the entire time you spoke. It shouldn't have mattered to you, should've been the bare minimum, but it did. In your world, it definitely did.

"I don't know what I deserved to meet someone like you, but thank you," you said, subtly trying to wipe a tear from your eye.

"Kindness isn't something you deserve, Y/n. It should be freely given."

You chose to believe he wasn't just saying all of this stuff, that he actually meant it. Maybe you would live to regret it, but you needed a bit of happiness in your life.

"Okay."

"Okay? Like, you're saying yes?" Harry looked and sounded like he couldn't quite believe it.

You nodded. "Yes. Just one date."

"I'm sure you'll change your mind about that on the future, but I'll take it," he said, his grin brighter than you'd ever seen it.

You felt something flutter in your stomach, something that felt like hope. You knew it was probably foolish to give the man in front of you a chance, but you liked this feeling you were feeling.

“Time's up," you said, but neither of you made any moves to leave.

"I'm sure I'll see you again."

You couldn't wait.