🌻Zari's fic recs🌻

main blog: @zclhes

[zclhesreads]

Hello, and welcome.

This is my side blog, dedicated entirely to sharing and recommending fanfiction I genuinely enjoy.

I created this space to give other writers and their work the attention they deserve, while also keeping things a little more organized on my main blog. Instead of everything getting lost in the shuffle, I wanted a place where the stories I love can easily be found again.

Here, you will find a collection of fics across different categories, all gathered in the masterlists below.

Every work shared here belongs to its respective author. I simply want to highlight and support the incredible talent within this fandom.

That said, you might occasionally find one of my own works here, included simply because I happen to be both my harshest critic and, at times, a rather convincing supporter.

Thank you for being here, and happy reading❣️

Zari

main blog: @zclhes

💕 "SOFT CORNER" — FLUFF

❤️‍🔥 "HOT STUFF" — SMUT

💔 "ACHING HEARTS" — ANGST

🎓 "ALTERNATE WORLDS" — AU

📱 "BETWEEN MESSAGES" — TEXTS

[eileenrry]

TO LOVE TO LET GO pairing: current older boyfriend! Harry Styles x fem! reader summary: At your friend’s wedding, you and Harry come to a conclusion that your relationship maybe can’t work the way you want it to word count: 8.6K contains: age gap (Harry is 32 & reader is 23), angst, sad emotional stuff, fluff, smut → soft dom! Harry, kissing, oral (f!receiving), fingering, unprotected and rough-ish? sex (wrap it before you tap it!!!), size kink if you squint, aftercare, praise, talks about marriage and kids a/n: After binge watching Friends a few months back, I got inspired by the Monica and Richard trope so here is mine ‘adaptation’. A little emotional piece. I wrote it mostly on my daily walks (girl needed to finish her apple fitness circles). Also kinda disclaimer, I’ve never been to a wedding so I was writing this with a google tab ‘how weddings work’ open the whole time hahaha click here for ➵ MASTERPOST ⋆˚ ౨ৎ ⋆.˚ comment here to join ➵ TAG LIST ✮⋆˙: ALL MY LOVE & TPWK, E

When Harry told you about the wedding invitation he got from his childhood friend, you were ecstatic. Handwritten in dark ink on creamy white cardstock with lovely illustrations, it went straight on the fridge in your shared home in London.

You loved Harry’s friends and family. And celebrating their love at such an intimate event together was a beautiful thing you couldn’t wait to be a part of. Especially when they directly invited you too, not just Harry and his plus-one.

He heartily laughed at you when he saw you getting so giddy every time you walked around the fridge. His eyes were full of amusement and love, just as his heart, and he never waited a second to join you in the silly obsessing.

You were it for Harry, that was very much certain. After two years of dating and one year of living together, he knew one day you’d be the woman in a beautiful white gown walking down the aisle to him. He knew that from the moment he laid his eyes on you already.

You planned your outfits, matching, of course, and fitted the dress code perfectly. You embraced a touch of boho and wore the requested light green for ladies, creating a perfect match with Harry’s dark pistachio suit jacket.

“You look beautiful, love. I’m afraid you’re gonna steal the spotlight,” Harry pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder after he zipped up your dress and smoothed his palm over your back. He turned you slowly in his arms, holding you at arm’s length to take in your finished look.

“My prettiest girl,” He whispered and kissed you softly on your lips, careful of your lipstick.

As a wedding registry gift, you bought a coffee machine together. A classic, but with a vintage look, yet many high-tech features, it made the perfect gift for them, especially since your friends drank coffee a lot.

The venue was lively already when you arrived. People were catching up on their lives, hugging, soft music played in the background, and you walked snuggled under Harry’s arm through the crowd full of his old friends and the bride’s and groom’s relatives, sharing your greetings and brief life updates on the way.

There wasn’t a day when you weren’t feeling a little nervous about coming to a place full of strangers by Harry’s side. Your age gap was obvious, and so the judgment was expected. You gushed with young energy, while Harry, on the other hand, looked distinctly mature with the beard he started growing out.

Harry had reassured you so many times that no one minded or cared about this aspect of your relationship a single bit. His family loved you, you had a lot of support from yours and Harry’s friends, his fans envied you, and the rest of the world didn’t matter.

You smiled politely at everyone, shook hands with the people you didn’t know, and blushed when Harry started praising you in front of his friends.

“I swear she’s amazing, the best girl in the whole world! Teaches me something new every day, keeps me on my toes,” Harry grinned when one of his friends teased him about being able to keep up with you, and he tightened his grip around your waist before he pressed a chaste kiss on your cheek.

His friends laughed, and some of them even patted his back with proud smiles. It warmed their hearts that Harry had finally found someone who made him this happy.

You took your place on the chairs, ready to watch the ceremony, and intertwined your fingers, holding your hands in your lap with a soft smile as you witnessed the celebration of love happening.

The bride was beautiful. Dressed in a big white dress with lacy details, she walked down the aisle to a violin adaptation of one song from a romantic movie. You noticed how Harry’s eyes turned glassy, and you couldn’t stop yourself from wiping away a few tears of your own.

“Look at them, they’re so happy,” He murmured in your ear as the bride and groom exchanged wedding rings.

He reluctantly pulled his hand away from yours to stand up and clap with others at the newly married couple walking up the aisle, whistling occasionally in excitement.

“That was beautiful,” You let out a dreamy sigh as you walked side by side to the reception, your arm hung in his.

“Wait for our wedding, baby,” Harry squeezed your hand gently and rubbed his thumb over your ring finger where a golden band symbolising your love could be one day.

“Shut up,” Your cheeks warmed up almost immediately, and you hid your face in his chest, making him wrap his arm around your shoulders to hold you close.

While the couple was taking photos in a beautiful garden with a small pond and many different kinds of flowers you took a glimpse of when you arrived, you and Harry found yourselves in a group of his friends from primary school and listened to the stories from their childhood, making Harry’s cheeks turn warm colours in embarrassment.

“Hey enough! Don’t y’all scare her off!” He wheezed mid-laugh and cradled you even closer in case the horrifying stories from your boyfriend’s childhood did really change your mind about dating him. Your back was pressed against his chest, his hands found their home on your stomach in a protective gesture, and thanks to your quite significant height difference, besides the age one, Harry comfortably rested his chin atop your head.

“When are you two gonna tie the knot, Harry?” One of Harry’s old friends called out teasingly and pointed with his raised glass full of champagne at you.

But to Harry, it wasn’t a joke. He was actively thinking about it. You were the love of his life, his future wife, a mother to his children. If he had the engagement ring on him, it would be on your finger by the end of the night.

“If this one says yes,” Harry said with the widest grin and squeezed your waist for good measure, “then hopefully soon,”

“We’re gonna wait for our invites then,” Everyone collectively laughed at his bubbly excitement.

“Oh, definitely,”

The conversation flowed easily and reached topics from a promotion at work, adoption of an older dog, or Harry’s plans in his music career to happy revelations that one of the bride’s friends recently had a baby.

“Oh my god, I have to send her a message! How’s she and the baby doing?” Harry’s face lit up at the news, and you felt his grip tighten around your waist as if you carried there a baby of your own that he suddenly had to protect.

The idea of someday having a baby with Harry made your stomach flutter with butterflies. Without debate, he would be the most loving father who would have tea parties with his daughter and play footie with his son.

“Peanut, please?” Harry murmured in your ear and nodded towards the small plate with appetisers on the table in front of you.

“I feel like I’m feeding a parrot and not my boyfriend,” You huffed out between giggles and fed him with a few pistachios which he accepted with an incoherent ‘thank you’ and didn’t forget to bite on your finger playfully to get a reaction from you.

As the day went on, you had a delicious chicken with potatoes and salad for late lunch and shared a piece of the wedding cake. Vanilla corpus with strawberry and lemon filling made you moan quietly, and Harry swallowed the sound from your lips with a chaste kiss. The newlyweds had their first dance as well as a dance with their parents right after, and you and Harry joined them with other couples later on to enjoy the dance floor on your own.

“Am I doing alright?” He asked you shyly while his eyes were fixed on his shoes, making sure he didn’t step on your toes.

“Yeah, why shouldn’t you?” You smiled and squeezed his biceps in encouragement.

“Been ages since I danced like that,” He shrugged and looked at you with not so shy grin anymore, “I promise I’m gonna take dance lessons before our wedding, wanna be good for you.”

“You’re silly,” You rolled your eyes at him talking about your future wedding again and rested your head against his shoulder with a happy sigh.

“Uh-huh, I’m serious, baby, there’s a difference,” He kissed your forehead with mock seriousness.

You swayed softly from side to side, wrapped up in each other, Harry’s hands rested on your lower back, keeping you close, and you were mindlessly playing with the growing curls at the nape of his neck.

“Hey, look at them,” Harry whispered in your ear after a moment and nudged his head toward two little kids dancing together. A little girl in a pretty pink dress, probably around the age of three, stood on a much older boy’s shoes while he led her carefully in an attempt to slow dance.

“Aww, they’re adorable,” You pouted at the sight.

“Imagine our little ones dancing like this, big brother leading his little sister.” Harry sighed dreamily, his eyes still focused on the children, before he slid his right hand from your back to the side of your stomach and rested his forehead against yours. If it was possible, he would have big red hearts instead of his eyes like a silly cartoon character. “You’re gonna look perfect, belly all rounded and swollen with our baby. Beautiful future momma for me.

But then he immediately remembered the conversation you had together not so long ago and looked down at your flat stomach with a small frown.

Kids and marriage. It was one of those big topics that needed to be discussed at your point of relationship. You were still young, and the thought of having a kid at that very moment or in the near future didn’t sit right with you. On the other hand, Harry’s biological clock started ticking faster than it used to. He didn’t want to run after his kids with hurting knees and backaches, nor have any problems in conception because of his age.

“Give me more time?” You looked up at him from his chest with a quiet sigh, worry gnawing at your whole body.

You both were sitting snuggled on the couch in your apartment, deep in thought after the hard conversations about would’ves and could’ves.

“Okay, sweetheart,” He gave you a sad smile and pressed a kiss in your hair. He loved you. He thought he could be okay waiting with this for a year or two for the love of his life.

“Harry,” You sigh with a pout when you noticed the disappointment itching on his face. You knew the outcome of the conversation wasn’t one you both were one hundred per cent happy with, but seeing how much it meant to Harry, and what it meant for you, you couldn’t do much but hold him tighter.

Harry leaned down and pressed his lips against yours in a deep, passionate kiss, pouring every single emotion that was blooming in his chest into it. You whimpered, not expecting that, but leaned into him quickly and reciprocated the depth of the kiss in the same measure.

You kissed until the slow love song ended and everything went silent, until the thoughts about pregnancy and babies moved into the very back of your minds.

Every single girl who wasn’t married yet, including you, moved to the end of the dance floor and gathered in a small crowd. The bride, now changed into a shorter and much more comfortable but still white dress, stood a few meters away with her back facing you and swung her arm a few times before she threw her bouquet behind her into the pool of open palms.

You weren’t trying really, reaching after it and fighting your way through the crowd of ladies to get the bouquet, but it found its way to your hands anyway and the smell of lilies slapped you in the nose.

“She got it! My girl caught the bouquet!” Harry started jumping in the most unreal state of joy as if he was watching a football game and England had scored a goal and he threw himself at his friends who caught him with laughter.

For a moment, every single one of your worries left your head, and you basked in the unexpected moment of happiness. Flowers don’t lie.

“That’s my fucking girl,” He ran to you with open arms and the widest grin you’ve ever seen on him, looking like a madman, and hugged you so tight you couldn’t even breathe for a second. He spun around with you, you kicked your feet in the air and squealed in surprise in his ear, and everybody erupted into cheers and laughter.

“We’re getting engaged so soon,” Harry finally set you down and rested his forehead against yours, still smiling like an idiot.

“Please don’t tell me you have a ring here,” Your eyes widened in horror at his words, and you slipped your hand into the pocket of his suit jacket to look for a velvet box, while holding the flowers in your other hand.

“Here? God no! Would lose it,” He laughed and took your hand into both of his, blessing every knuckle with a kiss before he pressed it over his heart.

“Look,” You showed him the bouquet with a shy smile. It was quite a simple arrangement of lilies, dahlias and greenery, held together by a white ribbon.

“It’s beautiful. And you look perfect with it, my wife to be,” He smiled at you and pulled you back into his chest for another hug, still not over what happened.

You spent the rest of the night dancing, eating, talking to Harry’s friends and the newlyweds, and admiring your new flowers too. You noticed how Harry’s eyes found the couple of kids more than once, stopping mid-sip, while eating or even during dance to take in what they were doing. How the boy was reassuring his little sister when she was crying, or how they were sharing a chocolate cupcake and their mouths were covered in icing.

“Goodnight! And congratulations again, it was so nice seeing you!” Harry hugged the groom and the bride goodbye when you were standing by the door of the venue, ready to call it a night.

“Thanks, man. Can’t wait for your wedding guys, hope you’ll invite us!” Harry’s friend patted his back in a friendly man hug.

Driving home never felt longer even though you lived just 20 minutes away from the wedding venue. Both you and Harry were quiet. You usually talked his ears off or sang along with whatever was playing on the radio but this time it was turned off.

You toed off your heels as soon as you passed the threshold of your apartment and leaned down to rub the tension away from your feet. You weren’t used to wearing heels and after hours of dancing and standing around, you were more than happy to put your feet up.

“Hurting?” Harry frowned at the idea of you being in pain and immediately knelt down, inspecting the reddening skin.

“It’s not that bad,” You shook your head, trying to lighten up the situation, but your quiet wince when Harry put light pressure on growing bruises on your instep let him know otherwise.

“Gonna fetch you some cream for it, go sit on the couch” He straightened up and with a kiss on your cheek left quickly in the bathroom.

Soon you heard the sound of his sock-cladded feet thudding softly against the hardwood floor and he reappeared from around the corner in your open space living room. He took off his suit jacket on the way, undid a few buttons on his shirt and rolled up his sleeves. With his tousled hair, he looked exactly like from your wet dreams.

“This should make it better,” He showed you the small tube of soothing cream he found in the bathroom cabinet. He took a place next to you in the soft cushion of your sofa and pulled your feet in his lap without a warning, making you whimper in surprise at the unexpected movement.

You fell back into pillows but didn’t move your legs an inch, letting Harry take care of you just as he promised he would do.

“Does it hurt a lot?” He asked you as he started rubbing the cream softly into your skin with focused precision.

“No just- just like a regular bruise, it’s not that bad,” You hummed with closed eyes, enjoying the pampering through it wasn’t something unusual, Harry loved to spoil and take care of you anytime he could.

“Okay,” He nodded and continued massaging your foot, adding pressure when it felt right and dragging his fingers around the bruised spots lightly.

“Harry?” You whispered after he moved his focus to your other foot, and you finally blinked your eyes open to look at him.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Do- do you really want to have kids uh soon?” You asked softly, not sure how to approach the topic that’s been weighing on your minds ever since the wedding.

Harry’s fingers stopped mid rub and he let out a long breath before he dared to look up at you. “I would love to. Ideally in about a year,”

You felt your heart drop in your stomach. In a year? That was too soon. That felt almost like tomorrow, and the current tomorrow was just a few hours away.

“That soon?” You whimpered.

“Yeah, I’m not the youngest anymore,” He let out a bitter laugh. “I still wanna be in good shape when we have kids.”

“Do you think I will be ready in a year?” Your voice wobbled as you spoke but you swallowed your tears and anxiety quickly.

“You’re gonna be an amazing mom, love,” Harry slid his hand up on your thigh with a small smile, the fabric of your dress bunching in your lap. He was completely sure about this.

“I don’t know,” You leaned back against the pillows and closed your eyes. You tried to take a few deep breaths to calm yourself down, your heart was beating wildly and you could feel your anxiety laughing at you. And before you could even notice it, a tear fell down your cheek.

“Hey, hey, what’s up with the tears? Why are you crying, baby?” Harry stopped massaging your feet completely, abandoning the task at hand, because an aching heart was worse than bruised feet.

“I don’t think I’m ready yet, Harry,” You hiccuped.

“Baby, don’t say that,” Harry was sure his heart stopped beating for a second. He knew this. He knew you were very hesitant about having a baby at this age, but he hoped you would change your mind.

He leaned over and gently cupped your cheek in his big palm. The coldness of the rest of the soothing cream on his fingers hit your skin and you could smell the herbs from it.

“I’m sorry,” You shook your head in protest and covered your face in your hands, not wanting Harry to see you like this. A crying mess because of the so stable future that suddenly started falling apart. He saw you crying a million times before, during a sad movie, from stress, happy tears of joy at the wedding, but nothing could beat this moment. You both were breaking. Harry just in a much quieter way.

“Shhh, come here, baby love,” Ever so gently Harry pulled your fragile limbs into his arms until your body curled in his lap and you broke down.

“I’m so sorry,” You repeated, your words muffled against his chest.

“Shhhhh, you don’t have to be sorry,” Harry tightened his hold on you and buried his face in your hair, he could feel tears of his own threatening to fall down.

“How can you love me?” You sobbed uncontrollably until your voice lost its sound and all your strength turned into quiet broken whimpers.

“I love you, baby. I love you so much. Could never stop loving you, not even because of… this.” He murmured in your ear while one of his hands petted your hair gently and the other rubbed your back, hoping it would soothe you even just a little bit. “Can you look at me, please? I need to see your eyes. Can you do that for me? Just a tiny peek?”

Slowly, you turned your head from the safety of his chest and spared your boyfriend a sad look. Your eyes were full of tears and every time you blinked a new one fell.

“I love you so fucking much, remember that. I’ll never stop loving you. No matter what happens, you will always be my forever.”

“I love you so much, Harry.”

You didn’t say anything more after. You didn’t even know what to say. Everything suddenly felt so right but so wrong at the same time. And nothing could save your hearts from breaking. You just held each other tightly and wiped every single tear that fell.

“You know,” Harry’s hoarse voice broke the silence after what felt like forever. “I already have the engagement ring. Got it made last time when we were in Italy. Remember that little jewellery store down the street where my house is?”

You nodded. You remembered that time vividly.

Harry took you on a surprise trip to his newly bought house in a small village near Rome. His love for Italy wasn't unknown and he wanted a beautiful place there, a summer house if you will, for the times when London would start being too full of rain and dark clouds.

The first night you “christened” every single place where sex could’ve been held in the house. The day after you walked funny and Harry was extra nice to you after the workout he put you through, but you survived the walk around the neighbourhood in the evening just fine and the memory of the nice old jeweller stayed in your mind.

“When you were napping, I went to Antonio and he made me the ring. Golden, with our birthstones,… Also, the great wine we had was from him.”

“Why are you telling me this?” You sniffled at the newly found information and snuggled back into him, hiding your face again. You wore a pout on your lips and your heart was beating fast again, but this time fear wasn't the reason.

“I- I don’t know.” Harry sighed and nuzzled his face in your hair once again. “I want to marry you, I so want to marry you,”

“What does this all mean for us, Harry?” You hiccuped and tightened your grip on his white button-up until your knuckles turned white and the fabric started wrinkling.

“I wish I knew, sweetheart, I wish I knew,”

“Can we still be together?” Your eyes turned glassy when you asked the question. “I- I don’t think I’m ready, I don’t think I will be anytime soon and- you want the baby now. How can you still want to be with me?”

“Because I love you,” Harry’s voice cracked at the last words and before he could change his mind he pressed his lips against yours.

Your hiccups were soothed by his harsh kisses, they swallowed every sound you made and cries that left your mouth until your lips started lazily moving against his.

“I don’t know what to do, love. And I hate it so much,” Harry cried in the kiss and tightened his grip on your hair to hold you as close as was humanly possible.

“Do we have to… break up?”

“I don’t want to, but- sweetheart, please, don’t do this to me,” Harry was on the verge of begging.

“I can’t lose you, Harry. I will change my mind, I will, I promise, I’m gonna do anything for you, please just give me more time,”

“Love, no,” Harry shook his head abruptly, stopping the empty promises he so wanted to believe.

“Please, Harry,” You fell into a fit of uncontrollable sobs and gently tug at his shirt once more. You couldn’t see through tears and your breathing was laboured to the point when you couldn't take a new one.

“Shhh baby, deep breaths, don’t need you to have a panic attack. Calm down for me,” Harry swallowed his own tears and took a few deep breaths for you to follow and regulate your system. “That’s a good girl. You’re doing good, just breathe,”

He cupped your face gently in his palms and started kissing your wet cheeks, nose, eyelids, anywhere he could reach to soothe your distress until his lips found yours in a lingering kiss. He kissed you slowly, showed his love for you through the simple act of love until you kissed him back. The kisses turned passionate in no time, your tongues danced a passionate tango and your moans overpowered your sobbing.

Harry gripped your hips and pulled you closer, rearranging you on his lap to his liking until your thighs were on each side of his. You sighed when his fingers slipped under the hem of your dress and bunched it around your waist, cupping your backside in his hands to push you into him and rub your core against his growing bulge.

“Harry,” You moaned loudly when you felt Harry harden in his pants and you buckled your hips into his to chase the friction that made you curl your toes. The zipper of his pants as well as his hard length pressed deliciously against your clit hidden under the thin barrier of your panties and you craved more.

“Shhhh baby,” He tutted quietly at your whines.

“Please Harry,” You tried again but the words died on your tongue when Harry pressed you with all his strength against his crotch and you tilted your head back in pleasure with more moans falling out of your lips.

Before you could register what was happening, Harry slid one arm under your thighs and the other around your waist, making you wrap your legs around his own, and stood up from his place on the couch. He held you in a tight hug against his sturdy chest as he walked into your bedroom all while kissing you deeply before he carefully sat you down on the edge of the bed.

He walked around the dark room blindly until he found a light switch and turned on a small lamp on your bedside table, covering the whole room in a soft yellow light. “Can I take this off?” He ran his hands over your sides gently.

“Yeah,” You nodded quickly, itching to get out of it, and stood up in front of him.

He unzipped the dress carefully, the expensive fabric slipping under his fingers from how much they trembled, before it pooled around your feet on the ground. Because of the style of the dress, you weren’t wearing any bra and Harry smiled softly when the sight of your bare back met his eyes.

He pulled you into his chest immediately when you were free of excessive clothing and buried his face in your neck. You felt him squeeze your hips tightly and his thumbs dip under the waistband of your thong, wanting it gone too.

In no time you were spread underneath his body on your king-sized bed, the white sheets that could’ve been your wedding dress were icy cold but at the same time burning your bare skin, your panties already forgotten somewhere on the floor as cold.

Harry kissed your neck, sucked at the tender skin until it bloomed with bruises in every shade of red and purple, something you usually hated but now you didn’t mind him marking you. This way he would stay with you longer.

Love bites were scattered all over your neck and collarbones and trailed down to your breasts where Harry buried his face for a moment before he took one of your nipples in his mouth and worshipped it with care and needy sucks.

“Oh,” You whimpered when he moved to your other breast to pay it a little bit of attention too and bit on the sensitive red bud lightly. He soothed the spot with his tongue immediately after and licked around the sensitive skin to get more moans out of your lungs.

“I love you so much,” He cried when his lips found your stomach. He rested his head there, body completely limp between your spread legs and his own stuck out of the bed, not that he cared.

There was silence. Neither of you spoke, nor moved. And then Harry completely broke down on top of you. His arms were holding you so close until he was barely hanging on his last breath while his body heaved with sobs.

“Harry,” You ran your fingers through his hair in an act of reassurance but you needed it just as much. Even your tears were unstoppable.

“I need you,” He mumbled against the skin of your stomach in a hoarse voice and when he looked up you saw how bloodshot his eyes were.

Harry tugged his shirt over his head quickly, not bothering to unbutton it fully or taking better care of the expensive kind of clothing than discarding it on the floor next to your underwear, and launched himself back at you like a caveman.

Grabbing at the back of your thighs, he spread your legs so wide your knees were almost at the level of your shoulders. Your pussy was on full display and Harry didn’t waste a second before he buried his face deep in your dripping core.

He wasn’t nice about it. He was rough. Starving. Craving everything you could’ve given him from soft whimpers and moans to your sweet juices dripping down his chin. He was savouring this moment, savouring you, as if you were his last meal, which in some sense you were.

“Harry please,” You writhed under his mercilessly moving tongue and buckled your hips up from the mattress, chasing after the delightful feeling of an orgasm. He alternated between teasing your clit with occasional sucks and bites and fucking deep into you with his tongue, but no matter what he did, you felt like you were seeing stars.

“Shhhh, don’t writhe baby,” He groaned, the buzz of his voice running through your whole body like a lighting. He added more pressure on the back of your thigh with his forearm to hold you open and spread your labia with his other hand so he could tickle spots with his tongue that he didn’t reach before, making your left leg fall limply on his shoulder.

“Such a pretty pussy, and all mine,” He cooed at the sight and slid his pointer and middle finger in your entrance, just past the first knuckle to tease before he filled you up completely.

“Fuck Harry!” You whimpered in shock and clenched around his long fingers as he moved them in and out in a slow yet steady rhythm to stretch you open and get you ready for himself.

When it came to sex, foreplay and preparation were something Harry took very seriously in any situation. No matter if you were having angry sex after an argument or slow lovemaking by the end of a night, he spent a good amount of time between your legs. You were much smaller in comparison to him and he always tried his best to get you wet and stretched enough before pushing his dick into you. A part of him that he couldn't really be humble about.

“Are you close? I can feel it baby, clenching so hard around my fingers,”

“Close- so close!” You cried out loudly in the open space of your bedroom.

“Come on, baby, be a good girl and come on my tongue,” Harry praised you in that deep baritone until you were a crying mess in his arms. Your legs shook so hard he had to weigh them with his body to keep you still while he kept sucking on the small bundle of nerves to prolong your orgasm until you were pushing his head away from between your legs weakly.

“Good girl, my best girl,… Taste so sweet, god I love you so much,” Slowly he withdrew his finger back and stuck them in his mouth instead to clean them from your arousal, moaning quietly when your juices hit his tastebuds.

It took you a moment to come down from the orgasmic high. Slowly, your legs stopped shaking that much and your breath evened out. You watched Harry with wide eyes and blissful expressions. How he undid and pulled out his leather belt from the loops on his pants and slid them down his legs all at once with his boxers without a second thought or how he tried to take off his socks and almost tripped over his feet in the process.

His dick was hard, standing upright and hitting his belly button, twitching in need of release. “Shit,” He groaned when he tugged at his dick a few times to get himself even harder and watched how his angrily red tip made an appearance from beneath the foreskin, pre-cum leaked heavily from his slit given how turned on he was and he smeared it all over his length.

“Please, Harry, please I need you inside me!” You weakly reached after his free hand to pull him back at you and preferably also inside your aching pussy.

“I’m here, baby, shhhh, I’m right here with you,” He crawled over your tired body and gently cupped your cheek to wipe away another stray tear.

“I love you,” You hiccuped.

“I love you too baby, so much,” He whispered in your lips, sealing his words with a lingering kiss before he looked down between your bodies. Pulling your leg up around his hip, he reached down to grab his dick and ran it a few times between your pussy lips to lube it properly before he put just the tip in your opening.

“Harry,” You huffed out impatiently, you weren’t in the mood for teasing.

“Uhuh baby, I have to go slow, you know how it is with you, I don’t wanna hurt you,” He shook his head, the love for you only grew stronger in his heart and you could catch glimpses in his eyes too when you didn’t have your own closed.

Slower than he ever went in the history of your shenanigans, he pushed inside an inch by inch, not moving more than was necessary, you were overwhelmed enough.

You whimpered at the initial stretch, that feeling was always there. You felt so full and he was just a few inches in.

“Doing good, love?” He murmured in your ear when he was halfway in and slid his hand from his dick up to your clit to relax your muscles even more.

“So good, always with you,” You sniffled and wrapped your arms tightly around his neck.

“That’s what I want to hear,” Harry groaned and pushed the rest of his dick inside you until you were filled up to the brim.

“Fuck,” You cried out loudly.

“Shhhhh it’s okay. My dick’s so big for your little pussy, I know,… But you’re doing okay, taking me so good,” He whispered soft praises in your ear until your cries turned into hiccups and hiccups into quiet whimpers. He brushed the wet hair away from your forehead, sticky from sweat, and stuck the strands behind your ear.

“You’re so deep,” You whimpered and took a peek down between your snuggled bodies. Harry started moving slowly and you watched as if it was the most mesmerising thing ever. His dick brushed against your inner walls deliciously and the tip hit your cervix with every thrust.

“I know, baby,” He pressed his palm against your lower tummy and groaned when he felt the tip of his dick poking at your insides. It felt like the closest he would ever get to your stomach in a different shape. “Look at that,”

You covered his hand with yours and intertwined your fingers, with every thrust you felt your stomach bulge ever so slightly and his dick nudging your palms from beneath your skin.

“Harry please!” You begged quietly but weren’t even sure for what. Your mind was empty, the only thought existing there was how good and deep was Harry fucking you.

The slow and careful lovemaking turned quickly into faster thrusts that shook with your whole body. Harry finally picked up a pace that wasn’t agonisingly slow but not fast either, and started fucking you with long deep thrusts, each of them making you clench around his big dick and dug your nails in his shoulders so deep you were sure the new manicure left painful marks and scratches behind.

You let out a gasp when he grabbed both of your legs and pulled them over his shoulders to get even better angle before he put his weight fully on your body to stay close to you.

“I love you so fucking much. You were made for me. Cum for me, baby, come on,” One word equalled one thrust. Harry started pounding into you so harshly that you were sure your backside would be bruised by the morning.

You opened your mouth to say something, to let your boyfriend know you were seconds away from falling apart in his arms but nothing came out, not even a sound. With rhythmic thrusts, he was hitting that exact spot that made your eyes roll back in your skull and you closer and closer to your orgasm.

Harry fucked so hard into your pussy until your moans hit a higher octave and your body shook against your will and completely at his mercy. He held you tightly in his arms, his chest against yours until your heartbeat turned into one and he came undone deep inside you with the wishful thinking of new life.

“Fuck,” He cursed between heavy breaths and pulled your limp legs down from his shoulders, you didnt even notice them cramping from how long they’ve been upright, and fell down at your body still buried inside you. He was barely holding himself up on his forearms so he wouldn’t crush you but after a moment he lowered himself down on you anyway, wanting to be as close as possible.

“I love you,” You whispered in his chest, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I love you too, baby. Are you okay? Does anything hurt?” He switched into the caring and protective mode quickly and pulled away just enough to see your face. Your eyes were closed, cheeks flushed and forehead covered in a light sheen of sweat but there was also a blissful smile that had been absent since you got home.

“I don’t feel my legs… and my pussy,” You pouted and looked up at him from underneath your eyelashes, eyes barely open.

Harry smiled at you. You had this way with words after sex that was utterly adorable to him and he couldn’t help himself but press a soft kiss on your lips.

“I’m sorry,” He apologised, but you could hear the smugness in his voice, signalling he wasn’t that sorry, but you didn’t mind. You were enjoying the post sex bliss, happy to be held and kissed on.

You closed your eyes again, too tired to use all your remaining energy for that and blindly reached for his hand. Harry intertwined your fingers immediately, not missing out on kissing your knuckles, before he rested your hands beside your head on the mattress.

You looked like an angel. A sweet creature that was deep down beneath her muscles and ribs hurting. There was the ache that couldn’t even a million I love you’s and orgasms make disappear. It didn’t matter that you were smiling now, Harry knew you’d be crying again later.

“We have to clean you up,”

“Five more minutes,” You pouted.

“Baby, you’re all sweaty and sticky. Just a quick pee and a shower? For me?” He tried to bribe you with more kisses on your cheeks and lips, anything to get you to agree. He knew how sniffly you could get when you were emotional and uncomfortable.

“Will you carry me? And wash me? Please?” You pouted as much as you could, knowing the puppy eyes always worked on him.

“Anything for you, sweetheart. Lemme just-“ Harry sat up on his knees and ever so slowly pulled his softening dick out of you, rubbing your inner thigh in the process to calm you down because your facial expression spoke for itself, it wasn't the most comfortable feeling. “Here you go, baby. Oh look at that, still dripping,”

Your mixed cum dripped out of your opening down your ass and on the bedsheets, making it cling to your skin. Harry was right, you were starting to feel uncomfortable.

Harry cradled your spent body carefully in his arms and walked with you in the ensuite bathroom. He set you down on the toilet and moved to turn on the water in the walk-in shower to get it warmed up.

He tried to make the shower as quick as possible, knowing how tired you were and that your legs would give up quickly after standing for too long. He shampooed your hair with care, washed all the suds of soap from your skin, massaged the lingering tension away from your muscles, all while kissing you softly to make the after-sex soreness better.

Wrapped in a warmed-up fuzzy towel like an adorable burrito, Harry took you back to the bedroom and set you down in an armchair in the corner. He didn’t bother much about putting clothes on, he was content with just a towel wrapped around his waist as he moved around the softly lit room with ease. He tugged the sweat-soaked sheets down and threw them in the hamper before he fished new ones from the bottom drawer in the closet, soft grey sheets with little flowers scattered all over.

You watched Harry quietly, how his muscles flexed when he spread the white bedsheets over the mattress, and how his calloused fingers carefully buttoned up the duvet cover and smoothed wrinkles away from the cotton fabric.

You wished it could be like this till your last days, maybe it was, the hot showers full of care and quiet bedding changes after midnight, but the more you thought about it, the more you were sure it was slipping through your fingers.

“All done,” Harry smiled proudly at his work and turned to you. You looked smaller than usual, maybe it was the position, maybe the feelings acting up on themselves, but you looked so fragile it was breaking his heart.

You stretched your arms up high in the air with a quiet groan, your muscles a little stiff again, making the towel slip from around your chest and pool around your waist, but you didn’t bother fixing it. Harry saw you already like this anyway.

“Come here,” Harry reached out to take your hands in his and helped you gently to your feet. Your movements were still a little slow and tired, but Harry was patient, he wasn't rushing anywhere. “There we go, and right under the sheets,”

You slipped under the duvet, and Harry followed the pattern closely after he threw his towel on the place where you were sitting a minute ago and wrapped himself around you like a vice. One arm under your head, the other thrown over your waist, his thigh snugged between yours, bare bodies pressed together. Sometimes you preferred sleeping naked when you were craving the closeness of the other, and tonight was one of those nights.

“Remember the first night you spent here?” Harry whispered with a small smile, going back in his memories to the start of your relationship.

“Yeah, we watched The Notebook, and you had to calm me down because I was crying so much.” You chuckled, a real smile spreading on your lips at the memory, “Still to this day, I don’t understand how you didn’t break up with me after that.”

The words echoed in both of your minds, but neither of you had the strength to address it. Yet.

“It was sweet,” Harry moved his face closer until you were sharing just one pillow and nuzzled his nose against yours.

“Embarrassing. I’ve never cried this much during a movie,” You shook your head but only gave Harry a good old eskimo kiss he used to give you before the real makeouts came on the scene in the first weeks of dating, and smiled widely.

“I loved coming home to you before you even moved in. It was the best idea I ever had, to give you a key,” He reminisced more. After you started being serious, you happened to be at his place a lot. Working in his study on your essays, enjoying his shower with all the special settings you’ve never really learned how to use till this day, sunbathing in his garden, lounging in his living room when you were feeling lonely because that space made you feel safe.

“I love this house,” You shrugged. “Been my home since the start.”

“And you are my home.” Harry whispered, “This heart?” He moved his hand from your back up to your chest to make his point, “This head?” He trailed his pointer finger over your collarbones, up to your neck and cheeks until he brushed your nose, “You whole are my home,”

The corners of your mouth twitched until they fell and your smile turned upside down and your bottom lip trembled. You closed your eyes, not sure what to say. Your chest felt heavy again.

“I’m gonna love you forever. You know that, right?” He rubbed your cheek gently, hoping he would pry your eyes open again, but he didn’t want to push. You both were going through a turmoil of emotions.

“Yeah,” You breathed out, “I know,”

“Good,” Harry swallowed the tears and pressed his lips against your forehead, pulling you in him again, trying to erase every free space between your bodies. “No matter what happens, wherever and who- whoever we end up with, you will always be the only one for me.”

“Harry, please,” You sniffled and reached up to wipe your nose with the back of your nose.

“Shhh, baby, don’t make it even harder for me,”

“I can’t lose you,”

“You won’t lose me,”

“Then why are you saying all of this?” You blinked your eyes at him. full of him and hurt.

“Because this- it’s for the better. At least for now. I- I need some time too, we both do,… alone.” Harry whispered, his own tears now falling down his cheeks and on the newly changed pillowcase. He didn’t want to cry. He wanted to be strong for you, but he also felt too much to hold it together like the tough guy he thought he was.

You both cried quietly, held each other tightly, exchanged open-mouthed kisses because your sobs were inexorable and too hard to hold behind your teeth. You both were hurting and loving each other with bared hearts and heads full of wishful thoughts and the unthinkable would’ves and could’ves.

“This isn’t the end. I won’t let it happen,” Harry whimpered, his voice hoarse from all the crying, and pressed another kiss to your parted lips. You were so close to falling asleep, tired, emotionally ruined, with a body like a ragdoll, but you were grasping onto everything that would keep your eyes open for a moment longer. “We can stay in touch, just- maybe not for a while… It will be better like that,”

“I love you, Harry,” You whispered before your breathing evened out and your body turned limp in Harry’s arms.

But Harry stayed awake. Still with tears in his eyes and heart beating too fast, he watched your chest rise and fall, your eyelashes flutter, ran his fingers over your back lightly just to memorise the pattern of your birthmarks. He tried to remember you one last time. He didn’t want to fall asleep, because falling asleep would mean leaving you after he would open his eyes again in the morning and that was the last thing on earth he wanted, though deep down it was the only thing that was right in the moment, no matter how many little pieces it broke his heart into.

The morning came way faster than he would have wanted it to. Harry wasn’t sure if he slept or watched you for the whole night, but whatever he did, his body was hurting from heartache and both emotional and physical exhaustion. With a tight throat and trembling fingers, maybe from the lack of sleep, maybe from hurting, he untangled himself from you and tucked the blanket over your body, not wanting you to feel cold. He picked up his phone to check the time, but the sight of your face, all bright and smiley on his lock screen, your bubbly self he shattered with his differently timed wants and needs, it brought him back to tears again. It was four in the morning.

He moved around the space quietly and dressed himself up quickly in a pair of grey pants and a well-worn sweater, something he had worn the other day and brought him just enough comfort for the hard start of a day. He started putting whatever came under his hand in his two duffel bags - favourite pieces of clothing, all the underwear he could find, hygiene products, and all the essentials that he could think of with his fogged-up mind.

“Harry?” You mumbled sleepily. The sound of his socked feet moving around the bedroom and the opening and closing of the drawers in the closet woke you up.

“Baby, shhhh, go back to sleep,” He crouched by your side of the bed immediately when he heard your voice and rubbed your cheek in an attempt to lull you back to sleep. He cursed himself in his head for not being more careful.

“What are you doing?” You asked quietly but snuggled back into your pillow at his touch.

“Packing my bag, love, nothing for you to worry about, rest your eyes for a bit more,” He ran his fingers through your messy hair a few times and watched you quietly.

“I’m gonna be in my house in Italy, yeah? Just for a bit. I- It is better like this, it’s gonna be, baby. I- I love you so much. So fucking much,” Harry cried softly and leaned in to kiss your forehead for the last time.

“I love you, Harry.” You covered his hand in your hair weakly before he pulled it away. Before he could change his mind and crawl back under the sheets beside you. You were stuck somewhere between dreamland and reality, but you felt everything.

Harry grabbed his two duffel bags from the carpeted floor and stuck his phone in his pocket, your smiley face still there, and watched you from the doorway, sleeping so peacefully despite the situation. But before he walked out of the bedroom and out of your life, even if it was just for a month, he went back in the closet and opened a drawer with his shirts. He reached under the high pile of button-ups and pulled out a velvet box with the engagement ring he told you about.

Harry squeezed the box tightly in his fist until his knuckles turned white, at least something different hurt that time, and set it on your bedside table. Not as something he was leaving behind, but as a promise.

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[unabashegirl]

off the record — one

Pregnant after a one-night stand with Harry Styles, Y/N assumes they have gone their separate ways until a high-stakes photoshoot forces them back together.

Author's note: After receiving a few asks requesting that I upload the first chapter of each short series on Tumblr for free, I realised that most of you simply wanted to get a feel for the stories before deciding what you were signing up for on Patreon, which makes so, so much sense!

I went ahead and made a poll on Patreon because I wanted my subscribers to have a say and make sure everything felt fair. They were completely fine with it as long as only the first chapter was posted and the rest of the story remained exclusive to Patreon.

So, here it is! This is the first chapter of Off the Record, and I personally love this one so much. I hope you enjoy it! 🤍

word count - 10,7k

warnings/tags: First time, unprotected sex, alcohol use, pregnancy discovery.

The blue light from the dual monitors was the only thing illuminating the living room. Y/N leaned back in her ergonomic chair, rubbing the bridge of her nose. She had been staring at the same editorial spread for Wonderland magazine for six hours, obsessing over the color grading on a model’s cheekbone.

It was good work. Gritty, raw, exactly the kind of aesthetic that was getting her name dropped in rooms she wasn't even in yet.

The silence was shattered by the sound of the front door unlocking, followed immediately by it slamming shut.

Y/N didn't even turn around. She just hovered her mouse over the Save button. "Don't tell me. You didn't wear the coat."

"I am not going," a voice wailed from the hallway.

Marnie stomped into the living room, throwing her expensive clutch onto Y/N’s sofa before collapsing next to it face-first. She was dressed in a stunning, shimmering silver dress that cost more than Y/N’s first camera, but her vibe was pure tragedy.

Y/N finally swiveled her chair around. "Marnie, it’s the British Fashion Awards after-party. You’ve been talking about this since June. You have to go. It’s literally your job."

Marnie lifted her head; her mascara was dangerously close to smudging. "I can't. I can't do it, Y/N. Greg is going to be there."

"Greg?" Y/N frowned. "I thought Greg was in finance. Why is Greg at a fashion party?"

"Because his firm sponsors the vodka brand that’s sponsoring the bar!" Marnie cried, sitting up and gesturing wildly. "And he’s not just going to be there. He’s going to be there with his 'work friends,' which means I have to walk in there alone, three days after he dumped me via text, while the vultures from my PR team watch me crumble."

Y/N sighed, looking back at her screen. She really wanted to finish this edit. But looking at Marnie, usually so put together, now vibrating with anxiety, she knew her night of solitude was over.

"The vultures?" Y/N asked.

"Sarah and the other junior publicists," Marnie said darkly. "They smell blood. If I show up alone and sad, they’ll eat me alive. I need armor. I need a buffer." She looked at Y/N with wide, pleading eyes. "I need you."

Y/N laughed dryly. "Me? Marnie, I’m editing. And I haven’t washed my hair in two days. I am not red carpet material right now."

"I don't need red carpet material!" Marnie stood up, marching over to Y/N’s desk. She grabbed the back of Y/N’s chair. "I need 'cool, rising-star photographer who is too busy for this shit but is here anyway.' I need your energy. Please. If you come with me, I look connected and unbothered. If I go alone, I look like the ex-girlfriend who couldn't get a date."

Y/N looked at her best friend. She thought about the time Marnie had spent three hours helping her carry lighting equipment up four flights of stairs for her first paid shoot.

"Fine," Y/N groaned, saving the file and shutting down the computer. "But we are not staying late. And I am absolutely choosing my own outfit."

Marnie let out a squeal, wrapping her arms around Y/N’s neck. "I love you. You should wear the golden dress. It’s very 'off-duty model.' Just hurry!"

Y/N stood up and headed toward her bedroom. "I’m giving you two hours, Marnie. If I don't see a free drink in my hand by 10 PM, I’m coming back here to sleep."

"Deal!"

The venue was exactly what Y/N expected, a sensory overload of velvet, crystal, and ego.

The moment they stepped out of the taxi, the humidity of the London rain clinging to their skin, they were hit by the wall of sound. Inside, the bass vibrated through the floorboards, shaking the ice in the glasses of the waiters weaving through the crowd.

Y/N brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, feeling the cold air hit the exposed skin of her back. The dress Marnie had bullied her into was incredible, she had to admit. A shimmering, champagne-gold mini dress that caught every stray beam of light. It had long, flared sleeves that swished dramatically when she moved, but the back was completely open, held together only by a delicate tie at the nape of her neck.

"Okay," Marnie breathed, gripping Y/N’s arm. Her grip was tight, her nails digging in slightly. "Target acquired. Sarah is at the bar with the Creative Director from Gucci. I need to go say hello before she spins the narrative that I’m at home crying into a tub of ice cream."

Y/N squeezed her hand. "Go. Be charming. I’ll get a drink and try not to look like I’d rather be editing."

"You look amazing," Marnie said, her eyes scanning the room. "Thank you. Seriously."

With a deep breath, Marnie smoothed her hair and disappeared into the crush of bodies, instantly transforming from the frantic friend in the apartment to the polished PR maven she was paid to be.

Y/N stood alone for a moment, letting the wave of the party wash over her. She navigated toward the bar, but the queue was three deep. The air was hot, smelling of expensive perfume and stale champagne.

I need a drink. Immediately.

Just as she was about to give up, a waiter breezed past with a silver tray of champagne flutes. Y/N didn't hesitate. She reached out and snatched a glass, downing half of the expensive fizz in one unladylike gulp. The bubbles burned pleasantly in her throat, taking the edge off her anxiety.

She grabbed a second glass from the retreating tray before the waiter could protest and turned toward the back of the room.

She spotted a heavy velvet drape near the back of the room, slightly ajar. Slipping through the crowd, the sequins of her dress brushing against tailored suits, she pushed the curtain aside and stepped out onto the terrace.

The silence was instant and blissful.

The terrace was stone, wet from the rain, overlooking the slick streets of Mayfair below. It was empty. Or so she thought.

"Smart move," a voice said from the shadows.

Y/N jumped slightly, her hand going to her chest.

Leaning against the stone balustrade in the corner was a man. He was wearing a flared suit that looked like 70s wallpaper in the best possible way, his shirt unbuttoned low enough to show a hint of tattoos. He was holding a heavy crystal tumbler, the amber liquid inside catching the dim light.

Harry Styles.

Y/N blinked. She didn't gasp. She didn't pull out her phone. Her photographer’s brain just instantly registered the composition: the way the streetlamp backlit his curls, the contrast of his sharp suit against the rough stone.

"Jesus," she let out a breath, stepping further onto the terrace. The wind whipped at the long sleeves of her dress. "You scared me."

"Sorry," Harry said, though he was grinning. His voice was slow, raspy. He didn't move from his spot. "Usually people come out here to smoke or to cry. You don't look like you're doing either." His eyes dropping to the full glass of champagne in her hand, and then to the empty one she had evidently just finished and was still clutching. "Thirsty?”

Y/N looked down at the glasses, realizing she was double-fisting. She shrugged, setting the empty one on the balustrade and taking a large sip of the full one. "It’s that kind of night. I'm hiding. My best friend is currently fighting for her life in a PR war inside. I'm the designated moral support, but I'm currently on a union-mandated break."

Harry laughed, a genuine, bubbling sound. "PR war? Sounds dangerous."

"It's brutal," Y/N agreed, leaning her elbows on the wet stone. She looked at him sideways. "And you? Hiding from the adoring masses?"

"Hiding from a guy trying to pitch me a metaverse concert," Harry said, flicking ash over the side of the balcony. He turned his body toward her, his green eyes scanning her face, then drifting down to the open back of her dress before snapping back up. "I think I prefer the PR war."

"Trust me," Y/N smirked. "You don't."

There was a pause, but it wasn't awkward. It was heavy. The kind of silence where you can feel the other person’s gravity.

"I'm Harry," he said finally, extending a hand.

Y/N looked at his hand—rings on almost every finger—and then met his eyes. "I know." She took his hand. It was warm. "I'm Y/N."

Harry didn't let go of her hand immediately. He tilted his head, studying her with a lazy, amused expression. "Y/N. No last name? Like Madonna? Or Cher?”

"Like someone who wants to keep her anonymity intact," she countered, finally pulling her hand back to take a sip of her champagne. The bubbles were making her head spin in a pleasant, fuzzy way. "Besides, you're one to talk. pretty sure you’re just 'Harry' to about three billion people.”

"Touché." He took a long swallow of his drink, his eyes never leaving her face. "So, Y/N who is hiding from the PR war. What do you do when you aren't double-fisting champagne on balconies?”

"I'm a photographer," she said, leaning back against the stone railing. She gestured vaguely with her glass toward the party inside. "Fashion. Editorial. Usually, I'm the one behind the lens telling people like you to tilt their chin down because the lighting is tragic.”

Harry laughed, a low rumble in his chest. He stepped a little closer, encroaching on her personal space. "Is that what you're doing now? Analyzing my angles?"

Y/N looked him up and down. The suit was ridiculous, really—a geometric 70s print that should have looked hideous but somehow just looked... cool. "I'm trying to figure out if that suit is custom Gucci or if you peeled it off a wall in a grandmother's house in 1974."

Harry grinned, looking down at his lapels. "It's vintage. And for your information, grandmothers love me."

"I bet they do," she murmured, taking another large gulp of her drink. She was definitely feeling the alcohol now; the sharp edges of her anxiety about Marnie were blurring into a warm confidence. "You have a very 'bingo night' energy."

"Bingo night energy?" Harry feigned offense, but his eyes were dancing. "I'll have you know I am the life of the party. Just... not this party."

"Why?" Y/N asked, genuinely curious now. "Everyone in there is dying to talk to you."

"That's the problem," Harry said. He turned to lean his back against the railing next to her, so they were shoulder to shoulder, looking out at the rainy street. "Everyone wants to talk at me. Pitch me things. Take a selfie. It’s loud. And I’m starving."

"Well, there are canapés inside," Y/N pointed out.

"Tiny, sad toast," Harry dismissed with a wave of his hand.

Suddenly, the velvet curtain behind them whipped open. A burst of loud bass and laughter spilled onto the quiet balcony. A man in a shiny suit stuck his head out, his eyes widening when he saw Harry.

"Harry! Mate! I’ve been looking everywhere for you, we need to discuss the—"

Harry’s jaw tightened. He didn't look at the man. He looked at Y/N, a conspiratorial glint in his eye. He finished his drink in one swallow and set the glass down on the stone ledge.

"I'm leaving," he said, his voice low, just for her. "I'm going to go home, make a proper grilled cheese sandwich, and open a bottle of wine that actually tastes like grapes. You should come."

Y/N blinked, surprised. "To your house?"

"My place in Hampstead," Harry nodded, ignoring the man who was now stepping fully onto the balcony. "It's a bit of a drive, but the company is better. And I promise the lighting is excellent."

It wasn't a smooth pickup line anymore; it was a lifeline. He was offering an escape hatch.

Y/N looked at the man approaching them, then back at Harry’s open, hopeful face. The alcohol in her system made the decision feel easy, almost inevitable.

"I do love a grilled cheese," she said, a slow smile spreading across her face.

Harry grinned, his dimple popping. "Run," he whispered.

He grabbed her hand, and before the man in the shiny suit could say another word, they were ducking past him, Harry leading her not back into the party, but toward the side stairs that led down to the alleyway exit.

The back of the blacked-out SUV was quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos they had just left. The rain drummed rhythmically against the roof.

They sat close, their thighs pressing together every time the car took a sharp turn. The adrenaline of their escape had faded into a comfortable, heavy silence.

"You weren't kidding about the drive," Y/N murmured, watching the London streets blur past—moving from the lights of Mayfair to the darker, leafier roads of North London.

"Worth it," Harry said. He was slouching in the leather seat, looking more relaxed than he had all night. He turned his head to look at her. "You okay? No regrets about deserting the PR war?"

"Marnie will understand," Y/N said, though she made a mental note to text her. "She usually supports my bad decisions."

"Is this a bad decision?" Harry asked softly.

Y/N met his gaze. In the flashing streetlights, his eyes were dark and intense. "Ask me after the grilled cheese."

Harry laughed, and the car finally slowed, pulling through a set of high gates and crunching over gravel.

The house was beautiful—a white stucco Georgian home that looked cozy rather than imposing. Inside, it wasn't the sterile showroom Y/N expected. It was cluttered and warm. There were piles of books on the floor, guitars leaning against walls, and a mismatched collection of colorful furniture.

"Shoes off," Harry instructed, kicking off his boots by the door.

“I'll go foraging for cheese. Make yourself at home."

He disappeared into the kitchen, humming something off-key.

Y/N stood in the hallway for a moment, the silence of the house settling around her. She unbuckled her heels, sighing with relief as her feet hit the plush rug. She quickly fished her phone out of her clutch.

To: MarnieI escaped. Sorry!! Left early. Will explain everything tomorrow. Don't die. Love u x

She hit send, guilt-swallowing slightly, but not enough to leave. She dropped the phone back into her bag just as Harry reappeared.

He had ditched his suit jacket and unbuttoned his shirt further, sleeves rolled up. He was balancing a bottle of red wine, two glasses, and a plate of rather burnt-looking grilled cheese sandwiches.

"The dining table is covered in fan mail I haven't opened since 2019," he announced, nodding toward the living room rug. "Floor?"

"Floor is good," Y/N agreed.

They settled on the thick Persian rug in front of the fireplace. Y/N sat cross-legged, the gold dress shimmering in the low light, while Harry stretched his long legs out, pouring the wine with a heavy hand.

"To escaping," he toasted, handing her a glass.

"To burnt cheese," she countered, clinking her glass against his.

They ate the sandwiches, which were actually delicious, and drank the wine. Fast.

An hour later, the bottle was dangerously low, and the air in the room had shifted from awkward to that specific, hazy comfort you only get at 2 AM with a stranger.

Y/N was laughing so hard she had to lean back on her hands, her head tilting toward the ceiling. "No, you did not. You are lying."

"I swear!" Harry protested, his face flushed, eyes bright and glassy. He was lying on his side now, propped up on one elbow, tracing the pattern of the rug with a ring-clad finger. "I fell off the stage. Fully off. And I just... kept singing. I thought if I didn't acknowledge it, no one would notice."

"Harry," Y/N giggled, wiping a tear from her eye. "Everyone noticed. There are probably memes."

"There are so many memes," he groaned, hiding his face in his hand for a second before peeking back at her. "God, it's nice to just... talk shit. Usually, people want to talk about the 'creative process' or my hair routine."

"What is your hair routine?" Y/N teased, reaching out to poke his knee.

"Neglect and humidity," he grinned. He sat up a little straighter, reaching for the bottle to split the last dregs between them. "What about you? What's the worst thing that’s happened on a shoot?"

Y/N took the refilled glass. She felt loose, warm, and happy. "I once told a very famous supermodel to 'stop looking like a dead fish.' I thought I was whispering to my assistant. I was not whispering."

Harry barked out a laugh, throwing his head back. "Did she storm off?"

"No, she actually posed better. Fear is a great motivator."

They fell into a comfortable silence then. The laughter died down, leaving a heavy, charged quiet in its wake. The room was dim, the only light coming from a few lamps and the streetlights filtering through the curtains.

Y/N took a sip of her wine, watching him over the rim of the glass. He was looking at her. Really looking at her. Not at the dress, but at her face.

It was the wine, she told herself firmly. Definitely the wine.

That was the only reason she was noticing the way his shirt pulled across his shoulders as he leaned back. It was the mix of champagne and expensive red that was making his eyes look so unnervingly green, like moss underwater. If she were sober, he would just be a celebrity with a bad haircut and too many rings. Right now, in this lighting, he looked like a Renaissance painting she wanted to touch.

Harry set his glass down on the floor. He shifted, moving a few inches closer on the rug.

His knee bumped hers.

It was a casual, accidental touch, but Y/N felt it like an electric shock. She didn't pull away.

"You're cool, Y/N," he said softly, the playfulness in his voice replaced by something sincere and a little slurred. "I'm really glad you were on that balcony."

"Me too," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. She set her glass down on the floor, suddenly feeling very aware of how close they were sitting.

Harry reached out, his hand hesitating for a second in the air before his fingers brushed the bare skin of her forearm.

Y/N stopped breathing.

His skin was warm, his rings cool against her arm. He traced a line from her wrist up to her elbow, his touch feather-light.

It’s just the alcohol, her mind insisted frantically. The shivering is just the alcohol. The heat in your stomach is just the alcohol.

"Is this okay?" he murmured, his eyes searching hers.

Y/N nodded. She couldn't find her voice.

He moved slowly. His hand trailed up her arm to her neck, his thumb grazing her jawline. He leaned in, and Y/N instinctively leaned forward to meet him.

The kiss was slow. Soft. He tasted like red wine and grilled cheese and vanilla. Y/N hummed into the kiss, her eyes fluttering shut as his other hand came up to cup her face, deepening the contact.

She moved her hands to his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt, bunching the material in her fists. They fell back against the rug, limbs tangling, the empty wine bottle forgotten on the floor beside them.

Harry hovered over her, his weight supported on his forearms so he wouldn't crush her. His hair fell forward, tickling her cheek, creating a private curtain around them. He kissed her jaw, then trailed his lips down the column of her neck, making Y/N gasp.

His hands moved to her shoulders, his fingers finding the straps of the gold dress. He nudged the fabric aside, pressing a warm, open-mouthed kiss to the bare curve of her shoulder.

"Harry," Y/N breathed, her voice shaking slightly. The reality of who he was and where they were pierced through the wine-haze for a second. She reached up, her hand resting on the back of his neck, her fingers tangling in his curls to stop him for a moment.

He paused immediately, lifting his head to look at her, his eyes dark and dilated. "Yeah?"

"Do you do this a lot?" she whispered, searching his face. "Just... pluck girls from parties and feed them burnt cheese?"

Harry let out a soft, breathy laugh, the sound vibrating against her chest. He didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned down to press a kiss to her collarbone, his rings cool against her heated skin as he traced the line of the dress.

"When I was younger? Maybe," he murmured against her skin, his voice rough with honesty. He lifted his head again, looking her dead in the eye. "But not now. Not for a long time."

Y/N searched his face for a lie, for a rehearsed line, but she only found a raw, boyish openness.

"Good," she whispered.

"Good," Harry echoed.

He reached behind her neck, finding the delicate string that held the back of the dress together. With a deft tug, the knot came loose. The dress slackened, the sequins rustling as they slid down her arms.

Harry’s gaze followed the movement, reverent and hungry. He helped her ease the shimmering fabric down, the dress pooling around her hips.

The air in the room was warm, but Y/N felt the sudden exposure, a coolness hitting her skin that had nothing to do with the temperature. She instinctively brought her arms up to cover herself slightly, her cheeks burning hot.

Harry stopped her. He gently took her wrists, pulling her hands away so he could look at her properly. His eyes roamed over her, the curve of her waist, the slope of her breasts, and the deep, rosy flush that was spreading across her chest and up to her neck.

"God," he exhaled, the sound rough. "Look at you."

"It's the wine," Y/N stammered, feeling the heat in her face intensify under his scrutiny. "I turn red when I drink."

"Liar," Harry murmured, a crooked, knowing grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned in, brushing his nose against her burning cheek. "You're blushing. I'm making you blush."

"You're very full of yourself, Styles," she whispered, though she leaned into his touch.

"I'm just observant," he countered. He sat back on his heels, his hands moving to the buttons of his own shirt. He undid them with maddening slowness, his eyes never leaving hers.

Y/N’s breath hitched. She had seen photos of him shirtless, obviously—who hadn't?—but seeing him right there, inches away, was different. The ink of his tattoos stood out against his skin in the firelight. The swallows on his chest seemed to flutter as he breathed. He wasn't perfect and polished like a statue; he was real, warm, and solid.

"You're beautiful," she admitted quietly.

Harry caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. He didn't deflect or joke this time. He just held her gaze, his pupils blown wide, his voice dropping to a low growl.

"You are... absolutely trouble."

He didn't wait for a response. He kissed her hard, a claiming, bruising kiss that swallowed her gasp. His hands slid down her sides, gripping her hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh there, anchoring her to the rug.

Y/N arched into him, the friction of his pants against her bare thighs sending a jolt of raw need straight to her core. She felt the heavy, hard ridge of him pressing against her stomach, a promise of what was coming. It made her ache, a sudden, wet heat pooling between her legs.

"Harry," she whimpered, her hands scrabbling at the waistband of his trousers. "Please. The clothes. Too many clothes.”

Harry groaned, pulling back just enough to look at her, his eyes blown black. He sat back on his heels, his breathing ragged. He shoved his jeans and boxers down in one frantic movement, kicking them away.

When he moved back over her, the feeling of skin-on-skin was electric.

Y/N reached down between them. She wanted to touch him, to feel the weight of him in her palm. Her fingers wrapped around his length, stroking him once, firm and slow.

Harry made a strangled noise, his hips bucking instinctively into her touch, but a second later, his hand clamped over hers, stopping her movement.

"Don't," he choked out, his voice wrecked.

Y/N looked up, confused. "why?"

"I can't," he admitted, his chest heaving as he pulled her hand away, interlacing their fingers and pinning her hand to the rug beside her head. "If you touch me like that... I won't last. I won't be able to hold it.

He looked at her with a desperate, starving intensity, his forehead glistening with sweat.

"I want you too much," he whispered, the confession raw. "I need to be inside you. Just let me have you.”

He settled between her legs, using his knees to nudge her thighs wider apart. Y/N wrapped her legs around his waist instantly, her heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him flush against her. The contact was searing—the heat of his chest against her breasts, the roughness of the rug against her back, and the hard, tip of him teasing her entrance.

Harry braced himself on one arm, his other hand reaching down to guide himself. He paused for a heartbeat, his forehead resting against hers, their breath mingling in sharp, synchronized pants.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a low, guttural rasp.

Y/N opened her eyes, meeting his intense gaze.

"Don't close them," he breathed, his eyes searching hers with a desperate intensity. "I want to watch you take it.”

It wasn't a gentle slide. It was a slow, stretching invasion. Y/N threw her head back, but kept her eyes locked on his, a strangled cry tearing from her throat as he filled her, inch by thick inch. He was big, stretching her in a way that felt bordering on pain before bleeding into exquisite, overwhelming pleasure.

Harry hissed through his teeth, his jaw tight as he buried himself to the hilt. He held perfectly still for a moment, letting her adjust to his size, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.

"You feel..." he choked out, squeezing his eyes shut for a second before snapping them open again to look at her. "Fuck, Y/N. You feel so good."

"Move," she begged, her hips snapping up to meet him. "Harry, move."

He withdrew slowly, almost completely, before snapping his hips forward, driving back in with a force that knocked the breath out of her.

The rhythm started slow, a heavy, grinding friction that targeted every nerve ending she had. But as the pleasure coiled tighter in her belly, the pace shattered. Harry abandoned the slow exploration. He began to pound into her, his movements sharp and possessive.

The only sounds in the room were the wet slap of skin against skin, the rustle of the discarded sequins, and their harsh, broken breathing.

Y/N was lost in the sensationthe burn of the rug on her back, the sweat slicking their bodies, and the relentless pressure of him hitting that sweet, aching spot deep inside her over and over again. She dug her nails into his shoulders, leaving crescent moon marks on his skin.

"Harry," she gasped, the pleasure building to a breaking point, tightening like a rubber band about to snap.

"I know," he panted against her ear, his hand slipping between their bodies to find her clit. "Let go, sweetheart. Just let go.”

The added friction was too much. Y/N shattered.

She cried out, her body bowing off the floor. She clamped down on him, the spasms of her orgasm milking him.

Harry groaned, a deep, animalistic sound. He drove into her hard, once, twice, three times, fast and erratic, before he stiffened. He buried his face in her neck, biting down on the sensitive cord of muscle there as he spilled into her, his body jerking with each pulse of his release.

They collapsed together, a tangle of limbs and heavy, sweaty breaths, the silence of the room slowly rushing back in to replace the chaos.

The light filtering through the linen curtains was gray, flat, and unforgiving.

Y/N woke with a gasp, her heart hammering before her eyes even fully opened. Her head was throbbing—a dull, rhythmic reminder of the cheap champagne and the expensive red wine.

For a terrifying second, she didn't know where she was. The sheets were white and smelled of cedar. Then she felt the weight—a heavy arm draped across her waist, and the steady, deep sound of breathing against her bare shoulder.

She froze.

The memories of the night crashed into her like a wave. The balcony. The "escape." The burnt grilled cheese. The rug.

Harry Styles.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she turned her head on the pillow.

He was fast asleep on his stomach, face buried halfway into the pillow, his curls a chaotic halo around his head. He looked peaceful. Younger, somehow, without the guarded expression he’d worn at the party. The sheet was pooled around his waist, exposing the tattoos on his back that she had traced only hours ago.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the hangover.

What have I done?

She checked her phone on the nightstand. 6:17 AM.

If she stayed, she had to talk to him. They would have to order coffee. He might be nice. He might be awkward. It would become a "thing." It would become a story.

She couldn't do it. She was a professional photographer, not a groupie who lingered for breakfast. She had an edit to finish. She had a life that didn't involve navigating the morning routine of a global superstar.

Y/N carefully, millimeter by millimeter, lifted his arm. It was heavy. Harry grunted softly, shifting his leg, and Y/N stopped breathing, her eyes widening in terror.

He settled again, letting out a soft sigh, burrowing deeper into the pillow.

She slid out of bed, shivering as the cool morning air hit her skin. The room was messy—clothes scattered in a trail from the doorway.

She found her gold dress in a heap near the foot of the bed. She pulled it on, wincing at the loud rustle of the sequins in the silent room. It felt sticky and inappropriate for a Tuesday morning.

She found one heel near the door. The other was halfway under the armchair. She grabbed them both, clutching them to her chest like stolen goods.

She paused at the bedroom door, her hand on the brass handle. She looked back at him one last time. The gray light was hitting his sleeping face, highlighting the slope of his nose and the fan of his eyelashes.

A part of her—the reckless part that liked burnt cheese and bad jokes—wanted to crawl back in.

"Bye, Harry," she mouthed silently.

She slipped out, the latch clicking shut with a finality that made her chest ache. She didn't look for a note. She didn't leave her number.

She tiptoed down the stairs, past the kitchen where the empty wine bottle still sat on the floor, and let herself out the heavy front door.

The morning air outside was biting and cold. Y/N walked quickly down the gravel driveway, barefoot on the wet stones until she reached the gate, carrying her shoes.

The smell of the darkroom chemicals usually grounded her. Today, it made her want to retch.

Y/N sat on the rolling stool in her studio, her head between her knees, taking deep, steadying breaths. The room was spinning slightly. It had been spinning since Tuesday.

Just the flu, she told herself for the fiftieth time that morning. A really long, really persistent stomach flu.

She sat up, grabbing her water bottle and taking a tentative sip. Her calendar on the wall glared at her. She was booked solid for the next month, a campaign for a denim brand, an editorial for Dazed, and a portrait session with a rising indie band. She didn't have time for the flu.

The studio door chimed, and a second later, Marnie breezed in, bringing with her a gust of cold London air and the overwhelming, pungent scent of roasted coffee.

"Morning, sunshine!" Marnie chirped, holding up a cardboard tray. "I come bearing gifts. Extra shot, oat milk, just how you like it."

Y/N’s stomach did a violent somersault. She forced a smile, waving a hand vaguely. "Hey. Thanks. Just... set it on the desk. I'll drink it in a bit."

Marnie paused, her sharp PR eyes narrowing immediately. She set the coffee down and walked over, leaning against the edge of the desk. "Okay, what is going on? You haven't answered my texts since Monday, you look like you haven't slept in a week, and you just turned down fresh caffeine. Who are you and what have you done with Y/N?"

"I'm fine," Y/N lied, turning back to her monitor to hide the fact that she was sweating. "Just busy. The Wonderland edits were a nightmare."

"Uh-huh," Marnie said, not buying it. She picked up a stress ball from the desk, tossing it in the air. "You've been weird for weeks. Specifically, since the Fashion Awards."

Y/N froze, her finger hovering over the mouse. "I haven't been weird."

"You ghosted me at the biggest party of the year," Marnie pointed out, though her tone was more curious than angry. "One minute you were getting a drink, the next you were gone. And then you sent me that cryptic text at 2 AM saying you 'escaped.'"

Marnie leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "So. Who was he?"

Y/N’s heart hammered against her ribs. She could still feel the phantom weight of Harry’s arm around her waist, the smell of cedar in his sheets.

"Who was who?" Y/N asked, keeping her eyes glued to the screen.

"The guy!" Marnie groaned, exasperated. "Come on. You didn't leave a free-bar event to go home and knit. You left with someone. I saw you talking to that model, the one with the cheekbones? Was it him?"

"No," Y/N said quickly. "It wasn't a model."

"Then who?" Marnie pressed. "Was he famous? Old? Rich? A criminal?"

"He was... nobody," Y/N said, fighting to keep her voice even. "Just a guy I met on the balcony. A lighting technician. We just... went for a drink."

"A lighting technician?" Marnie looked skeptical. "And was the lighting technician good enough to make you disappear for three weeks?"

"It wasn't a big deal, Marnie," Y/N snapped, a little sharper than she intended. The nausea rolled over her again, sudden and violent. She squeezed her eyes shut. "It was a one-time thing. It’s over. I just want to focus on work."

Marnie softened instantly. She reached out, touching Y/N’s forehead. "Okay, okay. Sorry. You really do look pale, though. Are you sure you're okay?"

"I think I ate some bad sushi," Y/N lied, pulling away gently. "I just need to sit here for a minute."

"Well, avoid the sushi," Marnie said, grabbing her bag. "I have to run to a lunch meeting, but seriously—drink the coffee. It’ll wake you up."

"Will do," Y/N managed to say.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind Marnie, Y/N grabbed the trash can from under her desk and dry-heaved.

Nothing came up. Just the empty, hollow feeling that had settled in her gut.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked at the calendar again. specifically, at the dates. She counted backward. Then she counted again.

Her period was ten days late.

"No," she whispered to the empty studio. "Absolutely not."

The bass from the playback speakers was thumping so hard it felt like it was rearranging Y/N’s internal organs.

"Chin down, chin down—yeah, there. Hold that."

Y/N crouched low, adjusting the aperture on her lens. She was shooting a four-piece indie band from Leeds who were currently the darlings of NME, and they had the attitude to match. The lead singer was draped over a vintage leather armchair, smoking a clove cigarette that smelled like burning sugar and rot.

Three weeks ago, Y/N would have found the smell annoying. Today, it was a biological weapon.

"Can we kill the smoke?" Y/N called out, her voice sounding thin to her own ears. She straightened up, feeling the room tilt dangerously to the left. "The haze is getting too thick. It’s softening the focus."

"It's the vibe, though, isn't it?" the drummer argued, twirling a stick. "We want it gritty."

"I can add grit in post," Y/N snapped, harder than she meant to. She saw her assistant, Leo, shoot her a worried look from the monitor station. "Just... kill the cigarette. Please."

The singer rolled his eyes but stubbed it out.

Y/N brought the camera back to her eye, trying to find her rhythm. Usually, when she was shooting, the world disappeared. It was just light, shadow, and composition. She was known for her speed, her ability to get the shot before the subject even knew they were ready.

But today, her focus was fracturing.

Every time she looked through the viewfinder, she didn't see the band. She saw the flash of gold sequins on a wet pavement. She saw green eyes looking at her over the rim of a crystal tumbler. She heard a raspy voice whispering, You are absolutely trouble.

Stop it, she commanded herself, changing her angle. He’s a pop star. You’re a photographer. It was a Tuesday. It’s over.

She had spent twenty-one days trying to scrub the memory of Harry Styles from her brain. She had deleted the draft text to Marnie explaining everything at least a dozen times. She had avoided listening to the radio.

"Y/N? You good?"

Leo was at her elbow, holding a bottle of water. "You're sweating. Like, a lot."

Y/N lowered the camera. The studio lights—huge, hot tungsten beasts—felt like they were pressing down on her skull. The smell of the hairspray from the stylist’s station mixed with the stale smoke and the metallic tang of the equipment.

Saliva flooded her mouth. The warning sign.

"I need five," Y/N gasped, shoving the heavy camera into Leo’s hands.

"But we have the label execs coming in ten—"

"I said five!"

She didn't run, because running would make her throw up, but she walked very, very fast toward the back exit. She pushed through the heavy fire doors and stumbled out into the alleyway.

The air was cold and smelled of wet concrete and exhaust, but compared to the studio, it was heaven.

Y/N leaned against the brick wall, squeezing her eyes shut, forcing deep gulps of air into her lungs. She pressed her cold palms against her burning cheeks.

It’s just the flu. It’s stress. It’s the sushi.

But deep down, in the quiet, terrifying part of her brain, she knew. She had known since she realized she hadn't bought tampons this month.

Her hand went to her stomach. It was flat, firm, unchanged. But something felt... different.

She thought about the condom. Had they used one? Yes. Wait. The second time? The memory was blurry, softened by the wine and the firelight and the desperate, laughing, consuming heat of the moment. She remembered his hands. She remembered the way he said her name. She remembered the feeling of skin on skin.

She didn't remember a wrapper the second time.

"Oh, god," she whispered to the alleyway dumpsters.

She pushed off the wall. She couldn't go back in there. She couldn't look at the indie band and talk about aperture settings.

She pulled her phone out. She cancelled the afternoon session. She blamed food poisoning. It was professional suicide to cancel last minute, but the alternative was fainting on top of a drum kit.

She typed Pharmacy near me into maps.

There was a Boots ten minutes away.

Y/N pulled her coat tighter around herself, lowered her head, and started walking. She wasn't Y/N the rising fashion photographer anymore. She was just a girl walking through Hackney, terrified of a plastic stick.

The fluorescent lighting of the pharmacy was violent. That was the only word for it. It buzzed overhead, casting a sickly, sterile pallor over everything.

Y/N pulled her scarf up over her nose, keeping her head down. She wasn't famous—not like him—but her face had been in a few "Behind the Lens" features in industry magazines recently, and paranoia was a powerful thing. She felt like she had a neon sign blinking above her head: IRRESPONSIBLE.

She bypassed the makeup aisle, usually her favorite place to swatch new textures. She ignored the sale on vitamins. She walked straight to the aisle labeled FAMILY PLANNING.

The euphemism made her want to laugh hysterically. There was no planning here. This was the opposite of a plan. This was a chaotic, uncontrolled collision of events.

She stood in front of the shelves, overwhelmed by the choices. Pink boxes. Blue boxes. Boxes with smiling couples holding hands (which felt like a personal attack). Boxes that promised results in one minute. Boxes that claimed 99% accuracy.

She didn't look at the prices. She grabbed the most expensive looking one—a digital Clearblue that came in a twin pack. Double confirmation.

She snatched it off the shelf, her hand shaking so badly she almost knocked over a row of ovulation kits.

To make it look less suspicious—a logic that made sense only to her panicked brain—she grabbed a bottle of shampoo, a packet of mint gum, and a large bag of salt and vinegar crisps.

See? she thought wildly. Just a normal shopping trip. Just getting snacks and hair products. Nothing life-changing happening here.

The cashier was a bored teenager who didn't even look up from her phone as she scanned the items.

Beep. Shampoo. Beep. Crisps. Beep. Pregnancy test.

The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet store. Y/N flinched. The girl didn't blink. She shoved it all into a plastic bag.

"Receipt?"

"No," Y/N croaked. "Thanks."

Her apartment was quiet. Usually, Y/N loved the silence of her space. It was her sanctuary away from the loud music and shouting of the studios. Today, the silence felt heavy. Oppressive.

She locked the door and didn't even take off her coat or boots. She walked straight to the bathroom, dumping the plastic bag onto the pristine white counter.

The blue box stared at her.

She ripped it open, her fingers fumbling with the cardboard. Instructions. Pee on the stick for 5 seconds. Lay flat. Wait 3 minutes.

Three minutes. The length of a pop song.

Y/N did what she had to do. It was unglamorous and clinical. She set the cap back on the stick and placed it on the edge of the sink.

Then, she sat on the closed toilet lid, pulled her phone out, and set the timer.

2:59... 2:58...

She put the phone face down. She couldn't watch the numbers count down.

She stared at the bathmat instead. It was fluffy and white. She needed to wash it.

If it’s negative, she bargained with the universe, clasping her hands together until her knuckles turned white. If it’s negative, I will never drink red wine again. I will be more professional. I will go to church. I don't even believe in God, but I will go.

She thought about her career. She was just getting the big bookings. Vogue had emailed her agent yesterday about a potential cover shoot in Milan next month. Milan.

You couldn't shoot a Vogue cover with morning sickness. You couldn't haul lighting rigs if you were pregnant.

It’s just stress, she told herself. My cycle is late because I’m stressed about work. That’s all.

1:30.

She stood up and paced the tiny bathroom. Two steps to the door, two steps to the shower.

She thought about Harry.

She hadn't let herself think about him properly in weeks. She had pushed the image of him—laughing on the floor, his hair messy, his eyes soft—into a box in the back of her mind labeled DO NOT OPEN.

If this test was positive, that box was going to be ripped open. He wouldn't just be a memory or a mistake. He would be... permanent.

The thought made her dizzy. He was Harry Styles. He was currently on a world tour. He lived on planes. He belonged to the world. He didn't belong in a bathroom in East London staring at a plastic stick.

0:15.

Y/N stopped pacing. She gripped the edge of the sink, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

0:05... 0:04...

Her phone alarm went off. The standard, cheerful "Radar" ringtone. It sounded hideous.

She swiped the alarm off.

She looked at herself in the mirror. She looked pale, her eyes wide and terrified. Just look, she told her reflection. Just look and get it over with.

She looked down at the stick.

The digital screen had stopped flashing the little hourglass symbol. The words were black, crisp, and undeniable against the gray background.

Pregnant 2-3 Weeks

The world didn't stop. The floor didn't open up and swallow her.

Instead, a ringing sound started in her ears. A high-pitched, deafening whine.

Y/N picked up the stick. She stared at it. She turned it over, as if the back might say "Just Kidding." It didn't.

"No," she whispered. Her voice cracked. "No, no, no."

She sank down onto the bathmat, her legs giving out. She curled her knees to her chest, still clutching the stick in one hand.

Two to three weeks.

The math was perfect. It was cruel, precise, and perfect.

Three weeks ago, she had been drinking wine on a rug in Hampstead. Three weeks ago, she had let a stranger with green eyes take off her dress.

She was pregnant. And the father was the most famous pop star on the planet.

Y/N put her head between her knees and, for the first time in ten years, she started to cry. Not polite, silent crying. Ugly, gasping sobs that echoed off the tiled walls.

The next seventy-two hours were a gray, suffocating blur.

Y/N didn't go to the studio. She told her agent she had a severe migraine and forwarded all urgent emails to her assistant.

She spent the days sitting on her living room floor, surrounded by a fortress of pillows, staring at the wall.

She had gone through every emotion possible. First came the denial. Maybe the test was wrong. (She took three more. They were all positive). Then came the panic. She looked at her bank account. She looked at her calendar. She looked at the lease on her apartment which strictly forbade children. Then came the logic. She opened a browser tab for a clinic in Central London. She stared at the "Book Appointment" button for four hours. Her mouse hovered over it. It was the sensible thing to do. She was twenty-four. She was just starting her career. She was single. The father was a ghost who belonged to the world, not to her.

But every time she tried to click, her hand physically stopped. A heavy, sickening weight settled in her chest. She wasn't religious. She wasn't traditional. But she knew, with a terrifying clarity, that she couldn't do it. She didn't have the stomach for it. She didn't have the heart for it.

By Friday evening, the silence in the apartment was deafening. She couldn't carry the weight alone anymore.

She picked up her phone. Her fingers trembled as she typed.

To: Marnie I need you. Please come over. Don't ask questions just come.

Marnie arrived in record time—fourteen minutes.

She didn't knock; she used her emergency key. She burst into the apartment carrying a bottle of wine, a bag of chocolate, and a look of sheer terror.

"I'm here," Marnie announced, dropping her bag by the door. She scanned the room, taking in the drawn curtains, the pile of tissues, and Y/N curled up on the sofa wrapped in a duvet like a burrito of misery.

Marnie rushed over, dropping to her knees beside the sofa. "Okay. You're alive. That's good. Is it family? Did you get fired? Did the studio burn down?"

Y/N shook her head slowly. She looked at her best friend—Marnie, who had held her hair back when she threw up in university, who had helped her paint this apartment, who loved her fiercely.

Y/N sat up, the duvet falling away. She reached onto the coffee table and picked up the plastic stick she had been staring at for three days.

She didn't say a word. She just handed it to Marnie.

Marnie frowned, confused. She took the stick, looked at it, and then froze. The color drained out of her face. She looked at the little screen, then up at Y/N, then back at the screen.

"Oh," Marnie breathed. It was a soft, punched-out sound. "Oh my god."

"Yeah," Y/N whispered, her voice cracking.

Marnie set the test down on the table gently, as if it were a bomb. She moved instantly, climbing onto the sofa and wrapping her arms around Y/N.

That was the breaking point. Y/N buried her face in Marnie’s shoulder and sobbed. It was the release of three days of holding it together. She cried until her chest ached, until her throat was raw. Marnie just held her, rubbing her back, rocking her slightly.

"I've got you," Marnie kept whispering. "I've got you. It's okay."

When the tears finally subsided into hiccups, Y/N pulled back, wiping her face with her sleeve.

"I can't get rid of it," Y/N blurted out. It was the first time she had said it out loud. "I tried to book an appointment. I sat there for hours. But I can't do it, Marnie. I’m scared to death. I don't know how I'm going to do this with my job, or money, or... anything. But I can't not have it."

Marnie looked at her, searching her eyes. She reached out, tucking a strand of messy hair behind Y/N’s ear. "Okay. Then you're keeping it. And we figure it out. You’re not doing it alone. You have me. You have your parents. You have a career."

Marnie took a deep breath, her PR brain clearly trying to organize the chaos. She squeezed Y/N’s hands.

"But Y/N," Marnie said gently, her voice dropping. "We need to talk about the math. You’re... what? Three weeks along?"

Y/N nodded, biting her lip.

"That means..." Marnie did the calculation in her head, and her eyes widened. "That means it happened the night of the Fashion Awards."

Y/N looked away, staring at the pattern on the rug. Her heart started to hammer again.

"The mysterious lighting guy," Marnie said slowly. "The one you disappeared with."

"Yeah," Y/N lied. It tasted like ash in her mouth.

Marnie squeezed her hands tighter. "Does he know?"

"No."

"Are you going to tell him?"

Y/N felt a fresh wave of panic. Tell him? Tell Harry Styles? Call his management? DM him on Instagram? Hey, remember the burnt cheese? I'm having your baby. He would think she was crazy. Or worse, he would think she trapped him. He had said on the rug, You are absolutely trouble. He had no idea.

"I... I can't," Y/N stammered. "It was a one-night stand, Marnie. I don't even have his number. He’s... he’s not from here. He was just in town for the job. He’s gone."

It wasn't technically a lie. He was gone. He was on tour in America.

Marnie looked furious on her behalf. "Well, screw him then. If he’s just some random guy who vanished, you don't need him. We raise this baby on 'Girl Power' and expensive coffee." She pulled Y/N into another hug. "But if you ever do find 'Lighting Guy,' I am going to punch him in the throat."

Y/N closed her eyes, resting her chin on Marnie’s shoulder. Guilt clawed at her stomach.

"okay," she whispered.

"Acceptance" was a strong word. Y/N preferred the term "Strategic Denial."

She knew she was pregnant. Her body certainly wouldn't let her forget it. The smell of coffee was still the enemy, her boobs hurt if she looked at them wrong, and she was currently surviving on a diet of ginger tea and dry oatcakes.

But as long as she didn't look pregnant, she could pretend her life was still hers.

She was currently sitting on the floor of her studio, sorting through contact sheets from the denim campaign. She was wearing oversized dungarees—a "fashion choice," she told her assistant, Leo, but really it was because the waistband of her jeans was starting to feel like a torture device.

The phone on her desk rang. Not her cell—the landline. The business line.

Y/N scrambled up, brushing oatcake crumbs off her lap. She put on her "Professional Photographer" voice.

"Y/N Photography, Y/N speaking."

"Clear your schedule," a voice barked.

It was Simon, her agent. Simon didn't say hello. He only called when something was either a disaster or a goldmine.

"Hello to you too, Simon," Y/N said, leaning against the desk. "I can't clear my schedule. I have the indie band reshoots on Thursday and the—"

"Cancel them," Simon interrupted. "Push them. Refund them. I don't care. You are busy Thursday. And Friday. And probably the weekend for edits."

Y/N frowned. "Simon, I can't just drop clients. Unless the Queen is resurrecting herself for a portrait, I’m booked."

"Better," Simon said. She could practically hear him grinning through the phone. "British Vogue."

Y/N stopped breathing. The receiver slipped slightly in her sweaty palm. "Vogue? The main book?"

"The cover feature," Simon corrected, dropping the bomb. "They want you. Specifically you. The Creative Director loved the grit of your Wonderland spread. They want that 'raw, intimate' vibe for the next cover star."

Y/N’s heart did a somersault. This was it. The bucket list. The career-maker. The reason she had hauled gear up stairs and lived on instant noodles for five years.

"Okay," she breathed, grabbing a pen. "Okay. I'm in. Obviously. Who is it? An actress? A model?"

"It’s a musician," Simon said. "He’s in the middle of a world tour, but he’s flying back to London for a five-day break before the European leg. We have a very tight window. Thursday is the only day he can shoot."

A cold dread started to pool in Y/N’s stomach, sitting right next to the oatcakes.

Musician. World tour. Five-day break.

"Simon," Y/N asked, her voice trembling slightly. "Who is the musician?"

"Harry Styles."

The world didn't spin this time. It just stopped.

The studio went dead silent. The hum of the computer fan seemed deafening.

Harry.

She hadn't seen him in six weeks. She hadn't spoken to him since she snuck out of his house like a thief in the night. She was currently carrying a secret the size of a blueberry that was half-him.

"Y/N?" Simon’s voice crackled in her ear. "You there? I know, it’s huge. He’s arguably the biggest star on the planet right now. It’s going to put you on the map globally."

"I..." Y/N choked. She cleared her throat. "He’s... he’s back in London?"

"Lands Wednesday night. Shoots Thursday. Flies out Monday," Simon recited. "It’s a whirlwind. They want you because you're fast and you don't faff around. It’s at a private location in Hampstead. Low crew. Just you, him, styling, and the CD."

Hampstead.

She was going to have to go back to the house. The house with the rug. The house with the burnt cheese.

"Y/N, I need a yes right now," Simon pressed. "They have Mario Testino on speed dial if you blink."

Say no, her panic screamed. Run away. Move to Scotland.

But she couldn't. She had a baby coming. She needed the money. She needed the career stability this job would guarantee. If she shot the Vogue cover, she could take six months off after the baby was born and still have a career to come back to. If she said no, she might regret it forever.

And partly—the dangerous, stupid part of her—wanted to see him.

"Yes," Y/N heard herself say. "Yes, Simon. I'll do it."

"Good girl," Simon said. "Brief is coming to your email. Don't screw this up."

The line clicked dead.

Y/N slowly put the phone down. She stared at the wall.

Thursday.

She had four days to mentally prepare herself to walk into a room with the father of her child, take the best photos of her life, and pretend that she hadn't been counting the weeks since she left his bed.

"Oh god," she whispered, her hand instinctively going to her stomach. "This is going to be a disaster."

The gravel crunching under the tires of the production van sounded exactly the same as it had six weeks ago.

Y/N sat in the passenger seat, clutching a travel mug of ginger tea like it was a holy relic. Her assistant, Leo, was driving, frowning at the sky through the windshield.

"I hope you brought the big HMI lights," Leo grumbled, parking next to a massive catering truck that was blocking half the driveway. "I just checked the windows on the way up. The natural light in there is shit today. It's completely flat. We’re going to have to fake the sun."

"Great," Y/N murmured, staring up at the white stucco house. "Just what I needed."

She felt like she was going to throw up.

It wasn't just the pregnancy nausea—though that was present, a low-level hum of misery in her stomach—it was the house. The last time she had been here, she had been barefoot, carrying her heels, sneaking out of that front door at dawn.

Now, the driveway was a circus. There were rails of clothes being wheeled in by frantic assistants. There were light scrims, C-stands, and a craft services table laden with pastries that made Y/N’s stomach turn.

"Let's do this," she whispered to herself. You are a professional. He is a subject. This is a job.

She climbed out of the van, pulling her oversized parka tighter around herself. She was wearing her "armor"—baggy cargo pants and a thick hoodie that hid everything, even though there was barely anything to hide yet.

Walking into the house was surreal.

The hallway where she had taken off her shoes was now lined with equipment cases. The living room...

Y/N paused in the doorway of the living room.

The Persian rug—the rug—was still there. But now, it was covered in extension cords and a stylist’s rack of silk shirts and velvet suits. The fireplace where they had drunk wine was currently serving as a charging station for camera batteries.

It felt like walking onto a crime scene that had been turned into a circus.

"Y/N! Darling!"

The Creative Director of Vogue, a terrifyingly chic woman named Alana, swept over. "The space is difficult, isn't it? We want to shoot him right here. By the window. We need it to look raw."

"We'll make it work," Y/N managed to say, setting her camera bag down. She avoided looking at the spot on the floor where she had traced his tattoos. "Leo, set up the reflector board on the left. If the light is shit, we'll force the contrast."

For the next hour, Y/N buried herself in the work. She checked her ISO. She changed lenses. She barked orders at Leo to fix the shadows. She drank her ginger tea. As long as she had the camera in her hand, she could pretend she was just Y/N the photographer, not Y/N the terrified, pregnant one-night-stand.

"He's coming down!" someone shouted from the hallway.

The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. The chatter died down. The stylist stopped steaming a shirt. The air became charged, electric. The "Harry Styles Effect."

Y/N’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She gripped her camera tighter, her knuckles turning white. She stood behind her tripod, using it as a shield.

Just look at the lens, she told herself. Don't look at him. Look at the framing.

Footsteps on the floorboards. Heavy, booted footsteps.

"Morning, everyone," that voice rasped.

It went through Y/N like a physical blow. It was the same voice that had whispered You’re absolutely trouble against her skin.

She looked up. She couldn't help it.

Harry stood in the doorway. He looked tired, bone deep tired. His hair was a little longer, messy in a way that wasn't styled. He was wearing loose sweatpants and a white t-shirt, holding a mug of coffee.

He looked around the room, smiling politely at the team, nodding at Alana.

Then, he turned his head toward the camera setup.

His gaze swept over Leo, over the lights, and landed on Y/N.

He froze. The polite smile vanished from his face instantly. His green eyes went wide, flashing with a shock so raw it cracked his media-trained mask wide open.

He didn't move. He just stared at her across the crowded room, the coffee mug halted halfway to his mouth.

"Y/N?" he breathed, his voice loud enough to cut through the silence.

If you’d like to read the remaining nine chapters of Off the Record, consider joining my Patreon, where the full series is available exclusively. 🤍

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[ijustmissyouraccenths]

Pencil Me In | Thirteen

<- Part Twelve | Masterlist

Rule number one: do not fall in love with your boss.

Rule number two: do not forget rule number one.

Rule number three: when he looks at you like that, pretend it doesn't mean anything.

Summary: When you land a job as the personal assistant to Harry Styles, the calm, charismatic CEO of Fine Line Enterprises, you quickly learn the role is much more than managing a calendar. From early morning calls to last minute flights and being the gatekeeper to one of the busiest men in the industry, your lite becomes completely intertwined with his.

Word Count: 6.8k

Warnings: Power imbalance, drinking

A/N: banner by @fkingstyles Taglist : @stoneyggirl2 @witch-rry @shimmerygloss @angeldavis777 @kenahemmings @littlealonebutterfly @theyfwniall @pizzadragono7 @folkdriving @inkedskin @loving-hazz @youdontcaredoyou @hookedonromance @imjustanarrogantharrie @hsficappreciation @laughterismytherapy @hookedonromance @madness-in-winter @imjustanarrogantharrie @harrysspoon

The weekend at his house changed something and you hadn’t expected it to hit the way it did. It wasn’t dramatic. You didn’t wake up Monday morning feeling like a different person or like the world had shifted overnight. It was quieter than that. More specific. You saw him differently after. Not the version who walks into conference rooms and makes people sit up straighter. Not the version who says probably or definitely and means every word of it. The other one. Bare feet on the kitchen floor, hair pushed back, moving around the stove like he had nowhere else to be. The man who ran a bath without announcing it and put a toothbrush on the counter like it cost him nothing and held your hand in the dark and said I know before you’d finished the sentence.

That settled something in you that all the impressive parts of him never quite could.

By the time the driver dropped you home Monday morning you felt steadier than you had in weeks. Less like someone waiting for everything to fall apart. More like someone who had simply decided where she was standing.

Six weeks pass.

Six weeks of early mornings at your desk and late evenings at his place. Weekends that stopped feeling like something borrowed and started feeling like just your life. You learned the specific rhythm of him during those weeks. That he’s always on his second coffee before nine. That he reads through documents twice before he says anything about them. That when a meeting is going badly he gets quieter rather than louder and everyone in the room feels it without him having to say a word. That on Sunday mornings he makes enough food for two without being asked about it. That Oscar sleeps at the foot of the bed. That the side closest to the window has become yours, apparently, without either of you ever discussing it.

Six weeks of sitting across conference tables from him with your notebook open and your face perfectly neutral. Knowing exactly what his kitchen smells like on a Sunday morning. Knowing which side of the bed he sleeps on. Knowing that he drinks his coffee too hot every single time and never learns from it.

Six weeks of being very, very careful.

Or so you thought.

You notice it on a Tuesday. Not all at once. Just a collection of small things that don’t individually mean anything but together mean everything. A conversation on the second floor that stops a beat too soon when you walk past. Someone from finance who holds eye contact in the elevator for just a second too long before looking away. Two people from marketing who go quiet when you pass, then resume talking in a lower register they definitely think you can’t hear.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. You tell yourself that every morning for a week. By the following Tuesday you’ve stopped believing it entirely.

You’re in the kitchen at eight fifteen, pouring your coffee, when Lucy walks in.

She’s in a sharp blazer, coffee already in hand, phone in the other. When she sees you something moves across her face that she gets under control almost immediately, but not quite fast enough for someone who has spent six weeks learning to read small shifts in people’s expressions.

“Morning,” she says.

“Morning,” you say.

You stand there for a second watching her move to the counter and set her phone down. You think about the conversations that stopped when you walked into rooms this week. The looks in the elevator. All of it sitting heavy in your chest since Monday. Before you can talk yourself out of it you just say it.

“Can I ask you something?”

She looks up at you.

“Why is everyone being weird with me?” you say. “This week. People keep going quiet when I walk past and someone from finance looked at me like I’d grown a second head in the elevator yesterday and I’ve been telling myself I’m imagining it but I don’t think I’m imagining it.”

Lucy looks at you for a long moment. Long enough that you feel it.

Then she sets her coffee down on the counter, crosses her arms loosely, and makes a small sound that’s almost a laugh but not quite.

“I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news,” she says.

Your stomach drops. “What does that mean.”

She tilts her head slightly. The pause before she speaks is just long enough that you already know what’s coming before she opens her mouth.

“There’s a rumor going around,” she says.

You feel your face go completely still. “About what?”

She holds your gaze and says it simply, like she’s pulling off a plaster. “People are saying you and Harry have a little thing going on.”

The kitchen goes quiet.

The coffee machine finishes with a soft click.

You look at Lucy and Lucy looks at you and the silence between you is doing all the talking that neither of you is doing out loud. Your brain is moving very fast and producing very little that is useful. You need to say something. Something normal and professional and completely convincing and you need to say it before the silence gets long enough to become its own answer.

“Oh,” you say. “Um.” You let out a small laugh that sounds exactly as unconvincing as it feels. “That’s weird. I don’t know why anyone would say that.”

“Yeah,” she says slowly. “Weird.”

The single word lands somewhere deeply uncomfortable and stays there.

“I mean we work closely together,” you say, picking up your mug and wrapping both hands around it. “That’s just how it is with an assistant. People probably read into things.”

“Probably,” Lucy says, in a tone that makes it very clear she finds this answer deeply unconvincing and is too polite to say so directly.

She takes a sip of her coffee and doesn’t look away. You look down at your mug because her eyes are doing something very inconvenient right now which is seeing straight through you without even trying very hard.

“Do you know where it started?” you ask, because asking questions feels safer than answering them.

“Not exactly,” she says. “You know how offices are. Someone says something to someone and by the time it gets back to you it’s already taken on a life of its own.” A pause. “I just thought you should know. Before it gets louder.”

“Right,” you say. “Well. There’s nothing to it so it’ll die down.”

Lucy nods once, slowly, like she’s filing that answer away somewhere she can find it later.

“I’m sure it will,” she says.

She picks up her phone from the counter and straightens up, and just when you think the conversation is over she looks at you one more time.

“I don’t think anyone’s saying it to be cruel,” she says, and her voice is quieter now, less polished. “I just think people notice things.”

You look at her.

“There’s nothing to notice,” you say.

Lucy smiles then. Small and knowing.

“Okay,” she says simply.

And then she walks out and you stand there holding your coffee while your heart beats considerably faster than it should for a person who has absolutely nothing to hide.

You give yourself thirty seconds.

You count them.

Then you pick up the second coffee you made without thinking about it, the one that’s been sitting on the counter this whole time, and you walk straight to his office.

You knock once and push the door open before he can answer.

He’s at his desk, jacket off, reading something on his screen. He looks up when you come in and his expression shifts immediately. Not dramatically. Just enough. The specific shift that means he can already tell something has happened before you’ve said a single word.

You set his coffee on his desk.

Then you turn around and close the door.

Not loudly. Just firmly. And then you lean your back against it for a second like you’re trying to keep something out.

“Should I be concerned?” he says.

You turn around and look at him.

“Everyone knows,” you say.

He tilts his head slightly. “Knows what exactly.”

“About us,” you say, and then the rest of it comes out in a rush because you’ve been holding it since the kitchen and there’s only so long you can hold something like this before it finds its own exit. “Lucy just told me there are rumors going around that we have a thing and Harry she was not just telling me because she heard something and thought I should know, she was telling me because she knows, she absolutely knows, and if she knows then other people know and I’ve been walking around this office for six weeks thinking we were being so careful and apparently we were not careful at all.”

You stop.

He looks at you.

Then he leans back in his chair very slowly and picks up his coffee cup.

“Okay,” he says.

You stare at him. “That’s all you have to say.”

“What would you like me to say?” he asks, in that completely calm voice that you find either deeply reassuring or deeply maddening depending on the day and today you genuinely haven’t decided yet.

“Something,” you say. “Anything that suggests you understand what I’m telling you right now.”

“Sit down,” he says.

“I don’t want to sit down.”

“Y/N.”

You sit down.

He sets his coffee down and leans forward, elbows on the desk, looking at you with that focused attention that has never once in six weeks failed to make you feel like the only thing in the room.

“Tell me exactly what she said,” he says.

So you tell him. All of it. You asking her why everyone was being weird. The carefully assembled neutral expression she had when you walked in. The I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news. The people are saying you and Harry have a little thing going on, each word delivered like it had been chosen deliberately. The way she looked at you when you said that’s weird, I don’t know why anyone would say that, and she said yeah, weird, and every syllable of it told you she didn’t believe a single word coming out of your mouth.

He listens without interrupting. He always listens without interrupting which is usually one of your favourite things about him and right now it’s making you more anxious because you want him to react, to be even slightly rattled, to give you something other than that steady considered calm.

“Okay,” he says when you finish.

“You keep saying okay,” you say.

“Because it is okay,” he says.

“Harry.” You hear the edge in your own voice, the specific pitch of someone who is trying very hard not to spiral and not entirely succeeding. “People are talking about us. In the building where I work. Where I am your assistant and you are my boss and there are presumably rules about this and I don’t know what they are and I don’t know who else knows and I don’t know how long this has been going around without me knowing about it and I—”

“Y/N,” he says quietly.

You stop.

He holds your gaze and his voice is completely even.

“People talk,” he says. “That’s what people do. It doesn’t change what we’re doing or how we’re doing it.”

“It changes how people see me,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter and more honest than you intended. “I worked really hard to be taken seriously here. I don’t want to be the girl who got where she is because she’s sleeping with her boss. I don’t want people looking at my work and wondering how much of it actually counts because of what else is going on.”

The room goes quiet after that.

He looks at you for a long moment and something more serious settles behind the calm in his expression, something that tells you he’s actually hearing what you’re saying and not just waiting for you to finish.

“Is that what you think people are saying?” he asks.

“I don’t know what they’re saying,” you say. “That’s what’s making me insane about this. I don’t know how loud it is or what version of it has gotten around or who started it or how long it’s been going on without me having any idea.”

He nods slowly, turning his coffee cup once between his hands. You can see him actually thinking rather than just waiting for you to run out of steam.

“You’re good at this job,” he says finally. “Everyone on this floor knows that. They’ve watched you work for six weeks and they know exactly what you bring to this office because they see it every single day. A rumor doesn’t undo any of that.”

“Maybe not for you,” you say. “But you’re the CEO. Nobody questions why you’re here. I’m the assistant who showed up six weeks ago and apparently within a month was—” you stop and gesture vaguely between the two of you.

“Was what?” he asks.

“Was this,” you say.

He holds your gaze steadily.

“And you think that undermines everything else you’ve done here,” he says. Not a question. Just making sure he’s understood you correctly.

“I think some people will decide it does,” you say. “Whether that’s fair or not.”

He’s quiet for a moment and you sit there across his desk feeling more exposed than you have since the morning of your interview when you almost threw up in the lobby and thought about leaving before he even came downstairs.

“I’m not going to tell you people won’t talk,” he says. “Because they will. People have talked about me for years regardless of what I do. That part isn’t going to change.” He pauses. “But nobody in this building who has actually watched you work is going to look at everything you’ve done here and decide it came from anything other than the fact that you’re very good at your job.”

You look at him.

“Lucy warned me about you,” you say quietly. “First week. She told me you get personal with your assistants and to keep it professional.”

“I know,” he says. “You told me.”

“She’s going to think she was right,” you say. “She warned me and I didn’t listen and now she’s standing in the kitchen with that look on her face and I’m standing there going that’s weird, I don’t know why anyone would say that, like a complete idiot.”

He looks at you steadily.

“Did something happen that you didn’t want to happen?” he asks.

“No,” you say immediately and without any hesitation at all.

“Then what Lucy expected to happen and what actually happened are two completely different things,” he says. “What happened is that two people who work together also want to be around each other outside of work. That’s not a scandal. That’s not something you should be standing here feeling ashamed of.”

You sit there with that for a moment.

He does this every time. Takes something that feels enormous and impossible and presents it like it has a perfectly obvious answer that you’ve just been standing too close to find. Normally that’s one of your favourite things about him. Right now it’s making you want to throw something at him a little bit.

“What do we do,” you say.

“We do what we’ve been doing,” he says. “You do your job. I do mine. We don’t give anyone anything to watch while we’re here and nothing changes when we’re not.” He holds your gaze. “And if anyone has an actual problem with it they can come and say it to me directly.”

The certainty in that last part, the complete absence of any concern about how that conversation would go, loosens something in your chest that has been wound tight since Lucy said the word rumor.

“You are so unbothered by this,” you say.

“I’m bothered that you’re upset,” he says simply. “I’m not bothered by anything else.”

You look at him sitting there behind his desk completely unruffled by the fact that half his office may or may not be talking about the two of you. You think about what it must feel like to move through life the way he does, having already decided what he thinks and what he wants and simply not spending much energy on what anyone else makes of it.

You’re still figuring out how to do that.

“Okay,” you say finally.

He nods once.

“Okay,” he says back. Then, “Go back to your desk before someone notices you’ve been in here with the door shut for twenty minutes.”

You stand up, smooth your blazer, walk to the door. Just as your hand finds the handle you hear him say your name.

You look back at him.

“You earned your place here,” he says, and his voice is quiet and completely certain. “Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise. Including yourself.”

You stand there for a second with your hand on the door handle and the morning light coming through his windows and all of it settling somewhere it needed to settle.

Then you open the door and walk back to your desk and sit down and open his calendar and get back to work.

You go back to your desk and you work.

You pull up his calendar and move through it without stopping. Confirm a lunch that’s been sitting tentative for three days. Shift a call that’s scheduled too close to a car pickup. Flag two meeting requests that need his attention before end of day. Send four emails, draft two more, archive everything that doesn’t need a response and organize what does into a clean folder labeled urgent so he doesn’t have to dig for it.

You book a car for Thursday.

You confirm a hotel for a trip next month, two rooms this time, which feels strange and slightly absurd given the current situation but is still the only version of this that exists officially on paper.

You call the travel concierge and sort out a flight that got changed without anyone telling you, which means someone somewhere dropped the ball and you caught it before it became a problem.

At eleven thirty you print out his afternoon schedule and take it into his office without knocking because by now you both know the difference between a knock and a no knock situation and a printed schedule is very much the latter.

He’s on a call when you come in. He glances up and you set the papers on the corner of his desk without saying anything and he nods once without breaking his train of thought and you walk back out and close the door quietly behind you.

Normal. Professional. Completely unremarkable.

You eat lunch at your desk because there’s a response you’ve been waiting on from legal that you want to catch the second it comes in. It does come in at twelve forty seven. You read it and forward it to him with a two line summary so he doesn’t have to read the whole thing if he’s between meetings.

He emails back four minutes later.

It just says thank you.

You look at those two words for a second longer than necessary and then close the email and get back to work.

By four thirty the phones are ringing less and the emails have slowed and people around the office are starting to do the mental arithmetic of how much they can realistically finish before five. You’ve answered everything that needed answering, filed everything that needed filing, set up tomorrow’s calendar so it’s clean and ready for the morning.

You start gathering your things.

Notebook. Pen. The small stack of papers on the left side of your desk that doesn’t strictly need straightening but that you do anyway because it makes you feel like the day ended properly.

Then you stand up, smooth your blazer, and knock on his office door.

“Yeah,” he says.

You push the door open and lean against the frame. He’s at his desk, jacket back on now, one hand resting on a folder he’s been working through for the last hour.

“I’m heading out,” you say. “Do you need anything before I go?”

He looks up at you and his expression shifts just slightly at the edges. The professional version of him softening into the other one. The one that only comes out after hours and on Sunday mornings and in quiet moments like this one at the end of a long day.

“No,” he says. “I’m good. Go home.”

You nod and push off the doorframe and cross the office toward him. You don’t think too hard about it, you just do it, leaning down and pressing a quick kiss to his mouth, warm and brief, his hand coming up to your jaw for just a second before you pull back.

He looks at you.

“Go home,” he says again, quieter this time.

“I’m going,” you say.

You straighten up and walk back toward the door, and you’re almost through it when you hear him.

“Y/N.”

You look back at him over your shoulder.

He’s watching you with that expression. The one you’ve been cataloguing since the day of your interview and still haven’t found the right word for.

“Lock the door on your way out,” he says.

You smile before you can stop it.

“Good night, Harry,” you say.

And you go.

You wake up to your phone buzzing on the nightstand.

Not Harry’s nightstand. Yours. You came home last night like a responsible adult who does not live at her boyfriend’s house, which is a word you haven’t used yet and are not going to start using at seven in the morning before coffee.

You reach for the phone and squint at the screen.

Mia: okay I feel like I haven’t seen you in approximately one million years and I need food and I need you and I need to hear everything that has been happening with your life so dinner tonight? please say yes I already picked the place

You smile before you’re even fully awake.

You: of course. I miss you. Where?

Mia: that little Italian place on Clermont. 7?

You: perfect. I’ll be there

Mia: okay also just so you know I have approximately forty seven questions

You: I assumed

Mia: is he coming

You stare at the screen for a second.

You: it’s girls dinner Mia

Mia: I know I know I just thought maybe

You: no

Mia: fine FINE. 7 o clock. Do not be late. Do not cancel because he needs something. I am invoking best friend rights

You: I will be there at 6:59

Mia: that’s all I ask. also wear something cute I want to see what corporate life has done to your wardrobe

You laugh out loud in your empty bedroom and set the phone down on the nightstand and lie there for a second looking at the ceiling.

You miss her.

You’ve been so deep inside this new life, the job and Harry and all of it, that you haven’t stopped long enough to notice the shape of what you’ve been neglecting around the edges of it. Mia has been getting phone calls and text updates and the occasional panicked voice message, but she hasn’t actually had you sitting across a table from her in weeks and you feel the absence of that now in a way you didn’t let yourself feel while you were busy.

You get up, make coffee, start getting ready for work. You spend the entire commute looking forward to seven o’clock. Not because of anything to do with Harry. Because some things are just yours and Mia is one of them and no amount of new and wonderful and complicated changes that.

The workday is a full one.

Back to back from nine in the morning, which you knew it would be because you built the schedule yourself and felt slightly guilty about it when you were putting it together on Friday but then remembered that the quarterly review doesn’t care about your feelings and moved on.

You spend the morning running between conference rooms. Carrying folders and laptops. Making sure the right people are in the right rooms at the right times with the right documents in front of them. You refill his coffee twice without being asked. You catch a mistake in a presentation deck seven minutes before it’s supposed to go up on a screen in front of eight people and fix it in the hallway on your laptop with your heart beating slightly too fast and nobody ever knowing it happened.

You sit in three separate meetings and take notes in all of them. By two o’clock your hand aches slightly and your notebook is half full and you’ve learned more about quarterly projections than you ever particularly wanted to know.

Harry is in every single one of them.

Across tables. At the head of rooms. Asking questions that make people straighten up and think before they answer. You watch him work, take your notes, keep your face neutral and professional and completely unremarkable. Every time his eyes move briefly in your direction during a pause you look down at your notebook like you were just about to write something important.

You’ve gotten good at that. Better than you expected to. You can sit across a conference table from him for two hours and look like a person who is simply doing her job. Not like a person who knows what he looks like at seven in the morning before his first coffee. Not like a person who has his spare key on her keyring now, placed there last week without ceremony, just handed to you at the door one evening like it was nothing.

The last meeting wraps up at five forty, running ten minutes over the way meetings always do when three departments try to agree on anything. People file out slowly with the particular energy of a group that has been sitting in a room together too long and is ready to be anywhere else.

You gather your things and follow the last few people out into the hallway, checking your phone as you go.

6:02 PM.

Enough time to go home, change, and get to Clermont by seven if you don’t stand in front of your wardrobe for too long trying to figure out what counts as cute by Mia’s standards.

You’re heading toward the elevator when you hear footsteps behind you and then he’s beside you, jacket on, bag over his shoulder, falling into step without announcing it.

“Long day,” he says.

“Very long day,” you say.

You reach the elevator and he presses the button and you stand there side by side while you wait. The hallway mostly empty now. The office settling into its after hours quiet around you.

The doors open and you both step in.

“Where are you off to?” he asks, though you already told him this morning and he already knows.

“Girl dinner,” you say. “Mia. Seven o’clock. She has approximately forty seven questions and I have been warned not to be late.”

He smiles at that, quiet and genuine. “Forty seven.”

“Her words,” you say.

The elevator reaches the ground floor. The doors open onto the lobby and you walk out together into the early evening. The city outside the glass already shifting into its evening register. Lights coming on. People moving with somewhere to be.

The car is waiting for him at the curb.

You stop on the pavement and he stops beside you and there’s that familiar beat at the end of days now where neither of you is quite ready to be in separate directions yet.

“I’ll miss you,” he says, simply and without any drama attached to it.

You look at him. “I’ll miss you too.”

“Oscar will miss you as well,” he says. “He asked me to tell you specifically.”

You laugh, properly, before you can do anything about it. “Tell him I’ll be back soon.”

“I’ll let him know,” he says. “He’ll be devastated in the meantime.”

“He’ll survive,” you say.

Harry looks at you for a second with that expression, warm and steady, then nods once toward the waiting car.

“Go,” he says. “Have fun. Say hi to Mia.”

“Goodnight Harry,” you say.

“Goodnight,” he says.

You turn and head down the pavement and you don’t look back, but you hear the car door close behind you a moment later and you smile to yourself all the way to the tube.

You get home with just enough time to change and not nearly enough time to have an existential crisis about what to wear, which is probably for the best.

You pull on dark jeans and a top you’ve been saving for something without quite knowing what and decide that counts as cute enough for Mia’s standards. You redo your makeup quickly, just enough to feel like a person who didn’t spend the last nine hours in conference rooms. You grab your bag and your keys and head back out before you can talk yourself into anything more elaborate.

The restaurant is exactly what Mia would pick. Small and warm and slightly too loud. Candles on every table. The smell of garlic and bread hitting you the second you push through the door. You spot her immediately, already seated, already with wine, already looking at you with the expression of someone who has been waiting to have this conversation for weeks.

She stands up when she sees you and hugs you properly. Long enough to mean something. When she pulls back she holds you at arm’s length and looks you up and down.

“You look different,” she says.

“I look the same,” you say, sitting down.

“You look different,” she says again, with more certainty, dropping back into her chair. “You look like someone who is sleeping well and eating properly and not catastrophising at two in the morning.”

“I catastrophised plenty this week actually,” you say, reaching for the wine.

“About what?” she says immediately, leaning forward.

You pour yourself a glass, settle back in your chair, look at her across the table, and think about where to even begin.

“People at work figured it out,” you say.

Mia’s eyes go wide. “Figured what out.”

“About me and Harry.”

She stares at you. “How?”

“I don’t know,” you say. “Lucy pulled me aside in the kitchen and told me there were rumors going around.”

“Lucy,” Mia repeats. “The one who warned you about him on your first week.”

“The very same.”

Mia sits back in her chair, picks up her wine glass, and looks at you with an expression that is trying very hard to be neutral and not quite getting there. “And what did you say to her?”

“I said that’s weird, I don’t know why anyone would say that,” you say. “In possibly the least convincing tone of voice ever produced by a human being.”

Mia closes her eyes briefly. “Oh no.”

“She said yeah, weird,” you say. “Like that. Just yeah. Weird.”

“She knows everything,” Mia says.

“She knows everything,” you confirm.

Mia is quiet for a second, turning her wine glass slowly between her fingers.

“And how do you feel about it?” she asks.

“Panicked,” you say. “Initially. I went straight to Harry’s office and shut the door and told him everyone knew.”

“What did he say?”

“Okay,” you say.

Mia blinks. “That’s it?”

“He said okay and then he was very calm and very logical about the whole thing and told me that people talk and it doesn’t change anything and that nobody who has watched me work is going to question whether I earned my place there.”

Mia looks at you for a moment.

“And did that help?” she asks.

“More than I wanted it to,” you say. “Which is annoying because I wanted to be upset for a little longer and he made it very hard.”

She laughs at that, short and genuine, and you laugh too and it feels good. Sitting here in this warm loud restaurant with bread arriving at the table and Mia looking at you across the candle like she’s genuinely happy for you even when she’s worried about you.

“Can I say something?” she asks.

“You’re going to regardless,” you say.

She smiles. “I think you’ve been so busy trying to make sure nobody notices that you haven’t stopped to think about whether it actually matters if they do.” She pauses. “You’re good at your job. Everyone who works with you knows that. You’re with someone who makes you happy. Both of those things can be true at the same time.”

You look at her across the table.

“He said almost exactly that,” you say.

“Then he’s smart,” she says simply. “Which we already knew.” She picks up her menu without looking away from you. “Now. Tell me everything else. Starting with the bath and the toothbrush because I have been thinking about that for three weeks.”

You laugh and pick up your own menu and settle deeper into your chair and let the restaurant noise wrap around you. This, right here. Mia across a table with wine and bread and forty seven questions. One of those things that stays exactly itself no matter how much everything else changes.

You needed that more than you knew.

The restaurant empties out slowly around you. Tables clearing one by one until it’s mostly just you and Mia and the comfortable wreckage of a very good dinner. Empty bread basket. Two mostly finished bottles of wine. The particular looseness that comes from hours of talking and laughing and not thinking about anything except the person sitting across from you.

The bill comes and you split it without discussing it, then you’re pulling on your coats and winding scarves and gathering bags and spilling out onto the pavement into the cool night air.

It hits you immediately.

The wine and the cold and the relief of being outside after hours in a warm room. Mia loops her arm through yours as you start walking and you’re both already laughing about something she said at the table, something about a man she went on a date with last week who spent forty five minutes talking about his sourdough starter like it was a personality trait. You’re doing an impression of him that isn’t even that good but Mia finds it funnier every time you do it and the two of you are giggling loudly enough that a couple walking past gives you a look that you both ignore completely.

“No but he said,” Mia starts, and then can’t finish because she’s laughing too hard, and you’re laughing at her laughing which is making it worse, and you’re both slightly too loud for a Tuesday night on a street and you absolutely do not care.

“He said it had a better personality than most people he’d met,” you finish for her.

“The sourdough,” she says.

“The sourdough,” you confirm, and you both dissolve again.

You’re wiping your eye and trying to pull yourself together when you hear it.

“Y/N.”

You freeze.

Mia freezes beside you.

You turn around slowly.

Harry is standing on the pavement a few feet behind you, hands in his coat pockets, looking at you with an expression that is equal parts amused and surprised. He’s dressed for an evening out, dark coat, no tie, and he looks so completely out of context on this street at this hour that for a full second your brain just refuses to process it.

“What are you doing here?” you say, which comes out slightly more accusatory than you intended.

“I had dinner,” he says, nodding back down the street. “Old friend. Restaurant a few buildings down.” He looks between you and Mia. “What are you doing here?”

“Girl dinner,” you say, gesturing between yourself and Mia. “I told you.”

“You told me Clermont,” he says. “You didn’t tell me which restaurant on Clermont.”

“I didn’t think I needed to file an itinerary,” you say.

He smiles at that, small and private, then his eyes move to Mia, who has been standing beside you in complete silence, which for Mia is genuinely unprecedented and suggests she is either starstruck or exercising a level of self control that borders on heroic.

“You must be Mia,” he says.

Mia looks at him.

Then she looks at you.

Then back at him.

“I must be,” she says.

He looks between the two of you with that expression he has when he’s clocked something and is deciding whether to say it out loud.

“You’ve both been drinking,” he says. It isn’t a question.

“We’ve been having wine with dinner,” you say, in the most dignified voice you can produce, which is not as dignified as you’d like given that you’re still slightly breathless from laughing.

“How much wine,” he says.

“A normal amount,” you say.

Mia holds up two fingers behind your shoulder in what she clearly believes is a subtle gesture indicating two bottles and which is not subtle at all. Harry clocks it immediately. You turn and look at her and she drops her hand and smiles at you with the innocent expression of someone who absolutely did not just do that.

“How are you getting home?” he asks.

“Tube,” you say.

“Tube,” Mia confirms, nodding seriously.

Harry looks at the two of you standing on the pavement in the cold, slightly pink cheeked from the wine and the night air, then pulls his keys out of his pocket.

“I’ll drive you,” he says.

“Harry you don’t have to do that,” you say.

“I know,” he says, already walking.

You look at Mia.

Mia looks at you.

She leans over and puts her lips very close to your ear.

“He is so so hot,” she says, in what she believes is a whisper and what is actually completely audible to everyone within a five foot radius including Harry, who very carefully does not react.

“I know,” you say, also at full volume, because at this point what is the alternative.

His car is parked just down the street, dark and expensive looking. You’ve been in the back of it a hundred times with a driver and have never once seen him actually behind the wheel. He unlocks it and opens the back door and gestures for you both to get in. You do, tumbling into the back seat in a way that is not entirely graceful and which Mia finds hilarious.

He gets in the front and adjusts the mirror and you watch him and something about the whole picture, Harry in the driver’s seat in his coat with his hands on the wheel, strikes you as so unexpectedly domestic and genuinely excellent that you have to say something about it.

“I didn’t even know you could drive,” you say.

He glances at you in the mirror. “What did you think I did before I had a driver?”

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “I just never pictured it.”

“It’s really hot actually,” Mia says from beside you, completely seriously. “Like a chauffeur but it’s him. That’s hot.”

“It is hot,” you agree.

“Thank you,” Harry says, pulling out into the street, completely unbothered.

“You’re very welcome,” Mia says. Then, after approximately four seconds of silence, “Are you a billionaire?”

You turn and look at her. “Mia. You cannot ask someone that.”

“I just did though,” she says.

You look at Harry in the mirror. He’s looking at the road but the corner of his mouth is doing something.

“Not billions,” he says.

Mia sits forward slightly in her seat. “Okay but millions.”

Harry says nothing.

“Oh my god,” Mia says. She turns to you with an expression of complete incredulity. “Your boyfriend is like a millionaire.”

“Mia,” you say.

“Multiple millions probably,” she says, more to herself than anyone. “He has a driver. A townhouse. He orders wine without looking at the list.” She looks at the back of Harry’s head. “Multiple millions.”

“Mia,” you say again.

“I’m just doing the math,” she says.

Harry glances in the mirror again and his expression is the most genuinely amused you have seen him look in recent memory.

“She’s not wrong,” he says simply.

Mia turns to you slowly.

You look back at her.

“I want to be maid of honor,” she says. “I’m calling it now. Right now. In this car.”

“Oh my god,” you say.

“Early notice,” she says. “That’s all I’m saying.”

You drop your head back against the seat and look at the ceiling of his car and listen to Mia continue her calculations in the seat beside you while Harry drives through the city completely unruffled and you think that this is possibly the best and worst evening of your life simultaneously and you wouldn’t change a single second of it.

[zclhes]

MASTERLIST | TAGLIST

Word count: ~ 5.3k

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

POV: Harry, third person / Reader, second person

Setting: 2026, Together, Together Tour

Warnings: none

Summary: During night six, the brutal heatwave catches up with you, and Harry’s worst worries come true when you faint in the pit mid-show.

London, N6 — 23 June 2026

The intro begins while Harry is still backstage.

On the big screens outside, the opening visual rolls over Wembley in flashes of colour and movement, and the first wave of screams rises so loudly that the floor seems to vibrate through the soles of his shoes. Even after all these years, even after stadiums and tours and crowds so large they become their own weather, there is always a moment before he goes on where the sound reaches him before the sight does. Ninety thousand people waiting, heat trapped beneath the stadium roof, summer evening light bleeding slowly into stage darkness.

London is burning hot. England has been caught in a heatwave for days, heat that makes the city feel unreal, buses shimmering at the edges, people moving slower and drinking water like it is a personality trait. Wembley has been prepared as well as it can be prepared, with extra water points, staff briefed, paramedics stationed all around the stadium, security told to watch the pits closely, but there's only so much anyone can do when the temperature has hovered around forty degrees all day.

Harry feels it already, sweat has gathered at the back of his neck before he has even sung a single note. The air backstage is better than outside, but not cool enough to make the beads of sweat disappear from his skin. He has already drunk two bottles of water, already had someone remind him about electrolytes, already promised at least three people that he will be sensible, though he's about to walk on stage and be very much not sensible.

His band gathers near the entrance, all of them in that charged little ritual they have built across the tour. Hugs, high fives, quick jokes, someone pats his shoulder, someone else tells him to “not pass out out there,” and Harry gives them a look that says he's not accepting that energy tonight, thank you very much.

Then he turns towards you. You're standing just behind him, phone tucked away for once, arms folded loosely over your middle. You look put together because you're very good at looking put together, but Harry has been watching you all day and doesn't fully trust it. There's a faint tiredness around your eyes that makeup hasn't hidden from him, and your smile, although warm, has arrived a second late more than once today.

He reaches for your hands. “You alright?”

Your answer is immediate and sounds almost rehearsed. “I’m fine.”

Harry lifts a brow.

You roll your eyes before he can say anything else. “Harry.”

“What?”

“You’ve asked me that forty-seven times.”

“Forty-eight now.”

“I’m fine.”

He looks at you properly, thumbs brushing over the backs of your hands. “Are you really?”

The crowd screams again, louder now as the intro builds, and behind him someone calls that they're thirty seconds out. Harry hears it, but his attention remains on you.

You soften a little. “Yes, I promise.”

He still doesn't look convinced, because his worry hasn't come from nowhere.

This morning, after lazy morning cuddles that had gone on too long because neither of you wanted to peel yourselves away from each other, after breakfast in the kitchen with every window open and the fan doing its absolute best, Harry had found you on the bathroom floor, bent over the toilet, throwing up and the image had scared him more than he admitted at the time.

You had been kneeling on the cool tiles, one hand braced against the edge of the toilet seat, shoulders trembling with the force of it. He had been beside you in seconds, gathering your hair away from your face and twisting it into a loose bun with the elastic he found on the sink, one hand steady between your shoulder blades as you brought breakfast back up into the bowl.

“Easy, love,” he had murmured, helpless in the way people are helpless when someone they love is sick and all they can do is stay. “I’ve got you.”

You had groaned when it finally stopped, pale and sweaty, cheeks damp, humiliated despite the fact that Harry couldn't have cared less about anything except whether you were alright. He had flushed the toilet, dampened a cloth with cool water and wiped your mouth and chin carefully, then pressed the cloth to the back of your neck while you sat against the bathtub with your eyes closed.

“You’re staying home,” he had said.

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m fine.”

“You just threw up.”

“It’s the heat.”

“It’s still throwing up.”

You had argued with him for twenty minutes then and Harry had literally tried everything: reason, concern, bribery, stubborn silence, the look he uses when he is trying very hard not to become controlling but absolutely would like you to listen to him before he loses his mind. You had insisted you were only overheated, that you would drink water, that Wembley had air-conditioned areas, that you had work to do, that staying home would make you feel worse because you would just worry from a distance.

He hadn't felt dramatic then and he still doesn't feel dramatic now. “You remember what you promised me?” he asks quietly.

Eventually, Harry gave in, but only after making you promise more things than he usually asks of you: breaks, water constantly, shade, air-conditioning, no standing in the sun, no pretending if you felt sick, no being brave for the sake of not worrying him. You promised all of it, kissing his worried mouth and telling him he was being dramatic.

Your expression softens further, some of the teasing leaving. “I remember.”

“If anything feels off, you tell someone. Jeff, Paddy, security, anyone. I mean it.”

“I will.”

“Don’t wait until you’re properly unwell.”

“I won’t.”

“Y/n.”

“I promise.”

His eyes search your face one more time, you step closer, lifting onto your toes to kiss him. “Go have fun out there.”

He kisses you back, brief but firm, as if he can press all the instructions into your mouth and have them stay there. “Take care of yourself,” he mumbles against your lips.

“You too.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Then someone calls his cue, the intro peaks, and Harry has to let go. He runs out into Wembley and the stadium breaks open for him the way it always does.

For the first hour and a half, the show is everything it should be. Hot, yes, brutally hot, to be fair. Harry is sweating through his stage outfit faster than usual, damp hair curling at the back of his neck, water disappearing from bottles between songs. He tells the crowd to drink and points out fans who need security’s attention. The heat adds a strange electricity to the night, a sticky, shimmering intensity that makes every movement feel slightly more reckless. But he's good. He's playful, loose, alive with the crowd. He dances, jokes between songs, catches a sign that tells him a girl sold feet pics to be here which, apparently, he did too.

And he keeps looking for you. You're in the north standing pit, to his left when he's on the main stage, exactly where you told him you would be. At first, he sees you often, tucked with a few familiar crew members and fans near the back of the pit, dancing, smiling, phone out occasionally to capture something for later. You lift your water bottle every time he glances over, as if to prove you are behaving, he points at you once after you do it, and you roll your eyes visibly enough that he grins.

Good, you look alright. He tells himself that and plays on.

By the time the main set reaches the song before the encore, the stadium has settled into that warm, emotional pocket that comes before the final release. Tonight’s surprise song is Love Of My Life. Harry has his guitar strapped on, standing at the mic on the main stage, the lights dimmed softer, the pits mostly dark except for phone screens and occasional reflections and the air feels a little cooler now.

He begins the song gently, and the crowd sings with him. He gets through the first verse, the first chorus, and is just leaning into the next line when something changes to his left. At first, it's only movement at the edge of his vision. Then lights, phone torches raised not in the soft way fans do during ballads, but frantic, waving, directed towards security. People are shouting, arms pointing into the pit, the energy around that area shifting from emotional to urgent in a matter of seconds.

The stadium quiets in uneven layers, confusion moving through the crowd as Harry walks to the edge, eyes fixed on the north pit. “Is someone down over there? Do we need help?”

Harry stops singing, his right hand stills on the guitar strings, the band notices immediately, the arrangement faltering, then cutting out as he lifts one hand. “Stop, stop,” he says into the mic, already turning towards the left side of the stage. “Hold on.”

The lighting director catches on quickly, and a followspot swings towards the area Harry is pointing at, bright enough to reveal faces turned inward around a small pocket of commotion.

“Yes!” several people shout.

“Paramedics!”

Harry steps closer to the stage edge, trying to see through the raised hands and heads. Then he sees you, and for half a second, his body forgets how to move. You're near the back of the pit, not standing so much as being held upright by three fans around you. One girl has an arm around your waist, another is supporting your shoulder, and a third is trying to keep your head from dropping forward. Your face is far too pale under the sudden light, your knees visibly unreliable beneath you, eyes unfocused and rolling before you sag again against the people holding you.

No. The word doesn't actually leave his mouth, but it's everywhere in him. Every instinct he has screams at him to jump down, to get to you, to take you from strangers’ arms and carry you out himself. It's immediate and physical, almost impossible to fight. For one terrible second, he’s not Harry on stage, he's just your boyfriend watching you collapse in a crowd.

So he grips his microphone harder and forces his voice to work. “Security, can we get help there now, please? Paramedics to north standing. Right there.” He points again, clearer. “Thank you. Everyone give them space, please. Step back if you can.”

Then training, responsibility, and the sheer impossible size of the stadium snap back into place. He cannot run down there in front of ninety thousand people, not like that. Not while everyone is watching, while cameras are on him, while the show still needs to be managed properly. If he panics, everyone panics. If he makes the situation about himself, he makes it harder for the people who can actually reach you.

His mouth is dry, his hands are sweating against the guitar as two Wembley security guards reach you first, moving with practised urgency through the crowd. They take over from the fans supporting you, guiding you carefully, one at each side. Your legs wobble again, and Harry’s heart kicks so hard it makes him feel briefly dizzy himself. Then three paramedics arrive, their high-vis catching in the spotlight, and the crowd parts as much as the barricades and bodies allow. One paramedic bends to speak to you, another gestures towards the exit route. The security guards help shift you to the side, your head dipped, one of the medics supporting your arm. You're conscious, Harry thinks. Barely, maybe, but conscious.

“Thank you,” Harry says into the mic, voice lower now, aimed at the fans who had held you up and called for help. “Thank you for helping. Really. Give them room, please.”

The crowd applauds softly, nervously, in that strange way a crowd does when concern needs somewhere to go.

Then he starts Love Of My Life again. He sings it carefully, and if his eyes keep flicking to the stage exit, if his hand grips the pick a little too tightly, if the line between performer and terrified boyfriend feels thinner than it has ever felt in his life, the crowd doesn't need to know all of it.

Harry closes his eyes for one second, then he walks back to the mic stand. The guitar feels wrong in his hands now, the song feels impossible, but he has to finish. He has to trust the people around him to do their jobs, because the alternative is falling apart in front of an entire stadium and leaving everything less safe for everyone. He takes two deep breaths. “Alright,” he says, voice steady through sheer will. “We’ll keep going. Please look after each other tonight, yeah?”

Between the surprise song and the encore, the strings take over as usual, filling the stadium with a few minutes of the instrumentals of One Direction songs while Harry steps off to recover, drink water, and prepare for Sign Of The Times. This time though, he doesn't recover. He hands the guitar to a waiting crew member and heads straight for the side-stage entrance, almost running. Paddy is there, stationed where he usually is, eyes already alert because he saw the same thing everyone saw.

“Where is she?” Harry asks.

Paddy shakes his head. “They took her backstage. I saw them move her, but I don’t know where.”

Harry drags a hand over his face, trying not to let the panic push his voice too high. “Can you find her? Please. Stay with her until I’m off. Just—make sure she’s got someone familiar.”

“Of course,” Paddy says immediately.

“If they need anything, if she needs anything—”

“I’ve got her.”

Harry nods once, sharply, because gratitude is there but there's no time to say it properly before he has to go back.

Sign Of The Times feels endless, As It Was feels even longer, despite the dancing and running, despite the lights, despite the crowd giving him everything. He performs because he knows how to perform under pressure, but every part of him not required for singing is somewhere backstage with you. The lap around the stage, usually his final burst of release, becomes a route he needs to finish as fast as humanly possible and the moment the last line leaves his mouth and the outro carries him towards the exit, he runs off stage. He pushes the mic into the hand of the first crew member who appears, not even sure who it is, and sprints into the backstage corridors.

The closer he gets to his dressing room, the more he hears voices. Paramedics, Paddy, someone else speaking quietly. Harry reaches the door, pushes it open and relief hits first because you're there.

Then worry follows so closely it nearly knocks the relief away. You're on the sofa, half-reclined, legs elevated and supported by one paramedic while another adjusts the line connected to an IV cannula in the back of your hand. Paddy stands nearby holding the bag of clear fluids up, looking very serious and very steady. A third paramedic checks the monitor beside you. ECG electrodes are attached to your chest, wires leading to the portable monitor, a pulse oximeter clipped to your finger. Your skin is pale, a little clammy, your eyes open but hazy in a way that makes Harry want to be sick. He crosses the room immediately and drops to his knees beside the sofa. “Hey,” he says, taking your hand. “Love, look at me.”

Your eyes move towards him slowly, too slowly, but they find him eventually. “Harry,” you murmur.

“I’m here. I’m here, baby.” He brings your hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to your knuckles because he needs to do something with the fear. “How are you feeling?”

You blink at him, unfocused but trying. “I’m okay.”

Harry almost laughs, but it comes out wrong. “You are absolutely not okay, love.”

You make a tiny sound of protest.

He turns to the paramedic nearest him. “What happened? Is she alright?”

The paramedic, a woman with kind eyes and a calm voice, keeps her eyes on the monitor screen. “She’s stable at the moment. Looks like a collapse from heat exhaustion and dehydration. Her blood pressure was low when we got to her, heart rate high, she was very faint and disorientated, but she’s responding to fluids. We’ve got her on monitoring now.”

“She was sick this morning,” Harry says quickly. “Vomiting, after breakfast. I wanted her to stay home, but she said it was the heat.”

The paramedic nods. “Vomiting can happen with heat illness, but it could also be a stomach bug or food poisoning that’s made the heat harder for her body to tolerate. If she hasn’t kept enough fluid down, standing in a warm crowd would make fainting much more likely.”

Harry looks back at you, thumb rubbing over your hand as he asks further. “Is it serious?”

“From what we’re seeing right now, there’s nothing immediately alarming, but I would strongly recommend we take her to A&E for assessment, bloods and monitoring, especially because she had vomiting this morning. We can’t rule everything out here.”

“Yes,” Harry says immediately. “We’ll go.”

“No,” you mumble.

Harry looks at you, clearly surprised by your protest.

Your eyes are more focused now, which is both comforting and deeply inconvenient because it means your stubbornness has also recovered enough to participate. “No hospital,” you say.

“Y/n.”

“I want to go home.”

“You fainted.”

“I know.”

“You need to be checked properly.”

“I’m being checked.”

The paramedic gives Harry a sympathetic look, then addresses you. “We can’t force you to go if you have capacity to refuse, but given what happened, it would be safest to be assessed in hospital.”

“I understand,” you say, voice weak but clear enough to make Harry’s hope collapse slightly. “I don’t want to go.”

Harry squeezes his eyes shut for half a second. “Love, please.”

You turn your head towards him. “Harry.”

“Don’t Harry me right now.”

“I hate hospitals.”

“I don’t care if you hate hospitals.”

“I want to go home.”

“I want you safe.”

“I am safe.”

“You collapsed in a pit.”

“And now I’m on a sofa.”

“That is not the argument you think it is.”

She understands. “We’ll finish the fluids and reassess. If she continues refusing transport, we’ll give you advice on what to watch for overnight. But if anything worsens, confusion, repeated vomiting, fainting again, chest pain, severe headache, difficulty breathing, anything like that, call emergency services immediately.”

Your mouth flickers like you almost smile, but you're too tired for it. Harry looks at the paramedic again, silently pleading for backup.

Harry nods, jaw tight. “I will.”

You close your eyes, exhausted by the conversation and Harry stays on his knees beside you while the IV runs. He asks twice more if you will please reconsider and you say no both times, once barely louder than a whisper. He wants to argue, properly argue, but you look so drained that he cannot bring himself to push hard enough to distress you further.

Eventually, he leans close to you. “Can I change quickly? I’m still in stage clothes. I’ll be two minutes.”

Your eyes open halfway. “Go. I’m fine.”

He really doesn't like those words tonight.

Still, he stands, squeezes your hand once, and disappears into the connected bathroom. He changes faster than he has ever changed in his life, stage outfit off, t-shirt and shorts on, a quick splash of water over his face because he looks wild even to himself in the mirror. His hair is damp, skin still flushed from the show, but none of it matters.

Harry immediately moves closer once you're helped upright, and the moment your torso lifts, your eyes close again. Harry’s hand goes to your shoulder. “Hey.”

When he comes back, the fluids are nearly finished. The paramedic removes the ECG leads and unclips the pulse oximeter, then, once the bag is empty, carefully removes the IV cannula from your hand, pressing gauze over the site before securing a small dressing. “We’re going to sit you up slowly,” she says.

“Dizzy,” you whisper.

“That’s expected with low blood pressure,” the paramedic says calmly. “Keep your head still, take slow breaths.”

You do as she says, breathing carefully through the wave until it eases. When you open your eyes again, they are still tired enough that Harry makes a decision without discussion. “You’re not walking.”

You look at him.

“No arguments,” he says.

You don't argue, and that frightens him more than if you had.

He crouches slightly. “Arms around me.”

You sigh against his shoulder when he lifts you bridal style, one arm beneath your knees, the other around your back. Your head rests against him immediately, and he feels the full weight of your exhaustion in the way your body gives in.

Paddy opens the door before Harry even turns. “Car’s ready,” he says.

“Thank you,” Harry murmurs.

The journey through the backstage corridors feels strange, too quiet now that the show is over. Paddy walks ahead, opening doors and clearing the path, making sure no one stops you, no one asks questions, no one tries to turn a worrying private moment into something public. Harry carries you carefully, feeling your breath warm through the fabric of his t-shirt.

At the car, Paddy opens the passenger door and Harry lowers you into the seat with impossible care, buckles your belt, then checks it once because he needs his hands to be busy or he will start shaking.

Before he walks around the car, he turns to Paddy. “Thank you, really.”

Paddy nods. “Call me if you need anything. Any time tonight.”

“I will.”

“I mean it.”

Harry nods again, gratitude heavy in him. “I know.”

The drive back to Hampstead is mostly quiet, Harry only asks once, “You alright?”

You nod, eyes on the window, face turned towards the dark blur of London. He wants words, but he can see how tired you are, so he rests one hand on your knee instead, warm and steady, and keeps it there the whole way home.

By the time he pulls into the driveway, you're half-asleep. You try to stand when he opens your door, but he gives you a look. “No.”

“I can walk.”

“No.”

“Harry.”

“I said no.”

There's no sharpness in it, only an absolute decision that makes you let him carry you.

He carries you through the front door, up the stairs, and into the bedroom, setting you down on the bed as if you might bruise from the mattress. He kneels to take off your shoes, then helps you out of your clothes with a gentleness that makes your eyes sting all over again. You're not sad of course, but being cared for so completely sometimes feels like its own undoing.

He pulls one of his soft shirts over your head, guiding your arms through, smoothing the fabric down over your thighs. “Bathroom?” he asks.

You nod and he carries you there too. Usually, you would complain. Usually, you would tell him you have legs, that you're not a Victorian consumptive heroine, that he cannot carry you around every time you look slightly tired. Tonight, you only lean into him and let him place you on the edge of the bathtub.

Harry gathers what he needs from memory. He reaches for your cleansing balm first, not the wipes you only use when you're desperate, scooping a small amount into his fingers and warming it between them like he has watched you do a hundred times. He crouches in front of you, careful and slow. “Close your eyes for me, love.”

You do and his fingertips move over your face with astonishing softness, dissolving makeup from your skin, around your eyes, over your cheeks, along your jaw. He's so focused that you almost laugh, except you’re too tired and too touched.

“Am I doing it right?” he asks.

“Mhm.”

“Don’t lie to spare my feelings.”

“You’re doing it right.”

“Good.”

He wipes the balm away with a warm damp cloth, rinsing it twice, then helps you wash your face properly over the sink, one hand steady at your waist in case you sway. He squeezes toothpaste onto your toothbrush and hands it to you, then stands close while you brush, ready to catch you if dizziness returns.

Afterwards, he pats your face dry with a towel. “Night cream?” he asks.

You blink at him. “You know which one?”

Harry looks mildly offended. “I’m not an amateur.”

He opens the cabinet and chooses correctly and then you watch, almost deliriously fond, as he dots moisturiser over your forehead, cheeks and chin, then smooths it in with careful upward strokes, copying the way you do it at night.

“You’ve been studying,” you murmur.

“I’m very observant.”

“You use too much of mine.”

“I’m learning portion control.”

“You better.”

He smiles faintly, then reaches for your hairbrush. “Hair?”

You nod, too soft to tease.

He stands behind you and brushes your hair slowly, starting at the ends because he knows you once scolded him for beginning too high and pulling through tangles like a caveman. Tonight, he's patient, gentle, one hand holding the section above the brush so it does not tug at your scalp. When he finishes, he ties it loosely the way you like for sleeping.

Then he looks at you in the mirror. “There,” he says quietly. “Beautiful.”

You look pale and exhausted, eyes heavy, borrowed shirt slipping off one shoulder, but the way he says it makes you believe him for a second. “Thank you,” you whisper.

Harry presses a kiss to your temple. “Always.”

He takes you back to bed, tucks you in properly, then opens a bottle of water and hands it to you. “Small sips.”

You obey.

“I’m going to shower quickly,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time.”

“I won’t.”

“I’m fine.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because I am.”

He looks at you for a moment, then leans down and kisses your forehead. “Two minutes.”

It's closer to seven in the end, but you don't hold it against him.

When he comes back, freshly showered, hair damp, skin smelling like soap and him, you're still awake. He switches off the main light, leaves the small bedside lamp on low, and climbs into bed beside you. The mattress dips, and as you shift towards him automatically, he gathers you into his side. You rest your cheek against his chest, one arm draped carefully over his stomach while his hand moves to your back, slow and soothing.

“How are you feeling now?” he asks.

“Tired.”

“I know.”

“But better.”

“Nauseous?”

“A little. Not awful.”

“Dizzy?”

“No.”

“Headache?”

“Small.”

He kisses your hair. “You scared me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not saying it to make you sorry.”

“I know.”

“I just need you to know.”

You press your face closer to him. “I know.”

For a few minutes, the room settles. The window is cracked open, but the air outside is still warm. Harry’s heartbeat is steady beneath your ear. But then it changes, just a little quicker, then quicker again. You frown against his chest, eyes opening. “Harry?”

“Hm?”

“Why is your heart racing?”

He is quiet for a moment too long, so you lift your head slightly, looking at him in the low light. “What?”

You blink. “What?”

He stares at the ceiling for a second, then looks down at you. There's a new expression on his face now, one you cannot quite place. Nervous? Careful? As if a thought has just arrived and he doesn't know where to put it. “What if you’re pregnant?”

Harry shifts slightly, not away from you, just enough to look at you properly. “I know you probably aren’t. I know. But the jacket potato thing the other night, the weird craving, then being sick this morning, fainting tonight…”

You stare at him. “I have the implant,” you say.

“I know.”

“It’s very effective.”

“I know.”

“Very.”

“I know, love. But not one hundred percent.”

Everything goes very still around the possibility, and you look away first. “I don’t think I’m pregnant.”

Harry watches you carefully. “When did you last have your period?”

You hesitate and that hesitation answers more than you want it to. “I’m due,” you say.

“Due now?”

“Around now.”

Harry doesn't say anything immediately, neither do you.

The fear that moves through you isn't simple. It's not a no, not exactly, but it's not a yes either. It's the size of the question, the way it opens a door you and Harry have stood near but never properly walked through. You have talked about children, briefly, tenderly, in the abstract way couples do when they're in love enough to imagine futures but not yet ready to schedule them. You know he wants a family one day, you know you do too. But one day is very different from right now.

Now there's a world tour waiting after London. Your work, his work, your life moving at a speed that already feels barely containable. The thought of a positive test lands in you with both wonder and terror, and you hate that terror is there at all.

Harry sees it flickering across your face, of course he does. “I’m not saying you are,” he says softly. “I just think we should check.”

“I’m not pregnant.”

“Okay.”

“I’m not.”

“Okay.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“I believe that you don’t think you are.”

You huff weakly, but there's no real irritation behind it.

He touches your cheek, thumb brushing gently. “We’ll buy a test in the morning. Just to rule it out.”

You close your eyes. “I don’t know if I want to know.”

Harry goes quiet for a beat, then he pulls you a little closer. “Whatever it says, we’ll be alright.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“Harry.”

“I do,” he repeats, not forceful, just steady. “If it’s negative, we deal with whatever actually made you faint and make sure you’re better. If it’s positive…” He pauses, because even he seems to need a second with that word. “Then we breathe, and we talk, and we figure it out together. Not all at once, but together.”

Your eyes sting again. “I’m scared,” you admit, so quietly it almost disappears into his shirt.

Harry kisses your forehead. “I know.”

“I don’t even know what I’m scared of.”

“That’s alright.”

“It’s not that I wouldn’t…” You stop, unable to finish.

“I know,” he says again, and somehow he does.

His hand moves over your back, grounding and familiar. “Tomorrow,” he murmurs. “We’ll just start with tomorrow.”

“In the morning.”

You nod because tomorrow is small enough to hold. For tonight, there's only your bed, his arms, the low bedside light and the heat pressed outside the windows. Your body feels emptied out and heavy, but safer now, wrapped around his warmth. “You’ll buy a test?” you ask sleepily.

“And if it’s nothing?”

“Then I’ll still fuss over you for at least three days.”

You manage a faint smile. “Only three?”

“Five if you’re difficult.”

“I’m always difficult.”

“Then make it a week.”

Your smile fades into a yawn, Harry kisses you gently, careful not to ask too much from your tired body. “Sleep now.”

“Love you,” you murmur.

“I love you too.”

Your eyes are already closing when he adds, voice low and full of the softness he has kept for you all night, “Goodnight, my sweet love. I’ve got you.”

You're asleep before you can answer.

Harry stays awake a while longer, one hand resting against your back, counting the steadiness of your breathing, listening to the warm London night outside and the quieter, more frightening possibility now lying between you. Whatever tomorrow brings, he keeps you close, and he won't let go.

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[jarofstyles]

Adoration

Hi my lovebugs, this is the sequel-ish to Admiration! It could be read as a standalone though. I had them on my mind recently after I gave it a reread and I forgot how much I loved writing it so I wanted to touch on a few more things from them. Hope you enjoy!

Check out our Patreon for early access and 370+ exclusive writings and series

WC-4k

warnings- angst (resolved), avoidant attachment, talk of failed dates (not with H), anxiety, smut, anal play(not p in a penetration, just teasing it) soft Dom!Harry

There had been a time in the not so distant past that Y/N had been sexually frustrated, cynical, and almost hopeless about meeting the man who could give her what she wanted. 

She herself would admit that she had somewhat high standards compared to those she knew, but despite some urges from people around her that maybe they were possibly unobtainable, she refused to lower them. It wasn’t fair of her to settle for something she knew wouldn’t satisfy her, regardless if other people did. 

Perhaps that sounded cruel, and maybe it was, but so was settling for someone you weren’t head over heels for. 

That had been something she had done at the very beginning of her dating journey, and she had vowed after the third situationship with a man she had only seen potential and not results with that she would never, ever do that again. A lesson learned too many times.

People liked to say ‘if you know, you know’, and she hadn’t been so certain about that in the past. There were lots of instances of people who had given someone a chance when they were unsure and after a few dates it had worked, and for that she was ecstatic for them, but in her case it had only ever ended up with wasted time. 

Lots of people had initially been up for the ‘challenge’ when Y/N had tried to state her standards, and at the beginning it worked out slightly, sometimes showing some promise, but she could always see the cracks in the foundation she barely laid down. The cement hadn’t even cured yet when she watched their jaw twitch or heard the sighs of exasperation, and it was then that she would keep an eye on it but knowing that it likely wouldn’t work. 

There were three chances. She liked to think she was a very understanding person and that had been part of the problem when she had first started to implement going for exactly what she wanted instead of conceding to what was ‘available’, but with each person it got easier. Depending on the offense, the person didn’t get the third chance. 

Two cancelled dates in a row? Bye bye. 

Going three days without any texts or calls? Adios. 

They said something that very obviously didn’t align with her morals and values? See ya fucking later. 

So yes, it had been easy to become cynical after a while. 

That was also why four months into being official with Harry that she knew she was going to marry him. 

It was a feeling, really, a knowing that settled into her chest and stayed warm and glowy. The idea of being with him forever didn’t panic her like it had in the past with other people, there had been no major fuck ups besides a few cancelled dates because of work which he had rectified nearly immediately by a lot of soft words and heartfelt apologies he had stepped out of said meetings to give, sending her food and calling her on his way home, asking if he could see her to give her a kiss goodnight. 

Not to fuck and leave, but a literal kiss goodnight before being prepared to drive all the way back to his home. 

Did she end up inviting him in anyways? It depended on her mood. Usually, yes.

For a man so busy with multiple companies and a charity he was actually involved in, he always made time for her. He made sure she knew ahead of time what his schedule was and if he was going to be out of touch for a while, and that was something she appreciated more than he could ever know. 

Her avoidant tendencies had shifted into something far more settled, but she still had the remnants of that nasty anxiety that lingered. Somehow he could just tell, and made it a point to soothe it whenever he could. 

“I’m so sorry, my treasure.” He looked genuinely remorseful when she picked up the phone to see him on her screen, sleepy and sad. Harry was on a trip in Italy and he’d told her that he would call her at ten in the evening, but once it got to midnight, she was more than upset when her phone had remained silent. Angry, even. 

It wasn’t fair to be. Y/N knew he was out making big moves for his career and business was sometimes unreliable when it came to timing, but the anxiety had clawed at her quickly. Again, her old demons that she hadn’t quite slaughtered to completion putting unfair assumptions in her head that maybe he had met someone there more interesting, that he was dreading calling her, or even worse, something had happened to him. 

Crying over it had seemed excessive, especially at her age, but Harry had quickly become so, so important to her that she wasn’t quite sure she knew how to deal with it. She could see long term with him, she wanted to be with him more than anything, and her brain was still having a hard time processing that he hadn’t shown any sign of being anything like the mistakes she had dated before that had fed these monsters in her head. 

So waking up to his ring tone at 1:32 in the early morning had been a bit jarring, to say the least. 

“The meeting ran over and my phone had died. I promise you, I ran to my hotel the fastest I could.” To his credit, he looked disheveled, like he had been running his hand through his normally styled hair and he had some puffiness under his eyes from lack of sleep . Y/N was aware of the fact that sometimes the things he worked on were very involved, and rationally she knew it wasn’t a big deal… but it had triggered an old wound. 

It had happened to her an embarrassing number of times before, waiting for a phone call only to say they ‘fell asleep’ or they had straight up forgotten. The feeling of humiliation had been drudged back up like someone stepping in a clear stream and kicking the mud and gunk to make her feel cloudy as she had texted him for the third time unanswered, the feeling of a girl who used to give too many chances rising back. 

This was different, though. This wasn’t some party boy or hinge match that had strung her along. This was her boyfriend, one who had given her no reason to truly doubt him. 

“And no one else had a charger?” Her irritation showed through her sleepy voice, eyes narrowing at the screen. It felt ridiculous to say and embarrassment hit her gut when she did, but he shook his head in response, not getting prickly about her tone. 

“No, my darling, and that was very irritating. I am going to buy a portable one to keep in my briefcase, alright? I won’t let this happen again.” He paused, frowning as he watched her flip on her lamp on her nightstand, letting him see the tear tracks racing down her cheeks. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I don’t like it when you cry. I can see that you did.” It looked like it pained him, no note of condescending lacing his tone. “Breaks my heart. I hate that I made you so upset.”

“It’s okay.” She sniffled, wiping the sleep from her eyes. “I… I didn’t mean to get snappy. I should have known it was something like that, but it made my imagination run a bit wild. It’s stupid.”

“It isn’t.” The strength of his response surprised her. “Nothing about the way you feel is stupid. It was a broken promise, and that’s my own fault. You didn’t do a thing wrong. It’s alright to be frustrated with me for that.” His lips turned into a sad smile, shifting his position on the bed. 

“Well… Thank you for that.” It felt strange to have a man validate her reaction like that, even if she did know it wasn’t fully warranted. “I was just anxious, I think.” 

“Why don’t you tell me why, hm? I want t’know what goes on in that pretty head of yours. I’ll make sure to keep mental notes so it doesn’t happen again.”

–

The way Harry handled her with such care was a whole new experience and in every single way. He’d made sure to make good on all of his promises so far, and while she knew it could change at any moment, she’d decided to let go of some of those fears to fully take him in. This was the man she wanted to be with and working through those things in order to trust him was important. 

Besides that, she had never felt more adored in her life. 

“You alright?” He murmured into her skin, kissing on her cheeks as she finished washing the final dish. Harry had cooked dinner so she had insisted on cleaning up, much to his protest. He’d lingered around while she did, offering a hand and chuckling when she whipped the kitchen towel at him, leaving only momentarily to take a quick call before returning right at the tail end of her cleaning spree and attaching himself to her. 

“Yeah, I’m great.” The honest answer was that she was flustered from his lips pressing kisses all over her face (at least where he could reach from the position) and down her jaw. It was like he didn’t want to leave any area untouched, tiny pecks and a soft humming from his throat along to the Nina Simone album he’d put on making her skin heat up. 

“That’s what I like to hear.” The hand on her stomach fiddled with the hem of her top, letting his pinky graze the bare skin from where it had ridden up. “I adore you. I hope you know.” 

The gentle reminder of his feelings made her beam, surely letting him feel her smile against his lips as he gave another kiss to the heated skin. He hadn’t been shy about letting her know that he felt something strongly towards her, even if it was only a few months in. 

For a man so refined, poised and controlled in every other context, when it came to letting her know how he felt, the longer they were together, the more free and messy he was in comparison. 

Y/N fucking loved it. 

“What a coincidence. I happen to adore you quite a lot, too.” She retorted, shutting the water off and wiping her hands on the clean towel hanging over the faucet before placing them on top of his. “I didn’t expect to like you this much, this quickly. Or for you to like me back equally.” Those small moments of vulnerability she sprinkled in to their conversations were sometimes intimidating to give, but the more open she was with him the more she got to know his thoughts. 

Harry was more than giving when it came to communication and giving her the validation she needed. Sometimes it felt too good to be true, but everything about it seemed so earnest it was hard to actually doubt him. “How could I not?” He sounded affronted by the idea of it, shaking his head before nosing into the crook of her neck. “You, my darling, are the most wonderful, intelligent, alluring woman I’ve ever met. I can’t describe to you how lucky I felt when you agreed to start seeing me regularly.”

Y/N snorted, running her fingers over his wrists and up to his forearms before cuffing over them. “I thought you weren’t really attracted to me at first because you didn’t try to fuck me.” 

His body stilled behind her. An interesting reaction for someone so smooth, she waited for him to move. It didn’t take long, craning his head towards her, the wrinkle in his brow showed confusion and a bit of offense before he slowly shook his head. She wanted to smooth it away, make his face relax. “That is the exact opposite of what was happening. I was doing everything in my power to show you I was serious, yes, because you deserved the respect of being treated like a lady… but please, never mistake my attraction for you. It has always been… borderline distracting. Even now, I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Deciding to press his cheek against hers, he let out a sad sigh. “I never wanted you to think that. I’m sorry if you’ve ever felt undesired, my treasure. That’s never been the case. I just wanted to do it right.” The 5 o’clock shadow that had become more of an 8 o’clock one tickled her soft cheek as he spoke. 

“No, I know you did. I figured that out after the third date when you kissed me.” Her face felt hot when she recalled how carried away the kiss had gotten, her back cold against the passenger side of his car when he’d dropped her off and given her the first proper smooch. The electricity was there immediately and had lit her up, making her cling to the lapels of his jacket and his own hand sliding down her back, dangerously close to her ass. 

The memory of the groan he had let out was still something that made her knees weak. The way he’d tasted of wine and the mint he had on hand in his cupholder, too. 

“Mmm. Best first kiss of my life. I’d like it to be my last.” Thumbing over her stomach, he pressed her forward and into the sink with a sigh, moving to nose over her cheek as his mouth drifted toward her ear. “You’ve no idea how badly I wanted to say ‘fuck it’, right then and there. Hike that beautiful dress up to your hips and take you right there, because I knew immediately that you were mine and I wanted to take you. Be greedy. But I couldn’t.” Clicking his tongue in disappointment, he let himself press against her ass. 

Just the memory of the kiss had done something to him, too. 

“Really?” She breathed, swallowing the thickness in her throat. “I-I didn’t know. It was the first glimpse I saw of when you get…” 

“When I get what, sweetheart?” He questioned, letting his hand drift up, fingers running right over her breasts. A tease. Harry loved to fucking tease and it always made her squirm. He got off on making her impatient, hearing her whine, only to give in and give her the things she had only thought possible in her books and dirty dreams. It hadn’t helped her learn any patience, but thankfully he had enough for the both of them. “Hm?”

“When you get… feral. I don’t know. You’re always so proper but when you- when you grabbed the back of my neck to keep me where you wanted me, I got so wet.” Her breathy admission made him hum happily, finally allowing his hand to cup her and squeeze. Just a little bit- just another tease as his thumb grazed her nipple over the material of her top.

“Yeah? S’that what you like?” Harry knew damn well that was what she liked. He felt her get wet when he did, he felt her cum when he lost his control, he heard her sounds and how she went lax whenever he took over. “I can’t help myself sometimes. I just adore you so, so much. It takes over a part of me I’ve never seen. You’re the first to bring it out.” 

The lack of control he had over himself when it came to her was one of the things she loved most. It was nearly impossible for him to hide it now. The longer they were together the more he showed her. 

It shouldn’t have been a surprise when she was bent over the kitchen counter with her fuzzy cheetah sleep shorts discarded across the tiled floor and his hands running over her curves as he thrust into her, slow and deep. 

Filling her to the brim, to the point where she let out little gasps as his hips pressed against her bum, he let out low, gravelly murmurs of appreciation.  “Look at how you take it, my treasure.” He murmured, fingertips grazing the dimples in her back. “Like you were made for me. So fucking gorgeous, it’s driving me mad.” 

Regardless of how filthy their sex got, no matter how hard he took her, how dirty his words developed into when he grunted them into her sticky skin, Y/N never felt anything less than worshipped. Seeing a man break his composure he kept around every other human being because he was so obsessed with her was a sensation that she never knew she wanted, but now that she had it? It was a necessity.

He was reverent and sweet, even, as he picked up the pace and nudged her thighs further apart. “I can’t get enough of you. It’s never enough. Just want t’be touching you every moment… I’d live inside you if I could.” 

That sounded especially tempting as his hand slipped to her stomach and down to cup her mound, thumbing over her slippery clit. “Arch for me, sweetheart. Let me see that pretty face.” The opposite hand moved the hair that had fallen in her face, cooing as she did as he requested. “There she is. There’s my girl. Fuck, you’re perfect.” 

It would be embarrassing, how wet she got for him, if Harry didn’t love it. He preened every time he saw just how slicked up she got for him, coating his cock and his sac damn near every time he got inside of her. Her body reacted almost excessively strongly to him, in ways she hadn’t known possible, and he worked to get every possible one. 

The squelch of his cock inside of her, skin against skin and her panting filled the kitchen, fingers clawing uselessly on the marble countertop when she felt his other hand make the trek from her face towards her bum- and she knew what was coming. 

Before Harry, she’d never really considered any sort of anal play to be her thing, but the first time he had gently nudged the tip of his thumb in, she had lit up. It had pleased him to no end, seeing as he knew no one else had touched her there, and he wanted to claim it. 

If only he knew just how much she belonged to him. 

“Yeah? Want me to put something in this precious little hole too?” He spoke sweetly, like he wasn’t about to do one of the filthiest things a person could do. It was the duality of the man that had her head spinning every time they were intimate, but it seemed to get better every damn time. 

“You know I do.” Her reply was breathy as she used her elbows to raise her torso, but he wasn’t having any of that. 

“No, none of that.” He scolded, abandoning her ass for a moment to urge her back down. “You aren’t doing any work. You’re going to lay there and be gorgeous while I take care of everything. S’my job.” 

Y/N had won the karma lottery for dating so many duds, she was pretty sure. Like a gift from the universe for her troubles, giving her a man who not only wanted to take care of her but thrived off of it. Harry loved to be in charge, sure, but it was the act of giving that really got him off- Caring for her in ways no one else possibly could.

“Okay, m’sorry baby.” She swallowed, taking a breath that was promptly stolen when he spit right over her hole. “Oh, fuck.” Her face went lax as she bleated the curse out, not sure if she wanted to move from the touch or back into it. It was so much, but not enough.

“You like it, I know. M’gonna give it to you. I’ve been neglecting this ass, haven’t I baby? That’s not nice.” He shook his head, rubbing over the rim of it. “So pretty and tight… Makes you feel so good, too. One day we’ll get my cock in there. Get you some toys t’open you up… but for now, I just want to make you cum. You’ve had a long day, and I’ve been thinking about my pussy all fucking day.” 

The pleasure was almost indiscribable. Feeling the intrusion of his thumb, his hand on her clit and his cock thrusting into her, she was never more full than this. In moments like this, it was abundantly clear not only who she belonged to, but who belonged to her. The noises out of his mouth, the praises, the worship, all of it in one proved just how much it was reciprocated.

“You’ll never feel undesired again.” He grunted, his thrusts catching a little speed. There was no doubt he could feel her walls clenching around him, sucking on him to try and get him to meet his end, and she could hear it in his voice. “Should have done this over the hood of my car during that third date, just so you knew how much I wanted you. Wanted you to be mine, to crave this cock like I was drooling over this perfect pussy before I had even seen it.” 

He’d hidden it quite well. She’d only had a little inkling that he wanted her after their kiss but he’d held off so gracefully that she had been unsure.

Now, there was no questioning it. She was wanted in ways she hadn’t ever fathomed. 

“I-I wanted you so bad. I love when you’re a gentleman- oh fuck.” She hiccuped when the tip of his cock brushed the spot she needed again, eyes watering at the feeling. “I love it, but I love this too. Wanna feel you wanting me.” 

That was a challenge if he ever heard one, even if she hadn’t meant it to be. 

Y/N felt his want when he focused on that spot that had her knees weak, felt it when he kept his thrusts the same to focus on that spot, and especially felt it when she came the first time and he didn’t stop. Not even a falter in his rhythm, no skipped beat. Just the continuation of pleasure. 

“I want you so much it aches. I sit at work and think about when I get to see you next, how I can get you closer to me, make up excuses to come by just to kiss you. But if you want me to do this more often? Want me to get you face down and gushing around my cock over and over again? I’ll do it. I want you forever.” His voice was slurred a little bit, but he didn’t stop. 

“Adore you so much. You’re everything I fuckin’ dreamed of. Never felt m-more lucky than seeing you on that first date. Knew you’d be mine. Knew I’d have to do anything I could to make you happy. My hands hurt from how… how bad I wanted to run them all over you, but now you’re gonna see.” He breathed, smacking lightly over her clit to get her to whimper for him. “M’gonna show you what’s going on on my head all the time.” 

That was what she wanted. Knowing he was in his office talking about god knows what business stuff he talked about, texting under the table that he couldn’t wait to have her was something she wanted. 

Harry completely unfiltered.

[ijustmissyouraccenths]

How Did It End?

A girl walks into a psychic’s shop on a Tuesday for a laugh and walks out knowing exactly how a love story she hasn’t lived yet is going to end.

Word Count: 9.6k

📝: Had a really fun time writing this one. Inspired by Taylor Swift’s How Did It End?

You found Madam Doris on a Tuesday, which felt like the right day for something you couldn’t explain to anyone.

Not a Friday, when desperation has an excuse. Not a Sunday, when everything feels vaguely spiritual anyway. A Tuesday, when you had nowhere to be until two and the sign in the window caught your eye from across the street. Readings. Walk-ins Welcome. Hand-painted letters on dark glass, a small lamp glowing amber behind them. The place you’d passed a hundred times without registering. The place that exists on every block of every old city, patient as weather.

You told yourself you were going for the story. Something to text your friends later. You’ll never guess what I did today. A small adventure. Proof that you were the person who did spontaneous things on Tuesdays.

You went in.

The shop was narrow and warm, smelling of something that wasn’t quite incense, softer than that, closer to cedar and dried flowers and old paper. A velvet curtain hung in the back doorway, deep burgundy, not quite theatrical but not trying to hide what it was either. There were shelves along one wall holding crystals in varying sizes, a few stacked decks of tarot cards still in their boxes, a small lamp with a fringed shade that threw everything in amber. It was a room that took itself seriously without demanding you do the same.

The woman who came through the curtain was not what you expected, though you couldn’t have said what you expected. She was somewhere between fifty and seventy, with silver hair pulled back loosely and reading glasses pushed up on her head. She wore a cardigan. She looked like someone’s favorite professor.

“Just you?” she asked.

“Just me,” you said.

She looked at you for a moment, not unkindly, but with an attention that made you feel briefly, oddly seen. Then she gestured to the small round table in the center of the room, two chairs facing each other across a surface draped in dark fabric. At the center sat a crystal ball, maybe the size of a grapefruit, resting on a small brass stand. It caught the lamplight and held it, cloudy and luminous at once.

You almost laughed. Not meanly. It was just that the crystal ball was so precisely what you’d imagined, so exactly the artifact the room required, that it felt like a set. Like someone had done their research.

“Sit,” she said, and you did.

She settled across from you, folded her hands on the table, and studied you with the same patient attention she’d used from across the room. Outside, a bus rumbled past. The amber lamp hummed faintly.

“What brings you in today?”

You opened your mouth to say nothing in particular, honestly, I was just walking by, and then stopped. Looked at the crystal ball. Looked back at her.

“I’m not really sure,” you said, which was the most honest thing you’d said all week.

She nodded, like that was exactly the right answer.

She placed her hands on either side of the crystal ball without touching it, palms hovering just above the brass stand, and went quiet. Not the quiet of someone thinking. The quiet of someone listening.

You watched her eyes drop to the glass. The ball itself didn’t change, and you weren’t sure what you’d expected, smoke curling, light shifting, but something about the room did. The ambient hum of the city outside seemed to pull back, like a tide going out.

You folded your hands in your lap and waited. You were good at waiting. You’d always told yourself that.

“There is someone,” she said finally.

Her voice was the same as before. Unremarkable. Like she was reading from something only she could see.

“There will be someone,” she corrected herself, and looked up at you briefly before her eyes returned to the glass. “A man. He will come into your life at a moment when you are not looking for him, which is always when they come.”

You almost smiled at that. Almost.

“He will be,” she paused, and something moved across her face that you couldn’t quite name. Not concern. Something more considered than that. “He will be everything. You will feel things with him that you did not know you were capable of feeling. He will make the world louder and quieter at once. You will not have words for what he is to you for a long time, and then one day you will, and the word will frighten you a little.”

The lamp flickered. Neither of you acknowledged it.

“But it will end,” she said.

The words sat between you on the table like something solid.

“It will end,” she said again, softer, not for emphasis but like she was sorry to say it twice. “And when it does, everyone will want to know how. Everyone who watched you together, everyone who saw what you were, they will come asking. And you will have to decide, over and over again, what you are willing to give them.”

You heard yourself speak before you’d decided to.

“How did it end?”

She looked up at you then. Really looked at you, the reading glasses still pushed up on her head, her hands still hovering over the glass.

Then she reached across the table and took both of your hands in hers.

Her palms were warm. Dry. She held your hands the way someone holds something they don’t want to drop, and she said nothing at all.

And then the room was gone.

The vision came in pieces, the way dreams do.

Not darkness and then light. More like tuning into something that was already playing, a signal sharpening until the static cleared and there you were, solid and present inside a moment you hadn’t lived yet.

A coffee shop. Small, a little crowded, the place that had been there long enough to earn its worn edges. Mismatched chairs. A chalkboard menu with one item crossed out. The smell of espresso so thick it was almost something you could hold.

You were reaching for the last sleeve on the condiment counter, the cardboard kind, because your cup was too hot and you hadn’t thought to ask for one at the register. Your fingers closed around it at the same moment another hand did.

You looked up.

He was already looking at you.

That was the first thing you noticed, that he wasn’t surprised the way you were. Or maybe he was, but it had already moved through him and settled into something else by the time your eyes met. He was tall, brown hair curling a little at the ends, a ring on almost every finger. He had the face that took a moment to fully absorb, not because it was perfect but because it was specific. Every feature its own quiet decision.

He didn’t let go of the sleeve. Neither did you.

“I need that,” you said.

“So do I,” he said. His voice was low and unhurried, with a British accent that landed somewhere in your chest without permission.

“There’s only one.”

“I noticed.”

You looked at him. He looked at you. The coffee shop continued existing around you, indifferent and loud, and neither of you moved.

Then he smiled, and it was the smile that rearranged things. Not charming in a practiced sense, not the smile of someone who knew what it did. Just genuine, a little crooked, like it had surprised him too.

“You take it,” he said, and let go.

“Thank you.” You slid it onto your cup. Then, because something in you wasn’t ready for the conversation to be over, you said, “You can have it when I sit down. If you want.”

He tilted his head, considering you with an attention that should have felt intrusive and somehow didn’t.

“Yeah,” he said. “Alright.”

His name was Harry. He told you four minutes later, across a small table by the window, while the city moved past the glass behind him and your coffee steamed between your hands. He said it simply, no last name, no preamble, the way people introduce themselves when they aren’t thinking about how they’ll be received.

You told him yours.

He repeated it once, quietly, like he was deciding whether it fit. Then he nodded, like it did.

You talked for two hours. You didn’t mean to. You had somewhere to be, something you’d told yourself was important, and then his eyes would catch on something you said and sharpen with a focus that made you feel briefly like the most interesting person in the room, and the time just kept going. He asked questions the way people rarely did, not as a bridge to his own stories but because he actually wanted the answers. He laughed with his whole face. He disagreed with you about something small and inconsequential and held his ground with a patience that was more disarming than if he’d just conceded.

When you finally stood to leave, gathering your bag and your empty cup, he stood too.

“I’d like to see you again,” he said. Straight and simple. No performance to it.

Your heart did something you didn’t have a name for yet.

“Okay,” you said.

He smiled again, and there it was, that rearranging thing, and you walked out into the afternoon feeling like the city was slightly different than it had been two hours ago. The light sharper. The sounds fuller. The air carrying a charge it hadn’t had before.

You didn’t know yet what to call it.

You would, eventually.

And the word would frighten you a little.

The second date was his idea and he was nervous about it, which you only knew because he texted you three times in the hour before to confirm you still wanted to go, each message slightly more casual than the last in a transparently not casual attempt.

Harry: Still on for tonight?

Harry: No pressure if you changed your mind

Harry: I just realized I don’t actually know if you like Italian food

You stared at your phone for a moment, charmed against your will, and typed back.

You: I like Italian food. I’ll see you at seven.

He was there when you arrived, standing outside the restaurant with his hands in his pockets, and he smiled when he saw you coming down the street, that same rearranging smile, and something in your chest did the thing it had done in the coffee shop. Quiet and seismic at once.

“You came,” he said.

“I said I would.”

“People say a lot of things.”

You looked at him. “I’m not a lot of people.”

He held the door open and said, softly, mostly to himself, “No. I’m getting that.”

Three weeks in, he took you to meet his friends, and you understood immediately that this was a test he hadn’t told you about.

Mitch was already at the corner table when you arrived, sitting next to Tom, both of them with the relaxed posture of people who’d been there long enough to claim the space. Sarah, Mitch’s wife, scooted over to make room and gave you a smile that was warm and assessing in equal measure. Jeff, who had the energy of someone who managed chaos for a living and had made peace with it, raised his pint in greeting and gave you a single nod that felt like its own form of acceptance.

“This is her,” Harry said, which was not an introduction so much as a statement of fact.

“We know who she is,” Mitch said, leaning back in his chair with a mild expression that didn’t quite hide his amusement. “He’s talked about you.”

“Mitch,” Harry said.

“It’s a compliment.”

“It genuinely isn’t.”

“He said you argued with him about whether Joni Mitchell”

“We’re not doing this.”

“is overrated, and you told him he had terrible taste and he came home and played Blue on repeat for three hours.”

The table laughed. Harry pressed his fingers to his eyes. You pressed your lips together and failed completely at not smiling.

“For the record,” you said, “he does have terrible taste.”

“She’s lying,” Harry said, dropping his hand and looking at you with something fond and exasperated in equal measure. “She cried at River.”

“I did not cry.”

“Your eyes were wet.”

“It was dry in the car.”

Tom laughed so hard he had to set his drink down. Jeff looked at Harry with an expression that said, plainly, she’s good, and Harry looked back with an expression that said I know, and you thought, sitting there in that loud warm pub surrounded by people who loved him, that you were in a significant amount of trouble.

A week later it was your turn, and you brought him to brunch on a Sunday at the place on the corner that always had a wait.

You’d told your friends almost nothing, which meant Sophie and Clara had spent two weeks constructing elaborate theories, and when he showed up in a yellow buttondown with his sunglasses pushed up on his head and held the door open for the entire group without being asked, Jess caught your eye across the table and mouthed something you pretended not to see.

He ordered for the table without taking over. He asked Clara about her dissertation and then actually listened to the answer and asked a follow-up question that made her sit up straighter. He laughed at Sophie’s jokes a half second before everyone else, which meant he was actually paying attention.

On the way out Jess fell into step beside you while he walked ahead with Clara, and she said, very quietly, “You are absolutely cooked.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” you said.

“Yes you do.”

You watched him laugh at something Clara said, his head tilting back, shoulders shaking.

“Yes,” you said. “I do.”

Going out publicly happened by accident the first few times, and then, without either of you deciding it, by choice.

The accident was a farmer’s market on a Saturday morning, early enough that the city was still slow, and you were standing at a flower stall arguing gently about whether peonies or ranunculus were objectively superior when someone took a photo. You didn’t notice until later. Neither did he. You were too busy losing the argument.

“Ranunculus,” he said, holding one up, pale pink and layered and absurdly pretty.

“Peonies,” you said. “It’s not close.”

“You only think that because peonies are what everyone says. You’ve been influenced.”

“I’ve been influenced by the fact that they’re better.”

“Influenced,” he repeated, unbothered, and bought you both, and tucked the ranunculus behind your ear without asking permission, his fingers brushing your jaw and making you forget, briefly, that you’d been winning.

The photo surfaced by afternoon. You together at the flower stall, his head bent toward yours, the ranunculus already in your hair. You looked happy in it. Genuinely, unguardedly happy, the kind that doesn’t know it’s being observed.

He texted you a screenshot of it.

Harry: we look good

You looked at it for a long time.

You: yeah. we do.

After that, going out together was less an accident and more a quiet agreement. Dinner at places you both liked. Walks that went longer than intended. A concert where he knew every word and sang them without self-consciousness, his hand finding yours in the dark. The world took its photos and you let it, mostly, because the alternative was smaller than what you had and neither of you was willing to make yourselves that small.

The I love you happened in his kitchen on a Wednesday, which was, you were beginning to understand, when the realest things happened between you.

Not on occasions. Not in the moments constructed for significance. On Wednesdays, when he was making pasta and you were sitting on the counter reading aloud from your phone, some article you’d found that you knew would make him argue with you, and he was arguing, stirring the sauce and gesturing with the wooden spoon, and you were laughing at how worked up he was getting about something so small.

And then he looked at you.

Just looked at you, the argument dying mid-sentence, the wooden spoon going still, and his face did something unguarded and complete.

“I love you,” you both said.

At the exact same moment.

The silence afterward lasted maybe two seconds before you both broke, laughter spilling out of you, real and helpless and slightly disbelieving, and he set the spoon down and crossed the kitchen and kissed you while you were still laughing, which made the kiss imprecise and warm and somehow better for it.

“Wednesday,” he said against your mouth.

“Wednesday,” you agreed.

The argument happened on a Friday three months later, which felt more appropriate for arguments, and it started the way the worst ones always do, with something too small to justify what it became.

A photo someone had posted, the two of you at a restaurant the week before, caught through the window. He’d been unbothered by it, almost amused, scrolling past it with the ease of someone accustomed to being observed.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” you asked. “Even a little?”

“Not really,” he said. “It’s just a photo.”

“It’s us. At dinner. Someone was watching us through a window.”

“Someone was walking past and had a phone. It’s not surveillance.”

“I’m not saying it’s surveillance. I’m saying it’s our life and strangers are collecting pieces of it.”

He put his phone down and looked at you with the careful attention he always gave difficult conversations, which you usually loved and right now found aggravating.

“You knew what this was,” he said. Not unkindly. Quietly. “When we started.”

“I knew it abstractly.”

“And now it’s not abstract.”

“Now it’s not abstract,” you said.

He was quiet for a moment. “Do you want me to be someone who doesn’t exist in the world?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s close to what you said.”

“Harry.” You stopped. Started again. “I’m not asking you to disappear. I’m telling you that sometimes I feel like I’m disappearing. Like there’s the version of us that gets photographed through restaurant windows and there’s whatever this actually is, and I don’t always know which one is real.”

Something shifted in his face then. The careful attention giving over to something rawer.

“This is real,” he said.

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

“I know that,” you said again, quieter. “I just need you to know that it costs me something. Being out there with you. I’m not built for it the same as you and I need you to understand that without making me feel small for it.”

He looked at you for a long moment. The fight hadn’t left him entirely but it had rearranged itself into something that looked more like grief than anger.

“I’m sorry. I don’t want you to feel small,” he said. “I never want that.”

“I know.”

“I just don’t know how to be less than what I am.”

“I’m not asking you to be.”

The room held the argument for another moment and then slowly let it go. He crossed to where you were standing and put his arms around you and you let him, your forehead dropping to his shoulder, both of you still a little bruised from what had just passed between you.

Neither of you said it was fine. It wasn’t fine, not entirely. But it was yours, and you held onto it anyway.

It didn’t announce itself. That was the thing nobody told you about the beginning of an ending. You always imagined you’d feel it arrive, some shift in the atmosphere, a door closing somewhere in the distance. But it didn’t come like that. It came like weather that changes so gradually you don’t notice until you’re already cold.

The first thing was small. It was always small.

He had a run of press in October, three weeks of early mornings and late nights and cities that blurred into each other, and you understood it, you did, you had always understood that his life had a scale yours didn’t, but understanding something and living inside it were two different educations. He called when he could. He texted between interviews, little things, a photo of a hotel breakfast that looked aggressively beige, a voice memo of a song idea he’d had at two in the morning, his voice rough with sleep and alive with excitement in a way that made your chest ache because you were not there to see his face when he sang it.

Harry: miss you

You: miss you too

And you did. You genuinely did. But somewhere underneath the missing him was something else you didn’t look at directly, something that felt uncomfortably like relief. Room to breathe. Quiet that was only yours.

You didn’t examine that feeling. You closed the phone and went to sleep.

He came back on a Thursday and you made dinner and it was good, it was really good, he was warm and present and he brought you something small from the last city, a paperback he’d found in an airport bookshop because the cover reminded him of something you’d said once, and you held it and felt so full of love for him that it almost hurt.

But somewhere around ten o’clock, sitting on his sofa with his legs across your lap and the television on low, you noticed that you were performing comfort rather than feeling it. Going through the motions of an evening you knew well. Laughing at the right moments. Reaching for his hand at the right moments. And he was doing it too, you realized. The ease between you was real but it was also slightly rehearsed, two people who loved each other trying to remember how to be alone together.

Neither of you said anything.

The television murmured. Outside it rained.

November came in cold and the distance between you became a thing with texture. Not a gulf, not yet, more like a pane of glass installed so carefully you only noticed it when you reached for him and felt the resistance.

“You seem far away,” he said one morning over coffee, not accusatory, just observant.

“I’m right here,” you said.

He looked at you. “I know where you are.”

You turned the mug in your hands. “I’m just tired. Work has been a lot.”

“You could have said that.”

“I’m saying it now.”

He was quiet for a moment. “You don’t have to manage it alone. Whatever it is. You can just tell me.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

It was the same question he’d asked months ago and it landed differently now, softer and more worried, and you wanted to say yes, I do, I know I can tell you things, I’m just not sure how to tell you that I don’t entirely know what’s wrong, but instead you said, “I know, Harry. I’m just tired.”

He nodded. He let it go.

That was the other thing. He was letting things go more often now. Choosing peace over pursuit. You weren’t sure if that was kindness or something closer to resignation and you were afraid to find out.

December was better on the surface and worse underneath.

There were parties, the kind that populated his world in December, big warm rooms full of people who all seemed to know each other. You were good at them by now, you’d learned the architecture of his social life, who to talk to and how, when to find him across the room and when to let him work. You wore a green dress to one of them and he looked at you when you walked out of the bathroom and said, quietly, “God,” and you felt briefly like the only person in the world.

But at the party itself something sat wrong. You watched him move through the room, easy and magnetic, laughing with people who’d known him a decade longer than you had, and you felt it again, that old feeling, the gap between the public version of you together and whatever you actually were. Except this time the public version didn’t feel like less. It felt like more. More vivid and defined than the quiet evenings that had started to feel like two people waiting for something neither of them could name.

Sophie found you by the bar somewhere around eleven.

“You okay?” she said, handing you a drink.

“Fine,” you said.

She looked at you the way she always had, the look that meant she’d heard you and filed it away and would return to it later. “You’ve been standing here for twenty minutes.”

“I like this spot.”

“You’re watching him.”

“He’s my boyfriend.”

“You’re watching him like he’s already gone.”

The words landed somewhere quiet and deep and you picked up your drink and said, “You’re being a tad dramatic,” and changed the subject, and Sophie let you, because she was good at that too.

But on the way home in the car, Harry’s hand on the gearshift, the city scrolling past the windows in streaks of amber and white, you thought about what she’d said. You looked at his profile in the dark. The line of his jaw. The rings catching the light from passing streets.

He glanced over and caught you looking.

“What?” he said, soft.

“Nothing,” you said. “You just look nice.”

He smiled, eyes back on the road. “So do you.”

Such a simple exchange. So entirely normal. And underneath it, something you were beginning to recognize as the particular sadness of loving someone and feeling them slip, not from your hands but from somewhere deeper, some place where the knowing of a person lives.

You looked back out the window.

You didn’t say anything.

January was when the conversations started going wrong.

Not arguments. Arguments would have been easier. Arguments had heat and resolution and the possibility of being held afterward. These were something quieter and more corrosive, conversations that started normally and then hit a place where something should have been said and wasn’t, and you both felt the shape of the unsaid thing and kept going anyway.

Like the evening in his kitchen when he mentioned, casually, a trip he was taking in February, two weeks in LA for studio time, said it the way you mentioned getting a haircut, and you heard yourself say, “Oh,” and nothing else.

He looked up from where he was cutting vegetables. “You knew about this.”

“I know.”

“I told you in November.”

“I know you did.”

“Then why do you look like that?”

“I don’t look like anything.”

He set the knife down. Slowly. The way he did when he was making a deliberate decision to be patient. “You look like I just told you I was leaving forever.”

“Two weeks in LA isn’t forever.”

“No,” he said. “It isn’t. So why does it feel like that’s not really what this is about?”

You picked up your glass. Put it down. “I just sometimes feel like your life happens and I hear about it and that’s the shape of things. Like I’m adjacent.”

“You’re not adjacent.”

“I know I’m not. I’m telling you how it feels.”

“How it feels and what’s true are different things.”

“I know that too, Harry.”

He looked at you across the kitchen and his face had that quality it sometimes had now, the careful quality, like he was doing math. Calculating the distance between what he wanted to say and what it was safe to say.

“What do you want from me?” he said finally. Not unkindly. Genuinely.

“I don’t know,” you said, and it was the most honest thing you’d said in weeks.

He picked the knife back up. “That makes it hard,” he said quietly. “When you don’t know.”

“I realize that.”

“I’m not criticizing you.”

“I know.”

“I just need something to work with.”

“I know, Harry.”

The vegetables got cut. Dinner got made. You ate it at the table and talked about other things, Tom’s new flat, a book you were both reading, the radiator in your hallway that had started making a sound neither of you could identify. Normal things. Warm things, even. And underneath all of it, the conversation you’d just had sat like sediment, not resolved, just settled.

February came and he went to LA and you told yourself the space would be good and for the first week it was. You had dinner with Sophie and Clara, slept in the middle of your bed, worked late without feeling guilty about it. You talked to him most evenings, calls that lasted an hour sometimes, easy and fond, and you thought maybe the distance was clarifying something, maybe this was what you’d needed, some room to remember that you missed him more than you felt crowded by him.

But in the second week the calls got shorter. Not dramatically. Twenty minutes instead of an hour. His voice slightly distracted, present but pointed elsewhere, and you understood it, studio time meant long sessions and strange hours, but you started ending the calls first, preemptively, before the conversation could thin out to something that felt like obligation.

Harry: still up?

You were. You stared at the message for longer than you should have.

You: early morning tomorrow. talk soon x

You put your phone face down on the nightstand and looked at the ceiling for a long time.

You were lying. You didn’t have an early morning. You just hadn’t known what to say to him, which had never happened before, and the novelty of it frightened you more than the fact itself.

He came back on a Sunday and something had shifted and you both knew it and neither of you said so.

He was tired from the flight, you were unsettled in a way you couldn’t name, and the evening had a careful quality to it, both of you being considerate, asking what the other wanted for dinner, is this okay, is that okay, a politeness that had never lived between you before and sat poorly now.

“You seem different,” he said, late, both of you in bed, the lamp on his side still on.

“I’m the same.”

“You’re not.”

You stared at the ceiling. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Try. For me.”

“I just.” You stopped. Started again. “I think I’ve been somewhere else a lot. While you were gone. And I came back a little different.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Different how.”

“I don’t know yet.”

He turned his head to look at you. You could feel it without looking back. “Are you unhappy?”

The question sat in the room and took up space.

“No,” you said. And then, because he deserved more than that: “I don’t think so. I think I’m just. I think I’ve been waiting for something to feel clear and it hasn’t yet.”

“Clear,” he repeated.

“I love you,” you said. “That’s clear.”

“But.”

“There’s no but.”

“There’s a but,” he said softly. “I can hear it.”

You finally looked at him then. His face in the low light, tired and open and careful all at once. The face you knew better than almost anything. The face that still rearranged something in you even now, even in the middle of whatever this was.

“I’m scared,” you said. “I think that’s what it is. I’m scared and I don’t know of what exactly and it’s making me pull back and I’m sorry.”

He reached over and took your hand under the blanket. His thumb moved across your knuckles, slow.

“Don’t be sorry,” he said.

“I’m doing it anyway.”

“I know.” A pause. “I’m scared too, you know.”

“Of what?”

He looked at the ceiling. “That there’s a version of this that works and we’re going to miss it because we’re both too far gone to find it.”

The lamp hummed. Somewhere outside a car passed.

“That’s a very specific fear,” you said.

“I’ve had time to develop it.”

You turned onto your side to face him and he turned too and you looked at each other in the low amber light, both of you tired and a little undone, and he brought your joined hands up and pressed his mouth to your knuckles, and you felt it everywhere.

“I don’t want to miss it,” you said.

“Me neither,” he said against your hand.

But the thing about missing something, you were beginning to understand, was that you rarely knew you’d missed it until it was already gone. And the space between the two of you, small and quiet and unspoken, kept its shape regardless.

Neither of you could see it yet. But it was there.

It had been there for a while.

March came in like an exhale.

Something loosened between you, quietly and without announcement, the same way the distance had arrived except in reverse. You stopped waiting for things to feel clear and started just letting them be what they were, and what they were, most days, was good. Genuinely uncomplicated good, the kind you’d almost forgotten was possible.

He took you to see a band on a Thursday, a small venue, sticky floors and a sound system that was slightly too loud, and you stood with your back against his chest and his arms around you from behind and felt him singing along against your hair, low and unselfconscious, and you closed your eyes and just lived inside the moment without pulling at its edges.

“Good?” he said into your ear between songs.

“Really good,” you said.

His arms tightened briefly. That was all.

There was a weekend in the middle of March that you would return to later, in the months after, like how you return to something you didn’t know you were memorizing. You spent it almost entirely at his flat, no agenda, no plans that needed keeping. Saturday morning he made eggs and you sat on the counter the way you always did and he talked about a melody he’d been chasing for weeks, something that kept arriving almost fully formed and then dissolving before he could catch it, and you listened with your mug held in both hands and the low March light coming through the kitchen window and thought, clearly and without fear: this is enough. This is exactly enough.

Saturday afternoon you read on opposite ends of the sofa, feet tangled in the middle, and the flat was quiet except for the occasional turn of a page and the radiator doing its usual thing and once, when you laughed at something in your book, he looked up and said, “What?” and you read him the passage and he smiled and went back to reading, and it was so ordinary and so exactly right that something loosened in your chest that you hadn’t realized was still held tight.

Sunday it rained and you stayed in bed late and talked about nothing important, his childhood, a holiday he’d taken at seven that had gone spectacularly wrong, a teacher you’d had who’d said something that had stayed with you for fifteen years without your permission. The easy excavation of two people who still wanted to know each other.

“I forgot,” you said at some point, staring at the ceiling with his arm under your shoulders.

“Forgot what?”

“That it could feel like this. Easy.”

He was quiet for a moment. “It was always easy.”

“It stopped being, for a while.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It did.”

“But it’s back.”

He pressed his mouth to the side of your head. “It’s back.”

You believed it. Both of you did, lying there in the grey Sunday light with the rain against the windows. You believed it the way you believe things that are true in the moment and fragile in the atmosphere, things that need stillness to survive.

The world, unfortunately, was not still.

April arrived and brought with it the particular cruelty of a beautiful month that holds ugly things.

It started with his schedule, which had always been a presence in your relationship, a third party you’d learned to negotiate with. A run of shows announced, promo beginning again, the machine of his professional life cycling back up with the indifferent momentum it always had. You knew this. You’d known it was coming. But knowing and feeling were still, after all this time, two different countries.

He was distracted in a way he couldn’t help and probably didn’t notice. Half present at dinners, his phone face up on the table for the first time in months, his attention splitting itself between you and the seventeen things that always needed him. You didn’t say anything because you had said it before and saying it again felt like evidence of something you didn’t want to name.

You started leaving earlier when you came over. An hour before you would have, two hours, small retreats that you told yourself were reasonable and that had the quality of things you do because you cannot bear to wait for what’s coming.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

“You don’t have to go,” he said one evening in early April, standing in the doorway of his flat, and it wasn’t an accusation, it wasn’t even really a question, it was something quieter and more tired than either of those things.

“I know,” you said.

“But you’re going.”

“I’m tired.”

He looked at you. The hallway light was behind him and his face was half in shadow and he looked like someone who had been carrying something heavy for long enough that he’d stopped noticing the weight.

“Okay,” he said.

Just okay. Not please stay or I know what you’re doing or any of the things he might have said three months ago. Just okay, and he kissed you at the door, and you walked to your car feeling the specific misery of getting what you thought you wanted.

It was a Saturday in the third week of April when it happened. The sky was the particular blue that only exists in spring, almost aggressive in its beauty, the kind of day that makes the city look like it’s trying its best.

He’d suggested the park, the one you’d walked through a hundred times, where there was a bench near the pond you’d claimed early in the relationship, half jokingly, our bench, and it had become a real thing, a place you returned to without discussion. You should have known, maybe, from the suggestion. That he’d chosen somewhere that meant something.

You got coffee on the way and carried it through the park gates and the trees were doing what April trees do, everything new and green and indecently alive. You found the bench. You sat. The pond caught the light and threw it back.

For a while you just drank your coffee and watched the water.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said.

“I know,” you said.

He looked at you. “You know.”

He turned the cup in his hands. He was wearing the jacket you’d always loved on him, dark green, worn at the elbows, the one he’d had since before you and would have long after. “I don’t want to do this,” he said. “I want you to know that. This isn’t what I want.”

“I know that too.”

“But I think we’ve both been.” He stopped. Tried again. “I think we’ve been waiting. For a while now. And I don’t know what we’re waiting for.”

“For it to go back,” you said quietly. “To what it was.”

“Yeah.”

“And it’s not going back.”

“I don’t think it is,” he said. “Not because of anything. Not because of anyone. I just think we got tired.”

The word landed softly and devastatingly. Tired. Not broken, not ruined, not betrayed. Just tired. Two people who had loved each other genuinely and completely and had worn each other down without meaning to, the way even good things can wear, given enough friction and enough time.

“I love you,” you said.

“I love you,” he said immediately, like a reflex, like breathing. “I love you and I think that’s why this is.” He shook his head. “I think if I loved you less I could keep going. Keep trying to find a version of this that works. But I love you too much to keep asking you to be okay when you’re not.”

Your eyes burned. You looked at the pond because looking at him was too much.

“I wasn’t not okay,” you said.

“You weren’t fully okay either.”

You couldn’t argue with that. You didn’t try.

“I kept pulling back,” you said. “I don’t even know why. I kept feeling crowded and then missing you and then feeling crowded again and I couldn’t find the middle.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

“I’m sorry anyway.”

He reached over and took your hand and his thumb moved across your knuckles and you let him, and the two of you sat there on your bench in the indecent April sunshine while your relationship ended around you, gentle and quiet and terrible.

You stared at the pond and felt the tears come before you could stop them, not the quiet dignified kind but the real kind, the kind that tightens your throat and blurs everything and doesn’t care that you’re outside on a Saturday with people walking past on the path behind you.

“I don’t want this,” you said, and your voice came out wrecked, smaller than you’d intended, cracked straight down the middle. “I know I’ve been pulling back. I know I made it hard. But I don’t actually want this.”

His hand tightened around yours. “I know. It’s okay.”

“Then why are we doing it.”

“Because wanting to stay and being able to stay aren’t always the same thing.”

You pulled your hand back. Not angrily. You just needed it, needed to hold it yourself, needed something to be yours in this moment that wasn’t also leaving. You pressed both palms flat against your thighs and stared at the water and breathed through the sensation that something load-bearing was giving way inside you, something that had been holding everything else up, and you could feel it going and you couldn’t stop it.

“I don’t know who I told things to before you,” you said. It came out sideways, not what you meant to say, but also exactly what you meant. “I don’t remember how I did any of it before you.”

He made a sound beside you, quiet and pained.

“That’ll come back,” he said softly.

“You don’t know that.”

“It will.”

“Harry.” His name broke apart in your mouth. “Please don’t tell me what I’m going to be fine at. Not right now.”

He went quiet.

A family passed on the path behind you, two small children chasing each other, a dog straining at its lead, all of it so ordinary it felt surreal. You watched them without really seeing them, your vision blurred and the world at a slight remove.

You thought about the kitchen on a Wednesday. His arms around you at the concert. The ranunculus behind your ear and his fingers at your jaw. The way he’d said your name that very first time, quiet and considering, like he was deciding if it fit.

You thought about the photo from the flower stall. Both of you so unguardedly happy that strangers had seen it coming before you had.

You thought about the low lamplight and I love you at the exact same moment and the laughter after and the kiss that tasted like relief.

All of it was still there. Every single piece of it, intact and vivid and entirely out of reach. Not gone, just past tense, and the past tense of it was the thing you hadn’t prepared for, the thing nobody warned you about. It didn’t disappear. It only moved to a place you could see but never again touch.

“I need to go,” you said.

“You don’t have to.”

“I do.” You stood. Your legs felt like something you’d borrowed. The blue sky sat above you, relentless and gorgeous and completely unmoved. “I need to go home. I just need to not be here.”

He stood too. Of course he did.

You looked at him in the April light in the jacket you’d always loved and you felt it go, clean and irreversible, something deep and structural giving way at last.

“I loved you so much,” you said. Past tense. The first time. It tasted like a door closing.

His jaw tightened. His eyes were bright and wet. “I know,” he said. “I loved you too.”

Past tense back.

There it was.

You nodded once, picked up your cold coffee, and walked back down the path toward the gate without looking back. One foot and then the other. Gravel and then pavement and then the street.

Two blocks away you stopped.

You stood on the pavement while the city moved around you, Saturday in every direction, and you could not for the life of you remember where you were going or why or how any of this was supposed to work now. Your hands were shaking slightly. Your coffee was cold. The sun was warm on your face in a way that felt personally offensive.

You thought about calling Sophie. You couldn’t make your mouth work yet.

You thought about going home. You didn’t know what you’d do when you got there.

You thought about turning around.

You didn’t.

You just stood there while the grief arrived in its full size, not the restrained version from the bench but the real thing, the actual weight of it, and it was so much larger than you’d let yourself know. You’d been not looking at it for so long, and now it was here and it was enormous and it was yours and there was nowhere to put it.

He had been the place you put things.

You started walking again because standing still was worse. No direction, no destination, just movement, past a café and a bookshop and a woman with a small dog and a man laughing into his phone, all of it obscenely normal, the world utterly uninterested in the fact that you had just left the best thing that had ever happened to you sitting on a bench by a pond, and you had walked away, and you were still walking, and every step felt like something you were doing wrong, and you didn’t know how to stop, so you didn’t.

You just kept going.

The weeks after were the quiet awful.

Not dramatic. Not the grief you’d seen in films, the kind with smashed plates and sobbing on bathroom floors. This was smaller and more total than that. This was sleeping too long and eating whatever required the least effort and sitting in rooms you’d always liked and finding them slightly wrong now, like furniture rearranged by an inch, everything in almost the right place.

You turned your phone over a lot. You looked at it less.

Sophie called on the third day and you let it ring and then sent a text that said I’m okay just need a few days, which was half true and half a bid for time you weren’t sure what to do with. Clara texted the day after. Then Jess. Then Sophie again. You answered each of them the same way, short and grateful and noncommittal, and they were good enough friends to let you, which you loved them for and also used shamelessly.

You didn’t call anyone. You didn’t go anywhere you didn’t have to. You went to work and came home and existed in the suspended quality of someone waiting for the worst of it to pass, not sure if it was passing or just shifting shape.

You didn’t text him. He didn’t text you.

That was the right thing. You knew it was the right thing. It didn’t make the absence of his name on your screen any easier to look at.

It was a Saturday, three weeks after the park, when you ran out of coffee and couldn’t justify not leaving the flat any longer.

The grocery store was the errand that should have taken twenty minutes. You moved through it slowly, a little underwater, a little removed. You put things in the basket without much thought. Coffee, bread, something for dinner that required minimal intervention. The fluorescent light above the cereal aisle flickered twice and you stood under it and stared at the shelves for longer than the decision warranted.

You were in the produce section, reaching for something green, when you heard your name.

You turned.

It was Cara. Someone you’d known for years through overlapping social circles, the person you’d always liked in the easy undemanding way of people you saw at parties and meant to see more of and never quite did. She was holding a basket and smiling, genuinely pleased, and you arranged your face into something that approximated normal.

“Oh my god, hi,” she said. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“I know,” you said. “It’s been a while.”

“Are you good? You look.” She stopped, reconsidered. “You look well.”

“I’m good,” you said. “Yeah. How are you?”

“Really good, really good.” She shifted her basket to the other arm. “I’ve been meaning to reach out actually. We all keep saying we should do a dinner.”

“We should,” you said. “Definitely.”

There was a small comfortable pause, the pause that exists between people who don’t know each other quite well enough to fill every silence. Then she said, brightly and with no idea at all:

“How’s Harry?”

The fluorescent light flickered again somewhere above you.

You heard yourself breathe in.

“I actually.” You stopped. Started again. “We’re not. We broke up, actually.”

The word actually twice. You noticed it and couldn’t fix it.

Cara’s face moved through several things quickly. Surprise, then concern, then the particular social discomfort of someone who has accidentally stepped on something they couldn’t have known was there. “Oh,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. What.. what happened? You two were so good together. How did it end?”

“It’s okay,” you said. “It was a few weeks ago. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“It’s fine. It’s.” You smiled, and it was almost convincing. “It’s okay.”

It was not okay. It was the first time you’d said the words out loud to someone who hadn’t already known, the first time you’d had to produce them in real time with your face in full view, and you could feel the effort of it in your jaw, in the particular brightness you were holding in your eyes to keep them from doing something else entirely.

“Well,” Cara said, and you could hear her searching for the landing, the right thing. “If you ever want to. We should do that dinner. Girls night. Genuinely.”

“I’d love that,” you said.

You would not love that. You could not currently imagine sitting at a dinner table with other humans and performing okayness for an entire evening. But the words came out anyway, smooth and automatic, because some part of you had learned to do this so well that it no longer required conscious direction.

“I’ll text you,” she said.

“Please do,” you said.

She gave you a warm sympathetic look that you felt on your skin like something too hot, and then she moved on toward the bread aisle, and you stood in the produce section holding something green with the basket cutting into the crook of your arm and your smile still on your face like a thing you’d forgotten to take off.

You stood there for a moment.

Then you put the green thing in your basket and walked to the end of the aisle and turned the corner and stopped, back against the shelf, hidden between the pasta and the tinned tomatoes, and you pressed the heel of your hand against your sternum and breathed.

How’s Harry.

Two words. Said with such complete innocence. No way for her to know that the name alone still landed like a hand pressed flat against a bruise. No way for her to know that you had said we broke up for the first time just now, out loud, in a grocery store, under a flickering light, to someone you barely knew, and that the saying of it had made it real in a way the weeks before somehow hadn’t.

You breathed.

You picked up your basket.

You went and paid for your things and walked home in the April afternoon that had turned overcast while you were inside, the sky grey now, the aggressive blue finally gone, and you thought: good. That’s more appropriate.

And then the shop came back.

Not all at once. The warmth first, then the amber lamp, then the smell of cedar and dried flowers settling around you like something returning to its right place.

You were sitting across from her again, the table between you, the crystal ball catching what little light the room held. Her hands were still around yours. She was watching you with the same attention she’d had from the beginning, and the grocery store and the park bench and the kitchen on a Wednesday and the coffee shop all folded back into wherever they had come from, quiet as a held breath released.

Your eyes were wet. She didn’t comment on it.

She held your hands a moment longer, then set them gently back on the table and folded her own in her lap. The amber lamp hummed. Outside, the city went about its business, indifferent and ongoing.

She let the silence sit. Then she said, quietly and with the same certainty she’d had from the very beginning:

“What will you do when you encounter this man?”

The answer should have been simple. It wasn’t your life yet. It was a vision, a woman’s hands around yours in a warm room, a crystal ball on a brass stand. None of it had happened. None of it was real.

“I,” you started.

She waited.

“I don’t.” You shook your head. “I don’t know.”

She nodded, like that was also exactly the right answer.

She told you what she charged. You paid it. She walked you to the door with the movement of someone who had nowhere else to be, and you gathered your bag and your coat and your composure, more or less, and stepped toward the exit.

“Thank you,” you said in the doorway, and meant it, though you weren’t entirely sure what you were thanking her for.

She smiled. Small and certain. “Take care of yourself.”

“You too,” you said.

The street hit you all at once, the noise and the light and the cold and the city reasserting itself after the amber hush of the shop. You stood on the pavement for a moment and let it land.

You pulled out your phone.

Psychics, you thought, scrolling without seeing anything. Okay. A crystal ball and a woman in a cardigan and a vision that had felt so real you could still feel the texture of it, the coffee shop and the pub and the park bench and the April light. Your brain constructing an entire relationship out of nothing, out of a stranger’s words and your own subconscious, because apparently that was something your subconscious was capable of on a Tuesday morning with nowhere to be until two.

She wasn’t right. She was probably not right. She was a woman with a velvet curtain and a gift for reading people and you had sat across from her and handed her the full weight of your attention and this was what happened when you did that. You invented futures. You grieved things that hadn’t occurred.

You were still scrolling, still not seeing anything, when you walked directly into someone on the pavement.

The collision was solid. Your phone left your hand.

“Sorry, sorry,” said a voice above you, low and immediate, and then he was already crouching down, retrieving your phone from the pavement, and you were still catching your breath when he straightened back up and held it out to you.

Tall. Brown hair curling at the ends from under a cap pulled low. A hoodie, running shorts, sunglasses. Tattoos at his wrist, his hand, the knuckles that had just placed your phone carefully back into yours.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “Wasn’t looking.”

“Neither was I,” you said.

He smiled, slightly, and it did something. You weren’t sure what yet. Something.

He slid his sunglasses up and looked at you with an attention that should have felt intrusive and somehow didn’t, and then he said, with a sense of ease, like an introduction that didn’t know yet what it was starting:

“I’m Harry.”

[zclhes]

MASTERLIST | TAGLIST

Word count: ~ 4.9k

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

POV: Harry, third person / Reader, second person

Setting: 2026, Together, Together Tour

Warnings: none

Summary: Before the fifth Wembley show, Harry finally confronts Jeff about what he said to you, making it clear that the issue was never just about ticketing, it was about respect.

London, N5 — 20 June 2026

By the time Harry walks into catering, soundcheck is finished, his voice is warm, and his patience with unresolved conversations has officially run out.

Wembley is already moving around him in its usual pre-show rhythm. Radios crackle in corridors, cases roll across concrete, someone from wardrobe hurries past with garment bags hooked over one arm, and from deeper inside the stadium comes the dull vibration of crew testing lines and levels over and over again. Night five sits ahead of them, close enough now that the day has begun to fold itself around the show.

You're somewhere out in the stadium filming content, probably walking through empty seats, catching details no one else thinks to look at until you point a camera at them. Harry had seen you briefly before soundcheck, phone in hand, hair slightly wind-tossed from one of the open concourses, your focus already somewhere between captions, angles and timing. You had smiled when he passed, but it hadn't quite reached your eyes the way it usually does and he knows exactly why.

He has watched you move around Jeff for two days like there is an invisible line between you and him. You're not acting dramatic, or childish, you're too professional for that, but you're careful and quietly avoidant. If Jeff enters a room, you find a reason to leave it. If his name appears in a group chat, you answer only what is necessary. If schedules require the two of you to communicate, your replies have the clipped politeness of someone who refuses to be rude but no longer feels safe being open. And Harry understands that, but he also hates it, because it should never have gotten this far in the first place.

Jeff sits at one of the tables near the back of the catering lounge, MacBook open, coffee beside him, phone face-down but never truly ignored. He looks the same as he always does on show days, busy in the way only Jeff can be busy, as if every email is either urgent or at least pretending to be. His fingers move across the keyboard, quick and practised, and he glances up only when Harry comes through the door.

“Hey,” Jeff says.

“Hey.”

Harry crosses to the bean-to-cup coffee machine, places a mug beneath it and presses for a black coffee. The machine grinds loudly, filling the small pocket of silence between them with a mechanical hum. It's not an awkward silence, not exactly. They've known each other too long for proper awkwardness, thirteen years of history woven through friendship, business, arguments, success, bad flights, late nights, enormous rooms, difficult decisions. Jeff has been his manager since Harry stepped into his solo career in 2016, and by now the two of them have survived enough disagreements to know a single fight doesn't collapse the whole structure. But this one hasn't been shelved yet, this one is still sitting in the room with them.

Harry takes his mug, sits opposite Jeff and for a minute, Jeff keeps typing, and Harry lets him. He takes one sip of coffee, bitter and too hot, then sets the mug down with a small click. “Have you talked to her?”

Jeff doesn't look up immediately. “Y/n?”

“Who else would I mean?”

The typing slows, then resumes. “No.”

Harry waits.

Jeff sighs through his nose. “She hasn’t exactly been interested in talking to me, has she?”

Harry scoffs, a short sound without humour. “Can you blame her?”

Jeff’s fingers pause again. “I haven’t had the chance.”

“You’ve had two days.”

“She’s been avoiding me.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, leaning back slightly. “Because of how you spoke to her.”

Jeff’s mouth presses into a line, his eyes still on the screen. “It really wasn’t that deep.”

Harry goes still, then he reaches across the table, and closes Jeff’s MacBook firmly enough that Jeff’s hands pull back quickly and his eyes finally lift. “What are you doing?”

“Getting your attention.”

“You’ve got it.”

“Good.” Harry leans forward, forearms near the edge of the table, gaze steady on Jeff’s. “You don’t get to decide whether it was deep.”

Jeff stares at him now.

Harry’s voice is calm, but the calm has edges. “You hurt her. That makes it deep enough.”

Jeff looks away first, jaw shifting slightly. “I was angry.”

“I know.”

“She made a decision she wasn’t authorised to make.”

“I know that too.”

“She moved forty-five people from upper-level seats into a front pit with VIP lanyards, without clearing it with me, security management, ticketing, or the venue. That's not a small thing.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“Then you understand why I was pissed.”

“I understand why you wanted a professional conversation,” Harry says. “I understand why you had concerns. Security, capacity, precedent, fans complaining because someone else got upgraded, venue responsibility, all of it. You’re allowed to question the decision. You’re allowed to tell her it should’ve been escalated.”

Jeff’s expression tightens, as if he is waiting for the but and of course Harry gives it to him. “You were not allowed to say what you said.”

The lounge feels smaller suddenly, even with people moving around the far side of it. Jeff glances down at his closed laptop, then back up. “I didn’t mean it how it sounded.”

Harry’s laugh is quiet and disbelieving. “How else could it sound?”

“I was making a point.”

“No, you were taking a shot.”

Jeff’s eyes narrow. “She overstepped.”

“And you could’ve said that. You could’ve said exactly that. You could’ve said, ‘You overstepped, we need a clear escalation process, don’t make that call alone again.’ Fine. That’s work.” Harry’s fingers curl loosely around his mug, though he doesn't lift it. “The second you said she was making decisions because she’s sleeping with the artist, it stopped being about tickets.”

Jeff’s expression shifts, irritation flickering with discomfort.

“It became about whether she belongs here,” Harry continues. “It became about her relationship with me being used against her. It became about you reducing her job, her judgement, her entire place on this team, to the fact that she shares my bed.”

Jeff leans back in his chair. “I know she’s good at her job.”

“Then why didn’t you speak to her like someone who knows that?”

Jeff doesn't answer quickly enough and Harry lets the silence sit, then he says, lower, “Do you realise what that sounded like? Not just to her, to me as well.”

Jeff’s brows draw together. “To you?”

“Yes, to me. Because you didn’t only insult her. You implied I can’t separate my personal life from business. You implied I’d hand someone this much responsibility because I’m sleeping with her, not because I trust her to do the job.”

“That’s not what I think.”

“Then don’t say things that mean that.”

Jeff exhales, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “You know why she got this specific job, H.”

Harry’s eyes harden slightly, but he keeps his voice even. “Say what you mean.”

“You wanted her on tour,” Jeff shrugs. “You wanted to be with her. You trusted her, yes, and she had experience, but let’s not pretend the relationship had nothing to do with her being here.”

Harry nods once. “Of course it did.”

Jeff seems thrown by the immediate agreement, but Harry continues before he can use it. “I opened the door, I know that. She knows that too, probably more than anyone. But there’s a difference between how someone gets into the room and whether they deserve to stay there.”

Jeff says nothing.

“She has proven she deserves to stay there,” Harry says. “Every day. Through her work, the accounts are alive again. The fans feel included without my life being turned into a circus. She knows what to post, what not to post, when to make things funny, when to let things breathe. Anthony trusts her eye, PR trusts her instincts, I trust her with parts of me I don’t hand to most people.” His voice warms despite the anger beneath it. “That’s not because she’s my girlfriend, it’s because she’s good.”

Jeff looks at the table and Harry keeps going, because he's had two days to think about this and every version of the conversation has led him back to the same anger. “You accused her of abusing her closeness to me while using your own position to make her feel small,” he says. “You’re my manager, you’ve been here longer than almost anyone. You have authority, history, power in the team, and when you tell her she’s only here because of me, you’re not just being rude, you’re telling her this place can turn on her whenever you decide she’s stepped out of line.”

Jeff’s eyes lift again, but the defensiveness is less sharp now. “That wasn’t my intention and you know it.”

“I believe that,” Harry says, which seems to surprise him. “But intention doesn’t clean it up. You don’t get to hurt someone and then decide it wasn’t serious because you didn’t mean to cut that deep.”

Jeff rubs his thumb over the edge of his laptop, restless now without typing to hide behind. “I was blindsided,” he says eventually. “The videos were everywhere, and suddenly there were new videos of fans saying your girlfriend moved them to pit. Not management, or the venue, her. I had venue people asking who signed off on it, ticketing asking what they were supposed to tell other complaints, security asking why extra lanyards had gone out. I’m not saying the original problem wasn’t real, but I had to deal with the fallout.”

“I understand that.”

“And I was angry because it looked like she acted first and expected everyone else to catch up.”

“That’s a fair concern.”

Jeff looks at him carefully and Harry holds his gaze as he speaks. “It absolutely is, we can deal with that. We should have a process for it. If something like that happens again, she needs to know who to call, and whoever’s responsible needs to actually answer before it becomes a PR fire.” He pauses. “But none of that explains why you made it personal.”

Jeff’s shoulders lower slightly and for the first time since Harry sat down, he looks less like a man arguing his case and more like a man replaying his own words properly. “I was out of line,” he eventually says.

Harry nods firmly. “Yes.”

Jeff swallows, glancing towards the catering entrance as if half-expecting you to appear now that the conversation has finally reached the point it needed to reach. “I know she works hard,” Jeff says, quieter. “I do. And I know she’s been good for the tour. For you, for the accounts, for the fans. I shouldn’t have gone there.”

“No,” Harry says. “You shouldn’t have.”

Jeff nods once, a small, reluctant concession. “I’ll talk to her.”

“You need to apologise to her.”

“I just said I’ll talk to her.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

Jeff’s mouth almost twitches, not with humour exactly, more with recognition that Harry isn't letting him have any of the easy doors. “No,” he says. “It’s not.”

Just then, the catering lounge door opens and you step inside with your phone in your hand, still in work mode, eyes on the screen for half a second before you glance up and see them both, which makes you stop immediately. Harry sees the calculation pass across your face. Jeff at the table, Harry opposite him, the closed laptop, the air between them no longer casual. Your hand tightens faintly around your phone, and your expression shifts to polite and guarded. “Oh,” you say. “Sorry. I didn’t realise you were in the middle of something.”

You take half a step back, already preparing to leave but Jeff stands and that stops you more effectively than anything Harry could have said.

“Y/n,” Jeff says. “Stay. Please.”

You look at him, hesitant, then at Harry. Harry’s expression is soft now, careful with you in a way he isn't always careful with others. He gives you a small nod, not pushing, not deciding for you. “It’s alright, love,” he says. “Only if you want to.”

You stay by the door for another second, then you come closer, slowly, and sit at the table, leaving one chair between you and Jeff. Your phone rests face-down near your hand, and Harry can see the tension in your shoulders, the careful stillness of someone waiting for a blow even when the room is quiet. He stands before the silence can become too much. “I’m going to get us some food.”

Your eyes flick up to him, uncertainty crossing your face.

“I’m right here,” he adds gently.

You understand what he is doing then. Giving you and Jeff space without leaving you alone in it and so you nod.

Harry walks over to the catering counter and busies himself with more concentration than a smoothie and two yoghurt bowls require. He picks the fruit you like, adds honey to one bowl but not too much, keeps one ear turned towards the table without making it obvious.

At the table, Jeff sits down again and the first few seconds are awful. You keep your hands in your lap now, fingers folding and unfolding around each other, and Jeff looks down at the table as if admitting fault might require reading instructions first.

Finally, he speaks. “I owe you an apology.”

You look up in surprise. He doesn't look at Harry, he actually looks at you.

“I was angry about the decision you made with the fans in section 551,” he says. “And we do need to talk about process at some point, because moving people into pit, especially with VIP lanyards, needs to go through the right channels. There are safety counts, venue sign-offs, ticketing issues, other fans who might complain. That part is real.”

You nod once, guarded but listening.

“But what I said to you in the tunnel was unacceptable,” Jeff continues. His voice isn't polished enough to sound rehearsed and that helps. “I didn’t just criticise the decision, I attacked you. I reduced your work to your relationship with Harry, and I implied you hadn’t earned your place here. That was insulting and unfair.”

Your fingers still and Jeff takes a breath. “And it was sexist,” he adds, with obvious discomfort, but he says it anyway. “Whether I intended it that way or not. If someone else on the team had made that call, I would’ve called them reckless or out of line. I wouldn’t have brought who they sleep with into it.”

You look down at the table for a moment, trying to organise the feelings that rise too quickly. Relief, hurt, embarrassment, anger you didn't let yourself feel properly before because being angry at Jeff felt too dangerous and too professionally messy. “I didn’t move them because I wanted attention,” you say.

“I know.”

“I didn’t do it because I thought being with Harry meant I could do whatever I wanted.”

“I know that too.”

“I saw a problem, I checked the tickets, I spoke to Leah about capacity.” Your voice stays steady, but Harry can hear the effort it takes you even from across the room. “I wasn’t trying to go around you. I was trying to stop the situation getting worse before the show started.”

Jeff nods. “I can see that now.”

“You could've been angry about the process,” you say. “I would have understood that. I can accept being told I should have escalated it or called someone first. I can accept making a mistake.” You pause, because this part is harder. “What hurt,” you say, quieter, “was that you made it sound like the mistake was me being there at all.”

Jeff’s expression changes, but you keep your eyes on the table when you continue because looking directly at him would make it worse. “I know Harry is part of why I got this opportunity, I’m not stupid. He trusts me, and yes, our relationship made it possible for me to be here in a way another job might not have. But I studied this, I worked before this tour. I’ve done this job every day for years. I’ve tried very hard not to make people feel like I’m just… tagging along.” Your mouth presses together for a second. “When you said that, it made all of it feel like it disappeared.”

Jeff does not interrupt, and that, too, helps.

“It made me wonder if everyone thinks it,” you admit. “If they’re all just being polite because of Harry. If every decision I make is going to be judged through the fact that I’m his girlfriend. If I stay quiet, I’m useless, and if I act, I’m overstepping. There doesn’t seem to be a version where I’m simply allowed to be good at my job.”

The honesty sits between you and Jeff looks properly ashamed now. “I don’t think you’re useless,” he says.

“I know you probably don’t.” You finally lift your eyes. “But for a moment, you spoke to me like you did.”

You study him for a moment, looking for the easy escape, the hidden excuse, but you don't find one. “I accept your apology,” you say.

He absorbs that, jaw working slightly, then he nods. “You’re right.” Jeff leans forward, leaning on the table. “You’ve done good work here, really good work. The accounts are better because of you, the fan engagement is better, and Harry’s more comfortable with it because it’s you handling it. I should've separated the professional issue from the personal one. I didn’t, and I’m sorry.”

Jeff looks relieved, though not proud of himself. “Thank you.”

“I still think we should have a proper process for fan issues like that,” you add, because the professional part of you has apparently survived the emotional one.

Jeff’s mouth lifts faintly. “Agreed.”

“And I’d like to know who to contact if something similar happens again.”

“I’ll sort that.”

“Okay.”

Harry returns then, setting a smoothie carefully in front of you and placing one yoghurt bowl near it. He sets the other in front of his chair and sits down again, glancing between you both. The mood is lighter now, not yet healed back into easy friendship, but it has changed for the better.

Jeff’s phone rings before anyone can say much more, he looks at the screen and sighs. “I have to take this.”

Of course he does, Jeff is Jeff, and on show days somewhere in Wembley, something always needs his attention. He stands, picks up his coffee and tucks his laptop under one arm. “We’ll talk process tomorrow,” he says to you.

You nod. “Okay.”

He looks at Harry. “I’ll find you later.”

Harry nods back. “Yeah.”

Jeff answers the call before he has fully reached the door, already slipping back into manager mode as he disappears into the corridor with his coffee, laptop and apology trailing behind him.

For a few seconds after he leaves, neither you nor Harry speaks. Harry picks up his spoon, tries a bite of yoghurt, then speaks to you. “I’m glad you two could talk.”

You don't answer him and that makes him look at you. You haven't touched the smoothie, and you haven't picked up your spoon either. Your hands are in your lap again, fingers kneading together, head slightly lowered. You look very still, but not at all calm, so Harry sets his spoon down. “Love?”

You inhale, careful and shallow, then wipe quickly beneath one eye before he can see it, but he sees anyway. His chair moves back at once. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you say, too quickly.

Harry’s voice softens. “Baby.”

That is all it takes, your eyes fill properly, and the first tears fall before you can stop them. You look embarrassed immediately, turning your face away, wiping at them with impatient fingers. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I don’t know why I’m crying now.”

Harry is already moving. “C’mere.”

“It’s stupid.”

“It’s not.”

“It is. He apologised, it's fine.”

“C’mere,” Harry says again, gentler this time, but with enough certainty that you finally let him take your hand.

He guides you up from your chair and onto his lap, one arm around your waist as you settle across him, your knees on either side of his thighs. It's not something you would usually do in catering, not with people coming and going, but the table is tucked far enough back, the lounge quiet enough in this moment, and Harry holds you with such uncomplicated care that your embarrassment has nowhere to stand. So you fold into him, your arms slip around his neck, face buried against the warm skin just above his collar. He gathers you close until your chest is pressed to his, one hand secure at your back, the other moving to the nape of your neck where his fingertips begin the slow, familiar caress, gentle circles through the fine hairs at the base of your skull, exactly where he knows it settles you.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You’re alright.”

“I thought I was over it.”

“No, you didn’t.”

You huff a tearful little breath against him. “Maybe not.”

“It hit you again,” he says. “That’s allowed.”

“I don’t want to cry over it.”

“Then don’t want to,” Harry says, lips brushing your temple. “But if you do, you do. You don't have to make it small.”

For a little while, you just let him hold you. The tears are quiet, more release than collapse, but they carry more than you realised you had been holding: the tunnel, Jeff’s voice, the way you froze. The videos of happy fans afterwards that should have made you proud but got tangled with the fear that you had gone too far. The two days of being professional while feeling a little less solid inside your own role.

Harry’s hand never stops moving, but eventually, he asks, “Can you tell me what’s in your head?”

You close your eyes and sigh against his neck. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Not to me.”

“You’ll tell me I’m wrong.”

“I might,” he says softly. “But I’ll listen first.”

That makes you smile faintly despite everything and you lift your head enough to speak, though you don't move off his lap. “I know Jeff apologised,” you say. “And I know he meant it. But it just… confirmed something I was already afraid of.”

Harry’s thumb moves slowly over your side. “That people think you’re only here because of me?”

You nod. “I know it’s not that simple,” you say. “I know I’m qualified, I’m not completely insecure about my work. But I also know I wouldn’t be here, in this exact job, if you and I weren’t together.”

“That’s true.” He brushes a tear from your cheek. “But keep going.”

“And because it’s true in one way, it makes it harder to argue against when someone twists it,” you say. “You did hire me partly because you wanted me on tour, and I wanted to be here with you, and I love the job, but then I feel like I have to prove every day that I didn’t just walk in because I’m your girlfriend.”

“You have proven it.”

“I know.” Your voice trembles slightly. “But what if one mistake is all it takes for people to stop seeing the work? What if they’re just waiting for proof that I never should’ve been here? I moved those fans because I thought it was right, and part of me still thinks it was right, but now I keep wondering if I should stop trusting my instincts.”

Harry shakes his head before you finish. “No.”

“But—”

“No. We can build a better process, and you can call the right people next time, but don't stop trusting your instincts. Your instincts are why those fans had a good night instead of leaving Wembley feeling cheated. Your instincts are why the story online turned from ‘Harry’s team sold us bad seats’ into ‘someone fixed it.’ That matters.”

You look down, but he tilts his head, trying to catch your eyes again. “And listen to me. You didn’t get this job because we fuck. Though I have to say, we do that wonderfully.”

A startled laugh breaks through your tears and Harry’s mouth curves, but his eyes stay serious. “Sorry, but you really didn’t. You got access to the conversation because I trust you and love you and wanted you here. You got the job because you can do it. You kept the job because you do it well.”

You wipe under your eye again. “You make it sound simple.”

“It is simple to me.”

“It doesn’t feel simple.”

“I know.” He presses his palm flat against your back, grounding you. “Because you’re the one who has to walk into rooms where people might make assumptions. You’re the one who has to carry both titles at once. Girlfriend and social media manager, partner and employee, person I love and person on the team. That’s not always fair to you.”

You swallow. “I don’t want people to think I’m using you.”

Harry’s face scrunches with immediate pain. “Love.”

“I don’t–”

“No, stop it. You’re not using me.”

“I don’t want people to think you’re foolish for trusting me either.”

“No one whose opinion matters thinks that.”

“Jeff might have.”

“Jeff was angry and wrong.”

“Other people could.”

“Then they’re wrong too.”

You let out a shaky breath.

Harry leans in, forehead nearly touching yours. “My judgement isn't weakened by loving you. If anything, I know better than anyone how capable you are because I see it up close. I see how much thought you put into everything. I see you rewriting captions ten times because one word feels too cold. I see you checking fan reactions after shows when I’m too tired to understand my own being. I see you protecting me from becoming content and still giving people enough to feel included.”

That gets another tiny laugh from you as you sniff, embarrassed. “I hate crying in public.”

Your face crumples slightly again, and he catches it with another kiss to your cheek. “You’re not here by accident,” he says. “And you’re not here because I’m soft for you, even though I’m very soft for you.”

“I know. Very unprofessional.”

You lift your head enough to glare weakly and Harry smiles. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Not much.”

You rest your forehead against his shoulder again. “It just hurt.”

“I know.”

“More than I wanted it to.”

“I know, baby.”

“And then he apologised, and that helped, but it also made me realise how much I’d been holding it in.”

Harry nods, hand moving back to the nape of your neck. “Makes sense.”

“You’re being very reasonable.”

“Trying something new today.”

You breathe out a soft laugh into his shirt.

He holds you for another moment, then says, quieter, “I love having you here, in every way. I love waking up with you before show days, I love finding you side-stage. I love when you tell me an outfit is awful and I need to try harder. I love that you know the fans better than half the internet companies pretending they do. I love that you care enough to climb to the roof of Wembley because some people couldn’t see. And I love that after all of that, you still worry about doing right by everyone.”

Your tears have slowed now, leaving only that drained, tender feeling behind. Harry presses a kiss to your forehead. “You belong here,” he says. “With the team, and with me, both. Not one instead of the other.”

You close your eyes and for the first time since the tunnel, that sentence reaches somewhere the apology did not. “Thank you,” you whisper.

“You don’t have to thank me for telling the truth.”

“I mean for being like this with me.”

His arms tighten around you. “Always.”

You sit like that for a little longer, breathing together in the corner of catering while Wembley moves on around you.

After a while, Harry kisses your forehead, then the bridge of your nose, then the corner of your mouth. “I believe in you.”

“I know.”

“I’ll say it again.”

“I know you will.”

“As many times as you need.”

You manage a real smile this time. “You’re very persistent.”

“Been called worse.”

“I love you.”

Harry’s eyes warm. “I love you too.”

You stay there for another moment, arms around him, his hand at your neck, the smoothie sweating on the table beside the untouched yoghurt bowls. The lounge continues around you, but it feels less sharp now, less like a place where you need to prove anything every second.

Eventually, Harry leans back slightly and looks at your face. “Do you want to eat?”

You glance at the yoghurt bowl. “In a minute.”

“Smoothie?”

“In a minute.”

“Do you want me to threaten Jeff again?”

That pulls a laugh out of you, small but genuine. “No.”

“Shame, I was getting good at it.”

“You told him to go be useful somewhere else.”

“He needed direction.”

“You were very scary.”

Harry raises his eyebrows. “Scary?”

“To him.”

“Good.”

“Still not to me.”

His smile softens into genuine relief. “Good.”

You shift slightly on his lap, but he doesn't let you go yet, and honestly, you don't want him to. His arms are warm, his body solid beneath yours, and for the first time since the tunnel, the ugly sentence in your head has less space to echo. It's still there, but so is Harry’s voice beside it now: you belong here.

Harry presses another kiss to your temple. “We’re alright,” he murmurs.

You close your eyes, breathing him in, letting the words settle. “Yeah,” you whisper. “We’re alright.”

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[babyyhoneyyy]

Be a good girl* | H.S

CW: whiney harry, dom harry, punishment (edging), teasing, dirty talk all just freaky stuff guys lol!! let me know what u thinkkk xx

WC: 2.2K

miss your pussy baby

12:34AM

Y/N stared down at the message, the light illuminating her face in her otherwise dark room. She was adjusting the covers over her shoulder when the video pinged through.

The camera was a bit shaky and the room was lit yellow, creamy white sheets rumpled around his bare legs and thighs. It was flipped to the back view so she could see bits of generic hotel decor— a wooden table upon which his suitcase was thrown open and the beginning of a hallway which no doubt led to the bathroom.

The star of the show was his big, twitching cock resting on his abdomen, curved to the right of his bellybutton. The mere sight of it had Y/N biting her lip and clenching her thighs.

She could hear needy little sounds through her screen; whimpering, for fuck’s sake, as his tatted hand wrapped around the base of his dick. He was pink and leaking from the top, a line of cum dripping down towards his knuckles. Y/N held her breath as he delivered the first stroke and at the same time whined lowly, “Fuck, fuck— baby, please. Please, miss you, miss fucking you— shit,” Another stroke and his hips thrusted into his fist, “Miss you on my cock, on my tongue, on my fingers. Please, angel, I’m so horny for you,” His voice was gravelly and rough, how it usually got when he was aroused. It made butterflies stir in Y/N’s tummy.

Just as things got really good and Y/N trailed her own fingers towards where she throbbed, the video ended. She groaned out loud, already feeling pent up. It was not fair that her boyfriend sent her these borderline pornographic videos all while being inaccessible on the other side of the world.

It’d been three weeks since he left, and they were the longest, driest three weeks of Y/N’s life. She was so used to being around him 24/7— waking up with him, cooking breakfast with him, shopping with him, even showering with him… she felt as if she was in the middle of a drought, the way she thirsted for even a drop of him. Just a moment with him.

Thus it was safe to say that the video he sent had her bent in ways she’d never been before for anyone in her life. Feeling quite desperate and needy herself, she geared up to send him a text back.

why are you so horny

spot a pretty girl in the audience?

12:40AM

Y/N knew the text was lowkey toxic. But she also knew that when Harry was really turned on, he got sweet and begged her nicely, so she was hoping to get some of that out of him. It didn’t happen that often, yet when it did, she always enjoyed it more than she anticipated. A smirk played at her lips as she watched the three texting bubbles appear and disappear four times in a row; it was clear to her that he was having trouble stringing a reply together.

no of course not baby

only have eyes for you

12:41AM

idk hun i think youve got someone else in mind

12:41AM

Y/N and Harry had been dating for quite some time now, and she knew he would never do anything like what she was insinuating, but it was fun to be a bit bratty and run her mouth from time-to-time. What was he going to do, fly to her country right that second and punish her? The physical distance between the two of them was what gave her the confidence to keep playing along with this bit.

Biting back a grin, she waited as the bubbles appeared and disappeared again. After a minute of this, she was worried he fell asleep or something, until her phone pinged with another video.

In this one, his legs were spread wider. He held the phone with his left hand weakly, the right one squeezing the base of his painfully hard cock before slowly stroking up towards the tip. He traced his thumb around the plump pink muscle as another drop of precum coated his knuckles. Again, in the back, he whimpered her name, bucking into his own hand, “S’only ever like this for you, lovey, I promise. Only ever want to fuck you— wanna fuck you forever. Never leave that perfect pussy. Shit— Please, baby, send me a photo, anything, need to see you—” He was cut off by the sloppy wet sound of his hand stroking himself, “Anything, please.”

Now that was something.

Y/N’s whole body was practically buzzing. She could feel herself getting more worked up as she replayed the video at least three times— each one appearing better than the last even though it was the exact same thing.

It was very rare for him to get like this; normally it was her who did all the begging and pleading. Watching and listening to him being so whiney for her always did her in. Deciding to be a tease, she purposefully left his video on seen. She wanted him to wait for her, get more desperate for her, because then she knew when he finally had her, it was going to be good. 

Y/N (regretfully, yet optimistically) put her phone on Do not Disturb and shut it off. After all, she had to be up earlier than usual tomorrow.

She had a bloody flight to catch.

-

London was unbearably hot during this time of the year.

Y/N’d seen people post about it on social media and on weather reports, blazing red on the telly warning people about the massive heatwave that was going to hit the city these couple of months; but it was so much worse than she expected. She was lucky she was dating an international popstar, though, because that meant she got access to the best of the best rooms and condos and suites whenever she stayed with him. The aircon at Harry’s house was fucked, sadly, so he had to stay at a nearby hotel which was close to the stadium. Y/N didn’t mind— as long as she was with him, that was all that mattered.

It was just after his last show when she arrived at Wembley to surprise her boyfriend. Y/N tried to keep the whole ordeal as hush hush as she could, and when he caught sight of her waiting by his dressing room after the show, he all but ran to tackle her in a sweaty hug. Seeing him after a long time was always very sweet— sometimes they got teary-eyed as they embraced, told each other how much they missed the other, kissed (heavily)— all over sometimes; Harry liked to start at her eyebrows, go down to her nose, her lips, her chin, peppering them everywhere until she pushed him away.

Now, actually, Y/N physically couldn’t push him away.

Well, it wasn’t like she really wanted to anyway— she may not show it with her tears and her incessant whining, but the truth was that this was exactly where she wanted to be. 

Exactly where she hoped to be when she sent Harry that mean, toxic text and then proceeded to ghost him.

Her wrists were bound to either side of the big bedframe. She was completely bare and at his mercy, nipples peaked and spit slicked from his constant sucking and licking at the sensitive buds. She could feel herself dripping down her thighs and staining the sheets below her. There were gnarly purple marks all over her tummy, thighs, and chest, all placed conveniently so she could hide them if needed.

After playing the perfect, doting boyfriend role in front of the world, he completely switched personas as soon as he had her alone for a moment. She could feel the tension in the air when he clicked the lock shut, told her to strip with a stern expression and set their leftover takeout down on a spare table, all about two hours ago.

 Y/N could taste tears on her tongue though she could do nothing to wipe them off. She’d already almost come three times on his tongue at this point and she was ready to sign her soul away to the devil just to feel the beginnings of a real, followed-through orgasm.

Harry was tucked between her legs, both of her knees adjacent to his ears as he blew a stream of air at her twitching pussy. His hands pulled her lips apart, making way for him to observe how her clit was engorged and throbbing for his attention. “If you weren’t such a brat when I needed you, this wouldn’t be happening,” He said, lowly. His eyes wandered up to her face where she jutted her bottom lip out and simultaneously bucked her hips towards his face. He delivered a sharp smack to her thigh to keep her in place.

“I–,” She began, but was cut-off as he traced featherlight circles on her clit with his tongue. All the sexy scruff that’d gathered on his jaw tickled her sensitive skin, “Fuck— Harry, I’m sorry, please. I was only teasing. I’ve been so good— haven’t even touched myself.” Her back arched off the bed as he wrapped his lips around the bud and suckled harshly once, twice, thrice before popping off, her body chasing him again, “I’m not sure that’s enough, pretty. I was really hurt.” He replaced his tongue with a lazy thumb, resuming the circular motions to keep her heading towards the false hope of an orgasm. 

Y/N tugged against the restraints as he spit on her pussy and mixed his saliva with her juices. She was going to beg him again as best as she could, before he suddenly pushed two fingers into her achy hole, at the same time still going strong with his thumb. Her body jerked when he curled his digits, jaw dropped open in a broken moan of his name. She had to force her hips to be still— fighting the instinct to grind them against his hand. Harry didn’t thrust his fingers; instead, massaged the tips of them against that sensitive, spongy spot inside her. If he didn’t stop now, she was worried she’d come really fast and he’d increase her punishment tenfold.

(Y/N says this having learnt from prior experience).

“I said I was sorry!” She cried, “Please, I’ll do anything. You can use me— use all of my holes, I don’t care, do whatever you want.” Harry continued his minstrations without hesitance. She could hear the nasty squelch every time he curled inside of her, each sound pushing her closer and closer. Her back came off the bed once more, “You make a tempting offer,” He stopped as he noticed her about to come. Y/N was basically sobbing now, wrists sore from his ties digging into her skin, and thighs shaking, “But I don’t think you’re coming at all tonight, baby.”

Harry gave her cunt a break and kissed the skin around her pussy tenderly. He gently set her legs down from where they wrapped around his shoulders and licked a path from her mound up to her marked sternum. Reaching her breasts, he wasted no time cupping one and dragging his tongue along the peaked nub. She struggled to keep her eyes open as he flicked it, drooling over her skin and then sucked on it, hard.

His other hand went up to her mouth, ring and middle fingers dipping inside for her to bite, “Now if I give you my cock, I’m afraid that’s just a nice little treat for you, hmm? Not really a punishment, is it?” Harry asked, parting from her tit. Strings of saliva connected him to her as he spread his spit over her chest, the sight of which was utterly filthy. 

Nodding as well as she could with his fingers in her mouth, Y/N shook her head ‘no’ and mumbled incoherently, “Mm-mm. I just want— just want to feel you,” her voice was muffled, barely audible, and Harry had to slightly pull his fingers back as he came up to face her.

“Sorry, what was that, darling?” He asked sweetly, still rubbing her nipple. Just as Y/N began talking, he stuffed his fingers in her mouth again, deep enough that she slightly gagged. Harry found all of this very amusing, apparently, because he popped a dimple and feigned confusion. He tsked, “Fucked dumb already?” In an act of tenderness, he wiped her tears from her flushed cheeks and neck.

Y/N tried to give him her best sad, desperate, hungry-for-dick look, and for a moment she thought maybe it was working when he placed two gentle kisses on each damp eyelid. He continued kissing down her cheeks, her jaw and then finally her forehead.

“My sweet girl’s all teary eyed,” He cooed, still fucking her mouth with his two fingers. Harry cocked his head condescendingly, “S’a shame they’re all going to waste,” A hand wrapped firmly around her throat, “Even more shameful that I’ll have to fuck my fist right in front if her instead of this perfect pussy to teach her a fucking lesson.”

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MASTERLIST

Ko-fi <3

A/N: so sorry guys i just had to write this u got in my head!!! THIS WAS LOWKEY FUN TO WRITE LIKE A SHORT LITTLE FREAKY BLURB IF YALL HAVE ANY REQUESTS LIKE THIS ONE SEND IT THROUGH!!! THIS IS MY LAST TREAT TO U BEFORE I HEAD TO UNI AND LOWKEY DISAPPEAR!!! ALSO IK I SAID I WOULD WRITE THIS CONCEPT ABOUT CASUAL BABIES BUT CURRENT HARRY HAS BEEN ON MY MIND AND HES HOT AS F U C K SO THIS HAD TO BE DONE!!!! MIGHT DO SOMETHING FOR CASUAL LIKE THIS DOWN THE LINE SOMEDAY!! MAKE SURE TO LIKE REBLOG COMMENT SHARE AND ASK!! MUCH LOVE <33

[watermelonlovershigh]

Breastfeeding in Public Gone Wrong (Angst/Fluff)

AN: this is partly inspired by that lady who made the tiktok video saying she was told to breastfeed in an airport bathroom but refused. i just put my own spin to the story. i don't write a lot of angst but for this blurb i decided it needed a little to make it complete. hope you enjoy and remember to leave feedback. xoxo (ps, this has been in my drafts since last september and i'm just now proof reading it to post.)

This story contains: breastfeeding in public, sexualization of breastfeeding, perverted man, comfort, angst

{ dadrry - husband!harry - softrry - au!harry }

word count- 950

You begin breastfeeding your hungry newborn baby at the airport while Harry is on the hunt for you some breakfast, when all of the sudden an older man decides to butt into your business and share his negative thoughts on you breastfeeding in public.

This marked your first travel experience since welcoming your two-month-old daughter into the world, Penny, and it'd be an understatement to say you were a nervous wreck. You were unsure if Penny would sleep soundly for the duration of the flight, or if she'd cry and bother the other passengers. The unknowing of how she'll act on the plane gave you major anxiety.

You and Harry made sure to get to the airport two hours in advance of your flight's departure time, which gave you time to have some breakfast and soothe your nerves before the journey. After going through the security checks and having your bags examined, you sat in a small seating area near your gate while Harry looked for breakfast for the two of you.

While he's on the hunt for breakfast, Penny, who's strapped to your chest, begins to fuss, and you know precisely what her problem is. She's hungry as well. She hasn't eaten since just before you left your house, which was nearly two hours ago. You unclip her from your chest and take off the baby carrier, then gently lift your shirt just enough for her to have access to your breast.

In the first few weeks of having Penny, you often felt anxious about breastfeeding in public spaces; however, Harry quickly snapped you out of that anxiety. He emphasized that you are simply feeding your daughter, and if anyone has a negative remark about it, they can take their opinions elsewhere and fuck the right off.

Approximately a minute after you begin feeding Penny, an elderly gentleman takes a seat in the same waiting area as you. You initially pay him no mind until you observe his gaze fixated on your chest while you're feeding your daughter. You choose to ignore him and focus your attention out the large glass windows in front of you. This continues until the older man chooses to speak.

"Should be ashamed to have your breast hanging out like that in public. Very indecent for a pretty women like you."

You abruptly turn your head towards him, a scowl present on your face. How dare this stranger have the audacity to comment on the act of you feeding your child? It's not as if you're sitting here exposing yourself without cause. You clearly have a baby attached to your chest. Just as you're about to address the older man, Harry comes back with two breakfast sandwiches and two cups of coffee, completely unaware of the dispute that unfolded during his absence.

As Harry sits down beside you, the older man opts to speak to him, presuming that Harry is your partner. "Hey, could you tell your wife to feed your baby in the toilets or somewhere else less public? No one wants to see your wife's tits this early before a flight. It could lead to an uncomfortable situation for us men during our flights. If you know what I mean."

You nervously decide to glance over at Harry and realize you've never witnessed him this angry before. It was as if you could actually see invisible smoke billowing from his ears, and his face is a bright shade of red. "Uhmm, sorry, I must've heard you wrong. Because there is no way in hell you just implied that my WIFE feeding our CHILD would make men hard? If a man gets hard at the sight of a women feeding their baby, the man needs to be locked up and far away from society. You dirty bastard."

For a brief moment, you're anxious that Harry might go up to the man and provoke a fight, but once Harry finishes his angry speech, the intercom activates and announces that the older man's flight is ready for boarding. Thankfully, he is not on your flight. As he walks away, Harry turns to you with a concerned look and asks, "Are you okay? Did he say anythin' to you while I was out getting us breakfast?"

Sadly smiling, you respond, "I'm okay. Just a little bit shook up. He just said I should be ashamed to have my breast out like this and then said it was very indecent for a pretty women like me."

Harry sets the breakfast down on the empty seat to his left and leans in to kiss your lips softly. "M' so sorry. I shouldn't have left you alone. Ignore what that fuckin' pervert said to you. You did nothin' wrong. Feeding our baby isn't wrong. And any man who ever tells you they get hard at the sight of you feeding a baby, run as far away as you can from them. There is nothin' sexual about you feeding a baby."

"Okay. Thank you for taking up for me and Penny. We appreciate it."

Harry just stares at you for a moment with a warm smile before glancing down at your baby who's still sucking your breast from just beneath your shirt, unfazed by all the recent commotion. He leans down to peck a soft kiss to the crown of Penny's head and mutters, "'Course, I'll always protect you two. You're both my world. Love you more than anythin'."

For the remainder of your time in the airport before your flight, you sit and glance out the big glass windows while your baby feeds. Harry takes turns feeding himself and than helping you eat by positioning your breakfast sandwich to your lips since your hands are full. You couldn't be more grateful to have such an amazing husband. He's the sweetest and most caring man you know, and he repeatedly makes you fall in love with him over and over again, every single day.

(PLEASE REBLOG BECAUSE WRITING IS NOT EASY AND IT'S FREE SO JUST DO IT)

(if you want to be apart of my new tag list, let me know right here !! some people who've requested to be added doesn't allow me to @ you. please check your settings first.)

taglist: @swiftmendeshoran // @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite // @hsonlyangelxo // @lunabai // @ppleasingg // @harryscherrysugar // @devilsqueen722 // @mema10 // @harryswifee // @jewelaponte // @fruity-harry // @triski73 // @chronicallybubbly // @prettygurl-2009 // @sincerely-yours-marsbar // @ilovezaynmalik08 // @whoreonmondays // @mads3502 // @littlealonebutterfly // @frickin-bats // @sassamanda77 // @harrystylesconcepts // @fkingstyles

My Masterlist Masterpost

[dove702]

Photo by Ethan Hoover on Unsplash | Photo by Benjamin Wong on Unsplash

Masterlist | Taglist (Coming Soon)

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Pairing: Harry Styles X Fem!reader (All the boys will make an appearance and get a chapter – eventually)

Tropes: Second Chance and Friends to Lover

Work Count: Just shy of 4,200.

POV: Reader, Second Person

Setting: London, England – June 2026

Warnings: Angst, mentions of past trauma, mentions of death, mentions of Liam’s death, and a cliff hanger ending

Summary: Reader is the sixth member of One Direction. After waking up to an interesting embarrassing video of her being posted online, she reflects on her time in 1D, her life since the hiatus began, and plots her return to public life.

A/N: This is the first chapter where the reader will eventually end up with Harry, but all the boys will make an appearance and have time with the main character. Also, this is my first fiction. So, please. be nice. Feedback is welcome and appreciated. :)

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Round 1: Monochromatic Nightmares

There were many things that changed when you turned 30. One of which was the hangovers. They truly are on a whole new level. You feel it before you even open your eyes. An aching throb in your head, nausea, and your mouth and throat felt like you had swallowed a ball of cotton that was now stuck there. You reach one arm from your blanket fortress and reach around for your phone on the bedside table and drag it into your cocoon. And then back out for your emotional support water bottle.

The liquid hits harder than whatever you drank last night. Though, this suffering is worth it.

Your oldest mate, Tessa, got married last night to the partner of her dreams. It was literally a fairy tale. And you celebrated. Properly. Which meant more than a few drinks, and if you were being honest, you never could quite handle your liquor.

More than once the lads had taken the piss watching you becoming a giggling mess after two drinks. A wave of nostalgia hits you, thinking about a night somewhere on tour, where after two drinks, Harry and Liam had to remind you (more than once) that the ducks in a nearby park, didn’t, in fact, want to meet you as much as you wanted to meet them.

As you unlock your phone, you see a text from Niall.

Niall: Fair play to you! Maybe I should imitate your dancing skills one night on tour. Cheers, for that! I know you don’t check the socials often but Twitter and Instagram are exploding.

What in the bleeding hell was he wagging his chin about?

You open up Instagram and immediately are overwhelmed by a flood of comments.

I didn’t have Y/N fangirling over Niall’s Monochromatic on my 2026 BINGO card! She’s so back! I love this for her! And for Niall! Look at her! Proper legend! Get it Queen!

You hit play on the video that is circulating now. There you are. Drunk, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, a dress that made you forget the things you didn’t always like about your body, and happy.

When was the last time you looked that happy in a picture?

Your nightmare resumes as you realize you are standing on the very expensively decorated table at Tessa’s wedding. Barefoot. Singing loudly and leading the wedding guests in a sing along to Niall’s “Monochromatic” from his new album. The album is only a week old at this point. The phone that clearly belongs to one of the guests at the wedding, pans over to Tessa and her wife of all of a few hours, Kenzie, (who is a massive Niall Horan fan), dancing and singing along too.

You groan in horrified embarrassment, wishing the covers would swallow you alive. 

“You fucking twat,” you mutter to yourself.

The dull ache is increasing in your head now. You make note about needing to send the happy couple a gift when they return from their honeymoon. They didn’t deserve to have you turn their wedding reception into a sodding karaoke night. Even though neither of them is probably mad, an appreciation gift never hurt anyone.

You type back to Niall:

Listen, old man! You’d break a knee and/or a hip imitating my dance moves. You’re welcome for the second shout out in less than a week! I’m going back to my death bed now. When I'm gone, tell people I was brave. 

The anxiety of embarrassment is sinking into your bones when a new comment comes into view. And your blood runs cold.

Wait?! WAIT? IS THIS REAL? This is the first time she’s sung PUBLICLY since their last concert!!!

You suck in a long breath. Because it’s true. You haven’t sung for anyone outside of a studio since that night in Sheffield.

The hiatus for One Direction had been the hiatus of your performance career. You had just turned 23 at the time the band ended. You’d been just three months shy of being seventeen when it started. And it was the craziest ride you’d ever been on. Full of highs that were nothing short of mind blowing, to lows that were cataclysmic to your self-esteem and self-worth. Yes, you had everything in your life now thanks to One Direction and music had always been your dream. There had never been anything else, really. But it was still a pressure cooker. All of you struggled at times and were forever grateful you had each other. Even when you argued due to tight proximity, endless travel, little sleep, the general run down of tour life, and work schedules that felt like breaks had to be earned.

But the pressures of being the only girl were insane. Management learned quickly the best way to motivate you was psychological warfare. Never directly in front of the lads. But they would make comments that reminded you nothing about your place in the band was permanent. They regularly hinted that you could be replaced and that the band would function financially and talent wise just fine without you.  You were left sheets of fan polls, data, and occasionally written reports of your performance in your hotel rooms. To this day, you were never sure if that data was actually accurate or something they just  fabricated to get you to keep working harder. Not that it mattered anymore because it had the desired effect. You worked harder. Did everything to prove them wrong. Nothing was good enough for you or for management. It always could be and had to be better. But not without chipping away little pieces of your soul regularly.

And then there were the fans. Though in general, they were truly amazing. But, there were factions that regularly shipped you with one of the lads. Then, those same fans turned around and hated you when it even looked like you may have had a strong connection with any one of them specifically. And the media tried to sexualize every chance they got. All of that accompanied with a time in your life when you didn’t know how to love yourself or be comfortable in your own skin was like living in a hurricane. Every. Damned. Day.

And your family was no help. None at all. The lads all had great relationships with their families. They got transformative moments of paying off debts, buying houses, and cars for their loved ones. Your parents had just taken from you. Milked what they could get out of your fame and literally stole from you. By the time you realized what was happening, they had managed to syphon nearly 2 million pounds from you into accounts and investments that were beneficial only to them. And they rarely came to anything after X-Factor. Despite your calling and begging them more than once to come.

In This is Us, your gran had been the one to do an interview. But she passed before the movie had come out. She had been the only one you were close to, but she wasn’t well enough to come to shows.

Two of the five Christmases were spent alone in your flat in London because your parents and brother went on a holiday cruise. Well, mostly alone, both times you had gone quietly to children’s hospitals and played games with the patients unable to be home at Christmas either. Until Liam somehow figured it out and conspired with Louis to get you to join the Tomlinson family circus for the final two years of the band.

Management had been helpful then. Helpful for you to get a formal legal separation from your family. Helpful in protecting the rest of your money and financial future. But it took a long time for the anxiety and fear to dissipate after that. You were almost one of those childhood stars that has nothing to show for the years of blood, sweat, and tears. And trust still doesn’t come easily for you now.

The factor that made the chaos of it all worth it, other than getting to sing your heart out every day, were the relationships you formed with the lads.

Zayne had been your companion in silence. Sometimes you and he would just sit and not say anything. He’d just quietly draw and you would read. Understanding each other at a level deeper than words. You often talked about art and books. He had been the only one of the lads that had done much reading during the days of the band, and you often traded books back and forth.

Liam had been your northern star. Always letting you know when you hit true north. Providing you with little nudges one way or another when needed. He was the one you always let have the final seal of approval on your vocals or your writing. If he gave his seal of approval, you could let it be done. You and he worked out a lot together on tour. He had been the consistency you craved in the chaos.

Niall was and still is the brother you always wished you had. Patient with you. Kind. Always keeping you safe, laughing, and making sure you never lose sight of the fun. You and he still go sometimes and though you're an average golfer at best, he has never made it a competition with you. He also taught you how to play guitar and was your designated airplane nap buddy. There are dozens of pictures of the two of you over the years curled up together.

Louis had been your partner in crime and in writing. He and you were responsible for so many of the pranks and the chaos together. Paul often said it was a natural disaster when you two met. One the world would never recover from. When you two wrote together, both with and without Liam, the hours melted away. You shared notebooks, late night secrets, and more than one football game that turned into a wrestling match. Skateboards, Red Bull cans, and hoodies were interchangeable between you two. And he was the one you went to first for advice. His judgement was sound and he made you feel like you could do anything.

Harry and you had an emotional bond that sometimes felt like it went to a cellular level. There were times where you and he could nearly feel what the other one was feeling. When either of you were overwhelmed, one of you could pull the other into a hug, take a hand, or give the simplest touch and it could make the other’s anxieties ease by full levels. You and he enjoyed an easy and playful relationship. Nothing ever felt serious or difficult, but each of you always knew what the other was carrying. Harry was intuitive enough to tell you that you were beautiful at just the right moments, so didn’t lose your mind on the internet’s comments. And that night you found out about your family’s betrayal, he laid with you on the floor of that hotel room. He helped you breathe through your sobs and held you tight enough that your chest didn't crack open like it felt it might. He didn’t tell you it would be okay. He just kept saying over and over that he was sorry. Something you haven’t heard often in your life.

When the hiatus came, you didn’t feel the need to be on social media a lot. You slipped into not having every move of your life documented, the way someone might slip into their favorite pajamas after the longest day of their life. 

No one wants to hear celebrities complain about their lives, because on some levels they do have it easier than the average person. And you were grateful for that. And you were aware that your problems were not more tragic than others, simply different. But you also can feel more than one thing at a time. You could be grateful for success, love your work, and be overwhelmed by the feeling that you live in a fishbowl.

At 23, you slipped into a sort of temporary retirement. You traveled quietly, avoided red carpets, parties, and didn’t start a solo career. You just wanted quiet after 5 years of constant noise. And you never post on social media, except when one of the lads dropped an album. You would always create a video message reviewing and hyping up their album. The only other things on your social media were when people tagged you. Questions, nudges, pokes, DMs all went unanswered. When you went to a show for the lads or someone else, you would let them post you in their content, but otherwise, you didn’t feel the need to interact that way anymore. The people who really wanted to get a hold of you had your number or email address.

Your sole mission was to heal and to learn how to stand still. You still see each of the lads at least once a year in person and text them regularly for big and small reasons.

Starting in early 2018, you dated a producer that you had met through Liam quietly for over three years. And after not touching anything with music since that final concert, you surprised him and his team with lunch at the studio he was working at. You stayed and watched for a bit.

Something in your soul ached and came alive again.

And the next morning over breakfast, you had asked if he might see if you could try helping with something.

“You want to collaborate with one of my artists?” he asked carefully over breakfast. Chewing his toast thoughtfully.

“No. Well, kind of. Not singing. No vocals. Only writing and maybe a little production consultation,” you had said quietly.

You know a lot about production. He knew you did. You were fascinated by writing like Louis and Liam. Having the second most writing credits after Louis in the band. But even more fascinated with the work Julian and Ryan had done. How they made the sound of One Direction. When they included you in the details of that, it made your whole week. You were a sponge and soaked up everything.

Your boyfriend had nodded, “Stop by tomorrow morning around 10 am. I’ll have something for you…” he said softly. Then he had smiled, “If I can even be a small part of getting you and music back together, I’m going to try it. Your managers were always wrong, Y/N, you’re ready to come back…” he added.

You weren’t sure they were wrong though. If they had been wrong, you would have had longer solos. You always had the smallest vocal parts in every song. Even after Zayne made his exit. But you did show up. And early because you hate being late. You had an iced coffee, a fresh new notebook, and had no sleep the night before. Despite your doubts, you were excited again. And you had decided to let yourself be excited and show up.

And that had begun your new chapter in music. Writer and producer. Now, you helped produce nearly 20 different albums. You were approaching your 13th number one song and your 8th top ten charting album. You were helping mentor some really incredible musicians.

The fact that you didn’t need to do this financially and that you had been part of such a successful machine gave you a different perspective that helped a lot. You could focus on the art of music. You could put in time to help an artist establish themselves and shape their sound. You weren’t chasing hits. If they came, great. If they didn’t, if your artist was happy, you were. But you, yourself only sang in the shower or in demo work with the artists in the studio.

You ended it with the producer in early 2021. You had started to drift apart the third year of your romance. Your relationship had started to feel a bit like you were each a task to be planned in the calendar. Not something either of you looked forward to or were excited about. It took a lot of fighting and hurt feelings to realize that, but in the end, the breakup had been good for both of you. You had been on some dates since then, but nothing serious had stuck. And you were comfortable being single. You were in your early 30s. You had time.

----------------------------------------------

You let out a low breath. Guilt for what you did to Tessa and Kenzie coiling in your gut. You toss off the duvet and get up slowly. The hangover was still there, swirling through your body along with the haze of the good, bad, and complicated memories clouding your brain.

You pad to your kitchen and start to fiddle with your espresso maker. A latte was needed urgently. And some pain killers.

You had just swallowed a few when your phone began to ring.

Tessa’s name appears, wanting to video call from her honeymoon.

You answer it immediately.

“Please tell me you are calling because you are having the best time and want to rub my face in it and not because there are still more duties I need to do as your maid of honor,” you say with a smile.

“Why can’t it be both?” Tessa asks smiling, “Look at this fucking view, be jealous,” she said as she turns her phone. She is on a private deck on one of those ocean villas in the Maldives. Clear water endlessly spread over a clear horizon. You swear a fucking dolphin jumped in the background. It is breathtaking. You grin as your friend continues, “Kenzie is getting changed. We just got in. But I wanted to call you. Tell you we made it safe and see your stupid face,” she adds, flipping the camera back to her.

“Fucking hell, that’s a view. And because you’re a newlywed, I will let you have that rude comment. Okay, what do I need to do?”

“Just reminding you to go to our place in Kensington a few times to water the plants and check the mail. Maybe turn a few lights on here and there,” she said as she studies your face now, “You, okay? In your head about your little sing-along last night?”

You groan. “Oh god. I’m so so sorry Tessy, that was….wow,” you tell her frowning.

“Why are you sorry, love?”

“Because it was very….pick me girl and attention-grabbing spotlight energy. The vibe was very much washed-up singer trying to be relevant by using her former bandmate. It has tacky written all over it. Tacky and-

“Okay, bitch, stop talking about my best friend like that,” Tessa cuts your apology off, “Listen, Y/N, you were happy. And having fun. You let loose. That doesn’t happen as much as it should. And really, it’s a banger of a song. So, it’s honestly, Niall’s fault. You tell him I said he is a terrible person for writing it. Really, I’m suffering because Kenzie has his new album on repeat,” She teased.

You snort. It had been a long time since you pretended to blame Niall for anything. It makes your heart a bit lighter and heavier at the same time.

“Don’t think any more about it, Y/N,” Tessa said smiling, “You’re ready for what is coming next. Despite what that incredibly beautiful, complicated, brilliant, and self-punishing brain of yours lets you believe.”

“Okay, okay,” you reply. Something in your shoulders is loosening. “Thanks, Tessy. Go be Wifey now…”

“It’s a role I was born to play. Well that and being a lawyer, but I’m on vacation. For the next 7 days I’m just wifey,” Tessa said grinning before blowing you a kiss, “Bye, love, be good. Nurse the hangover!”

“Not likely, but I at least won’t get arrested until you're back in the U.K.,” you tell her before the call ends.

You smiled and hope she’s right. As ready as you may feel, there is still a small voice that makes you think you’re not.

---------------------------------------------

A few days later you were on a morning run through Kensington. You had driven over to Tessa and Kenzie’s. After checking their place over and watering and routing all her plants you left for a run in the park. If Tessa asked, yes, you rotated each plant exactly 45 degrees, and yes, you measured. But you definitely didn’t measure.

Plants were more resilient than people gave them credit for. But you did talk to them as she requested. Though you felt ridiculous doing so. Really, what does one say to a plant? You had settled on telling it how green it looked today and that it was a very good and proper plant.

Now on your run, you thought about how today you’d hear either way about your audition. And how fucking nervous you were, but how badly you had wanted this. Liam’s death had given you a new perspective on things once the fog of grief had dissipated. But the thing that still haunted you more than anything else was that Liam couldn’t do many of the things he always wanted to do. He’d died too young. And some parts of you now felt responsible to live your life with the idea that you were living for him too. Not in ways that went against what you wanted , but in ways that meant you didn’t become complacent and that you kept challenging yourself and not hiding because you were scared. Not anymore at least. Life was too short.

Coming back to singing publically wasn’t an instant snap decision. You had thought about it off and on. But now almost two years after Liam’s death, you decided to get on stage again. But in a different way. 

You had quietly, with the help of your new management team, tried out for the role of Vivian Ward in Pretty Woman: The Musical. The audition had gone well. Really well. You had gone back for second and third readings with the actor selected to play Edward. It will be a production in West End in the fall into the end of 2026. Nothing massive like a solo album drop and a tour, but it would be a start. A return. And something you’d always wanted to do. You were doing it all again in your own way.

Your feet hit the sidewalk in a well-established rhythm. Your muscles lose some of their tension as you run, using the nerves you felt to fuel your run. You felt your body reset because it was just you, your breathing, and the music in your ears. Your thoughts could come and go and you force yourself to be present in your body.

You think back to what Tessa said.

You’re ready for what is coming next.

Were you though? Only time would tell you.

You stopped after you took your third lap around the park. You saw a few people looking your way, curious, trying to figure out if they knew you from somewhere. You ignore them and stretch your legs a bit and check your fitness watch. That might be what you have for today. You still had to run back to the house and get your vehicle. And you needed a shower, to run some errands, and get a decent meal. Then you’d sit down to listen to some voice memos from the artist you were working with in a studio tomorrow…..

Your phone rings in your air pods. If this is the call from the director, they have impeccable timing. You answer it without looking at the name.

“Hello?” you say, trying to control your breathing.

“Y/N?” came a voice that you’d recognize anywhere, no matter how long it had been since you talked, “Do you always answer your phone out of breath or am I just a lucky bloke?”

You laugh. Your lips curl into an easy smile. It’s not the director, but someone equally as surprising.

“Just on a run. What are you doing calling me, love? I thought you were on some world tour.” you asked, genuinely wondering what prompted this call.

You start to walk back the way you came. Looking up at the sky, it was truly a monochromatic blend of grey. Typical of dull overcast London. But something in your gut told you that this wasn’t going to be anything typical about this call.

All dividers are from the fantastic @treatpeoplewithgraphics!

[maudie-duan]

𓍼Chapter Two: Cold-Turkey

𓍼Summary: Harry is left in the aftermath of his own undoing. Now he has to figure out how to keep his word, once he knows the only way to keep his distance from you is to quit you cold-turkey.

𓍼Chapter Excerpt: "He didn’t stop to think. The second you touched him, all his sound judgment went soft. Want, in that moment, overrode everything else. You were muscle memory, you were love’s old grave, digging up the bones, all his old instincts taking over before he could sort through what was happening."

Word Count: 9k

𓍼Warnings: None Really// Sprialing Angst // (Harry's POV)

𓍼2. Cold-Turkey (M🌻) | ♡Milk and Honey Fics♡

𓍼Summary: Harry is left in the aftermath of his own undoing. Now he has to figure out how to keep his word, once he knows the only way to ke

Masterlist ->Here<-

(Updated 6/15/2026) Taglist: @drwho06 @lovergirlbabe01 @k-bluerose @mysteriousduckprincess @pagesixxlovers @sassamanda77 @harrystyleshotwife @triski73 @avas-daniel @bethiegurl19

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[ijustmissyouraccenths]

No Desk, No Plan, No Problem (Raya Harry)

<- Part Ten | Masterlist

You quit your job, told Priya to suck it, ate eggs alone for the first time in six years, and somewhere between the second coffee and the third one you probably didn’t need, you started a travel blog 

word count: 4k

authors note: cover photo by @zclhes

You sit there for a second after you hang up and just look at Cami.

She looks back at you.

“So,” you say.

“So,” she says.

“What do I actually do now.”

She refills both glasses with the other good wine, settles back against the couch, and looks at you with the expression of someone who has already thought this through and is about to present it like it’s obvious.

“Here’s the plan,” she says. “You go in tomorrow and you quit.”

You laugh. It comes out a little high. “Yeah. Sure. I also have rent.”

“Live here.”

You look at her.

“I’m serious,” she says. “Quit. Stay here. However long it takes you to get to Harry, you’re here. I’m never home anyway.”

You look around her apartment. The candle burning low. The good art on the walls. The little dish by the door. It’s a genuinely nice apartment. It has always been a genuinely nice apartment.

“Cami,” you say.

“What.”

“I can’t move in with you.”

“Why not.”

“Because.” You search for it. “Because I’m not moving backwards. I’m not going from my apartment to yours and then to Harry like I’m just bouncing between other people’s lives. I need to—” You stop. “I need it to feel like I’m going toward something. Not retreating.”

Camille looks at you for a long moment.

“That’s not what this is,” she says quietly.

Camille sets her wine glass down and looks at you properly.

“I want to see you happy,” she says. “That’s it. That’s the whole thing.” She pauses. “You’re happy when you’re with me. You’re happy when you’re with him. This is just both of those things at once for a little while.” She tilts her head slightly. “That’s not a handout. That’s just me loving you.”

You look at your wine glass.

“I know,” you say quietly.

“And I think this is going to be so good for you,” she says. “Like genuinely, really, so good. I’ve watched you sit at that desk and come home flat for months and I’ve watched you light up every single time he calls and I’ve watched you stare at your phone after LA like someone rearranged all the furniture in your brain.” She pulls her knees up. “You deserve the furniture arrangement.”

You laugh despite yourself.

“Stay here,” she says again. Softer this time. “While you figure it out.”

You sit with it for a moment. The candle. The music. The second bottle open between you.

“Okay,” you say finally. “But I’m paying you something.”

She opens her mouth.

“Non negotiable,” you say.

She closes it. “Fine. Something small.”

“Something reasonable.”

“We’ll argue about it later,” she says, which means she’s already won but is letting you think you haven’t, which is very Camille. She picks her glass back up. “Now. Start thinking.”

“About what.”

“About what you actually want to do.” She looks at you. “Not the job. Not Harry. You. What do you want to write. Where do you want to go. Make a plan.”

You look at the ceiling. At the particular dark of a December night pressing against the windows. At the candle burning almost all the way down.

“I keep thinking about the sofrito woman,” you say.

“I know you do.”

“There are a thousand of her everywhere. In every city. And I’ve only ever found the ones within ten blocks of my office.” You pause. “I want to find the rest of them.”

Camille is quiet for a second. Then she says: “So do that.”

“It’s not a job.”

“It could be.” She reaches over and tops up your glass. “Start a newsletter. Pitch it somewhere. Build it yourself. It doesn’t have to be a job on day one, it just has to be a thing you’re doing.” She looks at you. “It’s kind of like working.”

“It’s kind of like working,” you repeat.

“You’d be writing,” she says. “You’d be travelling. You’d be with him. You’d be building something that’s actually yours.” She shrugs. “Sounds like working to me.”

You sit there in the soft pyjamas on Camille’s floor with the second bottle of good wine and the nearly dead candle and the whole improbable shape of the next chapter of your life sitting somewhere in the middle distance, not fully formed yet but present, and you think about a blog post with broken photo links that you’ve read twice without absorbing.

You’re going to absorb it now.

You take the subway home just after midnight, the car mostly empty, the city outside the windows doing its late night thing. You sit with your hands in your coat pockets and your head against the glass and you think about how strange life is.

Not bad strange. Just strange. The ordinary specific strangeness of a Tuesday that started with a housing board piece you couldn’t finish and ended with you quitting your job on your best friend’s floor in free pyjamas while your boyfriend listened from London. You think about the version of yourself that walked into that office six years ago with a notebook and a very strong opinion about local journalism and a very small apartment and a very clear idea of what the next ten years were supposed to look like.

She wouldn’t recognize this Tuesday.

You think about the job. About what it cost to get it, the years of pitching and interning and writing things for almost nothing and finally getting the call, how you sat on your kitchen floor afterward and cried because you’d wanted it so badly for so long. You think about the first piece you filed, a small thing about a community garden in the Bronx that was being threatened by a development proposal, and how you refreshed the page seventeen times after it went live.

It’s okay for things to change, you think. That’s just what things do.

You think about Cami saying the furniture got rearranged. You think about Harry saying you just have to start. You think about Mei pressing her thumb into your left shoulder and finding six weeks of something you’d been carrying around without admitting it.

You get home and change and get into bed and lie there in the dark looking at the ceiling and think about how you just paid rent a few days ago, which means you have the whole month. A full month in this apartment. Time to do it properly. Time to figure out the next part without rushing it.

That feels like something.

You fall asleep still thinking about it and sleep better than you have in weeks.

In the morning you wake up and lie there waiting for the anxiety to arrive.

It doesn’t.

You wait a little longer, just to be sure. You run through the facts of the situation the way you do when you’re trying to locate something you’ve misplaced. You are going to walk into your office today and tell your editor you’re quitting. You are going to give notice on the job you worked for years to get. You are going to move in with your best friend on a temporary basis and figure out how to build something new from scratch in a city you’re about to leave.

Nothing.

Just a quiet that feels less like emptiness and more like clarity, which are not the same thing and you know the difference.

You get up and make coffee and stand in your kitchen in the early morning light and look at your apartment, at all the familiar things of your life arranged exactly as you arranged them, and you think about the bathroom cabinet you reorganized at eleven pm and the bookshelf alphabetized by color and the spices in order and all the small ways you’ve been trying to manage something that couldn’t be managed by tidying.

You drink your coffee.

You get ready.

You’re surprisingly ready.

Your manager’s name is Dana.

You’ve always liked Dana. She’s direct without being cold, the kind of editor who gives notes that actually make your work better rather than just different, who remembers the details of your stories between conversations, who once stayed on the phone with you for forty minutes when a source pulled out an hour before deadline and helped you rebuild the whole thing from scratch.

You knock on her door and she looks up from her screen and waves you in and you sit down across from her desk and she reads your face immediately because Dana always reads faces immediately, it’s one of the things that makes her good at her job.

“What’s going on,” she says.

You take a breath.

“I’m moving,” you say. “I’m going to have to give notice.”

Dana is quiet for a moment. She folds her hands on her desk and looks at you with the particular steadiness of someone who has had this conversation before and knows how to hold it.

“Where,” she says.

“England,” you say. “It’s not a work thing. It’s personal.” You pause. “It’s not this place. It’s not you. I want to be really clear about that. This job has been everything I wanted it to be.” You stop. “I just want something different now.”

She nods slowly.

“How long have you been thinking about it,” she says.

“Honestly?” You look at your hands. “A while.”

She’s quiet again. Outside her office the floor hums along at its usual morning pace, phones and keyboards and someone’s very loud coffee order from the kitchen, and you sit there in the chair you’ve sat in for six years worth of pitch meetings and performance reviews and one very memorable conversation about the zoning amendment series and you feel something in your chest that is sad and right at the same time.

“Okay,” Dana says finally. “Let’s talk about the transition.”

You stay in her office for twenty minutes. You work out the notice period, who picks up your current pieces, how to hand off the sources you’ve built relationships with over the years. Dana is professional and warm and at one point puts her hand briefly on yours across the desk and says she thinks you’re going to be fine, and you believe her.

You walk out of her office and close the door quietly behind you.

Priya is at her desk.

She looks up the second she sees your face. Her eyes go wide. She looks at Dana’s closed door. Then back at you.

“I knew it,” she says. “I knew you weren’t going to last.”

You stop. You look at her. You think about three weeks of her watching you stare at a second tab and delete four hundred words and come in carrying something you couldn’t put down.

“Suck it, Priya,” you say.

She laughs, loud and genuine. “Go live your life,” she says.

You point at her. She points back. You walk out.

You push through the front doors and the December air hits you and you just stand there for a second on the pavement outside the building you have walked into five days a week for six years.

You quit your job.

You actually did it.

A woman walks around you with her coffee and her headphones and her very purposeful Tuesday morning energy and you step to the side and just breathe for a second. The city keeps going. A cab. A delivery bike. Someone’s dog pulling very hard toward a lamppost. All of it completely indifferent to the fact that you just walked out of your career.

You start walking.

You don’t have a destination, not really, just the general direction of away, and you walk through the December morning with your hands in your coat pockets and the cold air on your face and something in your chest that feels like a window being opened in a room that’s been closed up for a long time.

You think about Harry.

You check the time. Just past ten. Which means it’s just past three in London. He’ll be in something, a meeting or a session or one of the things he mentions in passing without explaining, but there’s a version of right now where he’s between things, where his phone is in his hand.

You stop at the corner and look at his name in your contacts.

You think about calling. You think about hearing his voice, the warm tired end of his afternoon, telling him it’s done. You think about how he’d say it simply, the way he says most true things, and how that would be exactly what you need right now.

You press call.

He picks up on the last ring, slightly breathless, like he stepped away from something to answer it.

“Hey,” he says. “Everything okay?”

“I quit my job,” you say.

Silence.

Then: “You quit your job.”

“This morning. I went in and I told Dana I was moving and I gave notice and then I told Priya to suck it and I walked out.” You pause. “I’m standing on a street corner.”

“Which street corner.”

“Does it matter.”

“No,” he says, and you can hear the smile in it. “Are you okay?”

“I think so.” You start walking again, slowly, no direction. “I don’t know. Maybe it wasn’t the best move. Maybe I should have thought about it longer. Maybe I should have had something lined up or a proper plan or at least waited until—”

“Why,” he says.

You stop. “What?”

“Why should you have waited.”

“I don’t know,” you say. “What if it’s too quick? What if I wake up next week and realise I’ve just blown everything up on a feeling?”

He’s quiet for a second. Not a worried quiet. Just the listening kind.

“Are you happy?” he says.

You think about standing on the pavement outside the office with the December air on your face and the window opening feeling in your chest.

“Yes,” you say.

“Are you excited?”

You think about Manchester in February. The market. The pub. The park where he used to sit and think. The sofrito woman in a hundred different cities.

“Yes,” you say.

“Then it wasn’t a mistake,” he says simply. “I’m happy and I’m excited too. That’s enough.”

You walk another half block and let that settle.

“I was thinking,” you say, carefully, “about maybe finding a flat in London. While I figure everything out. Just somewhere small, somewhere that’s mine, so I’m not just—”

He sighs.

Not an annoyed sigh. Just the particular sigh of someone who is about to tell you something obvious and is being patient about it.

“Why,” he says.

“Because I don’t want to be a bother.”

A beat.

“Now you’re just being silly,” he says.

“Harry—”

“Stay with me,” he says. “I mean it. Even if you want your own room, fine, you can have a room, but you’re not getting a flat in London by yourself when I have a house with rooms in it that nobody is using.” A pause. “You’re not a bother. You could never be a bother. I want you there.”

You stand at a crossing and wait for the light and think about a house with rooms nobody is using and a man on the other end of a phone who sighs like that when you suggest inconveniencing him.

“Okay,” you say.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” you say again. “Your house. A room.”

“Our house,” he says. Quietly. Like he’s trying it out.

The light changes. You cross.

“You’re not a stranger,” he says. “You’re not some guest I have to be polite to.” A pause. “And honestly I’d be sick if you moved all the way over there and I didn’t get to steal all your time.”

You laugh, properly, standing on a street corner in December with no job and nowhere to be.

“All of it?” you say.

“As much as I can get,” he says. “You can write from the house. You can have your space. I’m not going to hover.” Another pause. “I’ll try not to hover.”

“You’re going to hover.”

“A little,” he admits. “But nicely.”

You smile at the pavement. At the city moving around you, completely unbothered, all its usual Tuesday noise. You think about six years of walking into the same building and sitting at the same desk and writing about the same ten blocks, and you think about a house somewhere in England with a room that could be yours and a man who will hover nicely and steal your time whenever he can.

“Okay,” you say. “Our house.”

“Our house,” he says again. Like he likes the sound of it. Like he could say it a few more times and not get tired of it.

You stand there on the corner for a second, phone warm against your ear, December cold on your face, the whole improbable rest of your life sitting just ahead of you.

“I should let you get back,” you say.

“Probably,” he says. “Are you okay? Actually okay.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Actually okay.”

“Good.” A beat. “Go celebrate.”

“I’m going to go eat breakfast,” you say. “I haven’t eaten anything.”

He laughs. “Go eat breakfast then. Text me.”

“I will.”

“Lovey,” he says.

“Yeah.”

“I’m really glad you called.”

“I’m glad too,” you say. “I love you. I miss you.”

“I love you too,” he says. “Go eat.”

You hang up.

You stand there for a second with the phone in your hand and the city going on around you and the cold December air on your face and you think about everything that has happened in the last twenty four hours. The conference room. The pyjamas. Camille’s floor. Dana’s office. Priya’s face. The phone call just now.

You put your phone in your pocket.

You start walking.

No destination, no desk to get to, no piece to file, no planning committee meeting on Thursday. Just the city and the morning and your own two feet taking you somewhere new, which is, you think, a pretty good place to start.

You find a coffee shop two blocks down, the small kind, the kind that knows what it is and doesn’t try to be anything else, and you push through the door and the warmth hits you and you order a coffee and the eggs and you sit by the window and watch New York go past and feel, for the first time in longer than you can remember, completely unhurried.

You have nowhere to be.

You are a free woman.

You pay and leave a good tip and push back out into the cold.

You walk.

Not with anywhere to be, not with a route in mind, just the way you used to walk when you first moved here and the city was still something you were learning. You let the blocks go past. The coffee shop gives way to a stretch of boutiques and then a park and then a neighbourhood you don’t come to often enough, the streets quieter here, older feeling, the kind of block that has been itself for a long time and isn’t planning to change.

You think about the sofrito woman.

You think about the man and the cat outside the laundromat.

You think about all the people you’ve walked past in six years of living in this city and never stopped for, all the small extraordinary ordinary lives happening in every direction all the time, and you think about how you are about to spend however long it takes finding them, in Manchester and London and wherever comes after that, and writing about them for anyone who wants to read it.

Strangers I Loved Briefly.

You say it quietly to yourself on the street and a woman walking past glances at you and you smile at her and she smiles back, a little uncertain, and keeps walking.

You find a place to sit eventually, a small café a few blocks from the park, quieter than the first one, a corner table with good light coming through the window. You order another coffee you probably don’t need and open your laptop and stare at the blank document.

You type: Strangers I Loved Briefly.

You look at it.

You type: A travel blog about the people worth stopping for.

You delete: A travel blog about.

You type: About the people.

You delete that too.

You sit back and look out the window. A man walks past with a very small dog in a very large coat. An older woman stops outside and checks something in her bag, finds it, looks relieved, keeps going. A kid on a bike takes the corner faster than he probably should.

You look back at the screen.

You type: This is a blog about strangers.

You stare at it for a long time.

You delete it.

You type: I have been a local journalist for six years. I have written about city council meetings and zoning amendments and planning committees and I have loved it, mostly, until recently, when I stopped being able to make myself care about any of it and started caring very much about a woman I interviewed who had been making the same sofrito recipe for fifty years because her mother taught her and her mother taught her and somewhere in that kitchen in the Bronx was a whole history of people loving each other.

You stop.

You read it back.

You delete everything after recently.

You try again.

I have been a local journalist for six years. I have written about the city I live in and the people in it and I have loved that work. But I kept finding that the stories I couldn’t stop thinking about were never the ones I was assigned. They were the ones I stumbled into. A woman and her sofrito recipe. A man and a stray cat outside a laundromat. Small things. Quiet things. The kind of thing that doesn’t make the news but makes a life.

You read it back.

You keep it.

You type: I’m about to leave New York and go somewhere new. And then somewhere after that. And I want to find those people everywhere. The ones worth stopping for. The ones you’d walk past if you weren’t paying attention.

You read it back.

You keep that too.

You type: This is for them. And for anyone who wants to come along.

You sit there with your hands in your lap and look at what you’ve written and feel something very quiet and very certain settle in your chest.

It’s not perfect. It will need work. But it’s true, which is the only thing that matters, which is the thing you have always believed about writing and somehow forgot for a little while sitting at a desk on the wrong side of the glass.

You save the document.

You close your laptop.

You order a third coffee you definitely don’t need and sit by the window and watch the street and think about Manchester.

[harryspurpleloofah]

On Air

Summary: Y/N hosts her own little radio show. It’s popular enough for her to feel like she’s actually doing something but niche enough that the average person might not know about it. She gives advice on love, lust and all things relationship. But one day a British caller with a gorgeous voice decides to grace her radio show and she realizes maybe she’s the one he’s asking for advice about.

Warnings: mostly fluff, other callers mention their sex lives, mention of positions, swift mention of handcuffs, blindfolds, etc. Some swearing

She looked in the mirror one more time to give herself that little rush of pride. There were days when her hair, outfit and makeup all decided to gracefully fall into place for maximum satisfaction and today was one of those days. She blinked at the mirror again, almost letting out a laugh from how giddy she felt at the fact her lashes had decided to cooperate today.

She knelt down to strap up her heels and then do one more quick look before she should probably get going. Her friend, Becca who acted as a producer with her on this little endeavor always asked her why she got so dressed up. All people would be hearing was her voice. No one could see her. That’s why Becca made the arguably more intelligent decision to just show up in her day job clothes to save time.

But not Y/N. Her favourite part of her life was when she got to leave her office job and make herself look just as pretty as she wanted that specific day without feeling silly because she had an occasion. She pulled on her coat and made sure to grab her purse before rushing out the apartment door and down the stairs.

Becca was lounged on her chair, pizza slice in one hand and phone in the other. “Hey.”

“Hi! I’m early today, see?” Y/N pointed out.

“And I’m early every day. You look great though.”

She felt herself light up as she took off her coat and sat in her chair. That chair. The one she’d learnt to associate with relaxation and happiness. Y/N had always been chatty. Chattier than Becca so their friendship usually operated in a way where Becca would listen as well as handle the behind the scenes and she would talk.

Both of them were quite pleased with that arrangement and saw no need to change it. The need was actually to enhance the experience for both of them and divide Y/N’s plethora of interesting thoughts to the whole population rather than just Becca’s ears.

That’s how they got here. Their own little radio show. She absolutely loved it. Becca would handle the production aspect of everything and she got to live her dream, multiple people ringing in each night just to talk to her! About their love lives. What could be better?

She got comfortable in the chair where she had heard hundreds and hundreds of love stories from strangers and cleared her throat giving Becca a signal that she was ready. Becca smiled and nodded at her.

The show started and she gave her usual introduction before giving people the opportunity to call in. Becca gave her a thumbs up and connected an anonymous caller to her. Y/N knew how to make her voice a little sultrier. Not for the people. Just for the radio. Like she was trying to impress her microphone. She enjoyed it so much, it was on the verge of putting on a sexy, fun character while still being herself.

“Welcome to Midnight Lines, I’m your host. What seems to be your love conundrum tonight?”

“Uh-hi. So I’m a woman. And I have this guy. He’s beautiful. Like a model. But he travels a lot so we agreed to keep it casual. Very on and off.”

“I see.” She replied, smiling and leaning forward on the desk as she listened for more.

“The sex is fine. Like not mind-blowing but it’s not bad. But he leaves so often.”

“Aw. So you wish he wouldn’t leave you so much?”

“Kind of. I just feel like there’s so much chemistry when he comes back from all his trips but then we start fighting and I just can’t wait for him to leave again.”

Y/N leans back in her chair, “well, there’s gonna be fights occasionally, that’s unavoidable.”

“Yeah…”

“But you know what? Some people just like to make dramatic entrances when they’ve got nothing to fill in the rest of the show with. And it sounded like the sexual aspects of your lover aren’t anything to write home about.”

Becca made a face saying, “I agree.” as she chewed on her pizza slice.

“And if he’s making you unhappy to the point you want him to leave every time he comes home then well I think we know where you stand, maybe he’s not the right one, hon.”

“Really? I just feel like I get used to him not being here and then just don’t like living with someone else.”

“Well then that’s where you are in life right now and you don’t have to be sorry about that. I still don’t think a guy who makes you wish he was gone when he’s there is worth it.”

“Maybe you’re right. Now that I think about it, the only thing that excites me about him is when I know he’s about to come home.”

“Ah because you build up a fantasy of the big, steamy and passionate reunion and it never happens?”

“…yeah.”

“Mm. Well why settle for a man who only fits the beginning of your desired love story? Go all the way and find one who can give you the rest of it.”

The woman on the other line is quiet for a bit before she agrees and wraps up the conversation. Y/N looks back at Becca for confirmation that the call is done then speaks again to her viewers. “The floor is open, loves.”

The next caller is a man. He sounds like he leads a miserable life, his voice is quiet and dreary.

“Hey, so I’m an accountant… have been since I was um… 21. I’ve got a girlfriend.”

“Okay.” She smiled, leaning forward and taking a little moment to appreciate her nails before her attention shifted back to the caller.

“I just feel like my life isn’t the most… adventurous so sometimes I wanna compensate in bed by trying new things.”

“That’s great!”

“Yeah but I don’t know how to tell her the things I wanna do. Some of them are a bit out there and I don’t want her to stop liking me.”

“Well if she really likes you then she wouldn’t stop liking you just for asking if she wants to do something. Now if she says no and you keep pushing, that’s a different story. But there’s no harm in proposing something.”

“I-I’m not really the best at talking to people.”

“I know speaking about sex sounds really scary especially because you don’t want your partner to see you as weird or kink shame. But honestly, sitting someone down and gently talking about something usually does go well.”

“You think? Do girls like that stuff? Handcuffs, blindfolds and all that?”

“Are you asking if I do? Because that’s the only question I can give you a definitive answer to. All girls really aren’t the same. Some do and some don’t. But it’s not an extreme fantasy. Loads of people use handcuffs and blindfolds.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep.”

“Okay. Thanks for helping me out there.”

“That’s why we run this show,” she said with a tone that allowed the listeners to hear the smile on her lips.

A few callers later, she was about to wrap up when someone called in. Becca looked at her, silently asking if she wanted to take one last one. Y/N shrugged. Why not? She nodded at Becca to put them through.

“Hi, how can we help your love life at Midnight Lines?”

The caller took a moment to answer. But when he did, oh she was glad he did. He had a deep, beautiful voice. The kind that’s low enough to cause vibrations through you if you heard it in person but soft enough that you felt comforted by it. The British accent surrounding it only made her happier she’d chosen to take the last call.

“Hello. I take the train every day. I always see a beautiful woman. She’s gorgeous. She stands in the same spot of the train every day, unless there’s a seat available. Then she… lights up as she sees it. I always hope no one sits there when I see it as I get on. Just to see her get on at the next stop and her eyes scan the train and widen slightly with happiness when she sees it.”

Y/N freezes. She doesn’t know if he meant to go on as much as he did. Usually people on here who would call about someone theyre not dating but like just go off of there appearance. Or things they find sexy about their personality, even. But never something so casual in such great detail.

“That-that’s lovely. So I assume you want to talk to this woman?”

“So much. I always try to give it a go but it’s so quiet because we take it really early so nobody’s in a chatty mood. So, if she were to say no or really not want to talk to me then everybody would hear. And it would just get really awkward.”

“Ah…okay yeah. I get that. It’s scary trying to talk to people you really like. Are you willing to give it a go? Or did you just want to rant a bit?”

“I think I would like to give it a go. I’m just not really sure how. She doesn’t know me and I don’t want to come across as creepy. I honestly just want a few moments of her time. Even if she’s not interested in me romantically, I’d love to just talk to her. Find out a little more about her.”

“That’s so sweet. I’d say if you’re stuck, go traditional. There’s a reason why so many people buy flowers and chocolates for people they love, it works. Nobody dislikes receiving a bouquet or something sweet to get them through the day. Then once you get to know them you can work on making it more personal.”

“So you think flowers won’t be too much right?”

“Yeah. Maybe not a bouquet of sultry red roses if you wanna be safe. But just a mix of a few flowers would be a lovely thing to do. Some peonies, baby’s breath… you know?”

“Right. That sounds nice. How would I give them to her? Just… hand them to her one day?”

“If you don’t want to do it on the train you could always get off at her stop and then walk the distance to yours if it’s not too far. Or wait for the next train. Just walk up to her and say hey I think you’re really pretty and I’d love to get to know you better. Offer her the flowers gently.”

“And that won’t come across as weird?”

Y/N chuckles, “hopefully not. It depends on the sort of person she is but I know I wouldn’t mind getting a bouquet first thing in the morning from a sweet guy on the train.”

“Thank you so much, I guess I was just looking for some confirmation of what works.”

“No problem. It’s what we set this up for. I hope you get the girl, call to check in if you want later!”

“Will do. Thanks again.”

While packing her stuff, Y/N turned to look at Becca, trying to see if the last man had the same effect on her. Becca seemed neutral enough.

“What’s wrong?” Becca asked.

“What did you think of the last caller?”

“The train guy? I don’t know. Sounded sexy right?”

“Mhm. But I mean. Did you hear what he was saying? Most of the people-men especially who call on here just wanna fuck a girl. I wasn’t expecting such a mellow request.”

“Yeah I guess you’re right. I mean he sounded sweet as hell. I hope the train woman likes the flowers.”

“Mm.”

The next morning hit her hard. The night had gone by so wonderfully after the conversation with that man. He sounded so… beautiful. Just by his voice she could tell he must be attractive. She just had a gut feeling. But as well as that, she didn’t find herself jealous that he liked another woman. Just happy that she was able to bring together this man and whoever he’s trying to get with.

She yawned as she pulled the heavy coat over her shoulders. It was the same one that she had put on last night but it seemed to have gotten drearier overnight. The consolation that she would get to do her show all over again soon was the only thing that gave her the strength to pick up her bag as she trudged out the door.

It was cold this time of year and right now considering everything about her work life, love life and everything in between, the dull sky and constant chill seemed to be pathetic fallacy. She bought her train ticket at the bureau and waited by the edge with her usual crowd.

A man who would always get off at the second stop then ride home with her as well. A woman who would get on the morning train but she wouldn’t see her again for the rest of the day. She saw new faces as well. A group of teenage friends probably going into the city for some shopping and a day out.

She got on the train and looked around to see if any seat was free. Nope. She sighed as she went over to stand in her regular spot, adjusting her scarf. She nodded and smiled politely at the man she saw every day. The tall one with the curly brown hair. He would always stand opposite her on the train but maintain a respectful distance.

She never saw him get off or on the train so she assumed his first stop was earlier than hers and his last, later. He was a calming prescence on the train. She’d seen him give up his seat multiple times to people who needed it more with nothing but a smile and a polite hand on his heart while reassuring them that it was no trouble.

Now that she thought about it his voice sounded familiar. Maybe somebody she’d seen on TV sounded similar. That wasn’t what she was thinking about right now, though. Right now the only thing that occupied her brain was the man from last night. Maybe he would be on a train right now, looking at the woman he likes, holding a bouquet in his hands, wondering if she should give it to her.

Coincidentally, when she looked down at her train man’s hand she saw something tucked so it was being covered by one of his legs but she could make out that it was suspiciously shaped like a bouquet and she knew it for a fact when she saw the baby’s breath peaking out.

How funny. Two men however many miles away from each other holding a bouquet on a train. Maybe for the same purpose. Maybe a different one. She knew the stop after her one was the one where there was a hospital a really short walk away so perhaps he had someone he knew who was unwell and wanted to bring some comfort.

Her stop began to approach and soon the thought of both the men was out of her mind as her thoughts drifted to the hell that was her office job. Maybe today her boss would decide he wasn’t going to be such a prick and just be normal just for one day. Unlikely.

Or maybe Tina from HR would talk about something other than her boyfriend in the, “political field”, who apparently knew everybody there was to know. Also highly unlikely.

All in all, she hoped a borough of unlikely things opened itself of the world today whether it was her caller’s crush falling head over heels for him when she properly noticed him for the first time or Tina gaining some sense. But she’d have to wait and see. She quickly looked around to make sure she hadn’t put anything down that she should take with her and then headed off the train.

But she felt a presence and an enveloping aroma of vanilla and sandalwood behind her as she saw the curly-haired man getting off with her, his trench coat billowing slightly giving him a gorgeous silhouette.

“Ma’am!” He said a little louder than he intended so he brought his volume back down.

“Yes?”

He held the flowers forward for her and spoke, “I’m sorry if I’m keeping you but I would love for you to have these.”

“Oh? They’re very beautiful thank you. But… I’m sorry do I know you from somewhere?”

“No no. You don’t know me. I just see you on the train every day and I-just think you’re very beautiful. I’d love to get to know you better.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I’m not even necessarily asking you on a date just… to get to know you a little better.”

She froze. The words he was saying were the exact ones she’d heard the man from last night say. Was she the train woman he was talking about? Now that she thought about it his voice sounded exactly the same too.

She slowly took the flowers, her face still frozen in thought of last night but he misunderstood and thought she was judging him.

“I’m really sorry if this came across as random or… out of the blue. I was never trying to make you uncomfortable and I can leave right now if you’d like. But I just thought it was worth a shot. If nothing more I’d love to be your friend.”

“No not at all this is lovely. I’m sorry I just had something else on my mind. Why don’t I give you my number? I need to get going right now but I’d love a chat later.”

“Yeah that’s amazing. Thanks so much.”

She watched him look back at the train, seeing if it was still there but then his shoulders deflated as he saw that it wasn’t, getting ready to just walk the way to his stop rather than wait for another. He started walking away, his boots making a satisfying click sound on the ground.

Was he really the guy from last night? And was she really the woman who had made him say such wonderful things about her?

She felt an uncontrollable, real smile creep up on her. She managed to suppress it a tiny bit with the help of thinking about her job but she still had a little sparkle of joy for the rest of the day.

When she got home that night she looked at his number and scrolled through the few messages they’d exchanged already. He was asking her out to dinner now. She didn’t know what to say. She wanted to go out with him but should she tell him that she was indeed the radio show host?

She texted back, “7 on Saturday is great. I’ll text you my address.”

“Sounds wonderful.” He texted back.

“Random question?”

“Yes?”

“Are you planning to talk about my dinner plan agreement on a certain radio show tomorrow night?”

He didn’t reply for a bit. Not like he went offline to avoid her but like he genuinely just sat there with his fingers frozen at the keyboard of his phone, poor guy probably relaxed and just about to go to sleep.

“Which show?”

“It’s called Midnight Lines I believe.” She texted back, smiling to herself.

“God. You listen to it?”

“I’m related to it.”

“What does that mean?”

“I might know the woman who runs it.”

“What??”

“Seriously.”

“Okay I mean yeah. I went on there. I didn’t know who else to ask. My friends are dicks, they don’t know the first thing about asking a woman out… politely.”

“So you went on a radio show where the most discussed topic is sex positions?”

“The woman who ran it seemed friendly. I feel like she’d give genuine advice. How’d you know her? Is she a friend?”

“She might just be me actually.”

“You joking?”

“Nope.”

He didn’t reply for a while. Then her screen lit up with the three dots again.

“So I managed to ask you how to ask yourself out?”

“At least you know there would be no one who gives better advice.”

“Should I keep calling then? If this goes further?”

“You could just… you know text me.”

“Yeah but where’s the fun?”

The night passed just like that and it seemed like many more did too. Too many to count it seems because when she least expected it one night her boyfriend called into the radio show again. Becca sat up as she recognized Harry’s voice too now from knowing him for quite a while.

Y/N didn’t know whether to acknowledge she knew him. “Yes? How can we help you today?”

“So I have this girlfriend. She’s gorgeous. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on.”

She smiled but continued for the sake of playing it off like a regular call, “I see.”

“And I need to know whether my anniversary present for her would be a good one or not.”

“Mm. Okay. What did you get her?”

“I don’t know if I can say. She apparently tunes into this.”

“Does she?”

“Yeah. Related to the show very closely.”

Y/N looked at Becca who just chuckled to herself and went back on her phone. Harry spoke up again.

“So if she is listening, just know it’s on your bed when you get home, love. And I think I’ve gotten to know you well enough that it’s personal. And I can finally get you roses. I don’t need the safety blanket of platonic baby’s breath.”

[babyyhoneyyy]

Too sweet 3* | H.S

CW: welcome to the last part of gang!harry x icecreamshopworker!y/n :( these two have my whole heart and i just love writing about them. be warned this part does include heavy themes such as kidnapping, violence, SA, blood, and guns, so please turn away if that is not for you. there is also finally some smut, which includes (but is not limited to ;)) face riding, penetration, size kink, choking, dirty talk the lot!!! LOWKEY SOME OF MY BEST WORK NGL!! enjoy! MINORS DNI!

WC: 11.2K

Read part one and two here.

Preview:

“Harry,” She started, “When did you do this?” Slowly, she got off the floor and petted Coco one last time before coming over to the counter. Harry had to hold himself back from kissing her silly, “Y’were asleep when I woke up, so I thought I’d get some of your things. Coco, too, of course,” He replied. He toyed with his hands behind his back, one coming up to rub behind his neck as she began going through the tote. 

“Aw, Harry, thank you so much,” Y/N murmured in a soft voice. Butterflies erupted in Harry’s stomach like he was a schoolgirl or summat, doubling in effect when she suddenly gasped, “You brought my kindle?”

Harry ran a finger beneath his nose nonchalantly, “Oh yeah, thought you might want that one, help take your mind o— oh.” A soft gasp was punched out of him as Y/N tackled him in a hug, both arms wrapped around his neck. She buried her face in his throat and Harry thanked whatever deity was up there for this moment’s reprieve. “Thank you,” Y/N said genuinely. When she pulled away, Harry forced himself not to pout his bottom lip like his instinct was telling him. Already, he missed her warm body against his. His hands were still on her waist, “S’okay, was no trouble, baby,” The pet name slipped out unintentionally— and it had a few times already, but Harry wasn’t going to stop if the reaction he got from her was this; cheeks going red and eyes widening like a deer.

The next morning, Harry left a slumbering Y/N tucked beneath his covers to go fetch her dog from her apartment. After barely three hours of sleep, he was up at the crack of dawn, quietly creeping around the house so he wouldn't wake her.

The night before had taken more out of her than she'd let on.

Once she'd cried herself out in his arms, Harry left a towel and a spare set of clothes outside the bathroom so she could change out of her rain-soaked ones. Due to the nature of his work, he never found time to cook for himself, the consequences of which Y/N also had to suffer when he warmed up the frozen meal he bought (which thankfully was a ten-minute pizza they could easily split) for them to share. Except Y/N didn’t eat much at all— only picked at the crust, took maybe three bites and then quietly told him she wanted to go to bed.

Now unfortunately for Harry, he’s never been in a situation quite like this one.

Firstly, he almost never has people over at his place, and it was a bit weird just seeing Y/N there, hanging out in his kitchen, using his shower, sleeping in his bed. It was definitely not helping the little crush that he had on her. Seeing her all cozied up in his space gave him false hope that someday things could be like this, when the circumstances weren’t so life-threatening.

Secondly, he was really bad at comforting people and dealing with emotions (he never adressed his own, so how was he meant to help others?), thus he didn’t think he was the right person for her to be around when she was obviously hurting and feeling so vulnerable.

But nonetheless, life dealt him these cards and Harry had no choice but to live with them. It helped that it was her he had to be around; he liked her company a great deal, even if he didn’t do a good job showing so with his actions (or even his words). She was pretty and she was funny, and when she wasn’t scared for her life, she was adorable— like a deer— a resemblance he established when he first met her at the bar.

He’d been to her flat once before, and she lived close to Niall, hence getting there with no navigation wasn’t an issue. Though he had to keep lookout for any wanderers nearby, or anything odd, just to ensure no one was trying to track her down. So far the coast was clear, but Harry could never be too careful, comforted by the cold barrel of a gun pressed into his abdomen under the waist of his jeans.

There was a backup key beneath a plant by her door which Harry nabbed, albeit infuriatingly because of how unsafe that location was. After all of this was over, he made a mental note to give her some sort of safety training or self defence classes so if need ever arises, she’s not completely clueless. Although Harry was ready to give his all to make sure no harm ever came to her, he knows he can’t always be with her; protecting her.

The sharp, shrill sounds of Coco barking came before he could enter, and once he did, the dog tackled his legs and twisted between his ankles, “Hello mister,” Harry cooed, bending so he could pet between his ears, “Let’s get you home to mum, hmm?”

He quickly filled Coco’s bowl with food and water, and then got to work, picking out which essentials she might need while at his place. Harry doesn’t know how long this issue might play over; all he knew was that she could not be out of his sight for even a second. Being with him was the safest bet for Y/N right now, and he wanted to make sure she was as comfortable as she could be while living in (technically) a stranger’s apartment for god knows how long.

It felt invasive and borderline unethical for him to poke around her room and bathroom, grabbing her toothbrush, cleanser, charger and whatnot. He didn’t have any list or anything to go by, so he was going with his intuition as he plucked her kindle off her bedside, assuming it might help take her mind off things. Going through her clothes and underwear drawer was too much though; Harry had to draw the line somewhere. He had ample clothes for her to borrow, and in terms of undergarments, he’d swing by the mall to grab her a pack of underwear or something— the idea of which made his heart pound slightly and his cock twitch a bit. 

Entering the kitchen, Coco began jumping at his feet again with his tongue sticking out. Harry knelt to pick the pup up. He tucked him in his elbow, his tiny size convenient for Harry’s muscled arm, “You’re just a needy thing,” He tsked. A quick glance around her kitchen and Harry found a colorful list of meals magnetted to her fridge. It looked like a meal plan of some sorts; dishes she probably rotates throughout the week for breakfast, lunch and dinner. With his free hand he got his phone and quickly took a photo of the sheet, hoping he could recreate some of these to make her feel more at home. How he would do that with nil cooking skills was a problem for the future.

He did one last sweep of the place before grabbing his big tote bag and nestling Coco inside of it. Her stuff and the dog were separated by a soft towel, and Harry hoped the poor thing could bear the ten-minute ride on his bike back to the mall and then his place. It took some trial and error and some adjusting, but he managed the bag between his legs for the journey.

When he finally got home, she was still asleep and snoring softly. He stealthily set down her things on his counter and Coco began wagging his tail manically as he bolted for Harry’s room where his owner was resting. Before the pup could make it, Harry rushed to gently shut the door so he couldn’t pounce on the girl. Coco whined a bit and sadly looked up at Harry, “Sorry honey,” He ushered him into the living room where he pulled out the dog toys he picked up from a pet store, “Took her so long to fall asleep.”

Coco busied himself and so did Harry. He stepped into his kitchen and unloaded the groceries he got for breakfast bagels— a food he spotted circled with red marker on Y/N’s fridge. He hoped that meant she fancied it, because he was about to conquer the feat of cooking the dish for her; a challenge which paled in comparison to all the fights and mountains he had to climb working in a gang.

He put on a Youtube video with the most views and the most likes and set his phone against the counter. The apron he barely ever used that Mitch got him for his birthday (black, with the words “The Grillfather” embroidered across the chest) was wrapped around his torso as Harry pinched his bottom lip, soaking in the instructions with unwavering concentration.

He doesn’t know how long he spends there, hunched over his stove with about seven eggshells around him and splatterings of smashed avocado all over his apron and hands. There was something in the recipe about scrambled eggs, but they couldn’t be overcooked or they’d be rubbery— the avocado had to have no lumps, yet getting the core out of them was literally making Harry insane, especially when the third one flicked him on the forehead as he tried a trick he saw on reddit (he had to find an r/avocado thread to figure out when they were ripe enough to smash and eat, but not enough to be rotten).

By the time he had one decent looking, hopefully edible bagel cut in half on a ceramic green plate, he heard movement from his bedroom, signalling someone had just woken up and gone into the bathroom. Quickly he got rid of all the evidence; stuffing the eggshells into the trash, wiping the mayo and avocado from his counters, hastily undoing the apron around his waist. 

Worried she’d be out any second, he set the plate on the table (casually) and put a pot of coffee on. A few minutes later, his door creaked open and Coco lost his marbles. “Oh my god, my sweet baby angel,” He heard Y/N coo, mixed with the sounds of shrill barking. Harry poked his head around the corner for a sight he was not ready to see.

Y/N was on the floor, her legs crossed over one another adorned in just Harry’s black shirt. It was way too big on her, already oversized when he wore it, so it pooled around her body and slung off of one shoulder. At some point in the night she must have forgone the sweats he left out for her, because to his dismay, her legs were bare and utterly distracting. Coco was nestled in her lap, jumping up to lick her jaw and chin as Y/N scrunched up her face, “Okay! Okay, thank you,” she giggled, picking the pup up and plopping him on the carpet. Coco began looping around her feet. 

From across the room, she met his eyes, and something in her expression shifted when she noticed her belongings on his counter, “Harry,” She started, “When did you do this?” Slowly, she got off the floor and petted Coco one last time before coming over to the counter. Harry had to hold himself back from kissing her silly, “Y’were asleep when I woke up, so I thought I’d get some of your things. Coco, too, of course,” He replied. He toyed with his hands behind his back, one coming up to rub behind his neck as she began going through the tote. 

“Aw, Harry, thank you so much,” Y/N murmured in a soft voice. Butterflies erupted in Harry’s stomach like he was a schoolgirl or summat, doubling in effect when she suddenly gasped, “You brought my kindle?”

Harry ran a finger beneath his nose nonchalantly, “Oh yeah, thought you might want that one, help take your mind o— oh.” A soft gasp was punched out of him as Y/N tackled him in a hug, both arms wrapped around his neck. She buried her face in his throat and Harry thanked whatever deity was up there for this moment’s reprieve. “Thank you,” Y/N said genuinely. When she pulled away, Harry forced himself not to pout his bottom lip like his instinct was telling him. Already, he missed her warm body against his. His hands were still on her waist, “S’okay, was no trouble, baby,” The pet name slipped out unintentionally— and it had a few times already, but Harry wasn’t going to stop if the reaction he got from her was this; cheeks going red and eyes widening like a deer.

“I—uh, made you some breakfast if you’re hungry. You must be, actually. Didn’t eat much last night,” He changed the topic. Y/N turned to look at the table, noticing the bagel which Harry was immensely proud of, presented on a pretty plate. She looked back at him with a little grin, “I didn’t know you could cook!” Excitedly she took a seat across from him.

“Me neither,” Harry said under his breath. He got to work preparing her coffee. The second time he came to her apartment, she was kind enough to offer him some, because of which he remembered how she took hers: two sugars and heaps of milk. He used his fancy mugs; pouring into pink and baby blue ceramics. “How are you feeling today?”

Y/N nodded slowly, chewing with her eyebrows raised, “Better— hey, you’re a real good cook! How did y’know I liked brekkie bagels?”

“Just a hunch,” Harry shrugged, “Sleep well?”

She sipped her coffee, “Um, yeah, not too bad. Your bed is really nice.”

“That’s good.”

“I… I was up for ages ‘cause I couldn’t stop thinking about everything, y’know, like, you being in a gang, plus Coco being home alone,” Y/N shuffled, picking at a loose crumb, “Then I realised it wasn’t doing me— or anyone, any good. Me worrying won’t make this go away. I’m just… just lost. I don’t want to be this dead weight you dread carrying around. I want to be proactive.”

She looked at him with real curiosity, eagerly awaiting his response. He was glad to hear she was more comfortable and not as stressed anymore, but when it comes to what the outcome would be, Harry himself was sort of in the dark until he met the others and discussed a proposition, “Mm, that’s nice you’re feeling better,” He started, eyebrows creasing, “We’ll go back down to the warehouse after this. Some more of us will be there too, n’we’ll try to come up with something— something safer for you, and just settle this shit once and for all. I’m sorry you got dragged into my mess.”

“No, no, everything I did was my own choice, Harry, it’s not your fault,” She waved her hand dismissively, “And for the time being I think I feel safest when… when I’m with you,” Y/N said, quietly. She didn’t meet his eyes, busying herself with pulling her bagel apart into bite size pieces. From where he stood, he could see her cheeks ablaze. 

The words lit something inside Harry.

Someone feeling safe in his company was something he never got to hear, ever. Usually people were intimidated by him, opting to have quick conversations so they could scurry away as soon as possible. Only his gang mates would sometimes stick around and chat with him about stuff other than the current coup or drug shipment they had to process. Hearing a sweet little thing like Y/N admit so sincerely that she felt secure when she was with him made Harry feel things he’d never felt before. Warmth spread in his chest, along with an instinct to protect her in any way he could, no matter the situation.

His heart was beating at the speed of light as he bit back a smile, “I’ll try to keep it this way.”

-

After Y/N was fed and content, they both got dressed and headed down to his bike to go to the warehouse. Coco would have to spend the afternoon by himself, and this time Harry took precaution, asking his older neighbour Barbara to keep an eye on the pup and his feeding if things went awry. He hoped they didn’t, but it was one thing less on Y/N’s mind to worry about, and that’s all that mattered.

A thousand questions weighed on his mind; what was their POA? How long did Y/N have to live in hiding, not going to work or even sleeping in her own bed? When did that prick begin following her and why didn’t Harry notice earlier? So many things he could blame himself for, and he did, but he also knew doing that was not going to get him anywhere.

“Are we going on the bike?” Y/N snapped him out of his reverie, trailing behind him as they came down the building stairs. Harry pushed the exit door with his shoulder, pressing himself against it so she could pass. “Yeah, for now. I still need to go back and get y’car.”  She raised her brows and put her hands on her hips, “No rush.” He could tell she was nervous getting on the bike with him, like she was last night too. The way she clung to his waist, muttering quiet prayers against his shirt was enough evidence for him to determine this wasn’t going to be that easy.

He was better prepared this time, though, “I got a spare helmet for you.” From his coveted collection he picked out the one he thought would be best for her: A big, black, globe like helmet with adjustable straps so it didn’t slide all over her head like last time. When she opened her mouth to protest, Harry silenced her by slotting it on her head, “Hey!” She cried when she emerged, an angry look on her face through the little gap, “Are these really that necessary?” 

Harry flicked her forehead playfully, “Yes. I’m not endangering your life any further.”

“I’m not sure they do anything but make me immobile and sweaty,” Y/N grumbled. Rolling his eyes, Harry ignored her plea and put his own helmet on. As he patted his hands over his pockets for his keys, he realised they were missing— probably forgotten upstairs on his counter. A pinch pulled his brows together, “Fuck’s sake,” He groaned.

“What’s wrong?”

“Left m’keys at home.” He debated going back upstairs to go get them, but that would mean leaving Y/N down here all alone. No one apart from his gang mates knew where he lived which reduced the chances of anyone creeping up on her and harming her (precisely why he thought she’d be safest at his place). But the risk was too big to take. Like she could hear his inner turmoil, Y/N spoke softly, “Hey, you can go grab them. I’ll be fine.”

Harry looked around the empty parking lot. There was no one here, and only two cars parked on this level, both abandoned. Realistically, she should be fine, and Harry would only be like two minutes, yet he felt he couldn’t be too cautious; specially with her, “Come with me,” He suggested.

“Harry, go. I’m a big girl. I’m sure I can look after myself for five minutes.” She gave him a small nudge. The internal battle he fought crumbled in front of her. He didn’t want her to think he saw her as a liability or weak. If she’s telling him she’d be okay, then she probably will be, right? It took a lot from him to resign, sigh and take his helmet off again. He held up two fingers, “Two minutes. Don’t move, okay?”

“Go.”

Reluctantly, he turned around, bursting through the exit and skipping up the stairs. Every second he spent with her not in his sight made him more anxious. He had no choice but to trust her instinct and hope she’d be okay when he came back down. It took him less than ninety seconds to unlock his apartment and get his keys, basically running down the stairs and out the exit. 

Except Y/N wasn’t there like he thought she’d be. 

His bike stood lone, her helmet on the floor strewn to the side. Panic rose in Harry’s body as he shouted into the carpark, “Y/N?” He ran to all four corners, praying she stepped aside to take a call or something— anything than the one possibility that he was too scared to even address. A shiver went down his spine when only his voice echoed back to him, no trace of the girl. He bent to pick her helmet up and noticed a spattering of blood on the back of it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit, shit, fuck!” He cussed, pacing the room again like she’d magically appear.

His stomach twisted in nausea as he entered fight mode. He had to find her and bring her back. How he could do something so stupid like leave her alone in an empty sketchy parking lot was entirely lost on him. Of course she was going to say she can handle it, but he should have wondered to what extent. Fuck, he really, really hated himself and the way he thought sometimes.

Without another second wasted, he dialed Mitch’s number on his phone. 

“Get everyone in the van.” He started his bike.  “We're going to Dean's.” 

-

Y/N was scared.

It was the only emotion she was feeling as of recent; ever since she almost got kidnapped outside the supermarket a night ago. This situation was pretty similar to that one, the only difference being this time, much to her chagrin, the abductor was actually successful in his motive.

How and when that happened was hard for her to process.

One moment she was tapping on her phone as Harry left to grab his keys; another moment a hand roughly clamped over her mouth through the gap in her helmet. She yelled and she screamed against the sweaty palm, but it made no difference, her cries muffled against skin. It took them merely thirty seconds to drag her flailing body away from the bike and into the back of a car, even after Y/N whipped her head behind her so her helmet bashed into the attacker’s head. He only yelped, called her a bitch, and ripped the item off her head. As much as Y/N had pretended to hate wearing it, she found herself missing the small sense of protection it had offered. Immediately, another pair of hands covered her eyes with a blindfold, pressed a cloth against her nose hard enough to cause tears down her cheeks, and then it was all dark. 

She assumed it was a strong drug because she was passed out pretty bad if the pounding in her head was anything to go by. As she now regained consciousness, she realised her hands were tied to the back of a chair, her feet bound, and her eyes were still covered. How long she was out and where she was, Y/N had no clue. The room she was in was warm, though, the faint smell of leather and alcohol lingering in the air. She was sitting on some kind of wooden chair that dug painfully in her ass, her comfort obviously not a priority to these people.

“Good morning Pumpkin,” Someone said from her right. The voice was gravelly and she didn’t recognise it, “Sleep nice?”

Her head whipped in it’s direction, “Where am I?” Y/N asked shakily. Another voice spoke from the same direction, but this time she recognised the timbre, “Far away from that little boyfriend of yours, I’ll tell ya.” It was the same creep who felt her up at the bar that night— the same one who was waiting to kidnap her before Harry noticed. Nausea twisted in her stomach, “I know you.”

The man laughed. “You don’t know shit,” She yelped as a hand came down on her thigh, trailing upwards. Y/N tried to turn away from it, and this prompted the first voice to talk again. She was grateful as the hand was batted away from her leg, “Dean said we can’t touch her, Gary.”

“Dean isn’t fucking here, is he?” Gary spat. She gasped when she heard a thud followed by a wheeze, fear making goosebumps rise over her skin, “Say some dumb shit like that again and I’ll break your fucking arm,” The second man spoke. Knowing they were capable of such violence that they didn’t hesitate to inflict on each other straightened her right up. If she wanted to get out of here unharmed, she’d have to be on her best behaviour. 

“I trust your treating our guest well, Finn?” A third voice boomed. This one came from further away. Y/N bit her lip to keep from saying something that’d get her in trouble. The second voice— Finn, cleared his throat, “Yes sir.” The honorific made her think that maybe this voice belonged to Dean; a name she’d heard over and over again at both Harry’s warehouse and now. He seemed like the leader, probably, and Y/N trembled slightly in place as his voice came closer, “What’s wrong with him?” 

“He’s got the shits.” 

Gary coughed loudly, sounding strained still from the injury Finn must’ve given him for touching her, “Oh yes, I think I ate something ba—”

“Go fix yourself.”

“Yes sir.” He resigned. Y/N heard his footsteps recede and another pair of steps shuffle closer. She held her breath.

“Harry’s got himself a very pretty little plaything, hmm?” A finger came beneath her chin, lifting her face up. Tears were already streaming down her face out of fear and her lip quivered. She hated that they saw her weakening like this in front of them, but Y/N was feeling very clueless and very helpless as to what she should do right now. Nothing in her twenty three years of life prepared her for being fucking abducted. A whimper fell from her mouth as he cupped her jaw and moved her face left and right, “Would be a shame if we carved into her.”

“You sure this is it, Finn?” Dean asked, roughly letting go of her face. Relief flooded Y/N’s veins when she couldn’t sense him in her personal space anymore. “We’re sure. Picked the lass up straight from his place. They were practically fuck—”

A loud crash made her jump in her chair. Both men became alert, “What the fuck was that?” Finn said. She heard the faint sound of a gun cocking and all the blood from her body drained. Loud bangs resounded from what probably was another room as Y/N writhed in her seat, “What’s happening?”

Her question went unanswered. She could hear the sound of Gary yelling from afar, cries of “They’re here!” echoing, followed by an even louder crash which came from much closer. Close enough that she could safely assume it was the door to the room they were in. More gun sounds and footsteps. Suddenly her hands and feet were cut lose and she was pulled to stand. She yelped as her back was pushed against the front of a tall, beefy body.

“Let her go.”

Harry.

The second she heard his voice, her resolve crumbled and her lip pushed out in an ugly cry, “Harry,” She sobbed. Tears dripped down her cheeks and jaw, and the man behind her whose voice she recognised as Dean’s spoke, “Forty thousand. That was the agreement,” Something cold tucked against her neck— something that could only be the barrel of a gun. 

“Let. Her. Go.” Harry demanded. He sounded closer, the notion of which made her breathe a little easier. Another voice she recognised spoke up, “You’re outnumbered Dean.” Mitch. “I would be smart and give in if I was you.”

The gun pushed into her neck harder, nearly making her choke, “Forty thousand or you can say goodbye to your girlfriend.”

“We agreed on a payment plan! You signed the contract— it’s not due for another thirteen months!” Sarah yelled. 

“I don’t give a rats ass about any contract. Give me the money or watch her di—”

Before he could finish his sentence, Y/N took advantage of her mobility and stomped her foot atop his as hard as she could. At the same time, she heard Finn yell from her left followed by a gunshot, but she remained focused on the task at hand and whacked the back of her head into his nose. The impact folded Dean in half. Before he had a chance to recover, Y/N yanked her wrists free and tore the blindfold from her face. 

It took a few seconds for her to adjust her vision. Her eyes were blearly because of the tears though she could still make out the small room they were in. It looked expensive— littered with big, comfortable looking brown leather couches with a shattered glass table between them. Bottles of liquor were tipped over on the ground; some smashed and some rolling by their feet. Harry, Mitch, Sarah and two people she didn’t recognise stood at the opposite end of the room, all of them armed. She didn’t waste any time running over to their side.

Harry grabbed her arms, frantically searching her face, “Are you alright? Did they hurt you?” He asked, the calm amongst the storm— commotion all around them as Mitch and the others engaged in combat with who she assumed were Finn and Dean. “Y—yes. I think I’m okay,” Y/N replied. Harry nodded and closed his eyes, unexpectedly kissing her forehead in an act of tenderness, “Fuck, I’m so sorry, angel, I shouldn’t’ve left you on your own. So sorry, baby,” Hands came up to cup her cheeks and wipe away the hot tears staining them.

They didn’t have much time to themselves, though, as Sarah yelled at him to cover her. More gunshots resounded, and Y/N had the misfortune of watching the fight. The two big men who orchestrated the abduction fell to the ground in a pile of blood, groaning in pain. Y/N’s breakfast came back up her throat and she willed herself to tear her gaze away. 

“In the van!” The man she didn’t recognise yelled. Dean and both of his men were down and the group wasted no time to get to leaving the building they were in. She was lost when she stepped out of the room; guided only by Harry’s hand in hers who rounded corners like he knew the place. When they were finally outdoors, it was raining again, drenching them for the ten seconds it took to sprint towards a long, white van. Mitch quickly slid the door open, ushering Y/N in first, followed by Sarah, Harry and the two men whose name she still didn’t know.

Hurriedly, they skidded out of the parking and were immediately on the highway. She recognised the area as one not even thirty minutes from her house, and the thought of that made a chill go down her spine. Harry’s jacket wrapping around her shaking shoulders was what made her jump out of her thoughts. He was tucked next to her, and Y/N didn’t realise she was basically in his lap as she shuffled closer to him absentmindedly. “What you did was very brave,” He muttered, just for her ears. When she met his eyes, her gaze was obstructed by wet hair sticking to her cheeks and forehead. 

Gently, he pushed the strands back and let his hand rest on the side of her neck where he traced circles. She wanted to say something— anything— thank him for getting her out of there, reassure him that it wasn’t his fault, tell him how scared she was— but she had nothing to show except the tears that kept leaking out of her eyes. 

Harry only kissed her forehead again, “S’okay,” He stroked her damp skin, “You’re okay now.”

-

“I think we made matters worse.”

Y/N slept the whole way back to the warehouse. Her head rested on Harry’s shoulder, who tried to calm his heartbeat and convince his panic-driven body that things were okay now. Y/N was safe, and she was right next to him, and no one could take her from him even if they tried. 

This wasn’t Harry’s first rodeo.

He’d been a part of hundreds of raids and shootouts in his years working in the mafia, but he still remembered what it was like when he attended his first one. The sound of a gun going off wasn’t something you ever got used to. Neither was the sight of blood squirting out of a wound of an unconscious person. He could only imagine how terrified the poor girl must be, and how worse she probably felt before they got there; all alone, blind and bound amongst a druglord and his two goons. He can never forgive himself for letting her be in such an awful situation.

As they arrived at the warehouse, she continued slumbering on his shoulder, even when he tried nudging her awake so she could walk inside. The drug they used to get her unconscious must’ve been really strong, because she didn’t budge. With Sarah’s help, he had to carry her inside bridal style, his friend getting the door for him and leading him to the single bedroom. It was barren— no one really spent the night here. Before Zayn left they never even came to the warehouse. Gatherings were normally at his mansion where sometimes they’d stay the night and hang out together. When he was gone, they had to put all the leftover money together to establish a new base, which was this ratty old warehouse until they could afford something new and nicer.

Thankfully the room had a soft bed with sheets on and a small electric heater that did a good job warming up the place in ten minutes. He set the girl down on the mattress, but as he let go to leave her alone, she fisted his shirt tightly, “Stay,” She mumbled sleepily. 

And Harry was many things, but he wasn’t a fool. If his sweetheart wanted him to stay, then he’d stay for as long as she needed. He owed her that much after what he put her through the past few weeks.

So he sat there next to her, stroking her hair while she curled her head on his lap. Maybe it was time for him to finally address the elephant in the room— his evergrowing feelings for Y/N. At first he thought it was just a crush; the kind you have when you spot a cute girl from across the bar and think about buying her a drink and then bedding her. Except Harry only did the former instead of the latter, because he was too scared to go any further with her. She was so keen and so eager when she first came up to him. He spotted her intentions from a mile away. The way she rambled nervously, fidgeted with her hair, her dress, and then when he went to leave she grabbed his hand, asking him to come home with her… She was driving him nuts already.

He couldn’t get her off his mind after that. Not as he rode his bike home, warmed up a frozen steak dinner and then went off to the warehouse to see Mitch. Not as they had to do a raid in return for a debt owed to bigger lord and Harry ended up getting badly slashed and beat. And certainly not when she patched him up in her bathroom, offering her sweet smiles and worried glances. 

Everything escalated when Gary plotted to kidnap her outside the convenience store. Harry liked to believe fate brought them together that night; that he was meant to be there to save her, bring her back to his place and give her solace. Seeing her in his space was probably the tipping point, though. It gave him a glimpse into a reality which he knew was impratical. Even if he did act on his feelings for her, he’d be selfish. How can he willingly let her into this violent, painful world of his knowing it would only bring her down too?

“I think we made matters worse,” Sarah brought Harry back to earth, standing quietly in the doorway. She was all changed now, rid of blood-soaked clothes, “We’re only delaying the inevitable. Dean will come back for his money. He’s a greedy bastard.”

“I think we’ll be okay for a while,” Harry said softly so as to not wake Y/N. Sarah gave him a look that read ‘are you fucking out of your mind’, “What makes you say that?” 

“We’re wiring him half.”

“What?”

He looked back down at Y/N— at the slight rise and fall of her chest and the puffs of air making her hair flutter beneath her nose, “Should be there in about two days.”

“What are you talking about? We can’t afford that, Harry,” Sarah walked in now, taking a seat at the foot of the bed. She still had an incredulous expression; staring at Harry like he’d grown a second head. “I can.” He replied simply.

Sarah frowned. “...How?”

When he didn’t say anything, realisation dawned on her face. Her shoulders sagged and she began nodding her head ‘no’, “Harry.” The room fell silent. Sarah searched his face, waiting for him to smile, to admit he was joking and this was all a big prank. That the truth was anything but the insane possibility she silently considered in her head.

He didn't.

“Your escape funds?” she asked quietly.

It was true. After getting off the phone with Mitch at the parking garage, Harry didn’t waste any time organising the transfer to Dean. To do so was literally insane, he knows, but money comes and goes, but there is only one Y/N on this earth who he’d really, really like for her to stay. At least for as long as she’d have him.

The funds in question accumulated in a special savings account he opened when he first joined the gang. The idea was to deposit as much of his earnings as he could in the bank so he could save up enough to study and pursue his dreams when he paid off his debt. Before falling into this world of trouble, Harry had plans to become a criminal psychologist. He’d been preparing to tackle the degree since he was in high school, properly committed to the point where he had a poster of John E. Douglas on his wall. Things went south when his dad suddenly died and his mum fell ill and bedridden, which forced young Harry to go down avenues he only ever saw people get coerced into on TV.

Somewhere between trying to make ends meet and having to let go of his passion to help people, Harry began relating more to the criminals he studied about rather than the person trying to understand them.

Now he hoped that maybe this repayment would contribute towards his debt being paid off to the gang and he might actually be able to leave sooner and do all the things he wants to do, like go back to uni and study. This could work in his favor— he just needed to look at it the right way.

Harry knows Dean would stop at no end. It didn’t matter that they’d shot and injured him and his two best men. He would come back, and now he knows Harry’s soft spot is Y/N, creating a risk beyond his imagination. There was no way Harry would let Dean or any of his men touch her; and if the price for that was to delay his freedom, he’d do it a hundred more times in a heartbeat.

Harry nodded once. “Most of what I had.”

“Harry that’s fucking crazy!”

He looked down at Y/N for a long moment before speaking. “Maybe,” His fingers scratched sweetly at her scalp, “But I could never live with myself if anything happens to her again.”

-

This time when Y/N awoke, she was very happy to find herself tucked beneath Harry’s familiar covers. The pillows smelled like him and Y/N shamelessly dug her nose into the cushion, breathing deeply as the past events eventually dawned on her. 

Within a span of seventy-two hours, two times there were attempts to kidnap her, one of which was successful. She learned that her new friend whom she had a massive crush on was part of the mafia. She was abducted and taken by a druglord and used as bait plus ransom to demand a forty thousand dollar payment. And in that process, she saw three men get shot and injured while in the middle of an active shootout. Whenever she closed her eyes, all she could see was Dean and Finn laying on top of each other, bloodied, one clutching his leg and the other his arm, groaning in pain. 

Just a couple of months ago she had no idea that these people even existed. Her life consisted of her and Coco, her five shifts a week at the ice cream shop and the occasional night out she’d frequent with her friends every now and then. She kept her head down and worked hard to pay off her student loans, not a whiff of anything this nasty coming her direction. All until one night she got the hots for a mysterious man at the bar, and everything changed.

She was well-rested now, assuming she’d slept for about five or six hours since the last thing she remembered was being in the van and then carried onto a bed somewhere. Faint were the memories of a hand stroking her hair and her cheek gently, and the next thing she knew, she was waking up in Harry’s apartment again. The massive window overlooking the park in his bedroom told her it was well into the night— the moon a dim light casting shadows on his carpet. 

There was no sign of him in the bathroom or anything, so she guessed he was probably sleeping in the living room again. Y/N pulled the covers off and slowly sat up. There was a slight headache nagging her brain which was most likely happening because she hadn’t drank water or eaten anything for a long time. Not since this morning when Harry made her that delicious breakfast bagel. Or was it yesterday morning? Fuck, her sense of time was all out of sorts and her phone was dead too so she couldn’t check to confirm.

Grabbing the device to plug it in in the kitchen, she crept her way outside the room and into the living area. Coco must’ve been asleep as the only sounds in the house was of her door creaking open. Like she expected, Harry was there, but he was awake, pacing in front of his couch with his phone glued to his hand. He looked concentrated with his lip between his fingers, not clocking that Y/N was standing inches away from him.

She would’ve spent longer just being there watching, if she was being honest. Harry was a beautiful man and she knew this, yet tonight was different. His chest and back were on display, miles and miles of smooth, tanned, tatted skin stretched over beefy muscles. He  wore only a pair of gray sweats that slung low on his hips and his hair was down, tucked behind his ears to keep swept back from his face which was pulled into a small frown. Whatever he was doing had his attention entirely as he only noted her presence when the floorboards cried under her weight.

“You’re awake.” He shut his phone off and took the two steps towards her. The only light in the room was from the moon and stars pouring in through his windows, illuminating the right side of his face. 

“Hi,” Y/N replied, fidgeting with her fingers. The realisation dawned upon her that she was still wearing his clothes— a big, gray hoodie (might be the other half of the bottoms he had on) and black sweats. They were soft and they smelt like him, and that might’ve been a contributing factor towards how much she was sleeping around him recently. Tentatively, he tossed his phone on the couch and came closer to her, nearly toe to toe, “Hi. Sleep okay?”

“Yeah. How long was I out for?”

“Like seven hours, I think.”

“Wow.” Seven hours was crazy for Y/N who never had much time to herself anyway. She was always either working or doing chores around the apartment, taking Coco out for walks, getting her ratty car fixed or loosing sleep over not being able to pay next month’s rent. Knowing she knocked out for that long was throwing her nervous system for a loop. Her anxiety keeps trying to convince her she has something to do or she’s forgetting something important even though she knows that’s not the case.

Harry reached a hand up to gently tuck her hair behind her ear, a gesture he was doing a lot of recently. Y/N liked it though— it made her tummy flutter and her heart race as he gazed down at her with an unrecognisable expression. She felt exposed but in a good way. “Yeah. Can’t blame you. Today was a lot.” His hand stayed there, tracing the side of her face with his thumb absentmindedly. 

Y/N looked away for a moment before speaking, “I don’t want to talk about it.” She was getting tired of it being the only thing on her mind; as she slept, as she woke, as she ate, as she talked to other people. In the back of her head, images of Gary waiting outside the store with a cloth in his hand never left, and now they were joined by the grotesque visual of Dean and Finn piled on top of each other with gunshot wounds. She would do anything just to think and talk about anything else for even a moment.

“That’s okay. We don’t have to.”

“How come you’re up?” She changed the topic. It was getting hard to focus on anything but the warmth emanating from his bare torso, which if he moved slightly, would be pressed right up against her. The prospect caused her thoughts to snowball. Now she was thinking about the hard lines of his abs she’d feel beneath her fingers and the muscled pillows of his pecs. A lone chain with a cross pendant rested between them and Y/N was itching to grab and pull on it. 

“Can’t sleep.”

“Oh,” She attempted to compose herself, willing her thoughts away so she could speak coherently, “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Why didn’t you come home with me that night?” The question was one which weighed on her mind all the damn time. Ever since he let her down and she had to go back to her friends unsuccessful, she wondered what it was about her that did it for him. The constant rambling? The nervous tremble in her fingers which she attempted to mask by sipping her drink? Or was there something else he wasn’t telling her? Judging by the way he now clenched his jaw and looked away, she began to think it was the latter.

“Y/N….” He started, hand slipping down to the side of her neck but never leaving her skin. 

“No, I want to know,” She pressed, laying her own palm over the swallow on the right side of his body. The touch must’ve caught him off guard, because he looked at her hand and then her face before swallowing, making his Adam’s apple bob, “I always think about it. About you,” Y/N continued, “…Us.”

Harry shook his head. “It’s complicated.”

“What does that even mean?” Her voice was laced with confusion. What did he mean? From her point of view, the proposition was simple. Transactional. A give and a take. One night stands weren’t so outdated were they? Unless he just didn’t want to, which is fair, of course, but she’d like it if he told her straight up rather than beating around the bush with ‘it’s complicated.’  “Am I like, not your type or something? You can tell me, I just want you to be hone—”

“No! No, that’s not it. I think you’re beautiful,” He cut her off. Y/N tried to ignore the way her heart raced at his words, his fingers now fiddling with the hair on the nape of her neck, grazing her skin. 

“Then what?” She asked.

“I just… You shouldn’t be hanging out with someone like me. You saw today how dangerous it can get. I’m not someone you should be around.” 

“You don’t get to make that choice for me, Harry,” Y/N scoffed. “I can make my own decisions. I wanted to take you home that night. I wanted to be around you. Everything I do is out of my own volition.”

“I know,” He seemed almost pained, watching her with an intense heat that sizzled in her veins. One that made her think that like her, he too was picturing their first meeting, wondering where things could have gone if he’d given in. Her grip on his chest tightened just a fraction as her voice lowered to a sultry tone, “I still think about it. What could’ve happened if you’d just said yes.”

In an act of courage, she grabbed his other hand and brought it up to the side of her breast, letting it rest there. Worried that he would’ve yanked it away, she was very pleasantly surprised when he gripped her side hard, fingers digging into her ribs. The pressure of him there was delicious. Suddenly, she felt like she was swaying on her feet, unable to be still, and he was the only thing grounding her.

“Yeah?” He growled, pupils dilated. Taking the one last step that had their noses touching now, Y/N tilted her head up towards him. Their lips nearly brushed at this angle, “Yeah. I still… still want you to. Want you to touch me.”

“Y/N…” Harry groaned. A small gasp left her lips when he brought the hand at the back of her neck to the front, warm palm encasing her throat as he squeezed very lightly— enough to bring her to her tippy toes. Y/N gave in to her intrusive thoughts and looped her index finger around his necklace, roughly pulling him down until he was merely a breath away, “Kiss me.”

She could practically see the internal battle raging on in his head, as his gaze flitted between her lips and her eyes. There was a push and pull between them; something magnetic when she’d lean in and he’d tease her, and then he’d brush his bottom lip against her top one like a reward. When he did it a second time, she whined, yanking the chain one more time when he whispered, “Fuck.”

Harry’s lips crashed into hers, his grip around her throat so strong she felt like he was lifting her up singlehandedly. A whimper left her as he traced the seam of her lips with his tongue, asking her to open up for him. When she did, he licked into her mouth, tilting her face to the right as he pleased to have better access.

The way he kissed made Y/N’s toes curl— it was like he wanted to crawl inside of her, tasting behind her teeth, sucking her bottom lip and then biting it, hard. She could feel the sheer desperation in the way he used his other hand to push her hips, walking her backwards towards his bedroom, “I think about it too,” He started, finally letting her breathe, but he didn’t go far as he pressed hot, open-mouthed kisse down her jaw and neck, “I wanted to take you right there. Sweet little thing asking me so nicely— wearing that pretty dress,” He twisted so his back was to the bed and she faced him, still reeling from the grip he had on her throat, “Wanted to fuck you hard on my bike. Bend you over the seat and silence you with my fingers as I pounded this needy pussy.”

Y/N was on a whole other plane. She didn’t know her Harry was so filthy. The pure smut that spewed from his mouth so easily had her thinking this wasn’t his first time imagining the scene either. His hand trailed beneath her shirt and toyed with the waistband of her sweats, and she knew if he looked at her undies, she’d have soaked right through them. With every step she took, she could feel herself seeping down her thighs. “I wanted you to,” She whispered. Y/N jumped as his hand went beneath her sweats to grab a handful of her ass, her moan muffled against his lips, “I know, baby,” He replied, kissing the corner of her mouth, “Strip.”

Harry gave her hips a nudge. He sat on the edge of the bed and spread his legs wide, the girl standing between them utterly flustered and hot. He looked at her patiently with both his arms behind him, holding him up. Y/N felt like she was putting on a show for him as she stood there buzzing nervously, fingers finding the hem of her shirt. The last thing she saw before she slowly pulled it over her head was Harry’s hand sliding down to his crotch, giving his cock a squeeze. There was a faint outline of it pressed up against his abdomen and it looked big, slightly curved to the left.

Having forgone a bra, Harry was immediately met with the sight of her bare tits, nipples peaked. He groaned her name, rubbing his cock faster with his lip between his teeth. Each sound he made went straight to her throbbing pussy which cried for his attention. Y/N then worked on her sweats. She untied the string, tugging them down before stepping out of the pile of fabric. She was wearing the underwear that he bought her, and now that she was standing bare before him, she wondered if he had an ulterior motive when buying them considering the pink bow on her mound and the lace which hugged her hips.

He seemed like he was restraining himself from touching her, gaze darting from her tits, to her tummy, to her pussy, to her thighs where she dripped. To rile him up further, a mischievous glint sparkled in Y/N’s eyes as she slyly turned around so her ass was in his face. Slowly, she bent over while at the same time hooking her thumbs into her underwear to pull it off. “Fuck me, baby,” Harry sounded whiney and pretty behind her, “So beautiful.”

Her puffy, wet pussy was probably on full display, and the action did what she intended when he roughly grabbed her hips and pulled her back, seating her right on his clothed cock. Y/N writhed under his touch, shifting her hips for any sort of friction as his hand went to her throat again, turning her face so he could kiss her. This new angle drove her crazy, especially when he let his free fingers snake down to where she leaked. He passed his fingers over her folds twice, pushing them against her throbbing clit to feel it’s heartbeat, “Harry…” Y/N cried into his mouth. She had to pull away when he stuffed a finger inside, deep, curling against her g-spot instantly. He pumped it once, twice, before sadly leaving her empty and wrapping his lips around the finger. His gaze never wavered from hers, closing momentarily as he tasted her, “Taste so sweet, angel. Want you to sit on my face.”

Y/N froze, “What?” She’d never tried that though she’d seen it in porn and read about it in stories. Obviously it intrigued her, and it did look like it felt really good but her nerves were getting to her— how would he breathe with her blocking his airways? Would her weight not crush his neck? As if he noticed her hesitance, Harry kissed her jaw, then her cheek before meeting her eyes, “I want you to sit on my face so I can eat your pussy. S’so good baby, need to feel you everywhere. Want you everywhere.”

“I’ve never um— never done that before,” Y/N admitted. Harry helped her turn around on his lap so she wasn’t hurting her neck trying to talk to him. He scooted back on the bed, pulling her body with his, both his hands holding hers, “Y’don’t have to if y’don’t want to,” He set his head on the pillow, positioning her so she was on top, thighs astride his waist, “But I think it’d be fun. You’ll feel good,” She could tell he was trying to be patient with her, but his gaze kept flitting down to where she leaked as he licked his lips. Both his palms came up to grab and squeeze her breasts, “Yeah, okay, let’s do it. Will it hurt you?”

He laughed and moved her up, up, and up until she was hovering right above his face. The next words were spoken directly to her pussy, since he was too enthralled by her dripping core to meet her eyes, “Not in the slightest.” Not a second was wasted as he yanked her down, his mouth already open and tongue out. The first lick had her doubling over, a broken moan escaping her lips. Y/N gripped the headboard to steady herself, already struggling to hold it together. Harry was relentless beneath her; delivering long, deep licks all the way from her hole to her clit, which he wrapping his lips around and sucked like a starved man. He didn’t do that annoying thing where they popped on and off, instead, suckling in long bursts. When he needed a breath he paused but continued to press searing kisses over the needy button.

When her hips began moving on their own accord to ride his mouth, she has no idea, but Harry seemed like he liked it given the way he moaned against her. The vibrations travelled throughout her whole body. She was worried he wasn’t getting enough air down there, yet any time she lifted to give him space, his grip on her thighs tightened and he stuffed his face into her further. By the morning, she’s sure she will have finger-sized bruises where he held her.

At one time, she was moving a tad too much, to the point where Harry struggled to get his tongue on her, so he delivered a loud spank to her ass which stilled her immediately. She cried out loud, tears prickling in her eyes from both pleasure and pain as her first orgasm ripped through her. Harry continued to lick her through it, murmuring words of encouragement into her clit. He helped her grind against his tongue how she wanted with his nose pressed tightly against her mound. 

When she came down, there was a bit of fumbling as she shuffled on his body until she was again resting on his dick and not his mouth. One glance at Harry’s face and her heart was doing somersaults— he had a big, toothy smile on his lips, appearing almost pussy-drunk with his lips, nose, chin and cheeks covered in a shiny layer of her arousal. He eyed her lazily as she began rubbing against his cock, “Not too bad?” He asked, referencing to her hesitance just before.

“Mm-mm. I wanna ride you,” She demanded sweetly. Harry chuckled and rubbed her thighs, going up to her hips, her stomach, and then cupping her breasts. Pinching her nipples, he used the grasp to bring her down to his mouth, “Yeah? I’m not sure this tiny pussy can handle my cock, baby. S’big,” He kissed her bottom lip. Y/N pouted, “I can handle it. At least let me try.”

“F’course y’can try,” He replied. She continued grinding against him and began thinking that maybe he was right; he did feel really big tucked against her folds, and all the men she’d ever been with weren’t really that impressive. She was also sort of out of practice when it came to riding someone, but he looked so good laying there cockily, the urge took control of her. 

Both her and Harry worked on taking his sweats off, and she was delighted to see that he wore no boxers, so when the waistband went past his thighs, his massive cock sprung free. Y/N couldn’t help the audible gasp that left her lips. He really wasn’t lying when he said she might struggle riding him. Even Y/N was worried she wouldn’t be able to. He was long, maybe half the length of her forearm, his tip leaking precum already. His balls sat heavy at the base, full and swollen, and he was fucking thick too— if she tried to wrap her hands around it, the tips of her fingers might not touch. Just looking at it made her thighs shake, “Harry…” She whispered, tracing her index finger down the length of it. He twitched, hissing as she circled her thumb on the pink tip, “You’re so big.”

“Too big for you, love?” He asked her, lips open in pleasure. 

“Maybe,” Y/N was being honest with him. He did look too big; enough to burn when he first slid in to her. Yet the thought didn’t scare her as much as it should. She was looking forward to feeling him stretch her out, “But I can take it, I think. How will it fit?” Fitting her palm around it, she gave it one slow stroke. “I’ll make it fit,” Harry growled. He clutched her waist hard, guiding her so she could sink on his cock. 

The loud, high-pitched whine that came from her was unrecognisable to her own ears; never had she ever been so spent and bent over a man’s cock, but Harry was driving her nuts. He looked fucked-out beneath her, with his hair sweaty and sticking to his forehead, eyes following where they joined and jaw dropped open. It took a few seconds for her to sit on him properly and the burn of him inside was almost too much. She could feel him all the way in her tummy. Whimpering, he put an arm around her shoulders and brought her down to his lips. 

Y/N was already feeling immobile. Harry pressed distracting kisses to her lips, soft, wet ones that had her struggling to focus. After about a minute of this, he rolled his hips slightly. The first nudge of him inside punched an embarrassing noise from her, his own groan muffled against her tongue. Y/N began moving her own hips to join him, grinding down as he thrusted up into her. The pain gave way to pleasure after the first few strokes, and because of the angle he was tucked right against her swollen g-spot. His hips dug into her clit with each movement, a different sort of muted pleasure erupting that made her scream.

She was already so wet, and Harry was also leaking, so when they came together the sounds in the room were fucking pornographic. Her pussy was squelching and pulsing as she rode him. “S’that too much?” He asked her after a particularly deep thrust. Y/N arched her back, “No, no— want more. Please, don’t stop,” She said as he fondled with her tits again, “Want it harder.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmmm.” What Harry did next, she wasn’t expecting. His knees bent and he planted his feet on the mattress before stilling his hips. Using his hands to stop her grinding, he scooted towards the edge of the bed, still inside of her before cupping her ass with both hands and standing up. This new position made her sob into his shoulder. Her hands went under his arms where her nails scratched down his back as he began pounding into her relentlessly. Harry moved her up and down his cock like she weighed nothing, walking towards his massive windows. Pressing her against the glass, he gathered her wrists and stretched them out above her.

The whole time his dick was merciless— stuffed deep inside of her and moving at a pace she didn’t think was humanly possible (at least not while standing). It took maybe three more strokes before she was creaming all over him. This orgasm was way more intense; she felt it brewing from the tips of her fingers, a hot pool of arousal gathering in her gut before it exploded, spreading through her veins like searing lava. She squeezed and pulsed around him, the action making him whine and cry her name. 

All this must’ve pushed him to his end too, because he pulled out, practically threw her on the bed and stood between her parted thighs. Y/N watched with heavy breathes as he began pumping himself, once, twice, thrice, and then he came all over her pussy and stomach. White, hot ropes of cum pooled in the dip of her ribs, some of it landing on her chin as he released, groaning deeply. The sight of him spent made Y/N want to go all over again, but then the exhaustion settled into her bones and she thought otherwise— she was also still hungry and that wasn’t helping the case.

He tugged one last time before rolling his neck to see her, popping a dimple at her state, “Y’okay?” He asked, patting her knee. Y/N nodded, “Yup.” A warm giggle sounded from him as he pressed a quick kiss to her lips, “I’ll get some wipes.”

-

After they both cleaned up, Harry left to make her a sandwich and get a juice box from the kitchen. She was so hungry after everything she felt like she was on the verge of passing out. The night was slowly turning into day as the first rays of sun filtered into his room. Y/N laid on top of his chest, her belly and heart full. Their legs were tangled beneath the covers and she traced her fingers over the butterfly on his tummy, his own hands grazing her cheek. Her head was tilted towards him.

The past hour had just been empty conversations and sweet nothings— things they never got to talk about despite having known each other so adequately. They spoke of everything but the past few days’ events, and for that Y/N was very grateful. Every now and then he’d nudge their noses together and kiss her. Y/N knew Harry was sweet from the start, but this side of him was a surprise to her; he treated her like she was delicate, like a petal. 

“Harry,” She spoke up after a particularly long pause, “I want this to be real.”

Instantly, he knew exactly what she meant; she could tell by the shift in his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak but she beat him to it, “And I know what you’re going to say— that it’s dangerous and not safe to be with you…” She continued, “But I also know you’re worth taking that risk. I don't want a safe life if it means it's one without you.” 

Wordlessly, he searched her face for any sign that she was kidding. Y/N looked at him apprehensively, half anticipating that he might reject her, and half anticipating that he might finally do something that’s selfishly just for him. She really hoped it was the latter. A moment passed before he cupped her jaw and brought his lips to hers in a passionate kiss. This one was different to all the others, in the sense that there was no lust behind it. She could feel the emotion poured into it as he rubbed his thumb against her cheekbone. 

“I think I’ve been yours for a while now,” He rested his forehead against hers again, “And I’m really, really tired of pretending otherwise.”

Y/N felt his heart race beneath her palm. “Me too.”

TAGLIST: @escapismatbest @triski73 @fivesecondsofprettymuch @danny-faye @aileen1237 @peachymelonsugrr @harryyloverrr @emlovesniallhoran @almataylorsversion @toosarcastic03 @d4rlingstyles @sleekfatetower @honeyapaturairis @fkingstyles @midnightmemories-1-d @everyscarisahealingplace @witch-rry @angel-gelly @brainfullsteve @0pheliam @littlealonebutterfly @harryscherrysuckr @oifukinloser @kissallthetimeharrystyles @lillrry @withoutluv @yeah-youremymedicine @abihist91 @harrys-only-angell @jocelynlovesharrystyles @sparklejumpropequeen1113 @jackedbygravity @angelonthewallsofversailles @madilee7802 @fangirl509east @indierockgirrl @readingrockstar23 @whoopsieismelldaisies @biboliciousposts @harrystylesconcepts @ionlywritesadsongs @tpwkforever410

MASTERLIST

Ko-fi <3

A/N: OKAYYYY THIS SERIES IS OVERR!!! guys i actually love these two so much this is my fav series so if u ever want a check in or anything lit just ask and im going to deliver!! I AM VERY PROUD OF HOW THIS TURNED OUT AND I HOPE U ENJOYED THIS STORY! if u did please like reblog comment send an ask they are lit anon so dont be shy!! i love hearing from you!!1 NOW ON TO THE NEXT!

[zclhes]

MASTERLIST | TAGLIST

Word count: ~ 4k

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

POV: Harry, third person / Reader, second person

Setting: 2026, Together, Together Tour

Warnings: none

Summary: What begins as a sunny run to the stadium ends with you racing him around the stage in front of an entire crowd and Harry learning, very publicly, that revenge doesn't always go his way.

London, N4 — 19 June 2026

By the end of the fourth Wembley show, you're standing beside Harry’s stage in running clothes, jogging on the spot in front of ninety thousand people, and seriously reconsidering several life choices. Not really all of them, mostly just the one where you fell in love with a man who thinks racing his girlfriend during the outro of As It Was is a reasonable way to settle a private argument about sprinting ability.

The stadium is still completely feral around you. Harry is on stage, sweat-bright and euphoric, dancing his way through the last encore song like he has energy stored somewhere no human body should be able to access after a two-hour show. The crowd screams every lyric back at him, voices rolling up into the night through open Wembley roof, phones raised, lights flashing, the whole place alive in that wild final stretch where everyone knows the night is nearly over and refuses to let it go politely.

You, meanwhile, are in the narrow lane between the stage and the pit barricades, wearing running shorts, a running top and trainers, doing little warm-up hops while trying not to think too much about the fact that every camera in the stadium could turn your way at any second.

Anthony is already having the time of his life. He stands a few steps ahead of you with his camera lifted, moving backward, sideways, crouching slightly, taking photo after photo with the professional excitement that tells you these shots are never, ever getting deleted from his hard drive.

You glare at him when he lowers the camera for half a second and he grins. “You look very athletic,” he says.

“I look like I’ve been bullied.”

You glance towards Harry, who is singing into the microphone, hips moving to the beat, face full of mischief whenever he manages to look in your direction. His eyes flick to you again between lines, and that smug, satisfied little grin appears at the corner of his mouth. God, you want to punch him in his stupidly handsome face, lovingly.

“Why am I even doing this shit?” you mutter.

Anthony laughs out loud. “Because you chose the crazy one. All by yourself, by the way.”

You shoot him another look. “I didn't know he was this crazy.”

Anthony lifts the camera again. “That feels like something you should’ve noticed.”

“I was distracted.”

“By the face?”

“Shut up, Pham.”

He laughs harder and starts taking pictures again, which earns him yet another glare, though you're fairly sure you've lost all authority while stretching your calves beside a stadium stage like you're about to run an Olympic qualifier for the entertainment of Harry Styles fans.

And the worst part is that you know exactly how you ended up here, the answer is clear as day: Harry — your silly, ridiculous, overly competitive boyfriend, who cannot let one lost sprint go.

Earlier today, your life had still been peaceful. You had been lying on the sunbed in the garden, bikini on, sunglasses perched on your nose, book open in one hand and iced coffee waiting on the table beside you. London had been warm and bright, the kind of June afternoon that makes you forget responsibilities for a dangerous twenty minutes. The house had been quiet, the patio sun-warmed beneath your bare feet, and you had just reached a very good part of your book when Harry appeared in the open doorway of the glass doors wearing nothing but shorts, which was unfair. It was unfair because you were trying to read, it was also unfair because he knew exactly how good he looked like that, even if he pretended not to. It was especially unfair because his hair was soft from showering, his skin still a little flushed from the sun, and the tattoos scattered over his torso kept catching your attention even when you made a determined effort to look at the page.

“Time to get ready,” he said.

You lowered the book, immediately suspicious. “Already?”

“Yep.”

You reached blindly for your phone, tapped the screen awake and frowned at the time. “We don’t leave for another hour and a half.”

“We’re leaving early today.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re not taking the car.”

That made you sit up properly and your sunglasses slid down your nose. “Harry.”

“What?”

“I already told you I’m never getting on a Lime scooter with you again.”

He started laughing before you had even finished the sentence, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, looking deeply pleased by your grumpy confusion. “Not a scooter.”

“Bike?”

“No.”

“Horse?”

“Creative, but no.”

“Then what?”

Harry disappeared back inside for a second and returned with your running clothes bundled in his hands. Before you could process what he was doing, he tossed them at you and they landed across your chest and face. You pulled the fabric away slowly: running top, running shorts, socks. Your eyes lifted to him. “No.”

Harry grinned. “Yes.”

“No.”

“Come on, love.”

“Have you lost your mind?”

“Not recently.”

“It’s ten kilometres to Wembley.”

“About that.”

“About that?” You stared at him, sunglasses now pushed up into your hair. “You want to run ten kilometres to work before you perform for two hours?”

“Perfect warm-up.”

“You say that about everything.”

“Because it’s often true.”

“You said Pilates at seven in the morning would be good for us, and I still haven’t forgiven you.”

“You looked very graceful.”

“I looked half-dead.”

“Gracefully half-dead.”

You threw the running clothes back at him, and he caught them easily, because of course he did.

“I’m not running to Wembley,” you said.

Harry’s grin softened into the exact kind of charm he uses when he knows he is about to become impossible. “It’ll be nice. Weather’s great, we’ll take it easy, no traffic, no sitting in a car. Just us.”

“Just us and my funeral.”

“So dramatic.”

“Ten kilometres, Harry.”

“You run ten kilometres with me all the time.”

“Not on show days.”

“You’re not even performing.”

“I’m emotionally performing every time your fans open X.”

“It’s Twitter.”

“You’re not winning me over this time.”

He laughed and stepped outside, bending down to press a kiss to the top of your head before putting the clothes back into your lap. “Get ready.”

You groaned. “Harry.”

“Please?”

You looked up at him and he widened his eyes just enough to be unfairly cute annoying.

“No,” you said.

“Please?”

“No!”

“Pretty please?”

“You’re thirty-two years old.”

“And asking nicely.”

You held his gaze for another second, then looked down at the running clothes. The thing about Harry is that he could ask you to do something deeply inconvenient, and somehow make it sound like an adventure you would end up laughing about later.

You sighed. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Maybe,” he said, already walking back inside. “But you’re getting ready.”

You muttered several unkind things under your breath as you followed him upstairs.

In the bathroom, you brushed your hair, tied it into a ponytail, washed your face and tried to look like someone who hadn't just been emotionally manipulated by a shirtless man with dimples. By the time you joined Harry in the walk-in closet, he was already pulling on his running shirt, watch strapped around his wrist, focused and boyishly excited in a way that made it impossible not to soften a little. You absolutely refused to show that softness, though. “You’re insane for this,” you grumbled.

“Perfect warm-up,” Harry repeated.

“I hope you know that sentence is becoming unattractive.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“It is.”

“You love a healthy lifestyle.”

“I love being left alone on a sunbed.”

“You can love both.”

“I don't want to.”

Harry smiled while putting on socks, then his expression became a little more serious when he glanced up at you through the mirror. “Has Jeff reached out?”

You went quiet for a second. Two days had passed since the argument in the tunnel, since Jeff had snapped at you over moving fans from obstructed seats into the Disco pit, since he had said words that still sat wrong whenever they crossed your mind. Harry had stepped in immediately, angrier than you had ever seen him on your behalf, but the situation itself had not been resolved properly yet.

You shook your head. “No.”

Harry’s mouth tightened as he looked back down at his now covered feet. “Stubborn git.”

The words came out under his breath, thicker with the northern edge that slipped back into his voice whenever he was irritated enough to stop polishing himself for the world. You tried not to laugh very hard, and you failed greatly.

Harry looked up. “Did you just mock my accent?”

You leaned against the wardrobe, completely unbothered. “Yes.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Wow.”

“What?”

“Didn’t even deny it.”

“You asked, I answered.”

“Rude.”

“You were very Cheshire just then.”

“I’m always very Cheshire.”

“No, sometimes you’re international pop star. That was pub car park Harry just now.”

He stared at you for half a second, then his bottom lip pushed out in a pout so dramatic it deserved its own spotlight. His eyes went big, soft, wounded, and completely ridiculous, making you laugh properly.

“Oh no,” you said, stepping closer. “Did I hurt the baby’s feelings?”

Harry held the pout. “You’ve wounded me, love.”

“You’re so adorable.”

“I’m a grown man.”

“You’re a cute little baby.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, but the pout remained. You framed his face in your hands and squished his cheeks. “A tiny, precious, pouty baby.”

“Keep going and see what happens.”

“What? You’ll pout harder?”

“Maybe.”

You kissed the pout quickly, once, before letting go and walking out of the closet. “Come on, babygirl. Perfect warm-up.”

Behind you, Harry recovered quickly enough to slap your arse as you passed him, and you gasped and turned on your way to the stairs. “Excuse me.”

He followed with a satisfied smile. “Careful, love, or I might have to give you a little spanking after the show.”

You laughed as you continued down. “You’re way too soft to ever do that.”

Harry paused behind you, offended all over again. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not even a tiny bit scared of me?”

“Of you?” You reached the entrance hall and sat to pull on your trainers. “No.”

“Never?”

You thought for a second, tying your laces. “I was when you stepped between me and Jeff and asked him to repeat what he said.”

Harry’s expression changed, the humour dimming slightly before softening into something more serious. “That was different,” he said.

“I know.”

“I’m glad you’re not scared of me.”

You looked up from your shoes and Harry stood near the front door, watch ready, hands on his hips, face gentle now in a way that made the earlier teasing feel suddenly smaller. “I mean it,” he said. “If you ever are, even for a second, I want you to tell me. I never want to be the reason you feel afraid.”

You held his gaze for a moment, then nodded. “That was deep.”

“It’s still true.”

“I know.” You stood and stepped closer, touching his arm. “And I would tell you.”

“Good.”

“You’re not scary, though.”

“I can be.”

“To Jeff, maybe.”

Harry smiled faintly. “Only when needed.”

You leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Come on, protector. Take me on this terrible run.”

The run itself had started easily. Harry set off down the road towards Wembley with far too much energy, and you followed with a noise of protest that only made him laugh. Once your body settled into rhythm, though, it became almost peaceful. The two of you ran mostly in quiet because you were both fast enough that conversation became more work than it was worth, your steps falling into a steady pattern through London’s warm afternoon, past pavements, parks, side streets, traffic lights, people who glanced at you without realising who had just passed them until it was too late. Harry kept looking over now and then, checking your pace without making it obvious and you pretended not to notice anyway.

By the time Wembley came into view, huge and waiting ahead, you were warm, sweaty, and quietly pleased with yourself for not complaining once during the entire run. Then Harry looked at you with a smile you didn't trust.

“Oh no,” you groaned.

His eyes glinted. “Race you!”

“Harry, don’t—”

He took off before you could finish.

“Harry fucking Styles!!!”

He laughed ahead of you, long legs carrying him forward, stupidly fast, stupidly pleased, the stadium growing closer with every second. For about two seconds, you were too annoyed to react properly, then competitiveness took over, because you weren't running ten kilometres to Wembley and letting him beat you in a final sprint he hadn't even announced fairly. So you chased him.

Harry is a trained runner, annoyingly good at distance, the kind of person who can run a marathon under three hours and then pretend he is simply “a bit tired.” But sprinting is different, sprinting is yours, sharp and explosive and all stubborn pride and so you caught him faster than he expected.

“Heeey!” he shouted as you came alongside him.

You didn't answer though, you just overtook him instead and the last stretch towards the security fence became a blur of hot pavement, breathless laughter, and Harry behind you making some wounded sound of disbelief. You reached the fence first, grabbing it with both hands, bending over as your lungs caught fire. Harry arrived seconds after, just as breathless, one hand landing on the fence beside yours while the security guard standing nearby stared at both of you, clearly unsure whether this was normal celebrity behaviour or a medical issue he should call help for.

You looked at Harry through sweat and victory, he looked back at you, you smiled, and to say it nicely, it wasn't a humble smile.

“Wipe that smirk off your face,” Harry panted.

Your smirk only grew. “Don’t like losing?”

“I let you win.”

You laughed, still trying to breathe. “Of course you did.”

“I have a show tonight. Couldn’t exhaust myself.”

“You challenged me.”

“Because I like seeing you happy.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

Harry pointed at you, still bent over. “Revenge.”

“Stop being petty and admit I’m a better sprinter.”

“No.”

“Harry.”

“No.”

“You lost.”

“Temporary outcome.”

“You’re such a bad loser.”

He pushed away from the fence, breathing hard but grinning. “I’m thinking of something.”

“That sounds threatening already.”

“As it should.”

You rolled your eyes as security let both of you through into the secluded area. “Whatever makes you feel better, loser.”

Harry’s head turned sharply. “Loser?”

“You heard me.”

He stared at you for one second too long, then smiled and you should really have known then. You should have known that smile meant night four would end with you jogging beside the main stage while Anthony took evidence photos and Harry prepared to make your private sprinting argument everyone else’s business.

Now, hours later, the band is playing As It Was, the last verse nearing its end, and Harry is stretching on stage like the most dramatic man alive. He sings the final line, moves the microphone back into its stand, then rolls his shoulders, shakes out his legs and walks to the edge where you're waiting below. The big screens catch him first, then follow his gaze to you, and the stadium seems to realise all at once that something is happening as a roar moves through Wembley.

You look up at him, and he looks down at you, his eyes bright with competition and pure childish joy. He mouths, “Ready?”

You mouth back, “Fuck off.”

He laughs visibly, pointing at you as if the cameras need to capture your disrespect.

Anthony walks over to the finish side, camera ready. The live camera operators adjust quickly, catching both of you on the screens now, Harry on the stage runway and you in the protected lane below between barricades and stage. Fans in the pits are losing their minds, screaming your name, Harry’s name, both of your names together, the noise is unreal.

Sarah, from behind the drums, leans towards her mic with obvious amusement. “Ready?” she calls.

Harry gets into position, you bend slightly, heart kicking up.

“Steady…”

Harry glances at you once more, smug, and you narrow your eyes.

“Go!”

The stadium explodes, Harry launches down the stage runway, and you take off below.

For the first stretch, he leads. Of course he does, because he is annoying and fast and fuelled by the adrenaline that comes from singing to an entire stadium. The fans along the barricades scream as you pass, faces blurring, arms waving, phones trying to follow the movement. You hear his footsteps above you on the stage, feel the crowd’s roar shifting as he rounds the first corner slightly ahead.

Absolutely not, you tell yourself before you push harder on the long straight. The lane beneath you is narrower than a proper track, but clear enough to open your stride. You can see Harry in your peripheral vision, still ahead but not by much, his body angled forward, one hand lifting briefly to hype the crowd even while running because he is impossible.

You gain on him, and by the second corner, you're finally level and the noise becomes sharper and even louder, because the crowd sees it too. Harry glances down, you flash him the quickest grin you can manage while sprinting and he laughs, breathless, speeds up again and so do you.

The final straight is chaos, the stage lights blur white and gold, the fans at the front are screaming so hard you can barely hear the band, and somewhere ahead Anthony has positioned himself near the finish, camera firing rapidly. Harry is still right beside you, separated by height and stage edge, both of you sprinting towards the place marked in your heads as the finish.

You cross the finish line with Harry almost exactly beside you, then both of you keep running a few steps because stopping instantly would probably kill one of you. He disappears towards the side-stage exit above, and you veer into the backstage route below, lungs burning, legs buzzing, the crowd still roaring behind you as the outro carries on.

Harry arrives backstage first because his route is shorter from the stage stairs, doubled over with one hand on his thigh, laughing and panting at the same time. You come in seconds later, equally breathless, but with your smug grin already returning because you already know. A crew member hands Harry a water bottle, another hands one to you just as Anthony appears, looking delighted enough to be irritating.

Harry points at him while trying to catch his breath. “Who won?”

Anthony checks his camera screen with the solemnity of a judge at an international sporting event and you sip water, smiling behind the bottle way too casual.

Harry looks at you. “Don’t.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re already smug.”

“I have a feeling.”

Anthony zooms in on the last burst of shots, then lets out a laugh. “She did.”

You throw one fist into the air.

Harry’s mouth falls open in sheer disbelief. “No fuckin' way!”

“Yes!” you say, still breathless.

Anthony turns the screen to show him. “Barely, but yeah.”

Harry stares at the proof, you lean closer, looking at the image of yourself crossing a fraction ahead of him, and your grin becomes outrageous. “Oh, that's beautiful.”

Harry points at the camera. “That angle is biased.”

Anthony laughs. “It’s a camera.”

“Biased camera.”

“You lohooost,” you sing extra sweet.

Harry looks at you, sweaty, breathless, still glowing from the show and the race and the sheer absurdity of what he has just done in front of an entire stadium. “I had just played a two-hour show.”

“It was your idea.”

“It was hot.”

“Still your idea.”

“I sang while you were standing there warming up.”

“Your idea.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it.

You take another drink of water, very pleased. “Do you admit I’m the better runner now, or are we doing revenge number three?”

Harry laughs, shaking his head. “You’re the better sprinter.”

You gasp. “Was that an admission?”

“Sprinter,” he repeats. “Not runner.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Don’t get greedy over there.”

“I beat a sub-three marathon man twice in one day.”

“Because the marathon man had a show to deliver.”

“The marathon man is making excuses.”

“The marathon man is going to remember this.”

“Good. Maybe he’ll learn humility.”

Harry laughs again, the last of his competitive irritation dissolving into pure enjoyment. It was ridiculous, and he knows it, but it was also fun, properly, stupidly fun. The kind of thing he will probably be asked about for the next month or two, the kind of clip that will be online before he even changes out of his stage clothes.

You and Harry drink in silence for a few seconds, still breathing hard, both of you sweaty. Then Harry slings an arm around your shoulders as the two of you begin walking towards the dressing room corridor. His body is warm and damp from the show, his breathing finally evening out, his energy still buzzing around him like leftover electricity.

“I can’t believe we just did that,” you say, half-laughing as you look back in the direction of the stadium noise. “In front of everyone.”

He smiles. “You loved it.”

“I loved the winning part.”

“Same thing.”

You shake your head. “This is going to go viral.”

“Oh, definitely.”

“They’ll say you let me win.”

“I might say that too.”

“I will post the camera proof myself.”

“You would.”

“I absolutely would.”

He laughs, pulling you closer into his side. The corridor is cooler than the stage area, and you only now begin to feel the sweat cooling on your skin. You're tired, but in the bright, satisfied way that comes after moving hard and laughing harder.

“At least for once,” Harry says, “I won’t be trending for my dick or my slutty little shorts.”

You glance up at him. “You wish.”

He looks down at you, offended. “Excuse me?”

“You’ll be trending for losing to your girlfriend while wearing your slutty little shorts.”

Harry thinks about that, then sighs. “That’s probably true.”

“And the comments about the shorts will still happen.”

“Can’t escape them.”

“Tragic.”

“Difficult being me.”

“You’re so brave.”

He squeezes your shoulder gently. “Thank you.”

You walk a few more steps, then tilt your head. “Do I get a prize?”

Harry’s expression changes to mischief, you recognise it and regret the question immediately.

“A prize?” he asks.

“For winning.”

“Of course.”

“No.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

“I know exactly what you were going to say.”

His smile turns slower, cheekier, he's entirely too pleased with himself. “I was just going to say I’ve got a very special prize for you.”

You stop walking for half a second. “Harry.”

“What?”

“We’re in a corridor.”

“I’m whispering.”

“You’re not whispering enough.”

He leans down slightly, voice lower now, eyes glittering. “You asked for a prize, love.”

“Oh my God.”

“You won fair and square.”

“I regret everything.”

“No, you don’t.”

You try not to laugh, fail, and shove lightly at his side. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet.”

“And yet what?”

“You still ran around Wembley for me.”

“I ran around Wembley against you.”

“That too.”

You reach the dressing room door, and Harry pauses with his hand on the handle, looking at you in the soft, amused way that always follows his most ridiculous ideas. He's still breathless, still sweaty, still high on the show, but the look in his eyes has settled now. “You did make it more fun,” he says.

“The show?”

“The night.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “You only say that because you lost and need to sound gracious.”

“I’m a very gracious guy.”

You laugh, and Harry’s smile grows because that was the entire point, really. You laughing at the end of a long show day, glowing from sprinting and winning and being dragged into his madness, looking at him like he is both the most ridiculous man alive and exactly the one you would choose again.

He opens the door. “Come on, winner,” he says. “Let’s discuss your prize.”

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[purplecoffee13]

NFWMB - PART NINE*

Summary: “Y/N stayed over at Harry’s house, and he has thought of the perfect way to keep her occupied during her free time from work…”

Tropes: boxer!harry x innocent!yn

Wc: 7k

Warnings: smut, bondage, degr@dation k!nk, praise k!nk, jealousy, possessiveness, dom!harry, use of s€x toys, teeny tiniest tinsiest bit of angst (basically overthinking)

A/N: hello I am back🙂‍↕️ I have two things to say. 1. I went to the Together Together tour and had multiple impromptu staring contests with Harry and the evidence of one is now my profile picture (I took like 100 pictures of this sexy man lmk if anyone wants to see em) 2. This chapter is very filthy so I hope this makes up for the long absence. Hope you forgive me for being MIA and enjoy this absolute wretchedness😋

General masterlist

Series masterlist

Y/N had woken up in complete bliss.

For once, it was the sunlight that awoke her, instead of her usual loud alarm. The soft vibrations of music coming from the living room infiltrated the bedroom as she got dressed. And once she opened the door, her heart malfunctioned at the sight of Harry cooking breakfast, singing along to Otis Redding's 'That's How Strong My Love Is'.

When Harry proposed to run errands together while they were eating the pancakes he'd prepared, she instantly agreed. Watching him clean up the kitchen afterwards, Y/N reckoned he could've suggested to drop her in an abandoned alley and she still would've said yes. He was simply too mesmerizing to turn down. She got a ready with a big smile on her face, one that only began to fade when Harry parked the car on the sidewalk of a sketchy street.

This street looked nothing like the cute market she imagined he'd take her too.Harry turned off the ignition in complete silence, purposely ignoring Y/N as she nervously eyed the street. It really didn't seem like a valid, legal parking space either.

"Where are we?" Y/N asked. When he didn't respond, she took off her seatbelt to turn her body towards him. "Harry..."

"Y/N..." He mocked her tone, a devilish grin on his face as he watched the reaction of his girl in the passenger seat unfold.

"What are we doing here?" She urged, but from the sight of that sly look on his face, she knew he wasn't going to budge.

"Running errands." He shrugged his shoulders, getting out of the car before Y/N could even protest his annoyingly vague answer. Her brows creased as she watched him walk to the other side of the car, his pace quickening once he realized she was going to open the car door herself. Y/N couldn't contain her smile when he offered his hand to help her out of the car. When she got out of the car, she finally realized where Harry had brought her. Y/N let out a choked sigh.

"You can't be serious."

Harry shrugged. "I'm just holding up to my end of the bargain."

"I don't see what visiting a sex shop has to do with you holding up to your end of the bargain." Y/N retorted, glancing at the sign 'Good Vibrations' above the door and the sticker on the window that read 'All Vibrators, 40% off!'. God, she would never be able to listen normally to that Beach Boys song again.

"I told you I was going to help you figure out your likes and dislikes." Harry stepped in front of her, prying her attention away from the light up sign and the raunchy lingerie plastered on the mannequin.  "There are some items in here that I think could help with that. Things like toys can be a very nice addition to sex."

"I know that. I have a vibrator." She added defensively, crossing her arms. It was difficult to maintain eye contact once she heard a breathy laugh escape his lips. And yet, once he inched closer and she felt the body heat emanating from him, she met his eyes.

"And I can only imagine how amazing you look using it," Harry raised a playful brow. "but there's a whole lot of other stuff that I think you'd love to use and feel and wear. Though, if you don't, just say the word and we'll be out of here in two seconds."

Y/N looked at Harry, who was eyeing her with a nervous type of anticipation. He probably knew it was a bit of a risk taking her here, not even entirely certain if this was something she was ready to explore. But as Y/N picked her brain for reasons not to go in, she found that no amount of doubt could trump the intrigue that coursed through her veins. A beat went by, and Y/N swallowed.

"...Did you say 'wear'?"

Y/N's stomach bubbled with excitement as she watched Harry's mouth spread into a grin. "I did."

"Alright. Let's go in."

Harry didn't need to be told twice, it seemed, because he turned around so swiftly Y/N thought he was going to get whiplash. But when he moved toward the entrance, he was pulled back by Y/N, whose feet had suddenly cemented into the ground.

"Wait." Her voice had gone dry. "What if I pick something weird? Or boring?"

A flare of heat shot up to her face as she watched his face morph into something of disapproval. "You won't, because whatever you like is valid. You don't need me to validate things like that for you. You've got to stop living like that, Angel."

He made clear, and Y/N nodded. Still, he must've noticed the worried look on her face, because he quickly came up with an idea. "Listen, while we're in there, I'm just going to leave you alone, so you can look at stuff without feeling judged." Harry said, taking both her hands in his. "I'll be at a safe distance unless specifically requested otherwise, okay?"

Y/N sighed, looking at that discount sticker again. "Okay."

An old fashioned bell tinkled as Harry opened the door. He squeezed Y/N's hand one last time before letting go and walking straight into the store, leaving Y/N by the entrance. The place was fairly calm, only about three other people inside. It was much like Y/N had expected a sex shop to look like: red walls with black shelves and about a dozen lingerie-wearing mannequins surrounded by bright pink dildos. On her immediate right was a wide arrangement of fluffy handcuffs in nearly all colors of the rainbow, and an intimidating collection of paddles.

After grabbing a shopping basket on her arm, she began circling the store. It didn't take long for the awkwardness to flow away, and soon enough it entirely disappeared into the shadows of the fascination she held for every item in the store. It was the wand of vibrators, though, that really had her flabbergasted. Y/N had always been quite sure she didn't live under a rock, that she was fairly educated on the aspects of BDSM and sex toys. Yet somehow this store had managed to make her feel like the most unaware person on the planet. Her head tilted as she took in the glass shelves filled with different sorts of 'cock rings', a term she had never heard of before.

"Do you need me to open the glass door?" A voice suddenly spoke up from behind her. Y/N spun around to find a tall man with rattling keys in his hand.

"Oh, yes. Thank you." She said, stepping aside. As the man opened the door, she took the time to assess him a little bit. She hadn't expected such a young guy to work at a sex shop. He couldn't have been much older than Harry. Y/N had imagined a sixty year old man with a leather vest and a detrimental smoker's cough to work in a shop like this. A muscular man with long enough hair to put it in a bun must've been her last guess, though it was significantly less creepy. Her eyes floated back to the cock rings, still wondering about their function.

"Having trouble deciding? We've got new leather ones that we haven't shelved yet, if that's what you're looking for." The man suggested kindly. Y/N felt a tinge of discomfort run down her spine. It was still a bit of a foreign concept to her; talking about sex toys as if they were grocery store items.

"Oh, that's alright, but thank you." Y/N conjured a smile, spotting the name tag on his shirt. Tim, was his name. Tim nodded, but he didn't move. Y/N looked behind her, pointing to the other aisle. "Do I need to move..?"

"Oh, no!" Tim chuckled, pointing at the shelves. "I just need to close this after you've picked one— or more. For safety reasons."

Y/N felt herself turn redder by the second. God, was she dense? "Right, of course. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay, can I help you decide?" Tim offered, pointing to the shelf of cock rings. Y/N's gaze flickered from the products back to their seller, and decided to stop being a prude and just ask.

"Actually, I haven't— I don't really know what they do, to be honest. I mean, I assume it's for guys, but..." she stumbled, her momentary lapse of bravery not going as smoothly as she'd hoped. Though, Tim didn't make it feel awkward at all. He simply nodded along and waited for her to be done with her question before he politely answered.

"You mean cock rings?" He asked, and when Y/N nodded, Tim gave her a reassuring smile. "Basically, they go around the penis. It's for prolonged erections and delayed, intenser orgasms. But it's not only for people with a penis. You see those?"

Tim pointed at something Y/N was unable to see from her position, so she stepped closer to see what he was talking about. Her reaction was a bit jumpy when Tim's fingertips grazed her lower back, but she quickly relaxed. He was just trying to show her what he was talking about, she was sure of it. Indeed, she finally spotted a few rings with more of an added rectangle shape. Y/N hummed, grabbing a black variant of the item from the shelves.

"These are vibrational cock rings. They vibrate the clitoris during penetration. See, a cock ring doesn't exclusively have to be for guys. Both parties can enjoy the use of one." Y/N looked up to give Tim a grateful smile, finding that he had already fixated his eyes on her, the corners of his mouth just as widely stretched out as hers.

"And it makes the guy feel good?" Y/N returned her attention to the shelves, picking up another vibrational cock ring from a different brand. Was three cock rings too excessive? She really couldn't choose, and besides, her mind was coming up with way too many fantasies for her to just toss these items aside. She swallowed at the idea of Harry with a cock ring on. She absolutely adored the sounds Harry made whenever he'd come, and if this could help him get orgasms as intense as he was giving her, she wanted to try it out. Suddenly, Y/N was aware of the increased wetness between her legs. Pulling herself out of her thoughts, she realized Tim had taken a step closer to her.

"Oh it makes us feel very, very good." He answered with a smirk that felt a bit more suggestive than it did before. Y/N looked up at him, her eyes slightly widened. Tim wasn't exactly creeping her out; he was handsome and she was sure that he was just being a bit flirty. But that was the thing, Y/N wasn't good with flirty. She had no idea how to shoot him down in a playful way, in the way she had seen so many of her friends do with ease.

Y/N opened her mouth, taking a step back as she did, and bumped into a hard body behind her. His familiar cologne hit her nostrils first, making her relax instantly when she felt his hand snake around her waist. Lips curving into a smile, Y/N turned around, both happy and nervous to see him. After all, her basket was almost empty.

"Hey!"

"Hi Angel, everything alright?" His kind eyes temporarily dimmed as he casted a warning glance to Tim, who was closing the glass door. Y/N turned her head back to the worker.

"Yes— thank you, Tim." Y/N threw a half-smile the guy's way, and it seemed as if something flickered in the shopkeeper's eyes as she mentioned his name. Then, silently, he sauntered back to the counter. When Y/N turned back to look at Harry, his eyes were still on Tim. A nervous bubble of excitement grew in her stomach.

"Did you find anything?" Y/N tried to steer the conversation elsewhere, but Harry wasn't cooperating. He kept his withering stare on the man who was probably back at the counter by now.

"Was he bothering you?" He said when he finally looked back at Y/N. Her brows raised in shock, the comment sinking like a brick into her chest.

"What? No! He was helping me. He was nice." Y/N felt the need to defend him. She couldn't start to believe that every guy had ill intentions, or she would never be able to leave the house again. "You know, I'm trying to keep myself from creating such a belief system. I don't think it would be very effective if you become suspicious of any guy that talks to me."

Harry bit the inner side of his cheek, looking back at Tim once again and then back at Y/N. Her anxiety was about to turn into something angrier, but he interrupted her with a sigh.

"I'm sorry, I swear I didn't mean it like that." He responded. Y/N bummed, though she was a tad confused about what he did mean, then. She decided not to dig, turning instead to the hangers full of crotchless tights. She made sure he saw the ones she put in her basket; it was her way of saying 'no harm, no foul'. Harry grabbed onto your waist in response, pulling her back to his chest.

"I thought you were going to let me wander on my own in here." She teased, ears red as she leaned forward to grab some from a lower hanger. She swore she heard him curse under his breath as she bent over.

"Yeah, I changed my mind." He responded once she stood upright again. His voice was rough.

Y/N turned to Harry, a bit of a grin creeping up her face. For some reason—probably to get back at him for acting so caveman like all of a sudden—she felt the need to push him a bit. Just to see how far this possessive behavior would go.

"But that ruins the element of surprise."

That caught Harry's attention. His head flicked right back to her. "What element of surprise?"

"The one I made up in my head about five minutes ago." Y/N said nonchalantly, trying to imitate the way he was behaving when he lured her to this store in the first place. Harry stifled a laugh, but Y/N stayed determined.

"I thought it'd be fun for you to go through the stuff I bought once we get home." She said, putting her hand on his chest and trying not to blush at how his heart beat quickened the second she said the word 'home'. His gaze traveled to Y/N hand and back to her face, eyes filled with a look she had come to know as longing. A lustful longing, that is. Leaning into his ear, she decided to go in for the kill.

"And I promise I'll sprawl out on the bed and let you use whatever you want on me." Y/N said in a low whisper. Harry sucked in a breath, and looked down at the ground. His fists were visibly clenched, a sight Y/N was glad to take notice of. She liked what that alluded to. Harry, her personal trainer and the best sex of her life, getting hard at the idea of her in his bed. There was something that made Y/N ache. Her ego inflated so much that she closed in on his ear again.

"How about you wait by the car while I grab some last things and check-out with Tim at the register, and then I'll meet you outside?" Y/N said, face as smug as her voice as she made the demand.

A part of her expected Harry to grab her by her throat and remind her of her manners. While she would've highly enjoyed that, she was also quite curious about the other way this situation could pan out. So when Harry walked toward the exit without a word, butterflies began to swarm in Y/N's stomach. The uncertainty of how Harry was going to react made her wet beyond belief, and she was quick to gather the last things she needed before heading over to the register.

Tim already stood there, awaiting her with a smile. He began to scan the products, and Y/N even noticed his eyes widening slightly at some of the items she picked. At first, it made her nervous, but then she realized his reaction was rooted in his imagination rather than her eccentricity. Her cheeks heated up. Looking for a distraction, Y/N grabbed her phone, and her mouth fell open at the notification she got from her bank.

H.E. STYLES wired you $500.

Five hundred dollars? She knew he would probably chip in, because he was a gentleman and she knew he wouldn't entirely let her pay this by herself (though she truly wouldn't have minded). But five hundred dollars? That was far too much. The final number was two-fifty. She immediately made a mental note to wire the rest back to him. This man was truly insane.

Tim had kindly bagged all her stuff, and as she waited on the receipt, Y/N took a look outside. In front of the door, Harry was waiting, watching Tim like a hawk. He looked extremely hot leaning against the car, hands stuffed in his pocket.

"I put the receipt in your bag." Tim chimed in, commanding her attention again. Y/N's head snapped back at the kind man, and she sputtered out a thank you as she snatched the bag from the counter. After a quick goodbye, she walked outside. Harry had already opened the door for her, and with a swarm of butterflies in her bellies and her wildest fantasies in a paper bag, she slid into the car.

All the luck Harry had ever prayed to encounter in his life, the universe had gathered and given it a name: Y/N.

His mouth was dry as he looked through all the stuff Y/N had bought. After they'd gotten to his apartment, she almost immediately retreated to the bedroom. It took everything in Harry not to follow her and fuck her senseless the second they came home. Hell, it took him everything not to fuck her senseless in the store.

He still felt a bit guilty about his jealous attitude. It wasn't at all his intention to fuel Y/N's discomfort around men. In fact, it wasn't even on his mind as he stared this 'Tim' down. Though, he couldn't tell Y/N the true reason for his grumpy attitude and sudden touchiness: terrible jealousy.

The second he spotted that cheap imitation of a surfer dude trying to chat up his girl, a heavy pit sank to the bottom of Harry's stomach. He recognized that impressed glint in Tim's slimy eyes; it was similar to how Harry looked at Y/N. She was an impressive woman, so he knew he couldn't really blame the poor bloke for trying. Nevertheless, Harry despised the idea of anyone looking at Y/N like that, because it was a painful reminder of how many guys would jump for joy at the idea of being with her. He wanted to be the only one.

His introspective attitude immediately marked this thought process as problematic. He was very much aware of his faulty assumptions. So, he felt like the self-reflexive act of holding himself accountable granted him at least one more jealousy-driven action. Hence, the five hundred dollars. Perhaps it was silly, but Harry wanted to show Y/N what he was capable of giving her. Tonight, he promised himself to lay it on thick, and hopefully that sentiment would get to her without him having to say a word.

He had already ordered Y/N to put on a white matching set she'd bought, but before he was able to see it, he needed to pick a few more things from the pile of stuff laid out on the round, wooden table. Harry had already gotten hard the second he saw the two cock rings. Truly, what had he done to deserve this girl?

Finally having decided on his toys for the night, Harry headed towards the bedroom. He was certain Y/N had grown impatient, particularly because he'd purposely took his time. As soon as the door opened, his assumptions were confirmed.

Lying on her stomach was Y/N, head facing the door and her legs up, swinging slowly. Her brows raised when she locked eyes with him, instantly pushing herself up. Harry shook his head, letting out a small hum as he closed the door, and Y/N laid down on the bed again.

Harry set the items down next to the bed, and climbed over Y/N. He lowered his lips onto her back and began an upwards trail of kissing. Once he'd reached her neck, he pushed her hair to the side and began sucking on a sensitive spot. Harry could hear the hitched breaths leave Y/N's mouth as his lips worked to leave a mark. He was certain he heard a huff of frustration when he removed his lips from her skin to move onto her earlobe. It took everything in him not to smile like an idiot. His erection was already pressing into her ass, but that was all the joy and excitement he could show for now. He needed to keep his composure if he was going to make this experience—this sex session, if you will—unforgettable for her.

"Would you like me to tell you what toys I chose to play with tonight, or do you prefer letting me use my picks without warning?" Harry whispered the question into Y/N's ear, trying to hover above her just enough so she wouldn't feel his racing heartbeat. It was moments such as these that he was grateful to train as much as he did.

"Just use me." Y/N slipped out the second Harry stopped talking, and he could've sworn his cock sent a shock of pain through his body at hearing those words. It was the hottest possible thing she could've said, and he was fairly certain she'd said it on accident. When met with desperation, Harry had found that Y/N's mouth could conjure up the most satisfying sentences in the English language.

Letting out a breathy laugh, Harry kissed her temple. "Careful what you wish for, Angel."

Momentarily moving away from her, Harry bent over the bed and snatched the pair of red, fluffy handcuffs from the floor. Obliging to Y/N's wishes, he kept quiet as he took both of her hands and pinned them behind her back, locking them into place with the handcuffs. Through the reflection of the mirror not far from the bed, Harry caught Y/N biting into her lower lip as he caressed her ass. He swallowed, forgetting for a moment where he was and what he was doing. The question consumed his mind in its entirety: how can someone be that beautiful?

When she dug her head into the sheets, Harry stepped out of the small trance he had been stuck in for those few moments. The origin of Y/N's beauty—while magnificently intriguing—should not be Harry's focus. He should focus on the fact that the absolute beauty was in his bed, and every which way he could prove he was worthy enough to stay with.

Stepping off the bed, Harry took the vibrating cock ring and wrapped it around himself. Slowly, he strode to the end of the bed, where his hard dick met the exact height of Y/N's plump lips. Through her wispy lashes, she looked up at him. Harry clenched his jaw at her excited face expression, nearly unable to handle the idea of this dreamy girl being so enthusiastic to be met with his erection.

Harry's body was hot as he stepped closer to her, but a cold shiver ran down his spine the moment Y/N leaned forward to kiss the tip of his cock. He reached down to lock his fingers locking around her chin, and pulled down, her mouth obediently opening. Moving her head forward a bit, he motioned for her to take him in her mouth, and lowered his body for easier access. Accordingly, Y/N wrapped her lips around the tip of Harry's cock. The instant a moan of relief left him, she crossed her legs.

Harry cursed under his breath, his hips involuntarily bucking at the sensation of her mouth swirling around his cock. It simultaneously delighted and frustrated him, how good she was with her mouth. He hadn't taught her to do this, she was this skilled already. Though, the idea of her being in this position with anyone else infuriated him, and it kept popping into his head every single time they were intimate. He needed it to be just him and her. He wanted to make her—and in doing so, himself—forget about any guy she ever had before.

Suddenly, Y/N took his cock out of her mouth, and Harry's head snapped down. He was about to ask what was wrong, when she spoke up.

"Can I move?" She asked in that sweet voice of hers, though it was a little hoarse due to the recent activities. Harry hummed in approval, leaning forward to help her sit upright at the edge of the bed. She didn't announce her next move, so he was pleasantly surprised to see her sink to her knees.

"Now I can see you better." She explained, and didn't waste any time putting her mouth around him again, taking him as far down her throat as she could. Harry moaned, hastily grabbing at Y/N's hair and accidentally pushing her a bit further. A satisfied yelp vibrated on Harry's rock hard erection, her tongue wetting him even more.

"Shit— you like getting face fucked, Angel?" He asked as he watched her bob her head at a pace that made him go crazy. Those cock rings had always helped him last longer, but at the moment the toy seemed to have no effect on the speed of his impending orgasm. Her gorgeous eyes stared up at him, the answer written in them: yes.

As soon as the agreeing hum escaped her perfect-fitting throat, Harry gave up the fight. Twisting her hair around his fingers, he placed his hand on the back of her head, and began to thrust. He closed his eyes at the initial overwhelm of pleasure that washed over him, but quickly regained control of his senses. He wanted to see her take his cock like this.

The sight was even more mouth watering than he'd imagined. Moaning countless of little moans, Y/N fought hard to keep her eyes focused on Harry's face. Her eyebrows furrowed in deep concentration. She was watching him with such intent; she really wanted to make him feel good. Harry felt himself inching towards the edge, and forcibly removed his now wet shaft from her perfect lips.

Y/N looked somewhat disappointed. She wanted to see him fall apart. Harry smirked to himself at that thought as he helped her stand up. Loosening one hand from the cuffs, he ordered her to climb back onto the bed and lay on her back. As soon as she was in the right position, he cuffed one hand to the bed frame. In her free hand, he placed a vibrator. A rose toy to be exact. She looked up at Harry, who sat down on the side of the bed, facing her.

"I haven't been able to get the image of you with a vibrator out of my head. I've been imagining you lying on this bed, telling me all about how good it feels." He explained, tracing circles on her leg. "I'm sure you'd love to help me realize that little fantasy, wouldn't you?"

"Yes." She nodded her head intently. "Please, I want to."

Harry let out a soft chuckle at her response, letting his hand float to Y/N's legs. Automatically, she spread them, her right leg now pressed against Harry's side. She bit her lip as his fingers trickled upwards to her wet folds; the heat was practically emanating from them.

"C'mon, show me then." He said, not taking his eyes off her once. It made him all buzzy, studying every inch of Y/N's face when she was experiencing any type of sexual pleasure. He unconsciously began to touch himself once the toy touched the skin between her legs, hypnotized by the way her eyes closed and her mouth inched opened farther to let out a gasp. Harry clenched his jaw at the magnificent sight, deciding to add some fuel to the fire. It was going to be absolute torture to watch without pleasuring himself, but he couldn't resist slipping two fingers inside her soaking pussy.

The loud squelching sounds were just about mute in comparison to Y/N's verbal response at the sudden intrusion. Moaning at the overwhelming sensations, she slightly lifted the toy from her clit, but Harry was having none of it. With his free hand, he pushed the toy right back down on her sensitive spot. As a result, it landed with a lot more pressure than before, and Y/N clenched her thighs at the feeling.

"Is it too much, darling? Is it too good?" Harry asked, trying his hardest to concentrate in order not to come all over the bedsheets before Y/N even had the chance. She let out a vague sound, something in between a moan and a hum. Harry shook his head. "Words, Angel."

"F—fuck... it's so good, Harry." She responded. Harry smiled at the mention of his name, continuing at a steady pace.

"Do you love it?"

"Mmm, yes... I love it so much. I love it, I love it..." She began to ramble, which Harry had by now identified as a sign she was close to her orgasm.

"Are you gonna come for me?"

"Fuck— yes!" Y/N's legs began to shake slightly, not being able to withstand the increasing speed of Harry's finger in combination with the suction of the toy.

"Yeah? You gonna come all over this bed?" He egged her on. His free hand reached over to the toy again, pushing a button to intensify the vibrations of the toy. Y/N's hips rose at the change, but this time she obediently kept the toy placed on her clit.

"Yes, Harry, yes—"

The shattering release took control of Y/N, her body twitching in pleasure as Harry's hand slowly soaked in her orgasm. He felt her spasming on his fingers, and the sounds that left her seemed almost illegal. Harry watched her heaving chest rise as she took irregular breaths, trying to steady her body. Something overcame Harry; he just couldn't have her down from the high yet. So, he grabbed Y/N's hand, the one that was still gripped around the toy, and pushed it right back onto her clit.

"Oh, shit! Har— Harry, Harry... Harry!"

Her eyes shot open in an instant, jaw slacked. It seemed as if she was trying to plead for something, but the pleasure was too much for her to ever continue her sentence. Instead, she just repeated his name again and again, as if it was the only word she remembered how to say. Harry adored the sight of her falling apart for him, and he found himself wishing he'd recorded it.

Then, a warm liquid sprayed onto Harry's lower arm. His greedy eyes locked onto Y/N's slick pussy as her juices stained the bedsheets. In the mean time, any ability of saying words had left Y/N, and she was left a moaning mess as she squirted all over Harry.

He was mesmerized, watching her unravel in this way. He had gotten other women to this point before, and it was hot, but it wasn't fascinating like it was with Y/N. Harry's eyes were working overtime trying to catch every twitch, every tremble and all the movements on her face. He was in deep, deep trouble, and somehow it made him want to dive in even more. Putting the toy on the night stand, Harry moved up the bed.

"You did so good, Angel." He whispered, planting a kiss on Y/N's nose. "So good."

Y/N sought his eyes, a smile growing on her face as she dropped her free arm in Harry's lap. He took her hand into his instantly, stroking her palm with his thumb and giving her wrist a small peck.

"Color?" He asked.

"Green." She answered. Harry smiled, his heart slowing down a bit.

"I've never done that before." The beautiful girl on the bed confessed as her brows curved slightly. He could tell the initial bliss was fading; her consciousness was setting in again, and with that her shyness. "I ruined your sheets..."

Harry shrugged. "I like them better this way."

That earned a laugh from Y/N. Harry's stomach swirled as the ringing sound of her laughter hit his eardrums. How was she just... everything?

"So..." She said after the giggle had faded.

"So...?"

"Were those all the toys you chose for tonight?" She asked carefully, her eyes wandering around the room a little bit. Harry's eyes widened at the pleasant surprise.

"Two orgasms, and you still want more." Harry shook his head as he kissed his teeth."Greedy, greedy girl."

Y/N bit her lip, her eyes traveling down to his cock, which still had the cock ring on it. Nodding at it, she said: "Well you didn't wear that for nothing, did you?"

Harry still had two simultaneous reactions at Y/N's growing confidence. On the one hand, he wanted her to be cocky, bratty, sassy. To tell him what was on her mind, to take control at times if she wanted. On the other hand, it made him want to turn her on her stomach, prop her ass into the air, give it a hard smack, and fuck her senseless. Either way it made him feral.

Suppressing a groan, Harry moved to take the cuff off of the headboard, and he put it back around Y/N's left wrist. This time, her arms weren't behind her back, so she was easily able to stand in next to the bed when he requested it. Her eyes lit up as he closed the distance between them.

"Put your arms around my neck." He demanded, and she followed his instructions. "Legs as well."

Y/N lifted her leg up, and jumped, Harry catching her with ease. Clinging onto him, she could only stare in his eyes as he began to walk towards the door.

"Have you ever been fucked against a door, Y/N?" He asked innocently, casually, as if he just asked her what her favorite color is. Swallowing, Y/N shook her head. "Would you like to know what it feels like?"

"Yes, please."

"So polite, aren't you?" He said, satisfaction evident in his voice as he leaned her against the door. He lined up his cock with her entrance, nudging in the tip a bit. "Thought so."

Slowly, he slid into Y/N, doing his best not to fall apart at the sigh of relief she let out. Her hips leaned forward as Harry pulled out a bit, getting ready to thrust inside her again. It was as if her pussy was a magnet, he didn't think he could ever take his dick out of it again. He'd just have to stay buried inside her forever.

The idea alone, of having Y/N every minute of every day for the rest of his life, elicited a moan out of him, and he began to pick up his pace. As he ground his body into hers, Harry listened to the sounds that escaped the girl that had wrapped herself around him in every which way.

"It's so good. Don't stop, please." She whined, her hands digging into his hair. Harry looked down, watching his cock ran into her again, and again, and again. Y/N's gorgeous tits were bouncing along with the impact of his movements, and he could feel her legs wrapping tighter around his hips. Burying his head in her neck, he took in her coconut scented hair. Lifting his face just a bit, he positioned his mouth next to her ear, and began talking right back to her.

"I'm not stopping, baby. Fuck— you feel so good." He groaned. Y/N moaned in response, clenching around him.

"Shit, I love hearing you." She said, giving his hair a hard tug. Harry moved his head back, searching for Y/N's eyes.

"Do you? You like hearing how you make me feel?" Harry asked, obviously knowing the answer. He reckoned, though, it would sound sweeter coming from her lips.

"I like hearing you feel good."

The corner of Harry's mouth tugged up, and he was quick to lean in to kiss her. Sliding it between her parted lips, his to hue began to find hers. Her swollen lips felt like pillows, and Harry couldn't help sucking on her lower lip a bit. Parting their mouths, Harry moved his attention to her neck, just like he'd done before, and left a few more marks. He was rocking into her at a slightly slower pace, but his thrusts had become deeper.

Meeting her face again, he said: "You make me feel good, Angel. You're heavenly."

"Fuck..." Y/N groaned, throwing her head back a bit as she arched her back. Harry indulged in the sight before him, her tits displayed nicely in front of him. "Faster, please."

His body obeyed her wish before his brain could even process her question, and gradually, Harry got lost in the pleasure that surrounded him. Increasing the tempo, he began pounding into her with a fatal urgency. Y/N's legs trembled a bit, and Harry tightened his grip on her ass.

Shallow breaths fell from Harry's lips as his heart began to beat faster and faster. Mumbling Y/N's name repeatedly, he gathered all his mental and physical strength to start walking backwards on the bed and lay himself down against the headboard. while she was still inside him. Y/N moaned at the vibrations from the cock ring; it reached her clit way better in this position. She closed her eyes, getting lost in the intensified pleasure the sensitive spot was giving her, and not noticing Harry positioning him to thrust upwards into her.

When he did, Y/N was blindsided, but so was Harry. This was the deepest he had ever been inside her, and it reached a spot no one had ever been able to reach before.

"Oh my— fuck!" Y/N cried out in ecstasy, clenching around Harry, a reaction that seemed to be the final straw.

With a harsh groan, Harry bucked his hips and began to come inside her. His seed coated her walls as he rode out his high in a slamming rhythm. Y/N eyes were fixated on Harry's slacked jaw, watching him in awe as he climaxed. His movements slowly subsides into stillness, remaining deep inside her, and his cock ring now right on her clit. He leaned forward, pushing the vibrator further against Y/N's clit just as he'd done before, and she gasped at the feeling. He let her whine and cry as he directed his attention to her tits, sucking on her left nipple.

"It's... so much, Harry." She said breathily, clearly close to her orgasm. Taking his lips off her nipple for a moment, he responded.

"And you're taking it so well, Angel. Wetting my cock with our cum... such a filthy little slut."

The degrading nickname had slipped out, really. He hadn't necessarily intended to call her a slut, so he most definitely did not expect her reaction to the comment.

"Oh, shit... call me that again please." Y/N demanded. Her eyes were closed, and she was convulsing around Harry's still hard cock. Cursing under his breath, Harry talked her through her orgasm.

"You love it? Should've known, honestly. You're really just a cock dumb slut, are you not?"

"Yes, yes! Fuck, I am. I'm your slut." Y/N sighed out as she came around Harry's cock, their joined juices slowly dripping out of Y/N's pussy and onto Harry's skin.

"Yes you are, mine." Harry replied in a near growl, his half-open eyes fixated on the woman on top of him. The second she had come down from her orgasm, she collapsed in his arms.

It was impossible to wipe the smile from Harry's face as he slowly slipped out of her and freed her from the hand cuffs. Y/N was a bit out of it, letting Harry move her until she laid beside him on the bed. His stomach flipped from giddiness as they both relaxed in the silence; this was the best he'd ever felt. He was already dreading the day she'd have enough of him. When she realized she could do way better than him—a conclusion he couldn't even argue with—and leave him.

The room felt hot as Harry's mind began to race. What if he'd never feel this way about anyone ever again in his life? What if he didn't want to?

Suddenly, Y/N lifted her head, turning to look at Harry. Her hand slid over his chest, as she said: "Your heart is racing."

"It is." He nodded. For a few moments, as her eyes trailed across his face, it seemed as if Y/N was going to say something. Harry's heart didn't slow down in the slightest as he nervously waited for her to open her mouth.

But she didn't. Y/N turned around, and laid down again...

[purplecoffee13]

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