aven

Harry smiles as he watches his son Bowie’s little hands reach for the chain around his neck that holds his cross pendant, the newest fascination for the nine month old who quickly tries to bring the object to his mouth but before he can succeed Harry gently takes it from between his fingers and tucks it back under his shirt. He tries not to chuckle at the immediate pout that takes over his son’s face as he brings one of his hands up and begins to rub his back while his other hand reaches over on the bed for one of his favorite books. A sound of excitement erupts from the little boy once he sees the book in his dad’s hand making Harry laugh as he sits up a bit to get more comfortable with his son in his lap.

“Is this your favorite?” He asks making the boy just let out a string of babbles in response. “Oh really? You’ve read it that many times? I’m impressed.” He says with a smile before he leans down and places a kiss to his cheek. “What do you say to us reading it now? Would you like that?” He asks with a raised brow and his little boy just does what Harry can only describe as a nod a few times before he rests his head on Harry’s chest getting comfortable. He smiles when he looks down just as Bowie lets out a soft yawn while Harry begins to once again rub his back to help him relax even more.

“Okay let’s see what mischief this Cat in the Hat gets up to shall we?” Harry knows his little boy will be asleep by the end of the book by the way he lets out another little yawn before he’s even started on the second page. But he still reads the whole thing, rubbing his back while he reads and when he’s done he gently puts the book down on the nightstand by the bed. Before he can help himself he leans down and places a kiss to the top of his son’s head after he brushes some of his hair out of his face and takes a moment to enjoy the feeling of having his little boy peacefully sleeping on him.

Nap time is often the only time Harry gets to sit and take in the rare moments of quiet calmness in the normally hectic and loud household that is the Styles home. Bowie being the newest addition bringing the number to an even six that includes three amazing little girls, himself and you, his wonderful wife who he honestly doesn’t know what he would do without. Harry knows this is it for the two of you, that the little boy sleeping soundly on his chest with a steady stream of drool coming out of the corner of his mouth is the last one he’ll get to experience moments like this with so he just closes his eyes and lets out a soft sigh of content because he honestly can’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else in this very moment.

“Who do you think fell asleep first?” You whisper to your oldest daughter Lilian an hour or so later as you the two of you try to be as quiet as possible while entering your bedroom and walking towards your master bathroom.

“Daddy.” She quickly replies without much hesitation making you laugh as you grab your hairbrush and the hair ties you need to do her hair for her dance recital later that evening. When you hand her the brush and hair ties she smiles at you before turning around and heading for your bedroom door. “Thanks mom.” Is all you hear before she closes the door and you wince at how loud the noise is, you pause your movements waiting to hear if Bowie or Harry make any noise from the bedroom.

“Baby?” You poke your head into the bedroom at the sound of Harry’s sleep filled voice calling for you. When his eyes find yours a sleepy grin takes over his face as you fully walk into the bedroom. “S’nap time why are you being all loud?” He teases as you come and sit on your side of the bed.

“Sorry that was your daughter.” You answer as you get comfortable and place an arm over Harry’s shoulders letting him rest his head on you as you look down at Bowie who’s still peacefully sleeping on his chest.

“Ah well I have a few of those love so you’re going to have to be a bit more specific.”

“Lily needed her hair stuff for the recital tonight.” You explain as you begin to run your hand through Harry’s hair making him let out a hum of approval at the feeling of your nails lightly scratching at his scalp. “You enjoy your daddy son time while I went shopping with the girls?” You ask as you lean down and place a kiss to the side of his head.

“I did yeah. We had a great time.” You smile as you watch Bowie stir a bit at the sound of Harry’s voice. “He’s quite cute isn’t he? I hear he looks like his dad.”

“Really? That’s odd he doesn’t have blue eyes…”

“Don’t even start with the Niall jokes baby you know-”

“Harry that little boy is your twin. All I did was birth him and be his home for nine months.” Harry just chuckles as he shakes his head while looking at Bowie who he knows looks exactly like he did when he was a baby, while the little girls who Harry can only assume are off somewhere in the house are just different versions of you with the green eyes on Lilian, the soft curls on Hailey and the dimpled grin on Jamie being the only traits of his seen on three of them.

“We made cute kids.” You smile and nod your head in agreement as Harry looks away from the sleeping baby on his chest and over to you with a grin. “I love you.” He whispers as he leans over and places a kiss to your lips.

“Did you wrap this gift in the dark?” Harry lets out a huff as he looks up from his current position on the floor of the master bedroom near his side of the bed where he’s surrounded by things still needing to be wrapped as well as a small pile of things he’s done wrapping or placing in gift bags. When he looks up he finds you sitting on the floor near your side of the bed holding something he wrapped last night in a hurry, needing to get it done before you got home. “Why is there so much tape? And is that a-”

“I beg your pardon? That’s a perfect wrapping job considering who the gift is for.” He says in his own defense making you raise a brow as you look at the tag on the poorly wrapped box. He nervously chews on his bottom lip as he waits for your reaction once he sees your eyes scan the name on the tag.

“Harry we said no more gifts for her.” You say with a sigh as you look at the pile of wrapped presents that are along the wall your bedroom door is on. “She’s going to need a second playroom for all this stuff.” Harry follows your gaze and smiles at the thought of your little girl’s face as she opens all her gifts.

“That’s the last thing.” He promises with a smile making you roll your eyes because you heard him say the same thing just last week and yet here you are with another gift in your hands for the two year old little girl who’s currently asleep down the hall. “Besides half of those are clothes so they’ll just go in her closet.” He justifies with a shrug before reaching over to the pile of unwrapped gifts so he can grab one, gently placing it on top of the red and white polka dotted wrapping paper he’s using at the moment.

“Are you wrapping your own gift?” You ask as you slide Harry’s sadly wrapped box towards the wall so it can join the others that are ready to be placed under the tree in the living room.

“My own-oh is this for me?” He holds up the mug that’s in the middle of his wrapping paper and turns it around so he can read what it says but before he can actually get a good look he feels something hit his forehead and land in his lap. “Did you just throw a bow at me?”

“You were about to look at your gift what else was I supposed to do from all the way over here?” Harry lets out a laugh as he picks the bow up and tosses it back over to your side of the room making you giggle when he misses you completely and it lands a good foot away from you. “Be a good husband and bring it to me please? So I can wrap it for you.” You poke out your bottom lip in a playful pout as you look at him from across the room.

Harry looks at you as you wiggle around on the floor with your pillow so you can put it behind your back once you get close enough to the footboard of the bed so you can lean against it. You let out a deep sigh of relief and he can’t help the grin that takes over when he sees you place a hand on your fully formed bump, having hit the “due any day” mark a few days ago he knows getting comfortable is often times a struggle. He gets up after grabbing the mug, making sure he doesn’t look at what it says and after a few careful steps he’s standing next to you.

“The pout wasn’t necessary love.” He teases as you reach up and grab the mug from his hands and place it in the gift bag that’s between your spread legs. You smile when you look up and see he’s still looking down at you, he places a hand on top of the bed so he can lean down and place a quick kiss to your lips. “I love you.” He mumbles against your lips before giving them one last peck.

“I love you too.” He smiles as he stands up and turns to go back to his designated wrapping spot. “But if you get her one more gift I’m telling your mom how you really felt about her fruitcake.” You threaten making Harry chuckle as he shakes his head at your choice of a threat.

“Fine fine no more gifts for her.” You narrow your eyes as he sits down and grabs a pack of customized golf balls to wrap for Niall. He can feel your eyes on him as the corners of his mouth twitch as he fights off a smirk. “But I may have a few more things for him in this pile.” He explains as he tosses a quick look over his shoulder to the pile of gifts he has left in need of wrapping, his eyes landing on a little pair of sneakers he got that might or might not match a pair he has in his own closet.

“You think he’ll show up in time for Christmas? Or will he wait for New Year’s Eve?” You ask as you rub your stomach with one hand and place some tissue paper into the bag with Harry’s mug in it, smiling when you remember that it says “Daddy is a state of mind” in bright pink font, having been obsessed with that quote ever since you heard Pedro Pascal say it during an interview and figuring it fit Harry’s personality perfectly.

“Oh he’s going to make quite the entrance so I’m betting on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day.” He answers as he begins to wrap Niall’s gift with some green and white paper.

“You want me to put my daughter who can’t even crawl yet on the slide? Yeah-not happening Horan.” You stare at Harry who has both hands on his hips, sunglasses in his hair keeping it out of his face, his daughter Grace securely strapped to his chest but most importantly he has a hard glare aimed right at the blue eyed brunette standing next to you.

“Harry it’s a slide what could possibly happen to her while on the slide?”

“She can’t sit up properly so how do you want her to even go down the slide?”

“She’s strapped to your bloody chest Harry! So just go down the damn-”

“Niall James!” You shout his name at the same time you reach over and give the back of his head a nice smack making Harry chuckle while Niall lets out a groan as he turns to look at you.

“What was that for?” Harry rolls his eyes at Niall’s question as he reaches up to slide his sunglasses down over his face.

“Watch your mouth we are at a public park with children around you can’t say things like that.”

“M’sorry but he’s drivin me mental with the helicopter dad routine.” Niall points towards Harry while his attention is still on you. Harry lets out a scoff as he reaches a hand down and gently adjusts the little hat that’s snug on her head keeping her ears warm.

“I’m not a helicopter dad.” You run a hand over your face as Niall turns to give Harry all his attention so they can start the all too familiar argument about if Harry is too protective of his daughter or if Niall isn’t protective enough with his little girl. “I just make sure she’s safe and cozy at all times that’s all.”

“Harry her feet haven’t touched the ground since she was born and that was four months ago.”

“That isn’t true she sits on the floor for tummy time and on her play mat with the fishes she likes to stare at before bed and besides didn’t Angelina trip over a rock the other day and needed not one but two Elsa bandaids for the cut on her knee?”

“Yeah she’s three. She trips. S’what kids do.” As if on queue Niall’s daughter runs over from where she was playing on the jungle gym and tugs on Harry’s pants.

“Hello love.” Harry’s voice has zero hints of annoyance or defensiveness like it did just a moment ago as he looks down at the blue eyed little girl who is smiling up at him with pigtails and a dimple popping out of her cheek.

“C’n she play yet?” Angelina asks in her usual soft sweet tone that normally will get her whatever she wants. Harry looks away from the little girl and down at Grace who started wiggling her fingers and kicking her legs as soon as she heard Angelina’s voice.

“Maybe we can see how she feels about the swing? Would you like to do that?” Angelina just nods quickly before turning around and running off towards the swing set making Harry laugh and Niall turn his focus on watching her to make sure she doesn’t trip over anyone or anything on the way.

Before Harry can take a step in the direction of the swings you walk the short distance over to him and place a hand on his arm. Niall already knows what’s about to happen so he heads off towards the swings so he can help Angelina get comfortable on one and help push her for a bit.

"Yes!" You beam up at him, deliberately ignoring the dangerous edge in his voice. "That's exactly what I want. Just you and me, away from..." you gesture vaguely around the room "...all this."

Though Harry’s face remains a mask of indifference, a brief glint of vulnerability touches his eyes before being swiftly replaced by a look of sheer annoyance. "All this," he repeats slowly, "is what keeps you safe. Keeps us both safe."

He sits on the edge of the bed, close enough that you can smell his expensive cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body. "Angel, do you have any idea how many people would pay good money to know my location for even an hour? How many would see you alone with me and  isolated as the perfect leverage?"

His hand reaches out, fingers grazing your cheek in a touch that's tender but possessive at the same time. "The answer is no," he says, his voice softening just slightly. "But I'll make you a deal."

At that, you perk up, sensing a potential compromise.

"Me. You. Private island in Caribbean. All the nature you could want, but with security I trust and a proper bed." His thumb traces your lower lip. "Take it or leave it, angel.”

You sigh, “that’s not the same and you know it” you pout. “How about somewhere you own? I’m sure you own a piece of wood somewhere. You own like…everything”

Harry watches your pout with that intense focus, like he's cataloging every detail of your disappointment. His expression remains impassive, but there's a slight softening around his eyes that only you would recognize. "A piece of wood," he repeats, amusement barely detectable in his voice. "Yes, angel, I own several 'pieces of wood.' Buildings, docks, warehouses—" he stops himself, clearly deciding those details aren't meant for your ears.

He leans forward, brushing a strand of hair from your face with gentleness, his rings cold against your skin. "What is it about sleeping on the ground surrounded by insects that appeals to you so much?" His question isn't mocking, but genuinely curious, as if trying to understand an alien concept.

You maintain your pout, knowing it's one of the few weapons in your arsenal that occasionally works on him. Harry lets out a sigh. It was a subtle admission that he is actually weighing your request. He picks up one of your brochures and examines it with thinly veiled disdain.

"I could buy this entire campground," he says matter-of-factly. "Close it to the public for a weekend. Bring in my security team and sweep for threats." His eyes meet yours. "Would that satisfy your sudden urge to commune with nature?"

It's not exactly the authentic camping experience you wanted. It seems to be morphing into another display of Harry's wealth and control but it's more of a compromise than you expected. "You'd still have to sleep in a tent," you press, testing how far this concession extends.

The corner of Harry's mouth twitches with not quite a smile, but it was close. "Don't push your luck, Angel." He drops the brochure and reaches for you instead, strong hands effortlessly pulling you into his lap. His voice drops to that dangerous velvety register that makes your stomach flip.

"I'll sleep wherever you are," he says against your ear. "But I draw the line at mosquitoes and public toilets."

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

The SUV pulls up to Pine Ridge Campground, or what was Pine Ridge Campground before Harry bought exclusive access for the weekend. The autumn afternoon sun filters through the trees, painting everything in shades of gold and amber. You're practically bouncing in your seat as the vehicle comes to a stop, pressing your face against the window to take in the scenery. Harry, by contrast, looks like he's being driven to his own execution.

He sits beside you in his designer outdoor wear that's never seen actual wilderness. His jaw is set, his expression thunderous as he surveys the forest through narrowed eyes like it might attack at any moment.

"This is it!" you exclaim, turning to him with unrestrained excitement. "Look how beautiful it is!"

Harry's scowl deepens. "It is just trees," he states flatly. "And dirt."

Steve opens the door from outside, his expression carefully neutral though you catch the slight twitch of his lips, clearly amused by his boss's predicament. Behind your vehicle, two more SUVs have pulled up, discreetly positioned but obviously filled with Harry's security team.

You climb out, inhaling the smell of pine and earth. It was such a contrast from the city. Harry follows with considerably less enthusiasm, his boots hitting the ground in a way that suggests he's already regretting every decision that led to this moment.

"Mr. Styles," Steve says, gesturing toward a clearing about fifty yards away. "We've secured the perimeter. The nearest occupied site is two miles out. Cell signal is weak but we have satellite phones. The—"

"Where's the tent?" Harry interrupts, his tone suggesting he hopes the answer is 'we forgot it.'

Steve points to a large bag near the picnic table. "Right there, sir. Along with the other supplies Miss Y/N requested."

As you head toward the site, you take it all in: the rustic fire pit, the wooden picnic table, and the stunning lake shimmering through the tree line. Harry follows several paces behind, moving like a man walking to the gallows.

"This is perfect," you say, spinning around to face him with a grin. "Absolutely perfect."

Harry stops beside the picnic table, arms crossed over his chest. You can see him surveying the area with the same intensity he'd use to scope out a business acquisition…or even a crime scene.

"There's no bathroom," he observes.

"There's an outhouse," you counter cheerfully, pointing toward a small wooden structure barely visible through the trees.

The look Harry gives you could freeze hell itself. "An outhouse," he repeats slowly. "You want me to use an outhouse."

"It's part of the experience!"

"The experience," Harry says, his voice dangerously quiet, "is going to end with me buying this entire forest and burning it down."

Despite his words, he hasn't moved to leave. He's still standing there, scowling at the wilderness like it's personally offended him, but he's staying. His jaw clenches as he watches his security team efficiently assembling what looks less like a camping tent and more like a luxury suite that happens to be made of canvas. Steve is already hammering stakes into the ground while another team member unrolls sleeping bags. 

You step forward, hands on your hips. "Wait, stop," you say, causing the entire team to freeze mid-task. They look uncertainly between you and Harry, clearly unsure whose authority supersedes whose in this unprecedented situation.

"Shouldn't we be building our own tent?" you ask, turning to Harry with an expression of innocent determination. "It's part of the experience."

The look Harry gives you could wilt flowers. "Build our own tent," he repeats, each word carefully enunciated as if speaking to someone who's lost their mind. "You want me to manually construct shelter."

"Yes, Harry," you insist, your tone brooking no argument. "That's what camping actually is. You do things yourself. Build the tent, gather firewood, cook over an open fire—"

"I agreed to sleep outside," Harry interrupts, his voice dropping to that low, controlled tone that is usually followed by someone having a very bad day. "I did not agree to become a fucking Boy Scout."

Steve, still holding the tent stakes, makes a sound that might be a suppressed laugh. Harry's eyes cut to him with lethal precision.

"Something funny, Steve?"

"No sir," Steve responds immediately, though his shoulders are shaking slightly.

You step closer to Harry, refusing to back down despite the warning signs in his expression. "Come on. When's the last time you actually built something with your own hands?"

You see a flash of what might be offense at the implication he can't do this. "Fine," he says abruptly, turning to his team. "Everyone out. Maintain a five-hundred-meter perimeter. Radio check every thirty minutes."

The security team exchanges glances, clearly uncertain about leaving their boss alone to face the apparently insurmountable challenge of tent assembly.

"Now," Harry adds, the single word carrying enough authority that they immediately begin packing up and retreating toward the vehicles.

Once they're gone, Harry turns to the pile of camping equipment with an expression usually reserved for rival mob bosses who've crossed him. He picks up the instruction manual, flipping it open. "This was written by someone who failed basic English," he mutters, squinting at the diagrams.

You bite back a smile. "It's pretty straightforward. You just connect the poles and—"

"I can read," Harry snaps, though he's holding the manual upside down.

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

Twenty minutes later and the situation has deteriorated spectacularly. Harry stands in the middle of what can only be described as a textile nightmare. The tent poles are assembled but somehow form a shape that defies both geometry and common sense. The canvas is half-draped over this structure, one corner staked firmly into the ground while the rest billows in the breeze like a dejected flag. And Harry himself has somehow gotten tangled in the guy lines, one cord wrapped around his wrist while another has caught on his belt.

His hair, usually styled with careful precision, falls across his forehead in disarray. There's actual dirt on his designer outdoor wear, and a leaf has somehow lodged itself in his collar.

"This is fucking ridiculous," he announces, trying to free his wrist without making the entire structure collapse further. "This is designed to fail. It's a conspiracy against people with working brain cells."

You're sitting on the picnic table, tears streaming down your face from laughter, your phone out and recording every moment of Harry Styles' descent into camping chaos.

"Are you—" you can barely speak through your giggles, "are you losing a fight to a tent?"

Harry's eyes cut to you, dark and dangerous despite his compromised position.

"Delete that video."

"Absolutely not," you manage between laughs. "This is going in my personal collection of 'Harry Doing Normal People Things.'"

"Y/N," he warns, finally extracting himself from the guy line only to have another section of tent collapse entirely. "I swear to god—"

But his threat is interrupted by the tent pole he's holding suddenly disconnecting, the elastic cord snapping it back and nearly taking out his eye. He drops it with a string of profanity so creative it would make his criminal associates blush.

"The person who designed this should be shot," he declares, glaring at the tent components like they've personally betrayed him. "Slowly. After being forced to assemble one hundred of these fucking things."

You hop down from the table, still grinning, and approach the disaster zone. "Okay, okay," you say, trying to compose yourself. "Let me help before you declare war on the entire camping industry."

Harry runs a hand through his disheveled hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles. "I've orchestrated complex operations across three continents," he says, his voice tight with frustration. "I've negotiated deals worth millions. I've outmaneuvered federal investigations. And I'm being defeated by canvas and aluminum poles."

"It's kind of humbling, isn't it?" you tease, picking up the instruction manual he'd thrown aside in frustration.

Harry's expression suggests he finds nothing humble about this experience.

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

Forty-five minutes and considerable joint effort later, something resembling a functional tent stands before you. It's not pretty. One side sags slightly, and you're both fairly certain the rain fly is on backwards but it's standing, and it looks like it might actually provide shelter.

Harry stands back, hands on his hips, surveying the structure. "That's not going to collapse on us in the middle of the night, is it?" he asks, genuine concern in his voice.

"Not if you secured the stakes properly."

His eyes narrow at you. "Are you doubting my ability to secure things?"

There's an edge of wounded pride from a man who's built his entire life on being competent, controlled, and unshakeable. The idea that he might fail at something, even something as trivial as tent assembly, clearly bothers him more than he'd like to admit.

You step closer, reaching up to pluck the leaf from his collar. "I think you did great," you say, only partially mocking. "For someone who's never done this before."

Harry catches your wrist, his grip gentle but firm, his eyes searching yours. "You're enjoying this far too much."

"I really am," you agree cheerfully. "Next, we gather firewood."

The look of pure horror that crosses Harry's face makes you burst into laughter all over again. "You're joking," he says flatly, though he knows you well enough to recognize you're entirely serious.

When you continue walking toward the tree line, he curses under his breath before following, long strides quickly catching up to you. "Let me get this straight," he says, falling into step beside you, voice dangerously low. "We finally get the fucking tent up, and instead of breaking it in properly, you want to collect sticks."

The way he says it makes "collecting sticks" sound like the most absurd activity imaginable. You reach out, taking his hand and tugging him deeper into the woods. "It's part of the experience, Harry. We need a fire to cook dinner, to stay warm, to roast marshmallows..."

"I could have my men bring in a chef," he mutters, but he doesn't pull away, allowing himself to be led further into the forest. "Or better yet, a portable heater. Hell, a generator and microwave would be more efficient than playing caveman."

Despite his complaints, you notice how his eyes constantly scan the surroundings and not just for threats, as is his habit, but also assessing potential firewood. Even in his reluctance, he can't help but approach the task with tactical precision.

"Look for dry wood," you instruct, bending to pick up a fallen branch. "Nothing green or rotting."

Harry watches you for a moment, then sighs heavily before reaching down to grab a thick branch nearby. He examines it with the same critical eye he might use to evaluate a weapon. "I've burned buildings to the ground," he remarks casually, testing the dryness of the wood. "Never thought I'd be collecting kindling by hand."

You bite back a laugh at his comment, choosing not to ask for clarification on the building-burning statement. With Harry, plausible deniability is sometimes the wisest choice.

"Well, there's a first time for everything," you say cheerfully, gathering several more branches and tucking them under your arm. "Even for the infamous Harry Styles."

Harry moves through the forest with efficiency now that he's committed to the task, his natural competitiveness kicking in. He's not content to just collect wood. No, he needs to collect the best wood, the most wood, and prove that even at this he can excel.

"This is absurd," he mutters, but his arms are already full of carefully selected branches. "I have people who could do this."

"But then you'd miss out on the satisfaction of doing it yourself."

He gives you a look that clearly says he'd happily trade that satisfaction for his penthouse and a proper meal.

You venture a bit deeper into the woods, the late afternoon sun filtering through the canopy in golden shafts. It's peaceful in a way the city never is. No sirens, no traffic, no constant undercurrent of danger that seems to follow Harry everywhere.

He's quieter now, and when you glance back, you find him watching you with an unreadable expression. Not the scowl from earlier, but something softer, though he'd probably deny it if asked.

"What?" you ask, pausing in your wood gathering.

Harry shifts his armload of branches, jaw working like he's considering his words carefully. He’s always calculating, even in moments like this. "You're happy," he states simply. "Out here. With sticks and dirt and no running water."

It's not quite a question, but there's genuine curiosity mixed with perhaps a hint of incomprehension underneath it. Harry's world is one of luxury and excess, where problems are solved with money or force. The idea that happiness could be found in simplicity seems foreign to him.

"I am," you confirm, walking back to him. "Aren't you having even a little bit of fun?"

"I'm standing in a forest collecting firewood," he deadpans. "My definition of fun typically involves significantly less manual labor and considerably more—" his eyes travel down your body with clear intent "—indoor activities."

You roll your eyes, but can't suppress your smile. As you follow him through the trees, arms full of firewood, you can't help but notice that despite all his complaining, Harry hasn't once suggested actually leaving. He's here, doing this ridiculous thing that's so far outside his comfort zone it might as well be on another planet. For you.

Back at the campsite, Harry dumps his collection of wood near the fire pit with more force than strictly necessary, brushing dirt off his hands with distaste.

"Now what?" he asks, eyeing the fire pit like it might attack him.

“Now,” You turn to him, “go find two rocks so you can start the fire”

Harry stares at you, the pile of wood now neatly stacked between you, his expression shifting from disbelief to something approaching outrage.

"Two rocks," he repeats, voice dangerously quiet. "You want me to start a fire by hitting rocks together." He stands perfectly still, the muscles in his jaw working as he processes this latest request. The afternoon sunlight filters through the trees, highlighting the tension in his shoulders and the absolute incredulity in his green eyes.

"Y/N," he says with forced patience, "I have a lighter in my pocket. I have matches in the supply kit. Hell, I'm fairly certain Zayn packed a fucking flamethrower somewhere in that security gear."

He takes a step toward you, closing the distance with that predatory grace that always makes your heart beat faster. "But you want me—" he gestures to himself, the dangerous mob boss currently stranded in the wilderness at your whim, "—to rub stones together like we're in the Stone Age."

His hand reaches out, fingers gently but firmly gripping your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. There's frustration there, but also that spark of challenge he can never resist.

"You're testing my limits," he murmurs, thumb tracing your lower lip in that possessive gesture you've come to associate with him. "Pushing to see how far I'll go to please you." He releases your chin, reaching into his pocket to pull out an expensive silver lighter, engraved with his initials.

"Compromise," he says, holding it up between you. "I'll build your fire. I'll cook whatever wilderness meal you've planned. I'll even toast those marshmallows you mentioned."

He leans closer, his lips brushing your ear as he whispers, "But I draw the line at rubbing rocks together when I have perfectly good fire at my fingertips. And in return for my cooperation, you'll make tonight in that tent worth all this...nature.”

You smile innocently, suddenly turning your head and kissing him. That effectively distracts him for a moment. Distracts, him enough for you to take the lighter from his hand, turn around, and throw it as far as you can into the trees. “I already compromised when I let you clear the area” you whisper against his lips, “now chop chop” you say, patting  his shoulder and pulling back. “It’s getting dark”

For a long, dangerous moment, Harry doesn't move. He stands perfectly still, his eyes tracking the arc of his lighter as it disappears into the underbrush somewhere in the distance. The only sign of his reaction is the slight tick in his jaw and the way his hands curl into fists at his sides.

When his gaze returns to you, there's something dark and promising in his expression—not anger exactly, but the look of a man who's just been issued a challenge he fully intends to collect on later.

"You just threw my lighter," he says slowly, each word measured and deliberate, "into the woods."

You maintain your innocent smile, though your heart is racing. You've just crossed a line with Harry and you both know it.

"I did," you confirm cheerfully, taking a step back. "And like I said, it's getting dark. Better get started on those rocks."

Harry's tongue runs along the inside of his cheek. A gesture you've learned means he's calculating exactly how he's going to make you pay for this later. But then, unexpectedly, he laughs. It's a low, rough sound that sends shivers down your spine.

"You're going to regret that, angel," he promises, voice like velvet over steel. "Tonight, when we're in that tent, you're going to remember this moment."

He turns away, scanning the ground with the same intensity he brings to everything, now focused entirely on proving he can do this ridiculous task. Because Harry can't stand to lose, even at something as mundane as primitive fire-starting.

He crouches down, selecting two rocks with surprising care, testing their weight and texture. His expensive clothes are now rumpled and dirty, his hair a mess, and there's a smudge of dirt across his sharp cheekbone.

"I want it on record," he says, striking the rocks together experimentally, "that I've killed men for less than what you just did."

The rocks produce exactly nothing. No spark and no friction, just the dull sound of stone hitting stone.

"These are the wrong kind," he mutters, tossing them aside and searching for others. "Need something with iron content. Flint, ideally."

You watch in amazement as he actually seems to know what he's doing, his criminal mind apparently having absorbed random survival information at some point.

"How do you even know that?"

Harry doesn't look up from his search, selecting two new stones with dark striations running through them. "I know a lot of things, Angel. Like how to dispose of bodies in remote locations. Wilderness survival occasionally overlaps with that particular skill set."

He says it so casually, as if discussing the weather rather than murder, and you decide, again, not to ask for details. For the next twenty minutes, Harry works with single-minded determination, striking stones together over a small pile of dry grass and kindling you've prepared. His movements become more controlled and precise, as he figures out the angle and force required.

"Fucking hell," he growls when the first few sparks appear but fail to catch. "This is medieval."

"You're almost there," you encourage, crouching beside him.

Harry shoots you a look that promises retribution, but continues striking the rocks. More sparks fly, landing in the tinder. He leans closer, blowing gently on the smoking grass with surprising patience.

"If this doesn't work," he says quietly, his breath coaxing the ember to life, "I'm calling Zayn, having him retrieve my lighter, and then I'm going to tie you to that picnic table and—"

A small flame suddenly flares to life, cutting off his threat. Harry stares at it for a moment, something like triumph crossing his features. He carefully feeds it with smaller twigs, building it up with the focused attention he usually reserves for business deals.

"There," he announces, sitting back on his heels as the fire grows. "Fire made with rocks like a fucking caveman."

Despite his complaints, there's satisfaction in his voice. He's conquered this task and added it to his list of things he can do. He stands, brushing off his hands, and turns to you with that dangerous smile you know all too well.

"Now," he says, advancing on you with clear intent, "about that lighter..."

You back up instinctively, but he's faster, catching you around the waist and pulling you against him. His lips find your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin.

"You're lucky I love you," he murmurs against your pulse point, the words so quiet you almost miss them "Otherwise, angel, you'd be in serious trouble." His hands slide lower, gripping possessively. "Actually," he amends, his voice dropping to that dark register that makes your knees weak, "you're still in serious trouble. I'm just going to enjoy delivering the consequences."

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

The lake is calm in the early evening light, the surface reflecting the orange and pink sky like glass. You're sitting on the wooden dock with your legs dangling over the edge and a borrowed fishing rod in your hands. Harry sits beside you with his own rod though his expression suggests he's still processing the fact that he's actually doing this.

"This is boring," he announces after five minutes of silence.

"It's peaceful," you correct, bumping your shoulder against his.

"Boring and peaceful aren't mutually exclusive," Harry mutters, but he doesn't move to leave. His eyes scan the water's surface, looking for any sign of fish with the same intensity he'd use to read a contract.

Fifteen minutes later, your line tugs sharply. "Harry! I got something!"

He's immediately alert, setting his own rod aside and moving behind you, his hands covering yours on the reel.

"Don't pull too hard," he instructs, his voice low near your ear. "Let it tire itself out first. Feel the tension."

His hands guide yours, and together you reel in a decent-sized bass. When it breaks the surface, you squeal with excitement, and Harry actually smirks a real, genuine expression of satisfaction.

"Not bad, angel," he says, helping you land the fish. "Though I could have shot it. Would've been faster."

"That's not—that defeats the entire purpose—"

"I'm aware," he interrupts, that smirk still playing on his lips. "I'm fucking with you."

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

Back at the campsite, Harry handles the fish, cleaning it with a knife he produced from somewhere on his person. You probably don't want to know why he carries that particular blade or what it's been used for before.

"Where did you learn to do that?" you ask, watching him work.

"You pick things up," he says vaguely, which is Harry-speak for 'don't ask questions you don't want answered.'

The fish cooks over the fire on a makeshift grill, seasoned with supplies from the kit. The smell is incredibly smoky and savory. Harry tends it carefully, turning it at precise intervals, his perfectionism extending even to campfire cooking.

"I can't believe this," you say, accepting the plate he hands you. "Harry Styles, cooking fish over an open fire."

"Take a picture," he deadpans. "It's never happening again."

But he's relaxed in a way you rarely see. The rigid tension in his shoulders has eased, and when he sits beside you on the log, his thigh presses against yours in comfortable contact

You eat in comfortable silence, the fire crackling between you and the woods. The sun has fully set now, stars beginning to emerge in the darkening sky.

"Okay," you admit, "this is actually really good."

"Don't sound so surprised," Harry says, though there's satisfaction in his voice. "I'm good at everything I do."

"Except building tents."

His eyes cut to you with mock severity. "We don't speak of the that"

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

After dinner, Harry produces the marshmallows, graham crackers, and chocolate from the supplies "Alright," he says, spearing a marshmallow on a stick with more aggression than necessary. "Show me how this works."

You demonstrate, holding your marshmallow at the perfect distance from the flames, rotating it slowly until it's golden brown. Harry watches intently, then attempts his own.

His first marshmallow catches fire immediately. "Shit," he curses, pulling it back and blowing it out. The marshmallow is completely black, smoking sadly on the end of the stick.

"You have to keep it away from the actual flames," you explain, trying not to laugh.

"I can see that now," Harry says dryly, flicking the ruined marshmallow into the fire and starting over.

His second attempt is better with a perfectly golden outside and melted on the inside. He assembles the s'more carefully, then hands it to you before making his own. When you bite into it, chocolate and marshmallow oozing out the sides, you can't help the satisfied sound you make. Harry's eyes darken slightly at the noise, tracking the way you lick chocolate from your thumb.

"Good?" he asks, voice lower than necessary.

"Amazing," you confirm, then watch as he takes a bite of his own. His expression shifts; surprise, then approval.

"Okay," he concedes. "I understand the appeal of this one."

You make three more each, sitting close to the fire as the night grows cooler. Harry's arm eventually finds its way around your shoulders, pulling you against his side. The woods are alive with night sounds of crickets, the rustle of leaves, and the occasional call of an owl.

"Thank you," you say quietly, setting aside your empty plate and turning to look at him. "For doing this. I know it's not your thing."

Harry's jaw works for a moment, that muscle ticking like it does when he's feeling something he doesn't quite know how to express. "You're my thing," he finally says, the words rough but sincere. "So if this makes you happy..."

He trails off, but the implication is clear. He'd do considerably more than camp in the woods if it meant seeing that smile on your face.

Something warm blooms in your chest and not just affection, but deep, overwhelming love for this complicated, dangerous, but surprisingly tender man. You climb into his lap, straddling his thighs on the log, and begin pressing kisses all over his face. His forehead, his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, the sharp line of his jaw, the corners of his mouth.

"Thank you," kiss, "for the tent building," kiss, "for the firewood gathering," kiss, "for the rock-fire-starting," kiss, "for fishing and cooking and s'mores and—"

Harry catches your face between his hands, stopping your assault of affection to look at you properly. His eyes are soft in the firelight, that careful guard he maintains with everyone else completely absent.

"Angel," he murmurs, thumbs stroking your cheeks, "you don't have to thank me for every little thing."

"They're not little things," you insist. "Not for you. You did all of this, put up with all of it, just because I asked. Because it made me happy."

His hands slide down to your waist, gripping firmly as he stands, taking you with him. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively as he carries you away from the fire.

"Where are we going?" you ask, though you already know.

"Tent," Harry says simply, his voice taking on that edge of command. "I've been patient all day."

He pushes through the tent flap, the interior lit by a battery-powered lantern someone must have set up earlier. The sleeping bags have been zipped together into one large bed, pillows arranged with more care than Harry would ever admit to.

"Now," he continues, laying you down on the makeshift bed with surprising gentleness, "it's my turn."

He follows you down, his weight settling over you in that way that makes you feel both trapped and completely safe. He’d just settled his weight over you, mouth a breath from yours, when your palm pressed flat to his chest. “Wait,” you whisper, and he freezes, instantly alert, eyes searching your face in the lantern glow.

“I know I've said thank you but I also want to say I’m sorry,” you say, breath hitching. “For dragging you out here basically against your will.”

His brow lifts a fraction. “You didn’t drag me,” he says evenly. “You asked. I said yes.”

“I know but I’ve wanted to go camping since I was ten.” Your voice thins, that stubborn brightness wobbling. “My parents were always too busy with work. There was always some emergency, some meeting, some reason we had to postpone.” You stare at the tent seam over his shoulder, hazel eyes wet in the soft light. “But the second I’m away at college, suddenly they have all the time in the world. Weekend trips to the lake with my siblings, camping in the backyard, all the things I begged for.” You let out a shaky breath and shake your head, golden-brown hair slipping across your cheek. “God, listen to me. Twenty-something and still whining about my parents playing favorites.” The little laugh you attempt goes nowhere. “Guess I just needed to scratch this particular childhood itch, even if I had to drag you along for it.”

Harry’s jaw flexes once. He doesn’t look away. His hands come up, thumbs warm against your damp lashes as he wipes under your eyes like handling something precious. “Angel,” he says quietly, voice a low thread in the hush of the tent, “don’t apologize to me for wanting something you should’ve had.” A beat. “They should’ve shown up, but they didn’t and that’s on them.”

You swallow, blinking. “I know. It just…still stings.”

“I understand stinging,” he answers, the corner of his mouth not quite a smile. “When I was ten, I learned to sleep with one eye open. No tents, no s’mores, just a door I’d wedge shut and a ceiling that leaked.” He exhales through his nose, gaze steady, unblinking. “So don’t call it whining. You wanted a memory so you made one. And I’m here for it.”

Your lips part, soft. “Thank you.”

His hand slides to cradle the back of your neck, grounding. “Listen to me,” he murmurs. “You want lakes, we’ll do lakes. Mountains, desert, I don’t give a damn. We’ll pitch a tent wrong in every national park if that’s what it takes.” A faint, dangerous warmth edges his words. “And if anyone tries to make you feel second choice again, they can answer to me.”

You huff a wet little laugh, thumbing his cheekbone where a smear of dirt still clings. “You’ll threaten my parents over marshmallows?”

He leans in, brushing a kiss to the tip of your nose. “I’ll protect you over anything,” he says simply. “That’s the point.”

You breathe out, shoulders unclenching, the confession finally settling. “I really did have fun today,” you whisper. “With you.”

“I know,” he says, softer than soft. “Me too”

“And I'm sorry about your lighter. I realized afterwards it was the fancy engraved one” You apologize, suddenly feeling really shitty for doing that. You push yourself off the floor, I’ll go get it. I feel terrible for throwing it”

Harry's hand shoots out, wrapping around your wrist and pulling you back down before you can even get to your knees. His grip is firm but gentle, tugging you back against the sleeping bags.

"The fuck you will," he says flatly, his other hand coming up to cup your jaw. "It's pitch black out there, and you're not wandering around the woods alone at night."

"But it was expensive, and it had your initials—"

"It's a lighter, Ange;," he interrupts, his thumb brushing along your cheekbone. "I can buy twenty more. What I can't replace is you breaking your ankle tripping over a log in the dark, or getting lost, or—" his jaw tightens "—worse."

You bite your lip, guilt still gnawing at you. "I shouldn't have thrown it. That was childish."

"It was," he agrees. "And I'm going to make you pay for it." His hand slides down your neck possessively. "But not by sending you into the woods at night like some kind of offering to whatever the hell lives out there."

"Harry—"

"No," he says, the single word carrying absolute authority. "Tomorrow, when there's actual sunlight, we'll look for it. With Steve and the team doing a perimeter sweep because I'm not taking chances with wildlife."

He pulls you fully back down, rolling so you're tucked against his side, his arm a steel band around your waist.

"The lighter doesn't matter," he murmurs against your hair. "You matter. Everything else is just things, Angel. Things can be replaced."

His hand splays across your lower back, holding you close. "Now stop trying to run off into the darkness," he continues, voice dropping lower. “Or else I'm going to forget I was trying to be romantic and just pin you to this sleeping bag."

Despite the threat, or perhaps because of it, you relax against him, your fingers curling into his shirt.

"Good girl," he murmurs when he sees you comply, and the praise sends warmth pooling low in your belly. "See how easy that was? You listen to me, I don't have to tie you up." A pause. "Unless you want me to.”

You grin, “yeah? Hypothetically, what would you tie me up with?”

Harry goes very still, and when you tilt your head up to look at him, his eyes have gone dark, pupils blown wide in the lantern light. His hand on your lower back flexes, fingers pressing in possessively.

"Hypothetically?" he repeats, voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes your pulse quicken. "Angel, there's nothing hypothetical about what I'd do to you."

His other hand comes up, fingers wrapping loosely around your throat.  "I've got rope in the security kit," he continues, thumb stroking along your pulse point. "Good quality, won't leave marks unless you struggle too hard. Could tie those pretty wrists to the tent poles, spread you out so I could take my time."

His lips brush your ear as he speaks, each word deliberate. "Or I could use my belt," he murmurs. "Leather looks good on you. Would look even better wrapped around your wrists while you're begging me to let you come."

You feel his mouth curve against your skin. "Then there's the option of just using my hands," he says, shifting so he's partially over you again, his weight pinning you down. "Hold you exactly where I want you, feel you try to move and fail because I'm stronger."His knee slides between your thighs, pressing up.

"So which appeals to you more? The rope? The belt?" His hand tightens fractionally on your throat. "Or just me?"

“How about I tie you up?” You tease, trailing a finger down his chest.

Harry catches your finger before it reaches his stomach, wrapping his hand around yours completely. He looks down at you with an expression that sits somewhere between amusement and absolute refusal.

"No," he says simply.

"No?" you echo, raising an eyebrow.

"No," he repeats

"Why not?" you press, tilting your head with feigned innocence, hair splaying across the pillow.

His eyes track the movement, jaw working slowly. "Because I don't hand over control," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "To anyone. Ever."

"I'm not anyone," you point out.

A beat of silence as his thumb traces circles on the back of your hand. "No," he agrees quietly, and the word carries considerably more weight than the previous two times he said it. "You're not."

"So then—"

"Still no," he cuts you off, dipping his head to press his mouth to your throat. His teeth graze lightly and your train of thought dissolves. "Nice try though, angel. Points for audacity."

You laugh despite yourself, your free hand threading into his dark hair. "Coward," you whisper.

Harry pulls back just enough to look at you, one brow arched. "Say that again."

“You heard me” you grin, getting the kick out of riling him up, “Co-ward” you enunciate clearly.

Harry stares at you for exactly three seconds then he moves. You're suddenly on your stomach before you can draw another breath, both wrists pinned above your head in one of his hands, his body a solid wall of weight over yours, going nowhere.

"Coward," he repeats slowly, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice dangerously quiet. "That's what you said."

You can't move. His hand has both your wrists locked above your head with no real effort, and the casual ease of it is somehow more unnerving than if he'd struggled.

"I—" you start.

"Careful," he murmurs. "Choose your next words very thoughtfully."

You can feel him grinning against the back of your neck, even as his free hand slides to your hip, gripping firmly.

"You think this is funny," he says, not a question. His lips drag down the side of your neck, teeth catching lightly. "You deliberately push me just to see what happens."

"Maybe," you manage, breathless despite yourself.

"No maybe about it," he says. "You've been doing it all day. Throwing my lighter, the rocks, calling me a coward—" his hand squeezes your hip "—you're testing me."

You laugh into the pillow, muffled but unmistakable. Harry goes completely still above you.

"Are you laughing right now?"

"Absolutely not," you lie.

He flips you back over, pinning your wrists again, his face inches from yours, green eyes dark. "You," he says slowly, dragging the word out, "are a serious problem."

“Well, what are you going to do about it?”

Harry looks at you for a long moment, his weight settled over you, both wrists still locked above your head. The lantern casts warm gold across his face, highlighting the deliberate patience in his expression.

"What am I going to do about it," he repeats, like he's tasting the question.

He leans down, mouth finding the soft spot beneath your ear, and stays there just long enough to feel your pulse jump under his lips.

"I'm going to fuck you," he says simply, against your skin. "Until you can't remember how to be a smartass."

His free hand slides up your side, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world. "And when you're completely wrecked," he continues, pulling back to look at you, green eyes holding yours, "and you're looking up at me with that dazed look you get—" his thumb hooks under the hem of your shirt "—I'm going to ask you to repeat what you called me."

You swallow. His mouth curves, slow and certain.

"And you won't be able to," he finishes quietly. "That's what I'm going to do about it."

His grip on your wrists tightens fractionally.

"Any more questions?"

“No” you whisper, voice shaking with anticipation. 

"No?" he echoes softly, satisfaction curling through his voice. "Thats what I thought."

He releases your wrists just long enough to sit back on his heels, eyes never leaving yours as his hands move to his belt. The slow drag of leather through the loops is deliberate, unhurried, each second stretched out with calculated patience. You watch his hands work and say absolutely nothing. He folds the belt once, running his thumb along the leather, then looks down at you with an expression that makes your breath catch.

"Hands up," he says quietly. You recognize that ots not a request as you raise them above your head. A ghost of approval crosses his face as he leans forward, looping the belt around your wrists with practiced efficiency. Not painfully tight, but enough that when you test it instinctively, there's no give whatsoever.

"Harry—"

"Shh," he says simply, checking the slack with two fingers slipped beneath the leather. Satisfied, he looks down at you, pinned and wide eyed beneath him. He tilts his head slightly, studying you the way he studies everything he considers his.

"There," he murmurs, one hand smoothing your golden brown hair away from your face with devastating gentleness. "Now we're having a proper conversation."

His mouth drops to your collarbone. "Still want to call me a coward?"

You lift your chin with what little dignity you had left in this position, “I stand uncorrected”

Harry stills against your collarbone. Then he laughs, his forehead dropping to your shoulder like you've genuinely undone him.

"Un-corrected," he repeats, the word muffled against your skin. "Your wrists are tied in a tent in the middle of the woods and you're—" he laughs again, shorter this time, shaking his head.

He pulls back to look at you properly, and the expression on his face is one you've catalogued carefully over months. The one he doesn't know he makes. "You are the most stubborn woman I have ever met in my entire life," he says, with genuine reverence.

"Thank you," you say pleasantly.

His jaw tightens, but his eyes are bright. "That wasn't a compliment."

You shrug "I took it as one.”

Harry stares down at you for one long moment, belt-bound wrists above your head, chin lifted in complete defiance, eyes sparkling up at him in the warm lantern light.

He shakes his head once, slowly. "Of course you did," he murmurs. He reaches up and clicks off the lantern.

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

a/n: Sorry y’all had this in my drafts for sooo long just because I couldnt get the smut down 😭 I just felt like it was meh so I just took it out. I’m getting smut rusty ya’ll

Tags: @silastylesswift @babegoals @harryssunflower17 @puzio19 @goldensunflowerss-blog @drewrry @tinawritesstuff @dipmeinhoneyh @spinninc @harrystyleshotwife @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @estaticheart @harrysguccihandbag @mads3502 @harrydeary @valuunit @myfavfanficsever @lunaharrygurl @mema10 @sittinginthegarden @angeldavis777 @triski73 @ivegotthecinema @bethiegurl19 @sstylezzz @spinninc @fruity-harry @readingrockstar23 @aileen1237 @cowboylikelivie @angelbunny222 @berrycherry28 @maldaptivescorpio  @run-for-the-hills @maddiemikaelson28 @aileen1237

Harry slips his shoes off by the front door and quietly makes his way into the kitchen, flowers in hand and a small sleepy smile on his face. His eyes glance at the clock on the stove that reads it’s just a little after six in the morning so he has roughly almost half an hour before he’s worried you’ll notice his side of the bed is empty because for some reason every morning around six forty five you roll over and reach for him, he’s not sure why but you’ve been doing it for the last five years he’s been lucky enough to share a bed with you. And he knows if he’s not there like he’s meant to be you’ll begin to stir and eventually wake up earlier than you’re supposed to resulting in a bit of a crankier mood and he wants to avoid that at all costs.

So Harry sets the flowers down on the counter and walks to the other end of the island where you have last weeks bouquet sitting in a lovely crystal vase his mother bought the two of you as a wedding gift three years ago. He grabs the now a little sad and wilted flowers and tosses them into the trash, dumping the excess water from the vase before setting it down in front of his new bouquet. By now Harry has a system for how he likes to arrange the weekly bouquet he’s been getting you since your first date all those years ago, it started off by being flowers he’d pick from people’s bushes on his walk over to your apartment but as he got older and his job started paying better his bouquets have also gotten an upgrade. The flowers ranging from stupidly expensive on weeks he knows you need a little extra all the way to a batch of supermarket roses he saw and knew you’d just enjoy the simple beauty of. But on special occasions like this week being the week of your anniversary they are ones he picks from random bushes in the neighborhood that you’ve commented on during an evening or morning stroll, much like the very first flowers he ever brought you that started the tradition.

As his hands move to start cutting some stems and placing them in the vase he can’t help but smile because even though you’ve been coming into the kitchen of whatever house the two of you have lived in every Monday to a new vase of flowers for years, your face is always shocked and your eyes always get the teensiest bit glassy. It’s as if you’re not expecting it and maybe you’re not, maybe you don’t realize that Harry has been going out of his way to make sure you have fresh flowers to start your week with even if it means going out in the snow or the rain at crazy hours of the day because he loves you. He loves you so much that he would rather sacrifice a few hours of sleep just to see that shocked look on your face every Monday for the rest of his life.

“Harry?” Your low sleepy voice makes him look up from the pile of flowers he’s in the middle of arranging as you walk into the kitchen. “What are-” He watches your eyes take in the scene in front of you and he feels his heart swell as you let out a tiny little gasp and bring a hand up to cover your mouth.

“Baby you’re not supposed to be up for another-” he looks over his shoulder at the clock. “Ten minutes.” He informs you as he moves around the island and walks over so he’s standing in front of you.

“I got cold and went to cuddle you but you weren’t there.” You explain making him let out a soft chuckle as he wraps his arms around your shoulders bringing you into his warm embrace. “You got me flowers.” You say softly into his chest, he just gives you a squeeze as his lips press a kiss to the top of your head.

Today though, tour actually takes over again, night four, another show day ahead. But not quite yet. For now, there is only morning sun over the canals, the sound of bicycles passing over cobblestones, and Harry walking beside you with his sunglasses on, one hand loosely wrapped around yours. It's still early enough for the city to feel gentle. Busy, yes, but not frantic. Cafés are filling slowly, tables being wiped down, pastries arranged behind glass, tiny vases with tulips placed on outdoor tables as if the whole city believes breakfast needs decoration.

“We could just keep walking and call it breakfast,” Harry says after the third café you pass is deemed too full.

You glance over. “That’s not how breakfast works.”

“It could be. Very European. A thoughtful stroll.”

“You need actual food before soundcheck.”

“I had a mint.”

“A mint is not breakfast, Harry.”

“It’s refreshing.”

“It’s toothpaste-adjacent.”

He laughs, squeezing your hand gently. “Fine. Actual food. Somewhere small, though.”

You know what he means without him needing to explain. Harry loves people, and he is generous with fans when he can be, but food is one of the few things he tries to keep sacred. He doesn’t want to be photographed mid-bite or approached while you are trying to have a quiet conversation over coffee. More than that, he knows you still become shy when fans recognise you beside him, even when they are kind. So he keeps his head lowered a little as you turn down a quieter street, away from the bigger brunch spots with queues outside.

The café you eventually find is tucked between a flower shop and a narrow bookshop, its windows fogged slightly from the warmth inside. There are a few tables near the front, but most of them are occupied by locals reading newspapers or tourists planning their day over maps and croissants. In the back corner, half-hidden by a tall plant and a low wooden partition, there is a small table for two. Harry spots it at the same time you do. “That one,” he murmurs.

You smile. “Very stealthy.”

“I’m basically invisible.”

“You are wearing sunglasses indoors.”

“Exactly. Disguise.”

“Excellent work.”

He grins and follows you to the corner table, sliding into the seat across from you. The moment you sit, the whole morning settles into something easy. Outside, a cyclist rings a bell at someone crossing too slowly. Inside, coffee machines hiss, cups clink softly, and an old song plays from speakers somewhere near the counter. Harry takes off his sunglasses and folds them neatly beside his phone and you just watch him for a second.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

“That’s my line.”

“I’m just happy.”

The answer makes his expression soften immediately. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Yesterday helped.”

“Spa Harry is a superior Harry.”

“Breakfast-in-bed Harry is also quite good.”

“He’s a bit of a thief, though.”

“You stole all my strawberries.”

“I told you, they tasted better that way.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He leans back, pleased. “So I’ve been told.”

Before you can answer, the waitress arrives. She is young, probably in her early twenties, with a notepad in one hand and the unmistakable expression of someone trying very hard to appear calm while absolutely not feeling calm at all. Her eyes go straight to Harry. Only Harry. “Good morning,” she says, voice bright and sugary. “Welcome. It’s really, really lovely to have you here.”

The way she says you makes it clear she is not talking to the table. Harry notices it immediately and his eyes flick to you for half a second before he smiles politely at her. “Morning. Thank you.”

The waitress blushes immediately, then hurries to hand him a menu with both hands, as if presenting a gift. “Here you go.”

“Thanks,” Harry says.

She gives you yours after that, but it is more of a transfer than a welcome. A quick glance, a thin smile, and then her attention snaps back to Harry as if pulled by a magnet. “Can I get you something to drink?” she asks him. “Coffee? Tea? Fresh juice? Anything you like.”

Harry sits with that for a second, not long enough to be rude, just long enough for you to see the tiny shift in his face, the polite disbelief behind his eyes. Then he turns to you, deliberately, giving you his full attention. “D’you want your usual, love? Or something different today?”

The waitress looks between you both and you clear your throat lightly, amused about the situation. “Usual sounds good.”

“Oat cappuccino?”

“Please.”

Harry looks back at the waitress. “A black coffee for me, and an oat cappuccino for her, please.”

The waitress writes it down while still looking at him. “Of course.”

She leaves with a smile aimed entirely at Harry. You lift an eyebrow the second she is gone and Harry watches her for one more beat, then turns back to you. “That was weird.”

“She knows who you are.”

“That doesn’t explain why she looked at you like you were a coat on the wrong chair.”

You laugh softly. “Maybe she’s having a rough morning.”

Harry gives you a look. “You’re very generous.”

“I try.”

“She didn’t even say hello to you.”

“She handed me a menu.”

“Barely.”

“Still counts.”

“It doesn’t.”

You hide a smile behind the menu. “Pick your breakfast, protective man.”

“I am picking while also judging.”

“You multitask beautifully, my love.”

He opens his menu with a small huff, but you can still feel him watching you over the top of it every few seconds, checking if you are actually okay. You are. Mostly, you find the whole thing a little absurd, and absurd is much easier to handle than hurtful. After a few minutes, you settle on a breakfast bowl with porridge, fruit, nuts, and honey. Harry, who had been considering eggs, changes his mind twice, then announces he might need “something clean” before show day, which makes you snort because the man ate half a basket of hotel fries at midnight after night three. Your coffees arrive almost immediately, and so does the waitress. She places Harry’s black coffee down with care, almost reverence. “Here you go.”

“Thank you,” he says.

Then she sets your cappuccino down so quickly that a little foam trembles over the rim and lands on the saucer and Harry’s jaw shifts visibly. You reach for a napkin before he can say anything while the waitress turns back to him with her brightest smile. “Have you decided what you’d like for breakfast?”

Harry doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he looks at you. “We have,” he says. “What would you like, love?”

You keep your voice friendly when you turn to the waitress. “I’ll have the porridge bowl, please. With fruit and honey.”

The waitress barely angles her body towards you as her pen pauses against the notepad. “Of course,” she says, then adds under her breath, not quite quietly enough, “Very mainstream. Could probably use some carbs, but…”

Harry freezes, you see it happen in real time. The tiny delay, the way his eyes move from the waitress, to you, back to the waitress again. He looks genuinely stunned, as if she has just done something so socially outrageous that his brain needs a second to accept it. You shake your head slightly. Not here, not now, not worth it. Harry reads the gesture, but he's not happy about it. Then the waitress turns to him again, all sweetness restored. “And for you?”

Harry closes his menu. “I’ll have the same.”

The waitress brightens. “The porridge bowl?”

“Yes.”

“With fruit and honey?”

“Exactly the same.”

There is a particular kind of satisfaction in the way he says it. Calm, polite, very pointed. You press your lips together to keep from smiling and the waitress either misses the point completely or chooses to. “Of course. Great choice.”

When she leaves again, Harry stares after her in sheer disbelief.

“You ordered porridge out of spite,” you say.

“I ordered porridge out of loyalty.”

“That’s very noble of you.”

“I’m a noble man.”

“You wanted eggs.”

“I can want eggs and still stand for justice.”

You laugh into your cappuccino, after wiping the saucer with your napkin. “Careful, or I’ll put that on a t-shirt.”

“Please don’t. Fans’ll start asking what happened at breakfast.”

“They probably already know.”

Harry groans. “Bet someone’s gonna have photographed us through a tulip arrangement.”

“Very Dutch scandal.”

He finally looks away from the waitress and back at you, his expression softening. “You sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to be fine.”

“I know, but I am.”

He studies you like he is trying to decide whether to believe that, and because you don't want the morning to become about a rude waitress, you tilt your head. “Have you decided on the surprise song for tonight?”

That gets him and his eyes brighten a little. “Think I might do Paint by Numbers.”

Your smile is immediate. “Really?”

“Yeah. Piano version.”

“Oh, they’re going to love that.”

“You think?”

“I know. They love that song.”

“You love that song.”

“I have excellent taste.”

He leans forward, forearms on the table. “You absolutely do. Dating me proves it.”

“Let’s not get carried away.”

His grin is quick, dimpled, and entirely too pleased with itself. “You wound me.”

“You’ll survive.”

“I might write a song about it.”

“As long as it’s not called Mainstream Porridge Bowl.”

Harry laughs loudly enough that the woman at the table near the window glances over with a smile.

For a while, the mood returns to what it was supposed to be: light and easy. You talk about the show, about which photos from the show before are safe to post without causing a complete internet collapse again. Harry makes fun of you for using the phrase “posting strategy”, and you remind him that his entire digital presence would be a ghost town without you. Then the waitress comes back with the food. She places Harry’s bowl down first, carefully centred, spoon set beside it with a little flourish. “Here you are.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, but his eyes are already on her hand as she turns towards your side of the table. She must notice the look he gives her, because this time she sets your bowl down gently. Almost comically gently, and Harry nods once. “Thank you.”

The waitress blushes again, her confidence returning the second his politeness lands on her. She smiles at him, leaning just slightly closer than necessary. “If there’s anything else you want,” she says, voice low and sweet, “anything at all, just let me know. I’d be very happy to take care of you.”

The silence that follows is tiny, but sharp. Harry stares at her, you lift your eyebrows, and the waitress just gives you a quick look then — dismissive, almost a little triumphant — before turning on her heel and walking away. For three full seconds, Harry doesn't move a muscle. You pick up your spoon. “Well,” you say after your first bite, “at least the food knows how to behave.”

Harry blinks, then looks at you. You take another spoonful. “It’s actually really good.”

He still looks caught between offence and disbelief. “Did she just—”

“Yes.”

“In front of you?”

“Yes.”

“While serving us breakfast?”

“Apparently breakfast comes with extras.”

Harry glances back towards the counter, then starts eating mostly because you are eating and because, despite everything, the porridge is good.

A few minutes pass with only the soft clink of spoons against bowls. Then he sets his spoon down. “How are you this calm?”

You look up. “She’s a fan.”

“That's not an answer.”

“It kind of is.”

“No, love, it really isn’t.”

You take a sip of your cappuccino and choose your words carefully, not because you are upset, but because this is one of those conversations that deserves more than a shrug. “You always say you try to treat fans with kindness,” you say. “Even when they’re awkward, or too excited, or they cross a line a little because they don’t know what to do with the moment.”

“This wasn't a little.”

“I know.”

“And you're not required to tolerate someone being rude to you because they like me.”

“I know that too.”

His expression eases slightly, but the irritation is still there. Not for himself, that's the part that makes you love him more. Harry is used to people flirting, used to being looked at, touched emotionally by strangers who feel like they know him. He handles it with more patience than most people would. But watching someone dismiss you beside him? That's harder for him to swallow.

“I just don’t want to spend energy on her,” you say. “She doesn’t know me. I don’t know her. We’ll probably never see her again after today. If I let her ruin my mood, she goes on with her day anyway, and I’m the one carrying it around.”

Harry listens, silent now.

“I’ve had to learn that,” you continue. “Not perfectly. I still get bothered by things. But sometimes protecting my peace means deciding that not every rude person deserves access to my feelings. Some people are just passing through. They can be unpleasant, and I can still leave them at the table when I walk away.”

He looks at you with such focused tenderness that you almost have to look back down at your breakfast.

“That makes sense,” he says after a moment.

“You do it too.”

“I try to.”

“You do. I've seen it.”

He gives a small shrug. “Had to learn. If I let every article, every comment, every nasty little post, every weird interaction get inside my head, I’d never see anything good again. And there’s too much good.” His eyes move over your face. “There’s you. There’s mornings like this. There are shows where people sing back so loud I can’t hear myself think. I don’t want the ugly bits to be louder than all that.”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

“I know.” He reaches across the table and brushes his fingers against yours. “I’m proud of you for that. For knowing where to put things down.”

You smile. “You make me sound very wise.”

“You are.”

“I ordered porridge.”

“Wise people eat porridge.”

“You only ate it out of loyalty.”

“Still counts.”

The conversation leaves something warm between you, a serious note tucked into an otherwise ridiculous breakfast. By the time the bowls are empty and the coffees are finished, both of you are relaxed again, the waitress reduced to more of a story than a problem. Harry asks for the bill when she passes close enough to notice. She arrives quickly, naturally directing herself to him. “Did you enjoy everything?”

“The food was good,” Harry says, polite but less warm than before.

“I’m glad.” She smiles as if the sentence is a private gift. “Can I get you anything else before you go?”

“No, thank you. Just the bill.”

“Of course.”

She brings the card machine, and Harry pays while you look out of the window at a man trying to convince his dog to walk in the opposite direction. The dog is winning. When the receipt prints, the waitress tears it off. Then, with a smile so bold it almost becomes impressive, she places a folded piece of paper beside Harry’s hand. “In case you ever want something not on the menu,” she says.

You stare at the paper. Harry stares at the paper. The waitress gives him one last smile and walks away. For a second, neither of you speaks. Then Harry unfolds it.

Emily♡

A phone number underneath.

His face is so immediately confused, horrified, and offended that you cannot help it, you snort. Not a delicate laugh, not subtle, a proper, surprised little burst that you try and fail to catch behind your hand. The waitress — Emily, apparently — glances back and shoots you a glare and that only makes it worse. Harry looks at you, then at the paper, then back at you. “Are you laughing at my harassment?”

“I’m laughing at your face.”

“My face is reacting appropriately.”

“It’s a very good face.”

“She gave me her number in front of you.”

“Yes, I was here.”

“I’m aware you were here. That’s the concerning bit.”

You stand, still laughing quietly as you gather your things. Harry leaves the paper exactly where it is, flat on the table beside the empty bowls and the receipt.

“You’re not taking Emily with you?” you ask.

Harry gives you a look. “Don’t.”

“She offered things off-menu.”

“I’m walking away now.”

“Very strong boundaries.”

“Proud of me?”

“Extremely.”

He places a hand lightly at your back as you leave the café, not possessive, just present. The moment you step outside, the cool Amsterdam air feels wonderful after the warmth inside and Harry exhales dramatically. “That was the strangest breakfast I’ve ever had.”

You slip your hand into his. “It was very educational.”

“About what?”

“Customer service. Porridge. Human confidence.”

“Human audacity.”

“That too.”

He shakes his head, but now he is laughing as well. The whole thing is already becoming funny in the way bizarre situations do once you are no longer sitting inside them. You walk back towards the canal, taking the quieter route back to the hotel. Harry keeps your hand in his, thumb moving absently over your knuckles. “You didn’t even get jealous,” he says after a few minutes.

You glance over. “No.”

“Not even a little?”

“No.”

“Interesting.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I’m not disappointed.”

“You wanted me to throw a spoon?”

“No,” he says, though he's smiling. “Maybe not a spoon.”

“A napkin?”

“Subtle and elegant.”

You laugh. “I don’t really do jealousy.”

Harry looks at you, curious now. “How d’you mean?”

You think for a moment, watching sunlight catch on the water beside you. “I mean, I don’t see the point of it,” you say. “Jealousy doesn’t make anyone love you more. It doesn’t keep anyone faithful. It doesn’t stop someone from leaving if they want to leave. It only makes you feel terrible while you imagine things you can’t control.”

Harry’s smile fades into attention. You continue, calm and matter-of-fact. “I know you’re with me because you want to be. If one day you didn’t want that anymore, jealousy wouldn’t save me from it. Trying to own someone doesn’t make them stay. It just turns love into fear, and I don’t want to love you from fear.”

He is quiet for a few steps. You look at him then, softening. “Obviously, if you left me for a waitress named Emily after one bowl of porridge, I would be devastated.”

Harry makes a noise of protest. “That is never happening.”

“I know.”

“Not even for off-menu items.”

“Good to know.”

“I don’t want Emily. I want you.”

You smile. “That’s why I’m not jealous.”

He lets out a breath, half laugh, half wonder. “You’re much more evolved than I am.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I’m saying it. I’d be jealous.”

“I know.”

His eyebrows lift. “You know?”

“Harry, you once side-eyed a bartender in Rome for calling me darling.”

“He lingered on the darling.”

“He was seventy.”

“Experienced flirt.”

You laugh so hard you have to slow down. Harry grins, pleased with himself, but then his voice turns softer. “I do understand what you mean, though. I agree with it. In theory. I’m just not sure I’m always that… serene.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“No?”

“No. You just have to be honest with yourself when it happens. Jealousy is human. I don’t think feeling it makes you bad. I just don’t want it driving the car.”

Harry considers that, then nods slowly. “That’s a good way to put it.”

“I have my moments.”

“You have many.” He lifts your joined hands and kisses your knuckles as you walk. “I adore you, you know that?”

“I had a suspicion.”

“Good. Would hate for it to be subtle.”

“You dedicated a song to me in front of an arena two days ago. Subtle left the building.”

“Fair point.”

The hotel comes into view at the end of the street, and with it, the return of show day. Schedules, soundcheck, emails, clothes, stage lights, the whole bright machine waiting to begin again. But the morning stays light around you now. Harry looks sideways at you. “So, no jealousy at all?”

You sigh dramatically. “Fine. Maybe I was jealous of one thing.”

He perks up immediately. “What?”

“The way she centered your bowl perfectly and left mine fighting for its life.”

Harry throws his head back laughing and you smile, tightening your hand around his. “I expect loyalty porridge forever now.”

“You’ll have it.”

“And no off-menu adventures.”

“Only with you.”

“Careful, Styles. That sounded almost smooth.”

“Almost?”

“You’re improving.”

He pulls you a little closer as you walk, still laughing under his breath. “Best review I’ve had all week.”

You lean into his side, and together you keep walking through Amsterdam, back to the hotel, back to the show ahead, both of you lighter than when you left the café and perfectly content to leave Emily, her number, and her extremely questionable customer service behind with the empty bowls.

Taglist: @lizsogolden @avensgreenvans @maudie-duan @chocostyles @sparklejumpropequeen1113 @pops234 @lomlcamy

Two years. You have said it to yourself several times today, mostly in stolen seconds. In the lift at the hotel this morning. While approving a backstage photo dump. While Harry kissed you quickly near catering before being pulled away for rehearsals. It feels both impossible and obvious. Like you have loved him forever, but also like you are still that person in Italy at the beginning of 2024, laughing under disco lights, dancing with a mutual friend named Carla, not yet knowing the man watching you from across the room would one day look at you like you were his favourite place to come back to.

Harry catches your eye in the mirror and smiles.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing.”

“That is not a nothing face.”

“I have a nothing face?”

“You have several. That isn’t one of them.”

He turns from the mirror, stage outfit ready, in-ears hanging loose for one more minute. “I want you in the pit tonight.”

You blink, surprised. “What?”

“In the pit.”

“You want me in the pit?”

“Yeah.”

“You hate when I’m in the pit.”

“I don’t hate it.”

“You once said the pit is where personal space goes to die.”

Harry makes a face. “That was during a festival.”

“You said it with conviction.”

He steps closer, hands finding your waist with easy familiarity. “Tonight’s different.”

You search his face. “Why?”

For once, he doesn't turn it into a joke immediately. His thumbs move lightly against your sides, and his gaze softens in a way that makes the busy hallway around you fade to a blur. “Didn’t get much of you today,” he says. “And I know that’s how it is on show days, but…” He shrugs one shoulder. “S’our anniversary. I want to be able to look down and see you.”

Your expression changes before you can help it and he notices, of course. He always does.

“I’ll have Mark with you the whole time,” he adds quickly. “Right next to you. You’ll be between the barricades and the stage, not in the crowd. No one gets too close.”

“You already planned the safety arrangement?”

“Obviously.”

“Of course you did.”

“I’m romantic and practical.”

“You’re overprotective.”

“Also true.”

You smile, unable to stop yourself. There is something ridiculously sweet about it, the fact that he wants you close, and the fact that even his softness comes with a full security plan. “Okay,” you say.

His eyebrows lift slightly, as if he had prepared more arguments. “Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll stand in the pit.”

He looks pleased in the boyish, immediate way he sometimes does when he gets exactly what he wants. “Good.”

“But if I get screamed at by fifty thousand people because they realise I’m down there, I’m blaming you.”

“Fair.”

“And if someone asks me for your hand in marriage, I’m saying you’re busy.”

“Also fair.” He laughs, then leans in and kisses you. It's quick, because the show clock is unforgiving, but he lingers half a second longer than he should. His fingers give your waist a gentle squeeze before he lets you go.

“Enjoy your show,” you say softly.

“Our show,” he corrects.

You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “Go on, superstar.”

He grins. “Bossy.”

“Always.”

Mark appears by the hallway entrance a minute later, calm and silent as ever. Harry looks at him, then at you, then back at Mark. “You’ve got her?”

Mark nods. “Always.”

Harry still looks at you one more time. “I’ll see you out there.”

“You better.”

His smile turns warm. Then the show pulls him away and Mark leads you through the backstage corridors, past crew members with headsets and black clothing, past cases marked with tape and cables coiled neatly along the walls. The closer you get to the arena floor, the louder everything becomes. The crowd is enormous tonight, louder than night one and night two somehow, as if Amsterdam has been saving a little extra madness for the third show.

When you step into the space between the barricades and the stage, the noise hits you properly. The fans notice almost immediately. At first, it’s a ripple, a few heads turn, a few phones lift. Then more. Someone gasps your name, and then a handful of voices near the front begin calling out.

“Y/N!”

“Oh my God, hi!”

“You’re so pretty!”

“We love you!”

You freeze for half a second, still not used to that part. You are comfortable behind a screen, behind a caption, behind the invisible hands that make public things run smoothly but being perceived is still strange. Being perceived as Harry’s girlfriend is even stranger. Mark stays close at your side, exactly as promised, but he gives you enough room when you turn towards the girls pressed against the barricade just behind you. One of them has glitter on her cheeks and tears already sitting in her eyes, though Harry hasn't even come out yet.

“Hi,” you say, smiling.

The girl covers her mouth. “Hi. Sorry. We just— we love you so much.”

You let out a shy laugh. “That’s very sweet.”

“No, really,” another girl says, leaning forward just enough to be heard over the music playing through the speakers. “Thank you for looking after him. He seems so happy with you.”

Your smile softens and the words hit differently down here, surrounded by fans who love him loudly enough to shake an arena. They don't know every part of him, they can't. But they know enough to notice joy when it's written all over him. “He makes it easy,” you say.

The girls make an immediate noise of affection, several of them clutching each other dramatically.

“Oh my God, stop.”

“That’s so cute.”

“We saw the live on Sunday. You two were adorable.”

“You’re so good for him.”

That one makes you look down for a second, overwhelmed but touched. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

“Happy anniversary!” someone else calls from further back.

Your head snaps up, surprised. The girl laughs. “Sorry. Twitter knows everything.”

“Of course it does,” you say, laughing too.

A few of them hold up little heart shapes with their hands. Another asks if you can tell Harry they love him, and you promise you will, even though in about sixty seconds he is going to hear it directly from all of them at a volume that might alter the building’s structure.

Then the lights drop and the screams begin before he even appears. You turn towards the stage, your body automatically moving a little closer to Mark as the arena transforms. Darkness, then colour and a flash across the screens once the intro starts, followed by the first notes, that familiar rush of sound and expectation rising in one giant breath. Then Harry walks out and Amsterdam erupts. He comes onto the stage with the confidence of someone who has now remembered exactly where he belongs. Night one’s nerves are long gone, night two’s playful brightness is still there, but tonight there is another layer to him, something charged and golden under the lights and he sings Are you listening yet? like he has been waiting all day to do it.

From where you stand, the stage feels impossibly close. You can see details you miss from the VIP box: the way his hand tightens around the microphone before a high note, the shine of sweat beginning at his temple, the small grin he gives a fan in the front row when they scream a lyric too early. And he sees you. Of course he does. The first time it happens, he is crossing the main stage, singing into the roar, and his gaze flicks down exactly where he told you to stand. The second his eyes find yours, his expression changes. Not much, probably not enough for most people to catch, but you catch it. A private smile tucked inside the public one.

The girls behind you immediately lose their minds.

“He looked at you!”

“He’s so in love!”

You laugh and shake your head, but you can't deny the warmth spreading through you.

The show moves fast after that. Song after song, light after light, Harry dancing, joking, leaning towards the crowd, letting them sing lines back to him until the arena feels less like a venue and more like one huge living thing breathing with him. Every time he comes near the main stage, his eyes find you again. Sometimes it is quick, just a glance, or a smile. Sometimes it lasts a little longer, his gaze catching yours between verses as if he is checking whether you are still there. You are.

Halfway through the show, he takes a minute to drink water. The lights are lower, the crowd still buzzing, and he stands near the front of the stage with a towel in one hand and the bottle in the other. He looks down at you while he drinks, and for the first time all night, you see a flicker of nerves return. Not fear, anticipation. He knows what is coming. And so do his hands, apparently, because he keeps turning the bottle cap between his fingers even after he has finished drinking. His eyes stay on you, and for a moment, the arena around him slips backwards in time, back to Italy in early 2024. To a warm night with music spilling out of a crowded little bar. Carla laughing too loudly beside him, dragging him into a group of people he only half knew. He hadn't planned to stay long, that had been his line for most nights back then. One drink, a few polite conversations, home before the night became too loud. Then he saw you dancing. Not for attention. Not for anyone watching, either. Just dancing because the song was good and your friend had taken both your hands and spun you until you nearly bumped into a table. You had laughed, bright and unguarded, then immediately apologised to a stranger whose drink had been in danger. Harry remembers being struck by the balance of you. Warm, but not performative. Quiet, but not closed off. Grounded in a way that made the room feel less chaotic from the second he noticed you. Carla had introduced you later, pretending she didn’t see the way Harry forgot his sentence halfway through it. You had teased him for trying to order in Italian with too much confidence and not enough grammar. He had laughed harder than the joke deserved because he wanted you to keep talking. Later, after you danced together, he’d asked Carla for your number with an attempt at casualness so poor she had laughed in his face. Four months after that, he had asked if you wanted to make it official. Not with a grand gesture, not with drama. Just the two of you on a morning walk, coffee in hand, his fingers brushing yours until he finally took your hand properly and said he didn't want to pretend this was casual when nothing about the way he felt for you had ever been casual.

Now, two years later, you're standing in front of his stage in Amsterdam. And he's about to tell an arena exactly how much that night changed his life. But for now, the show carries on. A few songs later, he does a gender reveal for a fan in the audience. The crowd cheers when it turns out to be a girl, and Harry’s face lights up with such genuine delight that you automatically smile just as bright. He jokes, he congratulates her, he makes the whole moment sweet and theatrical enough for the crowd to adore it. But as he walks back across the stage, still smiling, a thought appears in his mind with surprising clarity. One day, not now, not tonight and definitely not as a public spectacle in front of thousands. But one day, somewhere quiet, somewhere yours, he can picture it so easily it nearly startles him. You and him, a secret held between both your hands, his mum crying before anyone has even finished speaking. A little future taking shape in a room full of people who love you. The thought doesn’t scare him, it settles, as natural as breathing.

Then the lights shift, the energy in the room softens, and the show eases into the part of the show where, on the previous shows, he had sung Matilda. You know the setlist, you know the timing, you know what should happen now. Harry steps towards the front of the stage with his microphone in hand and the crowd quiets gradually, a few screams fading into murmurs, then into that attentive hush he somehow knows how to command without asking too loudly.

He looks out across the arena first, then down at you, then back into the audience. “Amsterdam,” he says, voice warm through the speakers. “How are we feeling?”

The response is thunderous, Harry grins. “Good. Very good. You’ve been incredibly kind to us these last few nights. Thank you for having us. Thank you for singing with us, dancing with us, screaming at us in a way that is occasionally alarming but always appreciated.”

The crowd laughs and cheers, you smile up at him, expecting the usual speech. The gentle transition, the gratitude, the little reflection before the next song. And at first, that is exactly what he gives them. “I’ve had a bit of time away from the stage these last couple of years,” he continues. “And while I was away, I tried to open up my life a little bit more. Tried to say yes to more things. Go out a bit more. See friends. Make new ones. Have nights I didn’t plan too carefully.”

A few fans cheer at that, and Harry smiles. “And a lot of the music we’re playing for you on this tour came from those small moments. The ones you don’t know are going to matter when they’re happening. Going out for a night. Letting your friends drag you somewhere. Dancing with people you know. Dancing with people you don’t know yet.”

Your breath catches very quietly when he looks at you, because now you know. “Oh no,” you whisper, so softly only Mark might hear.

Harry’s mouth lifts at the corner, as if he can read the thought straight off your face. “So I want to say thank you,” he says, looking back out at the crowd. “To my friends who took me dancing when I probably would’ve stayed home. To all the strangers who danced with me. To everyone I met in those rooms and streets and late nights. And to each and every single one of you here tonight, because whether you know it or not, you’ve all changed my life.”

The arena cheers, loud and loving. Then Harry’s gaze finds you again, and the cheers begin to shift. The fans nearest you notice where he is looking and immediately phones turn. A ripple passes through the crowd before he even says the next words. Harry holds the microphone a little closer. “Two years ago today,” he says, quieter now, “my life changed for the better.”

The arena falls into a hush so complete it feels almost impossible. You stare up at him in disbelief. He has never done this, not like this. Harry, who protects his private life with careful hands. Harry, who has never been the type to parade love around for applause. Harry, who can sing to thousands but keeps the most delicate things to himself. And now he is looking at you in front of an entire arena.

“There hasn’t been a single day since then,” he continues, “where I haven’t felt loved unconditionally.” A few soft sounds move through the crowd, build of little awws and gasps. “Meeting you was the best coincidence of my life,” Harry says, voice steady, eyes still on you. “And every morning since, I’ve woken up and felt lucky that I get to call you my girlfriend.” Your vision blurs. You try to laugh it off, because crying in the pit while thousands of people film you is not exactly your ideal anniversary activity, but the laugh comes out wobbly and useless and Harry’s smile softens when he sees it. “For the last two years, you have brought nothing but happiness into my life,” he says. “Your love, your patience, your unwavering support, your kindness… it means more to me than I’ll ever be able to explain properly. I couldn’t have done this without you. Not the way I wanted to. Not with this much joy in it.” The arena remains quiet enough for every word to land. “Thank you for choosing me every day,” he says. “Even on the days I’m difficult.” A few fans laugh gently. You do too, wiping carefully beneath one eye. Harry nods, accepting the laugh like he deserves it. “Especially on those days, probably.”

Then his face settles again into something tender. “Seeing the world through your eyes has been one of the greatest gifts of my life,” he says. “You made me realise that sometimes home isn’t a country, or a city, or a house. Sometimes home is a person. Sometimes it’s the person you look for in every room, because everything feels better when they’re there.” Your hand presses over your mouth. Around you, fans are filming, crying, whispering your name with his, but the world has narrowed to Harry’s voice and the warm lights around him. “You saved me in ways no one else could have,” he says. “And I can never thank you enough for that. I never thought loving someone could be easy, but loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.” The sound from the crowd is soft now, scattered and emotional. A few people call out that they love him. Someone behind you sniffles dramatically. Harry looks down at you like no one else exists. “Thank you for changing my life,” he says. “For changing me. For making it better every day. I love you. And I’d choose you in every lifetime.”

For a moment, you can't move, you can only stand there with tears on your face, shy and overwhelmed and so loved you have no idea where to put it all. Harry sees the embarrassment catch up with the emotion. He sees the way you glance down, laughing through tears, wishing you could hide behind Mark despite being the entire focus of the arena. So he grins. “Alright,” he says, turning slightly back to the crowd, “before she passes out from embarrassment…” The audience laughs, warm and adoring and Harry looks at you one more time. “Here’s Love of My Life.”

The first notes begin, and the arena erupts. Not with the wild chaos of the opener, but with something bigger in a different way — a collective release, all that held breath turning into cheers and applause and sobbing voices. Harry starts to sing, and you stand beneath him with both hands wrapped around your phone, tears still slipping free despite your best efforts. He sings it differently tonight. Maybe that is only because you know, maybe because everyone knows now, but every line feels touched by the speech before it, re-shaped by the fact that he chose this song, on this night, in this city, for you.

You don't sing much, you mostly just listen while the girls behind you cry openly. By the time the song ends, Harry gives you one last look that nearly undoes you all over again, before the encore takes over for two more songs.

The arena comes alive again, louder than before, as if everyone needs to dance off the emotion. Harry runs, sings, smiles, lets the energy lift him all the way through the final stretch when during As It Was, the whole room is moving with him. You dance too, even with tear-sticky cheeks, because Harry keeps glancing down at you with that ridiculous proud grin, and you refuse to let him think he has completely ruined you. He has, of course, but he doesn't need the satisfaction. The final note hits, the crowd screams, Harry sprints beneath the lights, sweat shining on his face, breathing hard, smiling like the world has been kind to him. He waves, blows kisses, presses a hand over his heart, and then he disappears from the stage.

Mark is already moving. “Come on,” he says, though his smile is softer than usual. He leads you quickly backstage, through the side route away from the crowd, past crew members cheering and clapping as the band comes off first. The noise changes back here, less thunderous but more alive in its own way. People laughing, congratulating each other, calling out timings and good nights. You barely have time to step into the backstage corridor before Harry appears. Sweaty, breathless, and glowing. The second he sees you, his entire face breaks open. “Hi,” he says.

“You're insane.”

“Happy anniversary.” Before you can answer, he scoops you up.

You yelp, laughing as your arms fly around his shoulders and he spins you once, completely careless of the fact that he is still damp from stage and running on pure adrenaline. “Harry!”

“What?”

“You’re sweaty!”

“I’m romantic.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“You love me.”

“I do, unfortunately.”

He sets you down but keeps his arms locked around your waist, pulling you close until there is no space left between you. His grin softens as he looks at your face, thumb lifting to brush carefully near the corner of your eye. “You cried,” he says.

“You gave an anniversary speech in front of an entire arena.”

“Thought it was subtle.”

“You dedicated Love of My Life to me.”

“Very understated.”

“You told fifty thousand people I’m your home.”

His smile fades into something gentler. “You are.”

And just like that, the teasing leaves you. The hallway is still busy around you, people passing, equipment rolling, the world continuing as if yours has not tilted slightly on its axis. Harry doesn't seem to notice any of it. His attention stays on you, steady and bright.

“You’ve never done that before,” you say quietly.

“No.”

“Why tonight?”

He leans closer, brushing his nose against yours. “Because it’s true. And because I’m tired of pretending the best part of my life isn’t standing right in front of me.”

You laugh softly, emotional all over again. “You’re really trying to make me cry twice in one night?”

“Only twice? I’m losing my touch.”

You shake your head, smiling through it. “Crazy man.”

“Your crazy man.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Stop saying unfortunately.”

“Never.”

He laughs, then kisses you. This one is not quick like the one before the show. There is no countdown now, no stage waiting, no final call. It's warm and happy and a little messy because he's still breathing hard from the encore and you are still smiling too much to make it elegant. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. “Two years,” he murmurs.

“Two years.”

“Best two years of my life.”

“Mine too.”

He closes his eyes for half a second, holding you there in the middle of all the noise, still shining from the stage, and still yours in the quietest way.

Taglist: @lizsogolden @avensgreenvans @maudie-duan @chocostyles @sparklejumpropequeen1113 @pops234 @lomlcamy

You watch Harry’s eyes darken as they stare down at the open suitcase that’s situated on the edge of the bed in the hotel you’ll be staying in with him for a few nights, his teeth sink into his bottom lip as he reaches down and grabs an item he didn’t expect to see right when he unzipped your bag so he could help you unpack seeing as he’s already been in Amsterdam for a little over a week so he’s made himself at home in the sprawling suit that’s on the top floor of a luxury hotel in town. He had begged you to come visit him for a few days, sending you long over dramatic voice notes about how he can’t focus without you and needs his creative muse around, and while that was lovely and fed into the twisted part of yourself that craves hearing how miserable he is without you it wasn’t until he mentioned filming a music video for one of your favorite songs off his new album that you really started to take his requests for you to come see him more seriously.

It’s not as if you didn’t miss him as well, of course you did but you just know Harry and know he gets lonely very easily and it didn’t help that you had already planned on being with him at the start of his tour that kicks off in just two weeks so you didn’t see the need to come earlier until he tossed the dance no more video out like a shiny lure on the end of a fishing hook. Needless to say you were on a train to see him the very next day, he could barely contain his excitement when you told him to book you a ticket because he really felt a little off without having you just an arms length away. The two of you have been nearly inseparable during his break from music and to say Harry’s been struggling with the distance sometimes forced between the two of you due to his now hectic schedule is a massive understatement. So he plans on making the most out of your trip to see him and has already warned you that you’ll be lucky if he lets you out of his sight during the next few days, not that you’d ever care if he follows you around and is extra handsy because you’re well past getting used to his clingy behavior and now it’s something you encourage, loving the feeling of his sloppy kisses and grabby hands.

As Harry raises the object up and his eyes flicker over to where you’re sitting with your back resting against the headboard of the bed and your legs stretched out with your hands in your lap fiddling with the hem of your t shirt not feeling an ounce of embarrassment, you just give him a smile because you’ve never been one to shy away from telling him what you want or what you like, especially when it comes to the bedroom. He tears his eyes away from you and looks back over to the bright pink silicone dildo his long fingers are securely wrapped around and he can’t help but let out a laugh as he lightly shakes his head because while he might not have been expecting to find it resting so casually on top of your fancy black dress you brought for a night out, he can’t say he’s all that shocked you decided to bring it with you. The sound of his laughter sends a welcomed warm tingle down your spine, having missed being able to witness how his face manages to light up as the sound bubbles up from deep in his chest.

“You couldn’t have packed this in your toiletry bag or something?” He asks teasingly as he places it down on the bed beside your suitcase so he can move on to unpacking your clothes, not really caring in the slightest that you didn’t try to hide it by shoving it into a bag or cramming it into the bottom of your suitcase.

“No because then it would’ve taken you longer to find it.” Your answer has him looking at you with a raised brow as he pauses his movements, his hands let the silky material of your black dress slip through his fingers and land back into your suitcase when your lips curve upward into a smile that Harry knows means you’re up to something. “You always unpack my toiletries last.” You watch the wheels start to turn in his mind as you tell him a simple fact about the way he always goes about unpacking your bags, something he’s been doing for you ever since you went on your first trip together years ago because making sure you don’t have to lift a finger while he’s around is just one of the ways Harry likes to show you he cares about you.

“Oh I see.” He says with the beginnings of a smirk on his face as his eyes roam over your features, he lets them linger on your lips for a beat longer than he should before he brings them back up to meet your eyes. “And that would’ve been a problem? Not finding your pink—friend until later?” He asks making you give him a nod as you move so you can crawl the short distance to the edge of the bed until your suitcase is the only thing separating the two of you.

“It would’ve been tragic.” Harry holds back a chuckle as you poke out your bottom lip in a pout as you rise to your knees only an arms length away from him, the softness of the comforter feels nice on your skin and Harry can’t help himself from letting his eyes get their full of your plush thighs that your sad excuse for shorts leave exposed to him since they really only keep a small portion of your backside and your most intimate bits from being on display. “I would’ve had to sit and wait and-”

“You’ve never been good at waiting have you baby?” You roll your eyes at his question while he gives you a playful wink that you know is all an act because you’ve always been able to read Harry like one of your favorite books, easily seeing through the cocky and smug facade he tries to build up in moments like this and seeing the needy and sometimes desperate man hidden underneath.

“You’re not so good at it yourself.” You remind him to which he just gives you his sad attempt at a casual shrug as he looks down at your suitcase trying his hardest to act as if he doesn’t want to reach out and grab you so he can get the comforting feeling of your skin under his palms. “Besides it’s been-”

“Nine days.” He says finishing your sentence for you as his hands clench into fists at his sides. “It’s been nine days.” He repeats but this time with an added sigh, and when you watch him close his eyes and let out a deep breath through his nose you know he’s on the verge of coming undone because nine days apart is a record for the two of you and you’re honestly not sure how he’s managed to keep it so together for the past hour and a half you’ve been in the same room.

“Exactly—don’t you think we’ve waited long enough? I know you missed me and it’s been so hard for you but I’m here now.” Your voice doesn’t have even the smallest trace of playfulness to it, instead it’s soft and each word that rolls off your tongue has a sticky type of sweetness wrapped around it that seeps into the small cracks that have formed in Harry’s heart with every passing day he had to spend alone, mending it back together in a way that only you know how.

Before your brain can process what’s happening Harry has a hand on the side of your face only giving you time to blink before his lips are crashing into yours in a hungry and desperate kiss. You hear the sound of your suitcase crashing to the floor as Harry uses his free hand to slide it out of the way letting him have all the room he needs to pull you closer to him, your hands grab onto his face as his tongue slips into your mouth making him let out a small moan when he gets a taste of the mint gum you were chewing on earlier. Your eyes fall closed as you let yourself melt into Harry’s touch, having missed the feeling of being able to let him guide and move your body however he pleases because you know his pleasure is derived from your own so you enjoy the moments where you can turn your mind off and let him take control.

Harry can sense the subtle shift in you as your cheek presses into his palm that’s keeping you from getting too far away from him, he smiles against your lips when yours hands slide down the front of his t shirt until they end up back down at your sides. He uses his hold on you to gently urge you down onto your back, moving so he’s standing between your legs that are halfway hanging off the edge of the bed and he tries his hardest not to laugh at the frown that takes over your face as he pulls away from you so he can stand up. When you open your eyes you find Harry just staring at you, his bottom lip is tucked between his teeth as he lets his eyes freely roam over your body only pausing when they land on the waistband of your shorts.

“Need these off.” He says as he reaches his hands out, you automatically lift your hips so he can easily tug your shorts down your legs until they fall to the floor near his feet. “I’m gonna tell you what’s about to happen okay baby?” His voice is more relaxed now that he has his hands running up and down the tops of your thighs, when you reach your hands out for him Harry already knows what you want so he smiles as he moves a hand so it’s resting next to you letting him lean over and place a quick kiss to your lips.

“Okay I’m ready now.” Harry lets out a chuckle as he pulls away and you give him a grin. “What’s about to happen?” There’s an unmistakable giddiness to your voice as you stare up at Harry and it’s a reminder of how much trust you have in him, that the idea of him taking control not only relaxes you but brings you a sense of excitement because you know you don’t have to worry about anything when it comes to him.

“First I’m gonna take this off,” his hand softly pulls at the fabric of your t shirt making you nod as his eyes move down to your pink and yellow polkadot panties. “Then I’ll do my best to not rip these but-”

“Wait a minute-” Harry’s eyes instantly bounce up to lock with yours as you sit up onto your elbows with your brows scrunching together and a tiny hint of concern hiding behind the color of your eyes. “These are too cute to end up in shreds Harry just take them off now if you need to because I am not leaving here with less clothes than I came with okay?—I actually want to have the opposite problem.”

“The opposite problem?” He asks with a raised brow, you just give him a nod before you sit up just enough so you can pull your t shirt up over your head so you can toss it to the side along with your bra making Harry bite back a smile at how eager you are.

“Yes I want to leave with more clothes and things than I came with.” You answer with a smile as one of Harry’s hands slides up from the side of your thigh to your hip. “I know you like spending money on me—you like the looks people make when you hand me your shiny black credit card and tell me to have fun.”

It’s no secret that one of the many things Harry likes about his relationship with you is knowing he can offer you a lifestyle none of your previous boyfriends could, it makes it a bit more exciting for him when he does something for you that you didn’t expect simply because you’re not used to being taken care of the way Harry takes care of you. He knows you’d still be with him if he was broke or worked a normal job because none of the extra stuff really means anything to you but still, he likes to spoil you in any kind of way you’ll let him.

And it’s true, he enjoys the sideways glances and small gasps of shock whenever he just appears in a store you’ve been shopping around in just to pay the bill before giving you a kiss and rushing off to his next meeting or studio session before anyone can really put together who it was that just swiped their card and left. He gets a bit of a rush of satisfaction anytime he gets to flaunt his wealth, not getting the opportunity very often since he runs in a very small circle of people who don’t discuss things like money so he feels a small twinge of pride in his chest when he gets to simply show up, hand you his card without even bothering to look or ask you what the total is all while you smother his face in kisses and mumble a few thank yous against his neck.

“Well if you already planned on doing some shopping-” your eyes narrow into a glare as you watch Harry stand up so he can slide his thumbs under the waistband of your panties. “Add another pair of these to the list.” You let out a huff that he knows is all for show as you let yourself fall back onto the bed making Harry laugh as he does exactly what you knew he would, rips the thin fabric with a simple tug that subtly shows off how little effort it takes him to turn the pretty pair of panties into a useless pile of fabric.

“I don’t know how I didn’t see that coming—should’ve known you’d say something annoying like that.”

“You really should’ve.” Harry teases as he leans over you, a hand on either side of your head with a look that’s a mixture of love and something hungrier on his face that has your heart doing flips in your chest. “Now can we get back to what I was saying or do you have anymore silly requests like don’t pull your hair or keep the lights on while-”

“I asked you to keep the lights on one time because we had just watched that scary movie about the thing that lives in the shadows and-”

“And what? You thought I’d let some creepy creature get you while I had you bent over the bathtub?”

“Well I mean you were a little preoccupied so how would you even have noticed if there was a creepy thing in there with us? Especially since you only had on the vanity lights.” It’s moments like this, when the two of you are in such intimate positions but having extremely normal conversations that get to Harry the most because it’s just another thing that solidifies the fact he’s finally found his person and it’s you. “But I guess you would’ve gotten eaten first so I would’ve had a decent chance at getting away.” You add with a smile as you reach up and run a hand through Harry’s hair, as you stare up at him you can’t help but feel a strong sense of desire for the man hovering over you because in this moment the comfort level the two of you have with each other serves as a different type of turn on, knowing he isn’t in a any sort of rush so he can take the time to indulge in silly conversations with you just makes you want him that much more.

“Exactly you would’ve been fine.” He tells you softly as he leans down and presses his lips against yours for a quick little kiss. “Now are you ready to listen?” He asks between kisses down your jaw, your hands grab onto his shoulders as you give him a nod.

“Yes I’m ready to listen.” You tell him already knowing he needs more from you than a simple nod, you feel him smile against the skin of you neck making a shiver run down your spine from his stubble rubbing against the sensitive skin.

“Yeah? You’re ready to be a good girl now?” You swallow thickly as he lifts his head just enough so his eyes can find yours, the anticipation of what he has in store for you has your mind racing and your insides buzzing.

“Yes.” A grin spreads across Harry’s face as he presses a quick kiss to your forehead before he slowly starts to kiss and lick his way down the length of your body, only stopping just an inch or two past your belly button.

“I know you brought this for a reason.” You look down at him as he reaches a hand out so he can grab the pink toy resting on the end of the bed. “You want to tell me why or should I just take a guess?” He asks as he keeps one hand on your hip so you don’t get the familiar pout on your face at the complete lack of contact when he stands up making your arms fall off his shoulders and down to your sides landing on the soft comforter of the bed.

“I want you to use it on me—please.” Harry nods as he soothingly runs the pad of his thumb up and down the soft skin of your hip helping your body relax just a bit.

“Okay—since you asked so nicely.” You can’t help the giggle that falls out of your mouth at the little wink he shoots you before he looks away from your face and down to the glistening mess between your legs. “Can’t even use your own toy properly can you baby? It’s like you need me to do everything for you.” Your eyes snap closed when you feel Harry teasingly drag the tip of your dildo up and down your slick folds making you clench around nothing. “After I get you off with this I’m going to make you come on my cock over and over until all that pretty little mind of yours can think about is me—how’s that sound baby? Does that sound good?” His eyes flicker up to your face as you bite down on your bottom lip when he slowly pushes the tip of your pink silicone toy into you, he smiles when your hands grip the sheets at your sides when he pushes it in just a bit more.

“Y—yes.” Is all you’re able to say before a soft moan slips past your lips and it has Harry quirking a brow as he moves his hand down from your hip to the outside of your knee.

“Yes what?” He asks as he gently grabs at your leg so he can place it over his shoulder letting him inch the pink toy deeper into you, allowing you to feel it’s soft ridges press against your warm wet walls. “Answer me sweetheart—yes what?”

“Yes that—that sounds good.” You say with a loud moan as Harry uses his grip on the base of the toy to push it all the way in until you feel the side of his hand pressing against you. “Sounds so—so good.” You mumble as Harry looks down and lets out a rough sounding groan at the sight before him.

“I think pink is your color baby.” His voice is deep as he starts to pull the toy out, licking his lips as he sees the familiar sheen of your arousal clinging to the pink silicone, he only lets it get half way before pushing it back in making you moan his name as he repeats the same motion a few more times. “I mean it—your needy little cunt looks so good getting fucked with this pretty pink toy of yours.” You feel your hips try and match the steady pace Harry has set as his free hand keeps a firm grip on the side of your leg that’s over his shoulder, the gentle pull and push of the toy as it slides in and out of your center has your body craving more.

“Harry I-” your words get cut off by a loud moan when you open your eyes and find Harry staring at you as he turns his head and starts kissing down the inside of your leg, leaning down just enough so he can lightly nibble on the soft flesh of the inside of your thigh while he quickens the pace of his hand that’s wrapped around the base of your toy, the new angle letting him get it a bit deeper than before. “Oh god.” You moan as you feel his hand slide down your thigh and up over your hip until the pad of his thumb is rubbing tight circles over your clit.

“Come on baby—be a good girl and make a mess all over your pretty little toy.” He coos sweetly as his eyes lock with yours, you watch a smug looking smirk work its way onto his face as he adds more pressure to your bundle of nerves earning him a loud cry of his name, your back arches and your grip on the sheets tightens and you swear there’s some sort of glittery haze surrounding Harry as you feel the pressure in your lower belly finally snap.

“Hear that baby?” Harry asks as he continues his quick pace, plunging the silicone toy in and out of your soaked hole making a squelching sound fill the room as he helps you ride out your climax. “That’s the sound of you doing what you’re told—being a good girl and making a pretty mess everywhere.” You smile at his words of praise, feeling your arousal starting to drip down onto the bed but you know by the pleased grin on Harry’s face it’s exactly what he wanted.

You try to catch your breath as Harry gently moves your leg off his shoulder after giving the inside of your knee a quick kiss that you know is just to distract you from the feeling of him slowly sliding your pink toy out of your soaked center. There’s a flash of something in Harry’s eyes as he looks over at you and before you can open your mouth to ask him what’s wrong he’s bringing your arousal covered toy up to his mouth and licking it from where he hand is gripping the base all the way to the tip. The sight of him licking your toy clean of your juices has your thighs trying to squeeze together but Harry keeps them spread open with his body nestled between them.

“Couldn’t just let that go to waste.” He explains as he places the toy down on the bed. “You okay? Need anything?” He asks as he starts to pull his shirt up over his head letting you get a good view of his well defined chest and stomach that has you practically drooling.

“Just you.” Harry smiles at your answer as you watch him unbutton his pants and shimmy them down his legs along with his boxers, not bothering to make a show out of getting undressed because he thinks the two of you have waited long enough so no need to prolong it with a striptease that would more than likely end up with him getting a foot stuck in his pants and falling over.

“I’m all yours baby just gotta tell me how you want me.” His voice is strained as he wraps a hand around his painfully hard cock, you sit up and scoot down to the edge of the bed and pat the spot next to you.

“Want to ride you.” You tell him excitedly making him let out a small chuckle as he sits on the edge of the bed, his hands grab onto your hips as you move to straddle his lap placing one knee on either side of his thighs. When you feel the tip of his cock at your entrance you take in a deep breath and grab onto his shoulders, Harry’s hands give your hips a loving squeeze as your eyes lock with his green ones.

“Take your time love—there’s no rush.” He reminds you as you slowly start exhale through your nose as you begin to lower yourself down onto him, his lips places kisses to the tops of your shoulders as the all too familiar sting that comes with your body trying to adjust to the size of Harry’s thick shaft pulses through you. “Missed you so much baby.” He mumbles against your neck as you pause only lowered halfway down his cock, needing to allow yourself a moment to breathe before taking the rest of him into your tight cunt since it’s been nine whole days since you’ve gotten to be in a position like this so you want to savor it just a bit.

“Don’t wanna do that again—nine days is too long to be without you.” His voice is low and you feel his hold on your hips tighten as you continue to lower yourself down until you’re taking in the last inches of him making a muffled groan escape him as he rests his forehead on your shoulder.

“I missed you too.” You say with a sigh as he lifts his head up so he can look you in the eyes. “I love you.” You tell him as his hands come up and cup the sides of your face.

“I love you too.” His lips are on yours before you can even smile at how quickly he responds, you swallow down Harry’s moan as you lift yourself up so just the tip of Harry’s cock is snug inside your went center and then lower yourself back down with a quick drop. Your hands tangle into his hair as your tongue licks into his mouth, one of his hands slides down to the side of your neck as your hips start to find a rhythm, it’s as if a flip has been switched inside your body and muscle memory takes over as you bounce on Harry lap. Your knees dig into the plush mattress and your head tilts back as your swollen clit rubs against the patch of hair at the base of Harry’s cock creating a delicious friction, Harry wastes no time in attaching his mouth to your exposed neck, licking and sucking at the skin until he’s satisfied with the blotchy red marks that he knows will be a dark purple color by the end of the day.

“My cock is better than your little toy isn’t it love?” He asks as he gives the side of your neck a squeeze, you let out a loud cry of his name as he bucks his hips letting the tip of his cock nudge the spot deep inside you that makes your toes curl.

“Yes your—your cock is so much better.” You pant as Harry gives you a few harsh thrusts of his hips. “I missed it so fucking much—oh god.” Harry looks down as you start to squeeze and pulse around him, he lets out a groan as he watches his thick shaft disappear into your needy hole as you expertly bounce on him. “Harry I’m—oh fu-Harry.” Your vision goes blurry as Harry’s arms wrap around you and in a quick movement you’re being lifted up and then your back is being pressed into the mattress, you let Harry’s strong hands move you around until your legs are wrapped around his middle and you can barely catch your breath before he starts thrusting his cock in and out of you at a brutal pace.

“Fuck baby you feel so good.” Harry groans as your walls start to clench around him, your heels dig into his lower back as his name falls out of your mouth. “Needed this so bad—you have no idea how much I’ve missed your pussy baby you always feel so perfect when you’re wrapped around me like this.” He tells you as he keeps up the quick pace of his thrust, he watches your eyes fall closed as you start to come undone around him. Your mouth opens but no sound comes out as Harry continues to work you through your orgasm, your hands white knuckle the sheets as your back arches making Harry lean down and place a hand next to your head while his other one grips the outside of your leg chasing his own release.

“Look at me baby—wanna see your eyes please need those pretty eyes.” Harry says between kisses all over your face, he feels your body relax as he pulls away just in time to see your eyes slowly peel themselves open and the smile that you give him has his heart pounding in his chest as you reach out and cup his face in your hands.

“Your eyes are pretty too.” All Harry can do is smile at your half mumbled words, he feels his stomach tighten and when you use your legs and pull him closer to you while your hands bring him down for a kiss he can’t hold himself back any longer and with a few quick thrusts he’s spilling his warm load deep inside you making you smile as your name tumbles out of his mouth when he pulls away.

“Holy fuck—you’re so perfect baby I love you so much.” You giggle as Harry nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, his stubble tickles your skin as he tries to catch his breath.

“I love you too.” You whisper into his ear as your hands run up and down his back, neither of you ready to move just yet because you’ve spent nine days apart so you want to let the moment last as long as you can before separating.

“I think I broke your suitcase.” You let out a laugh as Harry lifts his head up and looks down at the floor and sure enough your suitcase is sprawled out on the ground with a wheel missing having rolled under the bed after Harry shoved it to the floor to get it out of the way.

“That’s okay—it was yours anyway.”

“Okay so just have fun and get comfortable with the microphone—twirl it around or do whatever feels good to you in the moment.” Harry nods as the director of the dance no more music video gives him a little bit of direction for what he’s meant to be doing for this part of the video, you have a grin on your face as you sit in one of the chairs near the back of the gymnasium with a few of the backup dancers who aren’t needed in this shot.

“Yeah okay—I can do that.” Harry says with a smile before walking back over to where he’s meant to be standing, he grabs the silver microphone and shakes his arms and jogs in place to loosen up his limbs while the director takes his spot behind the camera.

You watch in awe as Harry instantly turns into the charismatic man people have posters of taped on their walls and spend copious amounts of money to watch perform on stage every night the moment he hears the word action. You’re so entranced by the movement of his hips in his silky red shorts you almost miss the way his eyes find yours in the back of the room, there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes as he grabs the base of the microphone with both hands and you feel your face get hot as he stares directly at you while he licks the microphone the same way you had watched him lick up the length of your pink sex toy the day before.

“Sorry H let’s go again in five—I really love that but this time let’s add some dancers.” Harry just nods and walks over to where you’re sitting with a playful grin on his face.

“That was for you.” He tells you with a wink that makes you just shake your head as he stands in front of you. “Knew you’d like that.” He teases as he leans down and places a quick kiss to your lips.

“You’re so annoying.” Harry just shrugs as you wipe off the remnants of your lipgloss off his bottom lip. “Thank you for letting me be here for this.” Your voice is soft and sweet and has Harry placing a hand on the side of your face.

“You’re always welcome to come to work with me baby you know that—I know how much you love this song.” You smile as you lean into his touch. “I perform better when you’re with me.”

“You’re just saying that so I’ll agree to going on tour with you.”

“Well yeah—that’s exactly why I’m saying it but it’s also just the truth.”

And within seconds, the numbers begin climbing so quickly that you almost laugh.

3,000.

18,000.

74,000.

122,000.

The comments appear in a waterfall of disbelief.

IS THIS REAL????

HARRY?????

NO WAY NO WAY NO WAY OMG

I WAS IN A MEETING I JUST LEFT

WHO IS HOLDING THE PHONE??

OH MY GOD HE’S LIVE

Y/N IS THIS YOU????

WE MISSED HIM SO MUCH

Hearts rise up the right side of the screen in a constant stream, red and frantic, floating over the image of the empty arena. Seats stretch upwards in silent rows, the stage lit in soft working light instead of show colours. The place looks entirely different at noon, stripped of last night’s madness. No screaming crowd and no glittering sea of phones, just crew members moving in the distance, cases on wheels, cables taped down, a few people in headsets talking into radios. And Harry.

Harry himself is on the main stage, singing into a handheld mic as if the arena is full anyway. He wears black sports shorts, trainers, a cosy Pleasing jumper, and a black beanie pulled low over his hair. There is something very endearing about it, the contrast between the man who owned the stage last night and the one currently standing there in a jumper from his own brand, doing vocal runs with the focus of someone who absolutely doesn’t know that two hundred thousand people are now watching him warm up. You angle the phone towards him and begin walking through the pit. “Good afternoon,” you say, voice warm but amused, because the comments have already become unreadable. “Since a few of you seem to be awake, I thought we’d check what he’s up to.”

The comments explode again.

A FEW OF US???? THERE ARE 300K PEOPLE HERE

Y/N YOU QUEEN

THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU

HE LOOKS SO CUTE

THE BEANIE I’M GONE

PLEASING JUMPER PROMO KING

PLEASE TELL HIM WE LOVE HIM

I CANNOT BREATHE

You laugh under your breath. “Well, he’s busy right now, but I’ll pass it on.”

Harry doesn't look over at first. He is halfway through a line from American Girls, one hand holding the mic, the other gesturing faintly as he listens to whatever adjustment the sound engineer has made in his in-ears. The band is scattered behind him, not fully in show formation. Sarah is at her kit, tapping lightly between cues. Mitch is sitting on a riser with his guitar, looking half asleep in the way he often does when he is, in fact, perfectly aware of everything happening around him.

You keep walking. The pit feels enormous without fans pressed against the barricade. Your footsteps are small against the arena floor, swallowed by the clean sound of Harry’s voice coming through the speakers. It still amazes you sometimes, how familiar and strange this job can be at the same time. You have heard him sing in kitchens, hotel bathrooms, cars, backstage corridors, Rome balconies at ridiculous hours of the night. You know the casual hums, the silly improvised lyrics, the dramatic shower notes. But hearing him like this — alone in a huge room, voice filling every empty seat — still makes you stop for half a second longer than planned.

The live count passes 500,000. “Okay,” you say, mostly to the viewers, “you lot are fast.”

WE HAVE WAITED YEARS FOR CASUAL HARRY CONTENT

THIS IS HISTORY

Y/N RUN THE ACCOUNT FOREVER PLS

HE LOOKS SO HAPPY

THE WAY HE SMILES WHEN HE SINGS I’M UNWELL

You reach the side of the stage and climb up the short set of steps leading onto one of the side catwalks. A crew member glances at you, recognises the phone, then gives you a small grin and steps out of frame. You walk carefully along the catwalk, keeping the camera steady as Harry moves into another part of the song. He notices you when you are almost at the middle catwalk. His eyes flick towards you, then back, then towards you again. The moment he realises it's you, his face changes. It's immediate and ridiculous, really. One second he is professional, focused, listening to the monitors. The next, his mouth curves into that dimpled smile that has done unnecessary damage to millions of people and, unfortunately, still works on you even after two years of direct exposure. He sings the next line at you. Actually at you. The camera catches it all, and the comments become a disaster.

HE SAW HER

HE SMILED AT HER OH MY GOD

THAT SMILE WAS FOR Y/N I’M SOBBING

I WANT WHAT THEY HAVE

THE DIMPLESSSSSS

HE IS SO IN LOVE BYE

SHE MAKES HIM SO HAPPY LOOK AT HIM

You sit down on the middle catwalk about twenty metres in front of him, legs crossed, phone propped steadily in your hands. Harry is still on the main part of the stage, but he keeps glancing at you between lines, clearly under the impression that you are simply recording him for later. And because of this, he becomes unbearable. He gives you a tiny wink during a lyric and you actually have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing too loudly into the microphone. “Everyone saw that,” you tell the stream quietly, and the comments confirm that everyone did, in fact, see that.

WE SAW IT

WE ALL SAW IT

SIR??????

FLIRTING DURING SOUNDCHECK IS CRAZY

Y/N HOW DO YOU SURVIVE THIS DAILY?????

“I don’t,” you say. “I just pretend to be very professional.”

Harry shakes his head from the stage, still smiling as he sings, though he has no idea what you have just told nearly a million people. The number at the top keeps climbing. Your phone buzzes once with a text notification from Jeff.

Jeff: Did you just go live on his account?

You smile and keep filming. Another message appears.

Jeff: Never mind. Numbers are insane. Continue.

You tilt the phone slightly, zooming just enough to frame Harry and the band without making it feel invasive. It's a sweet kind of access, you think. Not polished, not a production, just him, in the middle of the day, warming up in a beanie and jumper, doing the job before the actual job. And the fans know it too.

THANK YOU FOR THIS

THIS FEELS SO SPECIAL

HE SEEMS SO RELAXED

Y/N YOU’RE DOING AMAZING SWEETIE

CAN YOU TELL HIM OPENING NIGHT WAS PERFECT

I LOVE SEEING HIM HAPPY

Then, because the internet can never remain wholesome for more than eight consecutive seconds, the comments take a turn. You read one silently and immediately look away from the screen.

OH MY GOD HE COULD SPANK MY ASS SO HARD I WOULDN'T BE ABLE TO WALK FOR A WEEK AND I'D STILL SAY THANK YOU DADDY

“Oh, absolutely not.” You whisper.

The comments notice immediately.

WHAT DID IT SAY?

READ IT OUT

DID ANYONE SEE???

Y/N WHAT DID YOU SEE?

TELL US TELL US

You shake your head, still filming Harry as he moves into another vocal run, completely unaware. “No, because some of you need supervision.” More comments fly by.

WE DO

YES WE DO

PLEASE SUPERVISE US

WAS IT A FREAKY COMMENT?

IT WAS DEFINITELY A FREAKY COMMENT

You laugh, helpless now. “Someone just called him daddy in a sentence I am not repeating on his official Instagram account at lunchtime.”

The stream loses its collective mind. Harry, still singing, notices your shoulders shaking with laughter and his brows lift from across the stage as if to ask what you are doing. You wave him off with one hand and keep the camera on him. “Also,” you add, unable to resist, “you’re all much braver than I am. I would never type that where anyone could screenshot it.”

Y/N PLEASE

SHE’S LAUGHING AT US

OFFICIAL INSTAGRAM ACCOUNT AT LUNCHTIME 😭

ASK HIM IF HE KNOWS HE’S DADDY

NO DON’T ASK HIM I’LL DIE

ASK HIM

You read the comments with growing amusement. “I’m not asking him that while he’s working.”

Harry finally stops singing. Not because of the question, obviously. He still hasn't heard it. He stops because he has now realised that you're no longer silently recording. You're talking to your phone, laughing, and occasionally looking far too entertained by whatever is on the screen. He lowers his voice. “What are you doing over there, love?”

His voice carries easily through the speakers, warm and suspicious. You turn the phone slightly so he is fully in frame. “Nothing.”

Harry tilts his head. “That’s your lying voice.”

The comments flood instantly.

HE KNOWS HER LYING VOICE

I’M ON THE FLOOR

THE DOMESTICITY

HARRY LOOK HERE

TELL HIM HE’S LIVE

You smile sweetly. “I’m giving your fans a little show.”

Harry pauses. His eyes move from your face to the phone, then back to your face. “Are you live?”

You nod.

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“On my account?”

“Yes.”

His mouth opens slightly and for one beautiful second, he looks genuinely surprised. Then he laughs. Not a polite laugh, not a stage laugh, a real laugh, head tipping back a little, shoulders loosening, the sound echoing through the empty arena. “Oh, you’re trouble,” he says.

“You hired me.”

“I’m rethinking that right now.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not.” He steps closer to the edge of the main stage, grinning now. “How many people are watching?”

You glance at the number. “Just under 1.4 million.”

Harry’s eyebrows lift. “At once?”

“You’re very popular.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Modest.”

“Always.”

He gestures at the phone with the mic. “What are they saying?”

You look at the comments at exactly the wrong moment and immediately regret it. Of course Harry sees your face. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“What are they saying?”

“They’re being very supportive.”

“That’s not the face for supportive.”

You sigh, because now the comments are moving so fast you can barely keep up. “They are calling you daddy.”

Harry’s laugh comes faster this time, bright and delighted. Sarah hits a cymbal once behind him as if punctuating the moment and looks up with the smug smile of someone who absolutely heard that. Harry looks at the camera with mock seriousness. “At this hour? Have some decency.”

The comments go feral at that again.

NO DECENCY

NEVER

HE KNOWS

I’M SCREAMING

DADDY SAID HAVE DECENCY

HARRY PLEASE

You lower your head, laughing. “You made it worse.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You looked into the camera and said decency.”

“Important word.”

“Not helpful.”

He grins. “What else are they asking?”

You scan the comments, grateful when a few actual questions appear between the chaos. “Okay, serious interview portion,” you announce. “Mr. Styles.”

Harry straightens dramatically. “Yes.”

“How are you feeling today, after opening night?”

He hums quietly, pretending to consider it like this is a formal press conference and not you sitting cross-legged on his stage during soundcheck. “I feel good,” he says. “A little tired. Very happy. Last night was…” He pauses, searching for the right word without over-polishing it. “It was beautiful. Really beautiful. I didn’t know how much I missed it until everyone started singing back.”

WE MISSED YOU TOO

THE CROWD LOVES YOU

LAST NIGHT WAS MAGIC

I CRIED THE WHOLE TIME

SO PROUD OF YOU

You read a few of them aloud, and Harry’s smile becomes quieter. “Thank you,” he says, looking towards the phone. “Really. Thank you for being so lovely last night. And loud. Very loud. Borderline dangerous.”

You ask, “Are you excited for tonight?”

“Very. Night two always has a different energy. Everyone’s a bit less terrified.”

“You mean you.”

“I mean everyone.”

“Sure.”

He points at you. “Biased interviewer.”

“Extremely.”

Another comment catches your eye. “Someone asks if you have a favourite moment from night one.”

Harry thinks. “The first chorus of Fine Line was special. Felt like everyone decided at the same time that we were going to be alright.”

Your smile softens behind the phone. He looks at you for half a beat longer than necessary, both of you remembering the green room the night before without saying so. Then you clear your throat lightly and read another question. “Favourite snack backstage?”

“Banana.”

You stare at him. “That’s your answer?”

“What’s wrong with banana?”

“It’s a bit boring.”

“It’s reliable.”

“People were hoping for insight.”

“That is insight. I’m a reliable man.”

"Okay." You shrug.

Then another question flies past. “Someone asks if you have any advice for people coming to tonight’s show.”

Harry looks back at the camera. “Wear comfortable shoes. Be nice to each other. Drink water. Don’t throw anything at my head.”

You nod. “Strong advice.”

“And sing,” he adds. “Even if you think you sound terrible. Especially then, actually. Makes me feel better.”

The comments fill with love again, fast and bright. You are still smiling at them when Harry suddenly steps off the main stage area and begins walking down the catwalk towards you. You look up. “What are you doing?”

He doesn't answer and that is your warning. “Harry.”

Still no answer. “Don’t.”

He reaches you with the most innocent expression he has ever worn, which means he is absolutely guilty of whatever he is about to do. Before you can pull the phone back, he bends, snatches it neatly from your hands, and drops down beside you on the catwalk.

“Oi!”

“My account,” he says.

“My livestream.”

“Our livestream now.”

The comments are too fast to read now. Hearts pour up the screen so quickly they cover half the image. Harry flips the camera to the front-facing view, and suddenly both of you are on screen. You immediately try to lean out of frame. Harry, delighted, loops an arm behind you and gently pulls you back. “Where are you going?”

“I’m not supposed to be on camera.”

“You started a livestream on my Instagram.”

“To show you.”

“And now we’re showing us.”

“That was not in the strategy deck.”

He looks into the camera. “Hear that? She made a strategy deck.”

“I did not make a strategy deck.”

“You absolutely did. It had tabs.”

“It was a planning document.”

“With tabs.”

“That’s how documents work.”

Harry grins at the comments, which are currently full of people typing both your names in capital letters.

HARRY AND Y/N TOGETHER STOP

THEY ARE SO CUTE

SHE’S SHY 😭

DON’T HIDE Y/N WE LOVE YOU

BEST SOCIAL MEDIA MANAGER EVER

COUPLE CONTENT

You cover part of your face with one hand. “This is your fault.”

“You pressed the button.”

“You stole the phone.”

“Team effort.”

He shifts into interviewer mode with alarming speed, holding the phone out so both of you fit in the frame. “Welcome people on the internet,” he says solemnly. “We are here with the new head of my social media platforms. She’s very talented, very organised, and currently regretting every professional decision that brought her to this stage.”

You groan. “Harry.”

“First question,” he continues. “How does it feel to be on tour?”

You glance at him, then at the screen, trying not to look too awkward. “It’s been really lovely. Everyone’s been very kind. The crew are amazing, the band are amazing, and Amsterdam has been a beautiful first stop so far.”

Harry nods seriously. “Very media trained.”

“I studied.”

“Second question. Are you enjoying working for me?”

“You’re not my only boss.”

He looks offended. “I am the face of the operation.”

“You are the face making my job difficult by going inactive for years.”

The comments love that. Harry laughs. “That was a read.”

“It was a professional observation.”

“You’re doing very well.” He glances at the comments, then his grin turns wicked. “Final question.”

“No.”

“You don’t know what I’m going to ask.”

“I know your face.”

He turns back to the phone. “How does it feel to date daddy?”

You make a noise that is somewhere between a laugh and a groan, immediately trying to move away while he laughs so hard the camera shakes.

“Harry Edward Styles.”

“Oooooh, full name.”

“This is still your official account.”

“Right. Sorry.” He looks into the camera, not sorry at all. “How does it feel to date a man who eats bananas backstage?”

You shake your head, laughing. “Exhausting.”

“Wow.”

“But rewarding.”

He brightens. “I’ll take that.”

The live continues like that for a while, messy, warm, completely unscripted. Harry reads comments with exaggerated seriousness, answers a question about his favourite city by refusing to choose because he “doesn’t want to start geopolitical drama,” and tells everyone Sarah is the coolest person on tour — she is. At some point, Jeff appears at the edge of the pit, watching the numbers with an expression of pure managerial conflict: horror at the lack of control, joy at the engagement.

You see him and laugh. “Jeff looks stressed.”

Harry turns the camera towards him. Jeff immediately points at both of you. “Do not put me on that.”

Harry turns it back. “Jeff says hello.”

“I did not,” Jeff calls.

By the time the stream reaches twenty minutes, the viewer count has peaked at 2.6 million. You stare at the number in sheer disbelief. “That’s absurd.”

Harry looks proud, but not in a smug way. More amused than anything. “You said it yoursef, I’m popular.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet.”

“And yet,” you agree softly.

He looks at the camera. “Alright, we’re going to go finish soundcheck before my manager starts ageing visibly. Thank you for spending your lunch break with us. Or breakfast. Or the middle of the night. Please sleep if it’s the middle of the night for you.”

You wave, still shy but smiling. “Thanks for joining. Be nice to each other tonight. Drink water.”

Harry adds, “And maintain decency.”

You snatch the phone back just long enough to end the live before the comments can explode again and the screen goes still.

For a second, neither of you moves. The arena feels enormous around you, quiet now except for the low murmur of crew conversations and someone testing a guitar tone in the distance. Without the comments and hearts, without the live number climbing, the middle catwalk becomes just a strip of stage suspended inside a giant empty room. Harry puts the phone down carefully beside you. Then he wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you against him. You let yourself lean there, tucked into his side, the warmth of his jumper against your cheek as his beanie brushes your temple when he rests his head lightly against yours.

“That was good,” he says after a minute.

“You think?”

“Yeah.” His thumb moves once against your shoulder. “Felt nice. Not too polished.”

“That was the goal.”

“You’re good at this.”

“It’s literally my job.”

“No.” He turns his head slightly, voice gentler. “You’re good at knowing how to let people see me without making it feel like I’m being handed over.”

The words sit between you for a moment. You look out at the empty seats, rows and rows waiting to be filled again tonight. “I just want it to feel like you,” you say.

“It does.”

That means more than the 2.6 million views. More than Jeff’s relieved texts and more than the comments thanking you for the stream. Harry presses a kiss to the side of your head. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

“For getting you called daddy in front of millions of people?”

“For that, obviously.” He smiles against your hair. “And for being here. On tour. With me. Working, and dealing with my nonsense, and making all of this feel…” He pauses. “Less strange.”

You turn slightly to look at him. “I couldn’t ask for a better job.”

He gives you a look.

“Alright,” you add. “Maybe slightly calmer working conditions.”

“There’ll be calmer days.”

“Will there?”

“No.”

You laugh, and his face does that soft thing again, the one you saw yesterday before he went on stage, the one that belongs only in quiet moments between you two. “I’m happy,” you tell him.

Harry looks at you for a long second, all playfulness fading into something warmer. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His arm tightens around your shoulders. “Me too,” he says.

The crew keeps working, the tour keeps moving, tonight, the arena will fill again, and Harry will walk out beneath the lights, and thousands of people will scream like they have been waiting their whole lives for it. But for now, it is just noon in Amsterdam. An empty arena, a phone facedown on the catwalk, Harry’s arm around you.

“I love you,” he says quietly.

You smile, leaning into him. “I love you too.”

Taglist: @lizsogolden @avensgreenvans @maudie-duan @chocostyles @sparklejumpropequeen1113 @pops234 @lomlcamy

Jeff stands near the snack table with his arms crossed, watching him in the tired, patient way of someone who has known Harry long enough to recognise a pre-show meltdown and still find it deeply inconvenient. “It’s not mad,” Jeff says.

Harry points at him without stopping. “It is. It’s completely mad.”

“It’s a concert.”

“It’s the first concert.”

“Still a concert.”

“The first concert in years.”

Sarah, sitting on the arm of the sofa with her drumsticks balanced across her lap, gives him a sympathetic look. “You rehearsed for this, H.”

“I rehearsed in an empty arena.”

“With all of us there,” Mitch says from beside her.

Harry turns on him. “You don’t count.”

Mitch blinks. “That’s hurtful.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I’ll remember this, mate.”

Sarah nudges her husband with her knee, but her eyes stay on Harry. There is fondness in them, and concern too, though not the frightened kind. Everyone in the room knows this version of him. The dramatic version. The one who spends weeks preparing, checks every detail, cares until it becomes almost ridiculous, and then, right before the thing begins, decides with great conviction that he has made a terrible mistake. Usually, it passes. Usually, one of them can make him laugh, or Jeff can talk him through the schedule, or Sarah can remind him that nerves are part of the deal. Usually, Harry rolls his eyes, calls them all annoying, and steps out anyway.

Tonight, the stakes feel bigger. The Johan Cruijff Arena is packed, the tickets have been sold for months, fans have been posting from outside the venue since morning, dressed in bright colours and handmade outfits, turning the entire area around the arena into a moving, singing celebration before Harry has even touched the stage. That should help. It doesn't. “What if I forget the words?” Harry asks.

“You wrote most of them,” Mitch says.

“That makes it worse. People expect me to know them.”

Sarah presses her lips together, trying not to smile. “You will know them.”

“And what if my voice goes?”

“It won’t.”

“What if my knees go?”

Mitch looks up, one eyebrow raised. “Why are your knees involved?”

“Everything’s involved.”

“You’re thirty-two, not ancient.”

“Thank you for your kindness, Mitch, appreciate it.”

“You were jumping around at soundcheck,” Sarah says.

“That was before I realised this whole thing was a mistake.”

Jeff rubs both hands over his face. “The whole tour?”

“Yes.”

“The album too?”

Harry pauses, then, quieter, “No. Not the album.”

Sarah softens at that. “Then not the tour either.”

For a second, Harry looks as if he wants to believe her, he really does. His eyes land on Sarah’s face, and for the smallest moment, the pacing stops. But then a fresh wave of noise rolls through the walls, the kind of roar that seems too big for the building trying to contain it, and his attention snaps back towards the door. “No,” he says again, voice low. “No, I can’t— Jeff, I can’t go out there.”

Jeff studies him for half a beat. "Yes, you can." Then he looks towards the door himself. “I’ll be right back.”

Harry barely notices him leave. He has started walking again, mumbling under his breath like he can talk himself into a solution if he repeats the problem often enough. “Too long away. Should’ve done a smaller show first. Should’ve waited. They’re all expecting— I can’t give them—”

Sarah stands, placing her drumsticks on the sofa. “Harry,” she says gently, but he keeps pacing. “Harry!”

“I’m listening.”

“You’re not.”

“I am.”

“What did I say?”

He stops, looks at her, and says, “You said Harry.”

Mitch shrugs. “Technically true.”

Sarah ignores him and steps into Harry’s path. “Look at me.”

Harry tries, but his gaze keeps slipping past her, to the door, the clock, the dark corners of the room, anywhere his worry can attach itself.

“You are ready,” Sarah says. “You’re nervous because you care. That’s all this is.”

Harry lets out a humourless little laugh. “That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“Feels a bit bigger than all.”

“It always does right before.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but the door opens before he can get a word out and Jeff appears first. Then you step in behind him. You have your VIP lanyard hanging around your neck, your phone in one hand, the screen open to the @togethertogether account because ten minutes ago you were upstairs with Anne, checking the final scheduled post for the opening night of the tour. You were supposed to be watching from the box, tucked between Harry’s mum and a few friends, listening to the crowd build itself into a storm. Then Jeff had appeared. He had not said much, he didn't need to, one look at his face, and you had already stood up. Now, the green room turns towards you with embarrassing speed. Sarah’s shoulders drop in visible relief, Mitch lifts a hand. “Oh, thank God,” he says. “Please tell your boyfriend he’s not allowed to cancel the tour because of imaginary knee failure.”

You blink once. “Imaginary what?”

“Don’t encourage him,” Sarah says.

Jeff leans closer to you, lowering his voice. “He’s fine. Just very… opening night.” You nod, because you understand exactly what that means.

Harry still hasn't noticed you. He is too far inside his own head, pacing again, mouth moving with half-formed worries that barely make it into the room. His stage outfit is already on, except for the jacket, his bare forearms warm under the light, tattoos familiar and vivid against his skin. He looks ready to step in front of thousands, but he also looks as if he has forgotten that every person in the room is on his side. Jeff slips out again, leaving you to it.

You don't call to Harry from across the room, you know him well enough for that. When he is wound this tight, loud concern only gives the nerves more attention. So you walk over to him slowly, passing Sarah, who gives you a small, encouraging smile. The closer you get, the clearer his words become. “Gonna mess up the opener. Should’ve changed the key. Should’ve never picked that as the first song. Too old to be running around like—”

“Harry.” Your voice is soft. At the same time, your fingers curl gently around his bare forearm.

He stops at once. His head snaps up, eyes wide with surprise for a second before they find your face. Recognition settles over him like someone has switched on a light in a dark room. “You’re here,” he says.

“I am.”

“You’re supposed to be upstairs.”

“You’re supposed to be breathing.”

Behind you, Mitch makes a noise that sounds dangerously close to a laugh. Sarah must give him a look, because he falls silent immediately.

Harry glances towards the door. “Jeff got you?”

“He came to collect me, yes.”

“Brilliant.” He closes his eyes briefly. “That bad?”

“You were apparently making legal arguments for a fake power cut.”

His eyes open. “That was private.”

“It was in front of your band.”

“Still private.”

You let your thumb move once over his arm. “Apparently someone needed a reminder.”

He looks at you cautiously. “Of what?”

“How good he is.”

He exhales, then straightens a little, as though he has remembered there are people in the room and pride is still technically available to him. “I’m fine.”

You only look at him. He holds your gaze. One second. Two. Three. Then his face gives up before his mouth does and he sighs. “I’m not fine.”

“I know.”

“Course you do,” he mutters. “Annoying.”

“Very.”

His hand finds yours, almost without thinking. He doesn't reach dramatically, and he also doesn't ask. His fingers simply slip between yours, familiar and automatic, and you let him hold on as tightly as he needs. For a moment, the room politely fades away. Not physically, Sarah and Mitch are still there, Jeff is probably hovering outside the door, and a crew member is definitely waiting somewhere with a headset and growing stress levels. But everyone gives you what privacy they can. Harry’s voice lowers. “I don’t think I can do it.”

You don't rush to disagree, that matters. He looks down at your joined hands. “I know how stupid that sounds.”

“It doesn’t sound stupid.”

“It does, love. I’m standing here dressed for a show I planned, with thousands of people outside, telling you I can’t do my job.”

“You’re telling me you’re nervous before the first night of a massive tour after nearly three years away.”

He pauses. “That sounds better.”

“It’s also the truth.”

A faint, reluctant smile touches his mouth, then disappears when the noise outside rises again. “I keep thinking I’ll walk out there and it’ll feel wrong,” he admits. “Like I missed the window. Like everyone else moved on and I’m still trying to be…” He shakes his head, annoyed with himself. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to know. Keep talking.”

He looks at you then, properly. There is fear in his eyes, yes, but it is not the kind that swallows him whole. It is softer than that, more human, the simple fear of caring too much. The fear of returning to something he loves and finding it has changed while he was away. “What if they don’t want this version of me?” he asks quietly. “What if they wanted the one from before? The one who knew how to do all this without thinking so much.”

You step closer, your free hand resting lightly on his arm again. “First of all,” you say, “you have always thought this much.”

Mitch murmurs, “True.”

Harry turns his head. “Not helpful.”

“Accurate, though,” Sarah says.

You smile, and Harry looks back at you with a small, offended huff that already sounds more like him. “Second,” you continue, “they’re not here for a version of you that doesn’t exist anymore. They’re here for you. The person you are now. The person who made this album, who built this show, who spent weeks changing tiny details nobody else would have noticed because you wanted it to feel right.”

“The details mattered.”

“I know they did.”

“The intro lighting was wrong.”

“It was very wrong,” you agree, because sometimes love is telling him the curtain colour mattered. “And then you fixed it. You fixed all of it. You rehearsed. You listened. You adjusted. You cared so much that you drove everyone slightly insane, which is annoying for them but very good for the show.”

Mitch points at you. “That is exactly what happened.”

Harry’s mouth twitches again and you squeeze his hand. “And you’ve grown,” you continue, softer now. “As a person. As an artist. As someone who actually lets himself rest sometimes, even if you still act like drinking coffee on a balcony in Rome counts as a demanding schedule.”

“It can be demanding.”

“You watched a cat sleep for forty minutes.”

“He had presence.”

“He was asleep.”

“He knew what he was doing.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself, and that does it. Harry smiles properly this time, small but warm, the kind of smile that belongs to you more than to any camera. The knot loosens and you keep your voice gentle. “Those people out there are not waiting for you to prove you’re still worthy of being loved, they already love you. They’re here to celebrate with you. Sing with you. Dance with you. Scream every lyric so loudly you’ll probably hear none of your own vocals for the first three songs.”

“That’s not ideal.”

“It’ll be fun.”

“Yeah, it's fun when they do that, feels nice.”

“I know.”

His gaze moves over your face, and you can see the moment your words begin to land. Not as a miracle cure, and also not as some grand revelation. Just slowly, honestly, because he trusts you enough to let your voice be louder than the doubt. “You don’t have to be perfect tonight,” you tell him. “You only have to walk out there and start. The rest will come back to you.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then you look up at me and your mum dancing terribly in the VIP box, and you remember you have bigger problems.”

His brows lift. “Terribly?”

“Anne has confidence. I have rhythm. Together, we are dangerous.”

“Please don’t start a dance crew during my show.”

“No promises.”

He laughs then, a real laugh. Quiet, but enough that Jeff peeks through the door like the sound alone has added five years back to his life. Harry sees him and rolls his eyes. “Stop hovering.”

Jeff immediately opens the door wider. “I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

“I was monitoring.”

“Through a crack in the door?”

“Managerial instinct.”

Mitch snorts, Sarah picks her drumsticks back up, grinning now. “How are we doing, H?”

Harry takes a breath, a proper one, then he looks back at you. “Better,” he says.

The word is small, but everyone hears it. You do too, and your heart settles with relief. Harry pulls you into him then, one arm wrapping around your shoulders, the other around your waist. You go willingly, your face turning into the warmth of him. He smells like cologne, clean fabric, and just himself. For a moment, he just holds you. No jokes, no pacing, no countdown. Only his arms around you and his breathing finally steadying against your cheek. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

Your hand moves slowly over his back. “Always.”

“No, I mean it.” He draws back enough to look at you, but keeps you close. “For coming down. For knowing when I’m being an idiot and still being nice about it.”

“I’m not always nice about it.”

“No, you’re quite smug sometimes.”

“You like that.”

“I love that.” His expression softens. “I love you.”

The others suddenly become extremely busy with pretending not to hear. Mitch looks at the ceiling, Sarah looks at her shoes and Jeff checks his phone even though the screen is off.

You smile. “I love you too.”

Harry’s eyes hold yours for one more beat, and then the knock comes again, this time, it's not a warning, it's the final call. “Five minutes,” someone calls from the doorway. “Actually five.”

Harry nods. The nerves are still there. You can tell by the way he flexes his fingers once before letting his hands fall at his sides. But they have changed shape now, they no longer look like something dragging him backward. They look like energy, sharp and bright, waiting for somewhere to go. He turns to you immediately. “Mark can take you back.”

“I can find the VIP box.”

“I know.”

“So why—”

“Because Mark can take you back.”

You narrow your eyes. “You are about to go on stage in front of an entire arena, and you’re worried about me walking down a hallway by myself?”

“Yes.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s love.”

“That’s control issues.”

“That too.”

You laugh, and he grins, pleased with himself now that he can actually breathe again. A security guard appears by the door, waiting with polite patience. The hallway behind him is alive with movement: crew rushing past, headsets crackling, someone calling timing cues, someone else counting equipment, the whole machine of the show shifting into its final seconds. Harry looks at you one last time. You reach up and smooth the edge of his stage shirt near his shoulder, a tiny gesture that gives you an excuse to touch him again. “Go be brilliant,” you say.

He catches your hand and kisses your knuckles. “You’ll be watching?”

“Every second.”

“With Mum?”

“Yes.”

“Dance with her.”

“I already promised.”

“She gets competitive.”

“So do I.”

His smile turns boyish. “That’s my girl.”

Then he leans in and kisses you. It's quick because it has to be, but it's not careless. His hand rests at your cheek, his thumb warm for one second against your skin, and when he pulls away, his face is close enough for you to see the last trace of worry giving way to excitement. “They’re waiting for you,” you whisper. He nods, and this time, he smiles like he believes it.

You leave with Mark while Harry is guided in the opposite direction. For a few steps, you look back over your shoulder and catch him doing the same. He lifts two fingers in a tiny wave, and then someone from the crew steals his attention, ushering him towards the stage entrance.

By the time you reach the VIP box, the house lights have dimmed and the intro is starting on the big screens. Anne turns the second you step inside. “There you are,” she says, taking your hand. Her eyes search your face with a mother’s quiet precision. “Is he alright?”

You look down at the stage, where darkness has gathered and the crowd is chanting his name in waves. “He’s okay,” you say. “Just nervous.”

Anne’s face softens. “He always is before the ones that matter.”

“He asked Jeff to cancel because of an imaginary power cut.”

Anne closes her eyes briefly, smiling. “That boy.”

“He’s good now.”

“I know,” she says, squeezing your hand. “He has you.”

The first notes of Are You Listening Yet? move through the arena before you can answer and the reaction of the crowd is instant. A scream tears through the room so loudly that the floor seems to vibrate beneath you, lights sweep across the stage, the screens flash, and then, a heartbeat later, Harry walks out. For one second, he stands in the light while the arena welcomes him like no time has passed at all, no hesitation, no polite warming up either. Just thousands of people on their feet, screaming his name with enough force to make the whole building feel alive. Harry’s face changes, you see it even from the VIP box, the moment the noise reaches him properly. The moment he understands that they are not waiting to judge him or measure him against who he used to be. They are simply happy he is there. His smile appears, bright and disbelieving and so very Harry that Anne laughs beside you, emotional before the first lyric has even landed. “Look at him,” she says. You are already looking.

Harry lifts the microphone, and sings the first line, clear, steady, beautiful. The crowd sings it back at him like they have been waiting years to do it, which they probably have. By the chorus, Anne has pulled you into dancing. You laugh and let her, the two of you moving together on the balcony, probably terribly, but definitely happily. Harry crosses the catwalk below, growing more comfortable with every step, the nerves turning into movement, into charm, into that familiar spark that makes an arena feel somehow intimate. Near the end of the song, he looks up, straight up to the VIP box. He finds Anne first, dancing with no shame at all. Then he finds you. Your eyes meet from across the noise and lights and impossible distance, and his smile shifts into something softer. Something private, even with thousands of people watching. You lift your hand and wave. He shakes his head a little, fond and amused, then turns back to the crowd just as the final chorus hits.

And just like that, he's back. Not the Harry from before. Not some old version he has to chase. Just him. Thirty-two, nervous, loved, ridiculous, brilliant and exactly where he is supposed to be.

Taglist: @lizsogolden @avensgreenvans @maudie-duan @chocostyles @sparklejumpropequeen1113 @pops234 @lomlcamy

Taglist: @lizsogolden @avensgreenvans @maudie-duan @chocostyles @sparklejumpropequeen1113 @pops234 @lomlcamy

His office sat high above the city, all glass walls and quiet power, the kind of place where deals worth millions were spoken about in low voices, where every handshake meant something binding, where people either left victorious or ruined.

And Harry?

He was always the one who decided which it would be.

Clients trusted him because he was ruthless. Opponents feared him because he was precise. He didn’t waste words, didn’t entertain emotions, didn’t lose.

He couldn’t afford to.

But the thing about reaching every goal you’ve ever set for yourself… is realising that nothing is waiting on the other side. No quiet sense of fulfilment. Happiness is numbered.

His days blurred into one another, early mornings, late nights, contracts stacked neatly on his desk, assistants filtering his life into manageable pieces. Coffee had gone cold more often than not. Meals were skipped. Calls were taken in moving cars, in hallways, and in between breaths.

Win after win after win.

And still—

Just silence with no substance.

It didn’t feel the same anymore. When he was younger, every praise and every win gave him power, gave him control.

His office lights were the last thing on at night, long after everyone else had gone home. Harry would sit there, tie loosened, sleeves rolled, staring out at a city that never seemed to sleep, wondering why he felt detached from it all.

There were no celebrations anymore. No one to call. No one he wanted to call except his family, but he rarely calls them anymore.

Because somewhere along the way, in becoming the best, he had stripped himself down to only the useful parts.

Efficient and cold.

A beast in a tailored suit and beasts don’t get tired, don’t hesitate, don’t feel.

At least that’s what he told himself.

Until the routine started to feel less like control and more like a cage.

Harry checked his watch—12:17 a.m.

Too late for dinner by most standards. Too early to call it a night.

But hunger didn’t care about schedules, and neither did the dull ache sitting behind his eyes. He loosened his tie as he walked, thumb already swiping across his phone, scanning through the rigid grid of his calendar. Every hour accounted for. Every meeting is planned with intention. Every second is optimised.

Tomorrow—no, today—was already suffocating.

A client call at eight. Internal review at ten. Court appearance by one. Dinner meeting that wasn’t really dinner, just another negotiation disguised under dim lighting and expensive wine.

He paused.

There wasn’t a single blank space.

Not even for something as simple as breathing.

Harry locked his phone with a quiet exhale, jaw tightening as he stepped into his car, quietly thanking the valet. The door shut with a muted thud, sealing him into the familiar silence. For a moment, he just sat there, hands resting on the steering wheel, staring at nothing in particular. Then he inhaled, reminding himself how to breathe.

The engine started, smooth and obedient, and he drove without much thought, just instinct guiding him through near-empty streets washed in amber streetlights. The city at this hour felt… different. Less demanding. Less loud.

Almost honest.

He passed by the usual late-night spots he’d frequent, upscale places still open for men like him, where staff knew his name and never asked unnecessary questions.

But tonight, something in him resisted.

It felt exhausting to be known or acknowledged that way.

So he kept driving.

Until the skyline gave way to quieter roads, until polished glass buildings turned into older structures, until he found himself slowing down in front of a small diner tucked between a closed hardware store and a dimly lit laundromat.

The neon sign flickered.

Unimpressive. Unimportant.

Perfect.

Harry hesitated for only a second before pulling into the empty lot. The gravel crunched softly under his tires, a stark contrast to the smooth, silent garages he was used to.

He turned off the engine.

Silence settled again, but this time, it felt different. Not heavy. Not suffocating.

Just… still.

He stepped out, the cool night air brushing against his skin, carrying the faint scent of grease and something warm, comforting, in a way he couldn’t quite place.

The bell above the diner door chimed softly as he walked in.

The vinyl seat creaked softly as Harry slid into the booth, the table cool beneath his fingertips. A laminated menu sat propped against the napkin holder, edges worn, corners slightly curled. He picked it up more out of habit than interest, eyes skimming past items without really reading them.

Something fried and indulgent.

Fuel.

That’s all it was.

“Good morning, sir. Have you found what you’re looking for?”

The voice was gentle and light, but grounded. Not rehearsed. Not the polished tone he was used to hearing from assistants, receptionists, or anyone trying to impress him.

Harry looked up.

And for a second—

Nothing moved.

Not the quiet hum of the fridge behind the counter. Not the faint buzz of the flickering light overhead. Not even his own thoughts.

Love at first sight was for people who had time for distractions. For people who weren’t him.

He didn’t believe in things like this. Never had.

But you—

You stood there like something completely out of place in his carefully structured world. Not because you were loud or extravagant, but because you were… real. Warm in a way that didn’t feel forced. Awake in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

A breath of fresh air in a life that had long gone stale.

“Sir?”

Harry blinked, the moment snapping just slightly, though something in his chest lingered—tight, unfamiliar.

"Right, give your order, Harry," he thought.

“I’ll have the chicken special,” he said, voice steady, almost too controlled. He placed the menu down carefully, like he needed the extra second to gather himself. “Just—hold the gravy. Thanks.”

You nodded, scribbling it down with a small, easy motion. “Got it. Chicken special, no gravy.”

No hesitation. No unnecessary chatter. Just… simple.

Effortless.

You turned to leave, but Harry found himself watching, something he never did. He didn’t linger. Didn’t indulge. Didn’t… care.

Yet his eyes followed you anyway.

The way you moved between tables. The way you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The quiet focus on everything you did.

It was ordinary.

And somehow, it felt more captivating than anything he’d ever seen in the high-rise offices, the luxury restaurants, the world he had built for himself.

Harry leaned back slightly in his seat, exhaling under his breath, one hand coming up to rub along his jaw.

Ridiculous.

He’d been in this diner for less than five minutes, and he's already a different man.

...

Harry hadn’t realized he’d been staring at nothing until the soft clink of a plate pulled him back.

“Here’s your chicken special and no gravy,” you said, setting it down. “And a green juice on the house.”

He glanced at the pale glass. Fresh. Unexpected.

“Sorry, I didn’t order that.”

You shrugged, smiling lightly. “You look like you need it.”

That caught him off guard.

People didn’t speak to him like that. They anticipated, calculated—but never just… decided for him.

“And what does that mean?” he asked, quieter now.

You tilted your head. “You look tired. Not sleepy. Just… tired-tired.”

No hesitation. Just truth.

He didn’t argue.

Because you weren’t wrong.

“Right,” he murmured, wrapping his fingers around the cool glass. He took a sip, and it was light and delicious.

“Thank you.”

The words felt unfamiliar.

“You do that often?” he asked, glancing up. “Offer unsolicited remedies to strangers?”

Dry, but softer now. Almost reaching.

“Well… everyone needs a little bit of kindness.”

Somehow, it landed heavier than anything he’d heard in a long time.

Harry stilled. Kindness?

In his world, everything was earned. Traded and Controlled.

“That’s a dangerous way to live,” he said quietly. “People take advantage of that,” he thought, given from his own experience.

His gaze lingered, trying to understand how someone could be so open when he had built his life on the opposite.

Walls. Distance. Control.

"Still,” he added, looking down as he picked up his fork, “doesn’t mean it isn’t appreciated.” “Even if it’s misplaced.”

Harry finished his meal in quiet, though not in the same detached way he usually did. There was a lingering awareness now of the place, of the night, of something subtle shifting under his skin that he couldn’t quite name.

He didn’t stay long after that.

His pen hovered over the receipt before he wrote down a number, far larger than what the meal called for. Not out of habit or obligation. But a bit of kindness for the waitress who served him.

“I hope you enjoyed your meal,” you said softly, offering him a small, polite smile as he pushed his chair back.

Harry glanced down at you, something warmer flickering behind his usual composed expression. “Thank you… compliments to the chef,” he replied, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

You let out a light giggle before you could stop yourself. “Oh, I’ll absolutely tell that to Enzo.”

The sound seemed to catch him off guard, just for a second.

Your eyes widened slightly as you realized. “Sorry, that wasn’t very professional.”

Harry shook his head, already reaching for his coat. “No, it was…” He paused, like he was choosing his words more carefully than necessary. “It was nice.”

There was a brief, quiet beat between you, something unspoken, but not uncomfortable.

You stepped back, giving him space, hands clasped neatly in front of you again. “Goodnight, sir.”

You gave a small wave.

He didn’t leave right away.

Instead, Harry looked at you for a moment longer than usual, like he was trying to memorize something he couldn’t quite place.

Then, softer this time, “Goodnight.”

And only then did he turn, heading for the door, though not without a subtle glance back before he disappeared into the night, thinking of the girl who generously gave him a green juice.

...