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@cherryskies-harry
i see no difference.
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"Some people are artists. Some, themselves, are art" Harry styles is both.
still one of my favourite posts i've ever made.
I Met Someone And It Was Easy (Raya Harry)
You change your jumper twice, drink the best coffee you’ve had since LA, and meet the woman who already knew everything about you without having met you yet.
word count: 4.4k
authors note: cover photo by @zclhes
You wake up and don't know where you are for approximately three seconds.
Then it comes back. All of it, in order. The arrivals hall. The wrong side of the car. The eggs. The empty room at the end of the hall. The couch.
London.
You lie there and let it settle. The light coming through the curtains is grey and soft and nothing like New York morning light. New York morning light has an insistence to it even on cloudy days, a quality of the city already being in motion. This is quieter. More patient. Like the day is taking its time deciding what it wants to be.
His side of the bed is empty.
You sit up slowly, jet lag sitting somewhere behind your eyes like something unfinished, and look around the room properly for the first time in daylight. It's a good room. The kind that doesn't try too hard. A chair in the corner with a jumper thrown over it. Books on the nightstand, his, a receipt tucked between the pages as a bookmark.
You can smell coffee.
You find your phone on the nightstand. Just past eight. Your body thinks it's three in the morning. That explains a great deal.
There's a message from Cami.
Cami: good morning from New York. how was the first night 👀
Cami: and I mean ALL of it
Cami: did he find the thing
You look at the ceiling for a second.
You: he found the thing
Cami: AND
You: and it went well
Cami: I need more than that
Cami: did he dick you down real good or not this is important information
You press your lips together.
You: yes Cami
You: extremely well actually
You: are you happy
Cami: EXTREMELY
Cami: I knew it. I knew it I knew it I knew it
Cami: something about a man who is that calm and patient in regular life
You: please don't
Cami: no I'm just saying. it transfers.
You: Camille.
Cami: I need a popstar
Cami: like genuinely. after hearing this. I need one immediately.
Cami: do you think he has friends
You laugh out loud alone in his bedroom in London at eight in the morning and the sound bounces off the walls and feels very good.
You: I'll ask
Cami: please do it's urgent
Cami: also how's London
You: grey. quiet. I can smell coffee from downstairs.
Cami: go get your coffee babe. I love you. tell him I said hi and also thank you.
You: I'm not telling him that last part
Cami: he already knows 🫶🏼
You put the phone down and push the duvet back. The oversized shirt from last night is folded on the chair. You did not do that. He did. You pull it on and follow the smell of coffee downstairs.
The kitchen is warm and lit and he's at the counter with his back to you, two mugs out, the coffee already made. He hears you on the stairs and glances back over his shoulder.
"Morning," he says.
"Morning," you say, and your voice is still doing what voices do at eight in the morning, slightly unreliable and not quite your own yet.
He looks at you for a second. Hair everywhere, his shirt, the general state of someone who slept hard in a new time zone and is still catching up to the day.
"You look good," he says.
"I look like jet lag," you say.
"You look good," he says again, and turns back to the coffee like that's entirely settled.
You pull out a stool and sit and watch him and think about Cami's text and press your lips together.
"Cami says hi," you say.
He slides a mug across the island to you. "Tell her hi back."
"She also says thank you."
He looks at you.
"For the flight," you say. "Obviously."
He holds your gaze for just a second. The corner of his mouth moves. "Obviously," he says.
You pick up your coffee and look somewhere else.
He leans on the counter across from you, his own mug in hand, and you both drink in the morning quiet of the kitchen, London doing its grey patient thing outside the window. It's a comfortable quiet. The kind you don't have to fill.
"How's the jet lag?" he says eventually.
"Present," you say. "Manageable. My body thinks it's the middle of the night."
"It'll be worse tomorrow," he says.
"That's not helpful."
"It's true though." He looks at you over his mug. "The bakery will help."
"Is that a medical opinion?"
"It's a load bearing coffee opinion," he says. "Which is more reliable."
You smile at your mug. Outside the light is doing something interesting, the grey shifting slightly, not quite committing to anything but considering it.
"Can I see the garden?" you say.
He looks momentarily surprised, then not. "Yeah," he says. "Come on."
He opens the back door and you step out and the cold hits you immediately, sharp and clean and damp, the cold of an English morning that has been cold for a long time and isn't apologizing for it. The garden is small and tidy, a little overgrown at the edges, the kind of garden someone tends occasionally but not obsessively. A tree in the corner stripped of most of its leaves. A bench along the back wall that looks like it's been there forever.
You stand there in his shirt and your bare feet on the cold stone and look at it.
It's quiet out here. That's the thing that gets you. New York doesn't have this, not really, not even in the smallest backyard. There's always something. A siren, a neighbour, a dog three buildings over. This is just birds and distant traffic and the sound of the city existing somewhere that isn't here.
"It's nice," you say.
"In summer it's better," he says, beside you. "Everything comes back."
You look at the tree. At the bench. At the grey sky above it all.
"I'm going to sit out here," you say. "When it's warm. With my laptop."
"I know," he says. Like he's already pictured it.
You look at him.
He looks back at you, easy and unhurried, hands around his mug, completely unbothered by the cold in a way that suggests he's stood out here in worse than this and found it perfectly fine.
"Come on," he says. "Let's go get you that coffee."
You go back inside and upstairs. He leaves you to get ready while he takes his call, as planned, and you appreciate it because you need at least twenty minutes to negotiate with your hair and find something to wear that says I'm a person who lives here now and not I just got off a plane yesterday. Both are true. Only one is useful right now.
You stand in front of your suitcase for longer than you'd like.
You settle on something. Jeans, a good jumper, the coat that isn't quite warm enough for a Manchester winter but is fine for London in November. You do your makeup lightly, the kind that looks like nothing. It takes more effort than it should. You look at yourself in the bathroom mirror.
You look like yourself.
That'll do.
He's waiting at the bottom of the stairs when you come down, coat on, keys in hand, looking at his phone. He looks up when he hears you and takes you in, unhurried, top to bottom.
"Ready?" he says.
"Ready," you say.
Outside the morning has decided on something grey but dry. He tells you this is actually quite good for this time of year. You choose to believe him. The street looks different in daylight than it did last night coming home from the airport. More itself. Terraced houses on both sides, all slightly different shades of the same thing, the occasional window box, a cat sitting on a wall two doors down watching you both with complete indifference.
You walk close beside him, shoulders occasionally touching, and look at everything.
"That's the corner shop," he says, nodding at a small place on the end of the block. "Open at six every morning, run by a man named Raj who knows everyone on the street and has opinions about everything."
"I like him already," you say.
"You'll meet him," he says. "He'll introduce himself. He always does."
You turn a corner and the street opens up slightly, a small square with a bench and a tree in the middle of it, and there on the far corner is the bakery. Small, warm looking, the kind of place with a handwritten menu in the window and a small queue already forming outside despite the cold.
"This is it," he says.
"It's already got a queue," you say.
"I told you," he says. "Load bearing."
You join the queue and stand there in the cold and he stands behind you slightly, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, and you look at the handwritten menu in the window and try to read it and feel, for the first time since the car last night, the strangeness of being somewhere completely new. Not bad strangeness. Just awareness of a person standing in a place they don't know yet, reading a menu they've never seen, about to try coffee that someone they love has been drinking for years without them.
"What do you normally get?" you say.
"The flat white," he says. "And the thing with the almond."
"What thing with the almond?"
"You'll see," he says.
The queue moves and then you're inside and it's warm and smells extraordinary, coffee and butter and something sweet underneath it all, and a woman behind the counter looks up and sees Harry and smiles the smile of someone who recognizes a regular.
"Morning," she says. "Usual?"
"Two," he says. "And two of the almond things."
She nods and starts making it. He pays before you can say anything. You were going to. You give him a look.
"Don't," he says.
"I was just going to—"
"I know what you were going to do," he says. "Don't."
You close your mouth.
He takes the cups when they come and hands you yours. You both take the almond things. They turn out to be small golden pastries with something inside you can't identify but that tastes like the best decision you've ever made. You push back out into the cold and stand on the pavement outside the bakery in the grey London morning and take your first sip of the coffee.
You stop.
You look at him.
He is watching you with the expression of someone who already knew and has been waiting for you to catch up.
"Okay," you say.
"Yeah," he says.
"That's really good coffee."
"I told you."
"You told me it was load bearing," you say. "I didn't know what that meant until right now."
He smiles, properly, and takes a sip of his own and you stand there on the pavement outside the bakery eating almond pastries and drinking the best coffee you've had since a rooftop bar in LA, and London goes on around you, grey and old and unhurried.
You think about the window he talked about last night. The strangeness before somewhere becomes normal.
You are standing right in the middle of it.
You want to remember this exact moment. The cold on your face and the coffee in your hand and him beside you and the cat on the wall down the street and the handwritten menu and the woman who already knew his order. The almond thing you can't identify. The grey sky doing its patient thing above it all.
You take a mental photograph of it. File it away somewhere careful.
First morning in London. Load bearing coffee. Him.
"Can we walk for a bit?" you say. "Before we go back?"
"We've got time," he says. "Come on. I'll show you the park."
The park is five minutes from the bakery, tucked behind a row of houses where things appear without announcing themselves, a gate in a wall and then suddenly there's all this space, trees and paths and a stretch of grass that is very green despite the grey sky above it.
You walk through the gate and your breath clouds in front of you and the gravel path crunches underfoot. Quiet here, the weekday morning kind, just a few people with dogs, a man on a bench with a newspaper, a woman pushing a pram with the focused determination of someone who has been up since five and is making the most of it.
"This is the one?" you say.
He looks at you.
"The park where you used to come and think," you say. "You told me about it. In LA. On the rooftop."
He looks around at it. At the trees and the path and the bench by the far wall. "Yeah," he says. "This is the one."
You walk beside him and look at it and try to picture him younger, before any of it, sitting on one of these benches working something out. It's not hard. He has always seemed like someone who needed space to think, who found noise useful in the studio and quiet useful everywhere else.
"What did you think about?" you say. "When you used to come here."
He's quiet for a moment, just the gravel underfoot and the distant sound of a dog somewhere behind you.
"Everything," he says. "When I was young it was music mostly. Whether it was going to work. Whether I was making the right decisions." He pauses. "Later it was other things. Life things. The kind of questions that don't have clean answers so you just have to sit with them until something shifts."
You look at the bench by the far wall.
"Do you still come?" you say.
"Sometimes," he says. "Less than I used to. But sometimes."
You walk a little further down the path and the park opens up slightly, a wider stretch of grass with a few trees at the edges, their branches bare and black against the sky. A pigeon does something purposeful near your feet and then thinks better of it.
"I want to write about this park," you say. Not to him specifically. Just out loud.
"Yeah?"
"Not about you," you say quickly. "Just about the park. The idea of a place you go to think. Everyone has one. The man on the bench with the newspaper probably has a whole history with that bench." You look around. "There are a hundred stories in here right now."
He's looking at you with that expression, the quiet attentive one, the one that means he's actually listening.
"Write in the window," he says.
"I know," you say. "I will."
You finish your coffees and your almond pastries and walk a full loop of the park before you head back, not in a hurry, just walking, your shoulder against his, the cold settling into something almost comfortable. He points things out as you go. The cafe on the corner that does good soup in winter. The bookshop a street over that he's been going to since he was a teenager. The church at the end of the road that has a market in its courtyard on Saturdays.
"The market you mentioned?" you say.
"That one," he says. "It's good. We'll go this weekend."
You look at the church as you pass it, the courtyard behind the iron gate, quiet and empty now but easy to picture full of stalls and people and that specific Saturday morning energy of somewhere that takes its weekends seriously.
"I'm going to find someone to write about there," you say.
"I know you will," he says simply.
You walk back in a comfortable quiet, the street familiar already in the small ways that streets become familiar when you pay attention, the corner shop and the cat wall and the turn that takes you back to his road. His house appearing at the end of it, warm light in the downstairs window even in the morning, like it's been waiting for you to come back.
You stop at the gate.
"Thank you for showing me," you say.
He looks at you. "It's your neighbourhood too," he says. "You should know it."
You look at him standing there in his coat in the grey morning light outside his house, completely unbothered by the cold, completely at ease, and you think about a park bench and a rooftop in LA and a diner in Midtown and a hotel room on the forty second floor and all the improbable distance between that first conversation about boats and standing here right now on this pavement in London.
"Come on," he says. "She'll be here in two hours. I should probably warn you about a few things."
You look at him. "Warn me about what?"
"Nothing bad," he says, opening the gate. "She's just very."
"Very what?"
He smiles. "You'll see," he says.
You follow him inside.
The house feels different in the morning than it did last night. Warmer somehow, more itself, the light coming through the front windows and landing on the wooden floors in long pale strips. You can see things you couldn't see at midnight. The small details of a life lived here. The stack of records beside the player in the sitting room. The collection of mugs on the kitchen shelf that don't match each other. The patch of wall by the back door where someone has written a measurement in pencil, a child's height, old enough that you can barely make it out.
You stand in the kitchen while he makes more coffee and look at all of it.
"What do I need to know?" you say.
He leans against the counter. "She's going to hug you straight away," he says. "Before you've said anything. Just so you're ready."
"Okay," you say. "I can do that."
"She's going to ask you about your family," he says. "Not in a pointed way. She's just interested in people. Where they come from. She thinks it explains a lot."
"Does it?"
"She thinks so," he says. "She's usually right."
You pull your knees up on the stool. "What else?"
"She might cry," he says. Completely matter of fact.
You stare at him. "Why?"
"She cries when she's happy," he says. "Don't let it worry you. It means things are going well."
"Your mother might cry at brunch and that means things are going well."
"Lunch," he says. "And yes."
You look at him. "Is there anything else I should know?"
He thinks about it genuinely. "She's going to love you," he says. "I've told you that. But she's also going to tell you things about me that I would prefer she didn't and there's nothing I can do about that because she's my mum and that's just what mums do."
"What kind of things?"
"Embarrassing things," he says. "Stories. She has a lot of them."
"I want to hear all of them," you say.
"I know you do," he says. "That's what I'm worried about."
You smile at the island. Outside the morning is still doing its grey patient thing, the light not quite committing, London in November being entirely itself.
"Harry," you say.
"Mm?"
"What did you tell her about me?"
He picks up his mug. Looks at it for a second. Then looks at you.
"The truth," he says simply. "That I met someone and it was easy and I didn't want to stop."
You look at him across the kitchen island.
"That's it?" you say.
"And that you're a writer," he says. "And that you care about things properly. And that you made me feel like myself when I was around you." He shrugs slightly, like none of this is remarkable. "She asked a lot of questions."
"She sounds like a journalist," you say.
"She's just curious," he says. "She always has been." He pushes off the counter. "Go get yourself sorted. She's punctual."
You slide off the stool and take your coffee and head for the stairs and then stop halfway up and look back at him still standing in the kitchen, the morning light coming through the window behind him, completely at ease in his own space in his own city.
"Harry," you say.
He looks up.
"She already likes me," you say. "You said so."
He smiles. "I did say so."
"So I'm not nervous," you say. Convincing yourself as much as him.
"You're a little nervous," he says.
You point at him.
"Go get ready," he says.
You go.
You are ready twenty minutes before she arrives. You spend those twenty minutes sitting on the edge of the bed doing nothing useful.
You change your jumper once. You don't need to, the first one was fine, but you change it anyway because you are apparently a person who changes their jumper when they're nervous even though you're not nervous, you're fine, you're completely fine.
You check your phone.
Cami: how are you feeling
You: fine
Cami: you changed your jumper didn't you
You stare at the screen.
You: how did you know that
Cami: because I know you. which jumper did you go with
You: the green one
Cami: good call. she's going to love you. stop sitting on the bed.
You put the phone down and stop sitting on the bed.
Downstairs you can hear him moving around, tidying things that probably don't need tidying. That makes you feel marginally better about the jumper situation. You sit on the sitting room sofa instead and look at the fireplace and the records and the books on the shelves with no system, and you think about what he said in the kitchen.
That I met someone and it was easy and I didn't want to stop.
You are still thinking about that when the doorbell rings.
You hear him go to the door. You hear it open. You hear her voice before you see her, warm and northern and unmistakably his in its cadence, saying something you can't quite make out, and then his laugh, low and genuine, and then footsteps in the hall.
You stand up.
She comes into the sitting room ahead of him and she is exactly what you expected and nothing like what you expected at the same time. Warm eyes, the same green as his. A smile that arrives immediately and completely, no warming up to it, just there. A coat she's already taking off before she's fully through the door because she is someone who makes herself at home without thinking about it, which tells you a great deal very quickly.
She sees you and stops.
Just for a second.
Something crosses her face. Recognition, maybe, or something softer than that. The look of someone finally seeing a thing they've been told about and finding it true.
Then she crosses the room and pulls you into a hug.
It's a proper one. Both arms, no hesitation, the kind that belongs to someone who has been looking forward to this and isn't pretending otherwise. You go into it surprised and come out of it smiling.
"I'm Anne," she says, pulling back to look at you properly, her hands still on your arms. "I've been wanting to meet you for a very long time."
"I've been wanting to meet you too," you say, and mean it completely.
She looks at you. Really looks at you, the same attention Harry gives things, taking her time, not assessing but genuinely interested, like she's actually seeing you and not just the version of you she was expecting.
"He didn't do you justice," she says.
"Mum," Harry says, from the doorway.
"I'm just saying." She doesn't take her eyes off you. "He said you were lovely and you are but he left out the rest of it." She squeezes your arms once and then lets go and sits down on the sofa with the ease of someone who has been here many times before. "Sit down, sit down. Tell me everything. Start wherever you want."
You sit. Harry sits in the armchair across from you with the expression of a man who has accepted his fate and is at peace with it.
"Everything is a lot," you say.
"I have time," she says. "I cleared the whole afternoon." She glances at Harry. "Are you making tea or are you just going to sit there?"
"I'll make tea," he says, and gets up without complaint. You note this. It tells you something about the two of them that makes you like her immediately.
He disappears into the kitchen and she turns back to you and leans forward slightly with her elbows on her knees and looks at you like you are the most interesting thing she has seen in a long time.
"New York," she says. "What's it like? I've been twice but never long enough."
"Loud," you say. "Loud and enormous and it never lets you be still."
"Do you miss it?"
You think about it honestly. "Parts of it," you say. "The parts that are mine. The coffee shop on my corner and the park I walk through and the wine shop where the man never tries to upsell you." You pause. "Not the rest of it. Not as much as I thought I would."
She nods slowly, like this confirms something. "He said you were a writer."
"I am," you say. "I was a journalist. Local stuff, city council, human interest. I've just started something new." You pause. "A travel blog, sort of. About people. Finding extraordinary people in ordinary places."
Her face does something. Opens up slightly.
"What's it called?" she says.
"Strangers I Loved Briefly," you say.
She sits back. Looks at you. Then looks toward the kitchen where Harry is doing something with the kettle.
"Harry," she calls.
"Mm?" he calls back.
She looks at you with an expression that is warm and certain and slightly smug in the best possible way.
"Nothing," she calls back. "Never mind."
She turns back to you and the smile she gives you then is the real one, the full one, the one that says everything without saying anything.
"Tell me about the blog," she says. "Tell me everything about it."
MASTERLIST | TAGLIST
Word count: ~5.7k
Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader
POV: Harry, third person / Reader, second person
Setting: 2026, Together, Together Tour
Warnings: none
Summary: During a quiet garden Q&A, you convince Harry to answer fan questions from Instagram while he lounges in your lap and steals home-grown tomatoes.
A/N: All the questions Harry is asked in this chapter were submitted by you guys. Thank you so much for participating in my little game. I read all your questions and really enjoyed them, even though I couldn't include them all. 💕
London, N9 — 29 June 2026
By noon, you've already spent three hours inside Harry’s internet. Not literally, although some days it feels close enough. Your MacBook is open on the kitchen table, two work phones sit beside it, one charging, one buzzing every few minutes, and the house is quiet except for the soft clack of your keyboard and the occasional sound of Harry moving somewhere outside in the garden. Anthony’s latest folder is open on your screen, Wembley N8 in neat rows of thumbnails, rain caught in the stage lights, Harry barefoot in socks during the first songs before someone had rescued him with safer shoes, his hair damp, his face wide open with joy, the whole stadium blurred behind him like a storm of people.
this chapter is one of my favourites now UGH I LOVE THEM
HE CUT HIS HAIR EXTRA SHORT WTF HARRY MY LOVE WHY 😭
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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ummm guys i love u btw, i think it's so sweet that we come on here and rb each others posts and create a little community of words and images
UGH I'M SO SICK AND I HATE IT UGH
I CAN'T WITH MEN OMFG
an actual fucking rockstar.
harrystyles: Together, Together. Mexico City, Six.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Harry at the Together, Together Tour in Mexico City Night VI (August 10th)
Harry at the Together, Together Tour in Mexico City Night VI (August 10th)
they poofed him 😭
MUSIC FOR A SUSHI RESTAURANT LOVE ON TOUR – Horsens (5/14)
SUNFLOWER ALIEN NOISES IM SO HAPPY
mexico residency: stage tumbles, channeling cowboyrry, embracing the rain and giving us 6 cunty outfits.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
serving cunt in the pouring rain.
There’s so, so much to be said about this performance, but as Gina mentioned, it’s so striking how much he gives space to other artists. And, he never does it in a patronizing way, despite his level of stardom. He’s so gracious about the art and the artists that built him. His actions and words say: here, this is a piece of what made me. I hope it changes you, the way it transformed me.
There’s such a selflessness to it that, I think, is a fulfillment of the thesis behind Carla’s Song. Music isn’t about any one person, and it’s never been, but it feels like he’s fully outgrown the need to create something popular and widely loved, and has instead grown into the need to create something that outlasts him. It’s a beautiful metamorphosis and I’m glad we get to watch it.
