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He doesn’t pull away. His hand stays on my waist, his thumb is still tracing that slow circle against the fabric of my top, and his eyes are on mine. He’s not even scanning the crowd to see who noticed. He’s just looking at me with an expression I can’t decode.

I should step back. I should apologize. I should explain that I didn’t mean to, that I was upset and that I wasn’t thinking clearly at all. The words form in my throat but none of them make it past my teeth, because every single one feels like a lie.

The bass shifts to a slower song and someone near us cheers, and the sound breaks through whatever bubble we’ve been standingin. Harry’s gaze flicks sideways for half a second, towards the crowd, and I see the moment he registers how many people are watching. His jaw tightens and his hand drops from my waist.

“Do you want to get out of here?” he asks, his voice is still low, still meant only for me. “Away from all the eyes?”

My chest is tight and my hands are shaking and I can feel the weight of a hundred stares pressing against my back. Someone is definitely filming this and already typing a caption. By tomorrow morning, everyone on campus will know that the girl who got dumped by Adrian last week, kissed Harry Styles at a party, and they’ll all have opinions about why.

"Yeah," I say, and the word comes out rough. "I do."

He nods and then he’s walking, his hand brushing against the small of my back as we move through the crowd. Just enough pressure to guide me, not enough to claim me. The touch is light, barely there, but I feel it anyway, and I hate that I feel it. I hate that my skin is still warm from where his fingers were a minute ago. I hate that I noticed the exact moment his hand dropped from my waist and I hated the absence of it.

People step aside when they see him coming. That's the thing about Harry Styles. He doesn't have to ask or push or excuse himself. The crowd just parts, like everyone already knows he's more important than they are. A girl in a pink sweater actually steps backward into a guy's chest to let him pass, and she smiles at him as we go, and he gives her a polite nod that probably made her entire night.

This is what I hate. This right here. The way the whole campus treats him like he's something special.

Adrian used to talk about him. Not often, but enough. Enough little comments about how Harry got the best seat in the library without trying, how Harry's group got first pick of presentation slots, how Harry could show up fifteen minutes late and no one said a word. At first it was just observations, casual and detached. But then, Adrian started checking his phone more, caring about follower counts, caring about which party he got invited to and who was going to be there.

The night we broke up, he told me he needed to focus on his social circle. His actual words. Social circle. Like I was something outside of it. Like I was weighing him down while he tried to climb it up. That he needed the fuck Mia Leighton for it, so bad.

And who's at the top of that circle? Who's the guy everyone wants to know, the one whose attention means you've made it?

Harry. Fucking. Styles.

So yeah, I hate him. I hate what he represents, this whole hierarchy that chewed up my relationship and spat it out, this system where people are valued by how many heads turn when they walk into a room. I hate that he's the golden standard Adrian was always measuring himself against. I hate that I just grabbed his shirt and kissed him in front of everyone like it meant something.

It didn't mean something. It couldn't.

We stop near a low stone wall at the edge of the courtyard. The string lights are fewer here and the music is quieter and the wet grass gives way to cracked pavement. From here, the party is just a mess of bodies and colored light and pulsing bass, far enough away that I can finally hear myself think.

Harry leans against the wall, hands sliding into his pockets, and studies me. He's not smiling. He's not doing that easy, practiced thing he does in class, the one that makes every girl forget what she was saying. He looks serious, and I don't know what to do with serious Harry.

"You want to tell me what that was?" he asks.

I wrap my arms around myself. The October air is finally making it past the adrenaline, and my jacket isn't doing much to keep it out. "Not particularly."

"Okay." He tilts his head, watching me. "Do you want me to tell you what it looked like?"

"I can guess."

"Can you?"

I look at him. I look at the way the distant light catches on his jaw, the way his curls fall across his forehead, the way he's standing there like he has all the patience in the world. He's not pushing. He's not pulling away either. He's just present, steady, waiting, and it makes me want to scream at him for not being awful. It would be easier if he were awful.

"It looked like I used you," I say flatly. "To make my ex jealous. To prove I'm not sitting at home crying over him. To feel something other than awful for five seconds."

Something shifts in his expression. Not hurt, not anger. Just a kind of quiet recognition, like I've confirmed something he already knew.

"Did it work?" he asks.

I think about Adrian's face when he was watching us. That flat, careful stare. The way his jaw tightened and his hand went still on the girl's back. I think about the satisfaction that flared in my chest when I saw it, bright and brief and already hollow.

"I don't know," I admit. "Maybe. For a second."

Harry nods slowly, like this makes sense to him. He pushes off the wall and takes a step toward me, and I hold my breath without meaning to.

"For what it's worth," he says, "I didn't mind."

My pulse skips and I hate that it does. "Good for you."

"That's not what I said." His voice is still low, still careful. "I said I didn't mind. That's not the same as good."

"Then what is it?"

He considers this for a moment, his gaze steady on mine. "It's me saying that if you're going to kiss someone to make your ex jealous, I'm glad it was me and not some guy who's going to read too much into it."

The words land strange and I don't know what to do with them. He's giving me an out. A way to pretend it didn't matter. I should take it. I should grab it with both hands and run.

But there's something in the way he's looking at me that doesn't match his words. Something careful and watchful, like he's trying to figure me out and not sure he wants to.

"I'm not going to apologize," I say.

"Didn't ask you to."

"I used you. I grabbed you and I kissed you because I knew it would bother Adrian, and I didn't care what it would do to you."

"I know." He pauses. "You said that already."

"Then why are you still standing here?"

The question comes out sharper than I mean it to, but he doesn't flinch. He just looks at me with those green eyes and his jaw set, and I can feel the space between us like it's charged with something I don't want to name.

"Because I'm not finished asking questions," he says.

"I already told you everything."

"You told me what you did. Not why you did it."

"I told you. To make him jealous."

"Right." He takes another step closer, and now we're standing close enough that I can see the faint green ring around his irises, close enough that I can smell clean laundry and expensive beer again. "But you could've made him jealous with anyone. You could've walked up to the nearest guy and grabbed his shirt. Why me?"

Because you were there, I want to say. Because you're the one everyone watches, and I knew it would hit Adrian hardest if he saw me with you. Because you represent everything he wanted and everything he left me for, and some petty part of me wanted to take it for myself for just five seconds.

But I don't say any of that, because if I do, I'll have to admit that I knew exactly what I was doing, and that it wasn't just impulse, and that

But I don't say any of that, because if I do, I'll have to admit that I knew exactly what I was doing, and that it wasn't just impulse, and that— I stop myself. My jaw tightens. "It doesn't matter."

"But I don't say any of that, because if I do, I'll have to admit that I knew exactly what I was doing, and that it wasn't just impulse, and that—" I stop myself. My jaw tightens. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

"Why?" The word comes out desperate and I hate it. "Why does it matter to you? You don't know me. You sat behind me in class for three weeks and didn't learn my name until the professor called on me. You never even looked at me before yesterday."

Something flickers across his face, just for a second. "That's not true."

"Which part?"

He doesn't answer right away. His jaw works like he's deciding how much to say, and I watch the internal debate play out across his features. Then he lets out a slow breath and looks at me with an expression I can't name.

"I noticed you before yesterday," he says. "I just didn't think you'd want me to."

I stare at him. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you walk into class every Tuesday and Thursday with your head down and your notebook open and you sit in the front row like you're trying to be as far away from me as possible." He says this calmly, like he's listing facts. "You don't talk to anyone unless they talk to you first. You leave the second class ends. And every time I've tried to catch your eye, you look somewhere else."

My pulse is doing something complicated and I don't like it. "I wasn't avoiding you."

"No?" He raises an eyebrow. "Then what were you doing?"

I was avoiding you, obviously. I was avoiding the exact situation I'm in right now, where you're standing too close and looking at me like that and saying things that make my chest feel tight. But I can't say that, because it would mean admitting that I've been paying attention to him too, and I refuse to give him that.

"I was focusing on the class," I say. "Some of us actually care about our grades."

The corner of his mouth twitches. Not a full smile, just a small pull that says he doesn't believe me. "Right. Sure, sunshine."

There it is again. That word, tossed out easy and casual, like he's been calling me that for years instead of for one night. It hits me strange this time, not like a spark but like a question I don't want to answer.

Sunshine.

"Stop calling me that," I say.

His eyebrows lift. "Calling you what?"

"Sunshine." I cross my arms over my chest. "You don't get to call me that."

"Why not?"

"Because you don't know me well enough to give me nicknames." My voice is hard, harder than I mean it to be. "Because it's condescending. Because you probably call every girl that and I'm not interested in being one of fifty."

Something shifts in his expression. Not anger, not defensiveness. Just quiet attention, like he's filing the information away.

"I don't call every girl that," he says.

"I don't believe you."

"I didn't expect you to." He shrugs, easy and unhurried. "You don't believe anything I say. That's pretty clear."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you've decided I'm the villain in your story and nothing I say is going to change that." He says it without bitterness, without complaint. Just a statement of fact. "So I'm not going to try."

My chest is tight and my hands are cold and I don't understand why his words are getting under my skin like this. He's right. I have decided that. I decided it weeks ago, long before tonight, long before the kiss. I decided it the first time Adrian came home from a party talking about how Harry Styles was there, how Harry Styles said this, how Harry Styles knew these people. I decided it every time Adrian checked his phone instead of looking at me, every time he canceled plans because something better came up, every time he made me feel like I wasn't enough.

Harry Styles is the problem. He's the symbol and the standard and the reason my relationship fell apart. So why is he standing here looking at me like I matter, and why does it make me want to cry?

"Then why are you still here?" I ask, and my voice comes out smaller than I want it to. "If you already know I've made up my mind about you, why are you still standing here asking questions?"

He's quiet for a long moment. The bass from the party pulses dully behind us and someone laughs too loud in the distance and the October air keeps pressing against my skin, and Harry just looks at me with those steady green eyes.

"Because you kissed me," he says finally. "And you can say it was about him, and maybe it was, but I was there, sunshine. I felt it. And that wasn't nothing."

My breath catches. "Don't—"

"You grabbed me," he continues, and his voice drops lower, not demanding, just certain. "You walked away and then you turned around and came back. You didn't have to do that. You could've kept walking. You could've found someone else. But you came back to me, and when you kissed me, you kissed me like you meant it."

"I didn't—"

"You did." He takes one more step closer, and now we're standing close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off his chest, and I hate how much I want to lean into it. "Maybe you didn't mean to. Maybe you wish you hadn't. But you did, and I'm not going to pretend it didn't happen just because it's easier for you."

"Easier for me?" My voice cracks. "You think this is easy for me? You think I wanted to come to this party and see him with someone else and then kiss a guy I can't stand because I was too angry to think straight?"

"You can't stand me," he repeats, slow and careful.

"No, I can't." I step back, putting distance between us, and the cold air rushes into the space where his warmth was. "I can't stand you or your stupid smile or the way everyone on this campus treats you like you're more important than the rest of us. I can't stand what you represent, this whole system where people are only worth how many followers they have or how many parties they get invited to. I can't stand that my boyfriend spent our entire relationship trying to be you and I wasn't enough to make him stop."

The words fall out of me before I can catch them, raw and honest in a way I didn't intend. Harry's expression doesn't change but something behind his eyes shifts, and I realize too late what I just admitted.

Not just that I used him. Not just that I kissed him to make Adrian jealous. But that I've been carrying all of this, this whole mess of hurt and resentment, and I just dumped it at his feet like it's his fault.

"Your boyfriend tried to be me," he says quietly.

I close my eyes. "Ex. Ex-boyfriend."

"Right." A pause. "And he thought being like me was more important than being with you."

My throat is burning and I will not cry in front of him. I refuse. "Don't pretend you care."

"I'm not pretending anything." His voice is still low, still careful, still giving me exactly nothing to push against. "I'm just standing here, sunshine. That's all."

I open my eyes. He's watching me with that same unreadable expression, hands still in his pockets, shoulders relaxed like he's got nowhere else to be. Like he'd stand out here in the cold all night if that's what it took.

It would be so much easier if he were a jerk. If he made a joke or checked his phone or looked bored. If he gave me a reason to keep hating him. But he's not giving me anything except his attention, and I don't know what to do with that.

"I should go," I say.

"Probably."

"I mean it."

"I know you do." He pulls one hand out of his pocket and reaches toward me, and I tense, but he just brushes a strand of hair away from my face, his fingertips barely grazing my cheek. "But you're shaking, and it's a twenty-minute walk back to the dorms, and I'm not going to let you freeze because you're too stubborn to accept a ride."

"I'm not stubborn."

He gives me a look.

"Fine. I'm stubborn. But I'm not getting in a car with you."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't trust you."

The words hang between us, sharp and final. Harry doesn't flinch. He doesn't look away or make a joke or try to convince me otherwise. He just nods, slow and accepting, and drops his hand back to his side.

"Okay," he says. "Then let me walk you back."

"You don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to." He shrugs like it's the simplest thing in the world. "But it's cold and it's late and you're upset, and I'm going this direction anyway."

"You're not going this direction."

"I am now."

I want to argue. I want to tell him that I don't need his help and I don't want his company and I'm perfectly capable of walking myself home. But I'm also shivering and my eyes are still stinging and the thought of making that walk alone with nothing but Adrian's face looping through my head sounds unbearable.

"Fine," I say. "But I'm not talking."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

He pushes off the wall and starts walking, and after a second I follow. We cut across the edge of campus, away from the party and the noise and the golden lights where Adrian is probably still standing with his hand on that girl's back. The sidewalk is cracked in places and the streetlamps cast long, yellow pools across the pavement, and Harry keeps his hands in his pockets and his pace slow enough that I don't have to rush to keep up.

True to his word, he doesn't talk. He just walks beside me, close enough that I can hear his footsteps but not close enough to touch, and I focus on the rhythm of it instead of the mess in my head. Left, right, left, right. The cold air burns my lungs and my boots are still damp from the wet grass and my lips are still tingling and I refuse to think about why.

It takes twelve minutes to reach my building. I count every single one. The dorm is a brick rectangle with a bike rack out front and a security light that buzzes faintly over the entrance. I stop at the bottom of the steps and turn to face him.

"Thanks for walking me," I say, and the words come out stiff.

"You're welcome."

He's standing there with his hands still in his pockets and his hair falling across his forehead and he looks too good for someone who's been standing outside in the cold for half an hour. It's not fair. Nothing about tonight is fair.

I turn toward the door.

"Give me your phone."

I stop. "What?"

He holds his hand out, palm up, like he's asking for something that belongs to him. "Your phone. Give it to me."

"Why would I give you my phone?"

"Because I'm going to put my number in it." He wiggles his fingers. "Come on, sunshine. It's not that complicated."

"I told you to stop calling me that."

"You did." He doesn't move his hand. "Now give me your phone."

I should walk inside. I should close the door in his face and never think about him again. That's what a smart person would do. But I'm standing here with my heart still pounding and my lips still tingling and I can't seem to make my feet move.

I pull my phone out of my back pocket and drop it into his hand before I can overthink it. He types something in, quick and unhurried, and then hands it back to me.

I look at the screen. Under his name is a single line:

If you want meaningless hot sex to forget your ex, call me.

My face goes hot. "You're unbelievable."

"I'm practical." He shrugs, easy and unbothered. "You're angry, you're hurt, and you're clearly not over him. That's a bad combination for sitting alone in your room overthinking everything. So if you want a distraction that doesn't come with feelings or expectations or any of that mess, my number is right there."

"I'm not going to call you."

"Maybe not." He takes a step back, his mouth curving into something that isn't quite a smile. "But you kissed me tonight, sunshine, and I don't think you hated it as much as you want to."

"I did hate it."

"Okay." He's already turning away, already walking back toward campus with his shoulders loose and his hands in his pockets. "Then you won't call. Problem solved."

I watch him go. I watch the streetlight catch his curls and the way his long strides eat up the pavement and the way he doesn't look back even once, like he said what he had to say and the rest is up to me.

I hate him. I hate his stupid face and his stupid confidence and the way he talked about meaningless sex like it was just another option on a menu, like feelings were an inconvenience you could opt out of. I hate that he thinks he knows what I want better than I do. I hate that he's probably right.

I go inside. I climb the stairs. I unlock my door and close it behind me and lean against it, and the room is dark and quiet and empty and I finally let out the breath I've been holding since I saw Adrian under those lights.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

A/N: Thank you so much for reading!! Leave a comment and a reblog if you liked it!

Ella’s arm is still linked through mine. Her wavy curls, still warm from the straightener, brush the side of my face everytime she pivots to check the faces around us. I fel the tenson in her forearm even through the sleeve of my jacket. It’s the same tight, protective grip she used the night I came home crying over Adrian.

Maya is already three steps ahead, she’s wearing the black top she swore had ‘ruin your life but make it sexy’ energy, and the red plastic cup in her hand looks like an accessory she was born holding. Every few seconds she glances back at us, to check if we’re okay.

“Y/N!” someone calls from a folding table stacked with red cups. A girl in a faded leather jacket lifts her hand, she waves me over as if we’re old friends. I don’t recognise her, but her smile looks genuine, as if she’s simply happy to spot someone familiar.

“Hey, how is the article coming along?” she shouts over the music, “Do you already have a topic?”

Heat climbs my neck before I can stop it. Even a friendly question reminds me that half the campus will eventually read whatever I write. I lift my hand in a quick wave, trying to match her energy.

“Still figuring it out,” I call back.

“Well, good luck!” She says, her voice layered wit encouragement.

The girl grins and turns back to her friends, but my mind is already rewriting the exchange. Did she really mean it as encouragement, or was she fishing for details? Will she tell someone else she saw me at the party, and will that someone twist it into proof that I’m out celebrating my breakup? I glance at Ella to see if she noticed, but she’s still scanning the crowd like a bodyguard. The bass keeps pounding, and suddenly every face around me looks like it belongs to a future reader.

I can do normal. I can sip one drink, roll my eyes at Maya’s running commentary, and maybe even dance for five minutes without checking my phone. The bass thumps harder and shakes the thought right out of me, so I squeeze Ella’s arm a little tighter, letting the steady pressure remind me I’m here with my people.

Ella leads me through the crowd and we finally reach the drinks table, the plastic surface is already sticky with spilled beer.  Jonah grabs the nearest cup and passes it back to me without even looking up, and the thin plastic crumples slightly under my grip as I take it. I turn, lifting the rim toward my lips, ready to finally breathe, when the crowd shifts. Two guys push past toward the dancing, and the gap they leave is just wide enough for me to see something that stops my heart.

Thirty feet away, under a strand of golden lights, Adrian stands with his hand resting low on another girl's back, his mouth curved into an easy laugh I used to think belonged only to me.

The girl is tall, taller than me, with long dark hair that falls over her shoulder in a thick braid. She's wearing a green sweater that keeps slipping off one shoulder, and every time she reaches up to fix it, Adrian's hand slides a little lower on her back like he's keeping her close on purpose. She says something close to his ear and he leans in, still grinning, and the sight of that grin makes my stomach drop.

He looks good. That's the worst part. He looks really good, the kind of good that makes you furious because it shouldn't matter anymore. His blond hair is styled the way I used to do it for him before away games, fingers pushing through the front while he complained about looking ridiculous. He's wearing that navy jacket I bought him for his birthday last March. The one I spent three weeks tracking down because he said he wanted something simple and I insisted on finding the exact right shade.

I should look away. I know I should look away. But I'm stuck, pinned in place, watching him pull her closer the way he used to pull me in when we walked across campus together. His thumb traces a small circle against her side and I can feel the ghost of that same motion against my own ribs, the way he'd do it absentmindedly while we sat on his bed watching movies, the way it used to make me feel wanted and safe and like I was the only person he'd ever want to touch.

Then his eyes lift. They find mine across the thirty feet of trampled grass and pulsing light, and my whole body goes still.

For half a second the party noise fades and something small and stupid inside my chest lifts. He sees me. He's actually looking at me and for one tiny, terrible moment I think he might look sorry. Or awkward. Or something.

He doesn't.

His gaze slides off me like I'm a stranger he's never met, and then he leans down and presses his lips to the girl's temple. He keeps them there, long enough for the meaning to sink all the way in, and when he pulls back he's still smiling at her, not at me, not even close.

My throat seals shut around nothing. The cup nearly slips from my fingers and I grab it tighter, the thin plastic popping under my thumb. Beer foams over my knuckles, cold and sudden. I can't breathe properly. I can't seem to get enough air into my lungs no matter how hard I try.

Ella's arm clutches tighter around my waist, her fingers pressing into my side through my jacket. She saw. Of course she saw. She always sees everything.

"Do you want to leave?" she asks close to my ear. "We can go right now."

Maya appears on my other side, jaw set, eyes throwing daggers across the lawn at Adrian's back. "What a piece of shit," she mutters, low enough that only we can hear.

"I'm fine," I say, and the words come out too shaky, too fast. "I'm totally fine."

I am not fine. I am the opposite of fine. My chest aches and my eyes sting and I keep seeing that tiny, casual kiss against her temple over and over again like a video stuck on repeat. One year. We were together for one year and he's already touching someone else like I never existed, like what we had was nothing, like I was just a placeholder until someone better came along.

"Y/N." Jonah's voice cuts through. "Say the word and we go."

I shake my head. If I leave now, running away with tears in my eyes, everyone will see. Everyone will know I'm still shattered over a guy who didn't even flinch when our eyes met. I won't give him that. I won't give this campus that.

"I just need a second," I manage. "I'm going to get another drink."

Ella's grip loosens, but only slightly. "I'll come with you."

"No." I force the word out more firmly than I feel. "I just need one minute. Please."

She hesitates, then nods, and I turn away from Adrian and his new girl and the navy jacket I shouldn't have bought him. I push into the crowd without watching where I'm going. Bodies press in from every side, laughing and talking and swaying to the music, and the noise pounds against my skull while I try to put as much distance between me and that sagging strand of lights as possible.

My eyes are burning and I blink hard, refusing to let anything spill over. The beer on my hand is sticky and cold and I wipe it on my jeans without thinking. Someone's elbow catches my shoulder and I stumble sideways, my heel sinking into the wet grass, my balance gone before I can catch it.

A hand closes around my elbow, solid and warm, pulling me upright before I can fall. I steady myself and look up, ready to mutter an awkward thanks and keep moving, but the words die in my throat.

Dark curls. Green eyes. A half-smile that looks like it's been practiced on a hundred different girls and still works every single time.

Harry Styles.

He's even closer than he was in class, close enough that I can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw and the way his shirt pulls slightly across his shoulders. He smells like clean laundry and expensive beer, and his fingers are still wrapped around my arm, his thumb resting against the inside of my elbow where the skin is thin and warm.

"You okay?" he asks, his voice low and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to stand here and wait for an answer.

"I'm fine." The words come out too fast again. I pull my arm back and his hand falls away, though not before his thumb drags slightly across the fabric of my sleeve. The touch is small and probably accidental, but I feel it anyway, a tiny spark of heat that makes me want to step back even further.

"You don't look fine," he says, and there's something in his tone that might be amusement or might be genuine concern. It's hard to tell with him. Everything about Harry Styles seems designed to keep you guessing.

"I don't look fine?" I repeat, and my voice comes out flatter than I intended. "Thanks for that."

He laughs, soft and short, and the sound does something annoying to my chest. "That's not what I meant."

"I know what you meant." I cross my arms over my chest, then realize how defensive that looks and uncross them again, letting my hands fall to my sides. My fingers are still sticky from the spilled beer and I curl them into my palms, suddenly aware of how disheveled I must look.

His gaze flicks over my face, quick and assessing, and I can't tell if he's actually seeing me or just looking at me. With Harry, those feel like two very different things. Everyone on this campus looks at him. Girls trail their fingers across his shoulders when they walk past, laugh too loud at his jokes, find excuses to touch his arm. And he lets them, grinning that easy grin, pulling people in without even trying.

I don't want to be one of those people. I don't want to be another girl standing too close to Harry Styles at a party, hoping he'll notice her.

"Careful, sunshine," he says, and his voice drops just enough that I have to lean in slightly to hear him over the bass. "You're going to end up on the ground if you keep walking through crowds without looking."

My stomach flips, and not in the good way.

"I wasn't," I start, then stop, because I don't have a good excuse for nearly wiping out on the wet grass. "I was distracted."

"I noticed." His eyes hold mine for a beat longer than they should, and something shifts in the air between us, something I don't want to name. His attention feels heavy and real and entirely too much right now, when I'm still in my feelings from watching Adrian kiss someone else.

I should walk away. I should thank him and turn around and find Ella and Maya and Jonah and let them take me home. That would be the smart thing to do. That would be the thing a girl who has her life together would do.

But then I glance past Harry's shoulder and see Adrian watching us.

He's still standing under those golden lights with the girl in the green sweater, but his head is tilted slightly in our direction. His expression is flat, impossible to read, and he's not even trying to pretend he wasn't looking. The new girl says something to him and he nods without breaking his stare, and the weight of his gaze makes my chest tighten.

He doesn't get to do that. He doesn't get to ignore me one second and then track my every move the next. He doesn't get to act like he cares who I'm talking to when he's the one who ended things, when he's the one who's already moved on, when he's the one standing there with his hand on another girl's back like I never mattered at all.

Harry follows my gaze, his eyes landing on Adrian for a brief second before sliding back to me. Something in his expression changes, a small shift I can't quite read, and his mouth curves into something that isn't quite a smile.

"Ex?" he asks, and the question is so direct it catches me off guard.

"That's none of your business," I say, and my voice comes out harder than I mean it to.

"You're right." He shrugs, easy and unbothered. "It's not."

The worst part is that I can feel him noticing. Noticing the way I keep glancing past him, noticing the tightness in my jaw, noticing the fact that I'm standing here with my heart pounding and my eyes stinging and my hands clenched at my sides like I'm trying to hold myself together.

I take a step back. Then another. The grass is wet under my boots and the bass is still thumping through my ribs and Adrian is still watching, and I hate it, I hate all of it.

"Thanks for catching me," I say, and the words come out small and rough. "But I should go."

Harry doesn't move. He just stands there with his hands in his pockets and his head tilted slightly, watching me with those green eyes that probably make every girl on campus forget why she came to this party in the first place.

"See you around, sunshine," he says, and there's something in his voice that sounds like a promise I never asked him to make.

I turn and push into the crowd before he can say anything else. My shoulder bumps into someone's chest and I mumble an apology without looking up. My eyes are burning and my throat is tight and I keep walking, past the drinks table and the folding chairs and the clusters of people laughing like the night is still young.

Behind me, I hear the soft thud of a red cup hitting the ground. I don't know if it's mine. I don't stop to check.

I make it maybe twenty steps before I slow down. The anger is still there, hot and sharp beneath my ribs, but now there's something else mixed in. Something reckless. Something that tastes like the last sip of cheap beer and the memory of Adrian's flat, empty stare.

He was watching me. He was actually watching me talk to Harry Styles, and for one brief second, he didn't look indifferent. He looked bothered.

I stop walking. My pulse is loud in my ears, louder than the bass, louder than the laughter around me. I don't know if this is a good idea. I know it's probably a terrible one. But I'm so tired of being the girl who gets looked at with pity, the girl who gets dumped and then disappears from parties, the girl who cries in her dorm room while her ex moves on like she was nothing.

I turn around.

Harry is still standing where I left him, hands in his pockets, watching me with an expression I can't read from this distance. A few people have gathered around him again, two girls flanking his sides, but he's not paying attention to them. He's looking at me.

I walk back toward him. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. Every step feels heavy and deliberate, and I keep my eyes locked on his, refusing to let myself glance toward the golden lights where Adrian is standing.

Harry's eyebrows lift slightly when I stop in front of him. The girls next to him go quiet, their eyes flicking between us.

"Changed your mind?" he asks, and his voice is low enough that only I can hear.

"I did," I say, and before I can overthink it, before I can list all the reasons this is a mistake, I reach up and grab the front of his shirt and pull him down to me.

His lips meet mine and the world goes quiet.

For a second he doesn't move, caught off guard, and I feel his breath hitch against my mouth. Then his hand comes up to the side of my neck, his fingers sliding into the hair behind my ear, and he kisses me back. Really kisses me back, slow and deliberate, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw while his other hand settles low on my waist.

He tastes like beer and something sweet, and his lips are warm and soft and impossibly certain. I can feel his heartbeat against my chest, fast and heavy, and it sends a jolt through me that I wasn't expecting. My fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt and he pulls me closer, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body through my jacket.

His mouth moves against mine with a kind of careful attention that surprises me, like he's actually paying attention to what he's doing rather than just going through the motions. When I tilt my head slightly he follows, his lips parting just enough to let the kiss deepen, his grip on my waist tightening by a fraction. His thumb presses against the side of my neck and I feel my pulse jump under his touch, quick and unsteady, and I wonder if he can feel it too.

I'm not thinking about Adrian. I'm not thinking about the girl in the green sweater or the article or the fact that everyone at this party is probably watching. I'm only aware of Harry's mouth and his hands and the way his chest expands against mine every time he breathes. My fingers are still twisted in his shirt and I can feel the hard plane of his stomach underneath, the muscle tensing as I shift closer.

He makes a low, quiet sound against my lips, barely audible over the music, and it travels straight down my spine. His hand slides from my waist to the small of my back, pressing me flush against him, and I can feel every inch of space between us disappear. The cold October air doesn't seem to touch me anymore. Nothing exists outside of this, outside of him, outside of the way his fingers are still tangled in my hair like he's not quite ready to let go.

I don't know how long we stand there. It could be ten seconds or ten minutes. All I know is that when he finally pulls back, just far enough for our foreheads to touch, my lips are tingling and my heart is pounding and I can't seem to catch my breath.

Harry's thumb traces a slow circle against my waist. "So," he murmurs, his breath warm against my cheek. "Was that for me, or for him?"

A/N: thank you so much for reading, lovely 💌🥹i really appreciate feedback, so please comment and reblog if you can!

She spotted a diner, that was weirdly American in the most German way possible - red booths, neon signs, a jukebox no one was using. She slid into a corner seat and shrugged her coat off, her fingers red from the wind. A waitress with tired eyes handed her a laminated menu and walked off before Y/N could even crack a joke. Fine. Solo trip rules. No expectations, just vibes and overpriced pancakes.

She was halfway through reading about the “Elvis Special” (which involved bacon and Nutella for reasons she didn’t care to understand) when someone walked in. She didn’t look at first, but something about the air changed. Her eyes flicked up automatically. Tall. Hood up. Rings on his fingers. Head down.

Y/N immediately looked back at her menu, which suddenly seemed riveting. Because the guy walking in looked exactly like Harry Styles, and she was not about to be the weirdo making eye contact in case it was Harry Styles. This was Berlin, not TikTok. Things like that didn’t happen.

Except apparently, they did. Because two minutes later, he was sliding into the booth opposite her. She blinked. “Uh. Pretty sure this isn’t your seat.” The man looked up slowly, and yeah - no denying it now. Messy curls, green eyes, lazy smile that looked both tired and amused. Harry Styles, very much real and very much sitting across from her like this was totally normal.

“I know,” he said, voice low and rough in that 2am way. “Place is dead. Figured I’d ask if I could share. Didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I do mind,” she said automatically, even as her stomach flipped. “But I’m also curious enough not to kick you out yet.” That made him grin. “Fair trade.”

He pulled his hood down, and now it was just… obvious. She was sitting across from him. Harry Styles. And he looked like someone who had snuck out of somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be, like maybe a fancy hotel or a safe little bubble he paid people to maintain. There was a shadow under his eyes, a slight flush in his cheeks from the cold. He didn’t look famous. He looked real.

“You’re brave,” she said, sipping her water like she wasn’t suddenly sweating. “Or stupid.” He leaned back against the booth, eyes glinting. “Which one do you think?”

She tilted her head. “Bit of both. You’re not even pretending to hide.”

“You recognized me, didn’t you?”

“That’s not hard. You’re very… facey.”

“Facey?”

“Yeah. You’ve got one of those faces. Very symmetrical. Very irritating for the rest of us.”

He laughed, soft and genuine, and Y/N had the bizarre realization that Harry Styles had a really good laugh in person. Not that she was collecting data. Obviously.

“You’re funny,” he said. “What’s your name?”

She hesitated for a second. Something about this whole thing felt like a dream she shouldn’t poke too hard.

“Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you, Y/N. I’m Harry.”

She raised a brow. “No shit.” That made him laugh again, and this time he looked away like he didn’t want her to see how much he liked her sarcasm. Too late.

They ordered food - he got toast and eggs and something green she refused to acknowledge; she got pancakes with a side of hash browns and zero shame - and slowly, the space between them got less weird. He asked about her trip, and she told him bits and pieces. Solo travel, burnout recovery, a breakup she was mostly over but still kind of mad about. She was sarcastic but not guarded. He liked that.

He told her he was supposed to be asleep right now, that his team would lose their minds if they knew he snuck out alone, that he just needed to breathe for a second. “I can’t even get room service without someone writing about it,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “It’s mental.”

Y/N studied him. “So why come here?”

“Because I wanted to remember what it felt like to be nobody for a minute.”

She sipped her coffee. “You picked the wrong face for that, love.” He laughed again, but softer this time. His smile faded slowly as he looked at her, like maybe he was noticing how her eyes crinkled when she smirked or how her lip gloss was a little bit smudged. Something shifted.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said.

“Good?”

He nodded. “Very.”

Their food came, but the space between them was already full of something heavier than hunger. Something rare and warm and dangerous, the kind of feeling you only get when you meet someone you’re not supposed to want but do anyway. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and said, “Can I walk you back to your hotel?” She should have said no. It was late. He was Harry Styles. This was reckless.

She nodded. “Yeah. Alright.”

The streets were almost empty when they stepped outside. The cold hit her first, sharp and slicing against her cheeks, but then there was Harry, hands in his coat pockets, head ducked down against the wind like he’d done this a thousand times before. The city was quiet in a way that made every step feel louder than it should’ve. Their shoes scuffed the pavement as they walked side by side, brushing shoulders now and then in that accidental-not-accidental way.

“You always this charming with strangers in diners?” she asked, her tone light but her pulse stupidly fast. “Only when they insult my face within the first five minutes,” he said, glancing over with a smirk.

“You’re welcome.”

He chuckled and nudged her gently with his elbow. “Seriously, though. You’re easy to talk to. It’s rare.” She snorted. “You don’t talk to people?”

“Not like this. Usually it’s interviews or rehearsals or someone asking for a selfie when I haven’t even had coffee.”

She looked at him. His hair was a bit messy from the hood, eyes soft and heavy, and there was a line between his brows that hadn’t fully relaxed since he sat across from her. She wondered if it ever really went away.

“I won’t ask for a selfie,” she said. “But I do kind of want to see if your accent holds up when you’re drunk.”

“Oh, you’re dangerous,” he murmured.

“You have no idea.”

They reached the corner near her hotel, and she slowed down instinctively. There was a small bar across the street still open, music floating out into the air. When she turned to face him, he looked almost out of place in the best way. Like he didn’t belong to the world but had decided to visit anyway.

“This is me,” she said, nodding toward the entrance.

“Right.” He glanced up at the building, then back at her. “Thanks for letting me crash your booth.”

“Thanks for being weird enough to just slide in without aksing.”

A pause. A long one. The kind that stretches out like gum between fingers, sticky and unwilling to snap.

“I should go,” she said, though she didn’t move.

“Yeah,” he said, not moving either.

She could feel it. That flicker of stupid, electric tension, the way his eyes lingered on her lips for a second too long, how her body had already started leaning in before her brain caught up.

“I don’t do this,” she said quickly. “I mean, like, taking people upstairs. That’s not a thing I do.”

“I’m not people,” he said softly.

“You wanna come up?” she asked, quiet now, the sarcasm worn down to something raw.

“Only if you want me to.”

“I really shouldn’t,” she whispered.

“I know.”

Another pause. Another choice.

“Fuck it,” she said, already digging for her keycard.

In the elevator, they didn’t speak. She could feel his gaze on her, the quiet hum of anticipation crackling between them. It wasn’t just sex. Not really. It was something slower, messier. Like they both knew this moment existed in a bubble and didn’t want to pop it just yet.

When the doors opened and they stepped into the hallway, she glanced at him over her shoulder.

“If you’re a terrible kisser, I’m kicking you out.”

He smiled like he already knew he had nothing to worry about.

The second the door closed behind them, he kissed her. Hands on her hips, mouth insistent. She dropped her coat without thinking, fingers slipping under his hoodie to feel the heat of his skin, the softness of his stomach, the edge of a tattoo. He groaned when her nails grazed just below his ribs.

He pushed her gently against the wall, kissing down her neck like he’d been waiting his whole life to find that exact spot behind her ear.

“Jesus,” she breathed. “Do you train for this?”

He laughed against her skin. “Bit of a natural talent, I guess.”

“Oh, you’re that guy.”

He grinned and kissed her again, slower now. His hands slid up under her shirt, dragging it off in one motion before dropping it to the floor. His eyes lingered on her, appreciative, warm, and focused in a way that made her feel suddenly very seen.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured.

She rolled her eyes, flustered. “You probably say that to all your diner booth hookups.”

“You’re my first,” he said, leaning in. “Be gentle with me.”

Her laugh turned into a gasp when he kissed down her chest, his tongue tracing along the curve of her bra before unclasping it with ridiculous ease. Show-off. But god, the way he looked at her, like this was something holy and human all at once. It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t mechanical. He touched her like he meant it. When he finally dropped to his knees, fingers hooking in the waistband of her jeans, she tangled her hand in his hair.

“Wait,” she said, breathless.

He looked up immediately, concern flashing in his eyes. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just... don’t fall in love with me or anything.”

He smirked. “No promises.”

And then his mouth was on her.

She didn’t expect it to feel like that. Like he knew her already. Like this wasn’t the first time. He worked her open with his tongue and his hands, humming softly when she moaned his name, eyes fluttering shut as her thighs trembled around his shoulders. She came fast, embarrassingly fast, and he didn’t stop until she was pushing his head back, breath shaking.

He stood and kissed her, slow and deliberate, letting her taste herself on his tongue like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You alright?” he whispered.

She blinked up at him, legs still shaking. “I take it back. You definitely train for this.”

His laugh was low and pleased as he lifted her effortlessly, carrying her to the bed like she weighed nothing. She reached for his hoodie, tugging it off to reveal more tattoos, more skin, more of him, and then he was above her, hovering, waiting.

“You sure?”

“Yes. Come here.”

And he did.

His body settled against hers like it belonged there, warm and heavy, his skin hot against the cold hotel sheets. She didn’t realize how close they were until he kissed her again and her brain short-circuited completely. There was something different about kissing Harry—less about performance, more about intention. He kissed like he had nowhere else to be, like her mouth was the only thing he’d been craving all night.

Their hands moved together without much direction, tugging, exploring, her nails dragging down his back just to feel him twitch. He was shirtless now, fully hard against her thigh, and he hadn’t rushed anything. That was the part that got her—he wanted to take his time.

She reached between them, palming him through his boxers, and felt his breath stutter against her cheek.

“Fuck,” he whispered, forehead pressing against hers.

She leaned up and bit his lower lip gently. “Don’t fall apart on me yet, pretty boy.”

He huffed a laugh, kissing her again like it hurt to stop. “Bossy.”

“You like it.”

“Maybe I do.”

They undressed each other slowly, not perfectly - her jeans got caught on her ankle, his boxers ended up half on the floor and half hanging off his foot - but it didn’t matter. Nothing about this was clean or rehearsed. It was messy and breathy and so real it almost hurt.

When he rolled the condom on, she caught the way his hand shook just slightly.

“Nervous?” she teased, voice quieter now.

He looked at her like she was the only thing tethering him to the planet. “I just want to do this right.”

She kissed him, hands framing his face. “You already are.”

He pushed into her slowly, filling her with this quiet intensity that made her eyes flutter shut, made her legs tighten around his waist. He cursed softly under his breath, burying his face in her neck as he bottomed out.

“You feel... fuck, you feel unreal.”

“Talk less, move more.”

He laughed, breathless, and started to move - slow at first, dragging it out, rocking into her like he had nowhere to be and nothing to prove. Every thrust made her gasp, made her fingers dig into his shoulders like she was anchoring herself to him.

It wasn’t just the physical. It was the way he looked down at her, dazed and gentle, the way his lips kept finding her skin like he couldn’t help it. He murmured her name once, not loud, almost like he wasn’t even aware he said it.

She cupped his cheek, tilting his face toward her. “Look at me.”

His eyes locked with hers, green and glassy, and for a second everything slowed down. Just breathing and skin and the sound of her moans under his.

He started to move faster then, the rhythm building into something that wasn’t quite frantic but definitely close. Her back arched, head tipping back as he hit just the right angle, over and over, until her thighs were shaking again and she couldn’t keep her mouth closed.

“Fuck, Harry, I’m gonna-”

“I’ve got you. Let go.”

And she did.

Her orgasm rolled through her like heat under her skin, hips bucking as she cried out against his shoulder. He followed not long after, hips stuttering, fingers gripping her tighter as he spilled into the condom with a broken moan.

They didn’t move for a while after. Just breathing. Just hearts hammering, skin cooling slowly, the buzz of the city still distant through the windows.

Eventually, he rolled to the side and pulled her with him, keeping her close like it wasn’t a question.

“Well,” she said after a minute, “that was a decent use of Berlin.”

He laughed against her collarbone, warm and sleepy. “Best diner detour I’ve ever taken.”

She looked at him, smiling. “You gonna write a song about this?”

“Maybe.”

“If you do, I want royalties.”

He grinned and kissed her forehead. “Noted.”

They fell asleep tangled up, two strangers who weren’t quite strangers anymore, in a city that didn’t care what happened behind hotel doors. And maybe that was the best part.

She woke up to the sound of soft breathing and the unfamiliar weight of an arm across her stomach. The curtains were cracked open just enough for sunlight to spill through, casting pale gold over tangled sheets and bare shoulders. For a split second, she forgot where she was. And then she turned her head.

Harry. Asleep, messy-haired and shirtless, face half-buried in the pillow, mouth parted slightly like he was dreaming of something soft. Or someone.

Y/N blinked at the ceiling, the memories of last night trickling in like molasses. Diner. Walk. Kissing. The wall. The bed. His hands. Her noises. Them.

“Jesus Christ,” she whispered under her breath.

His arm tightened slightly around her waist like his subconscious heard her. She stared at him again. He was dangerously pretty in the morning, all flushed skin and stubble and quiet. Too much. Too real. She didn’t do this - waking up next to someone she barely knew, especially not someone famous. This was a very specific kind of chaos she usually avoided.

She didn’t move. Instead, she stayed right there. Let herself exist in the stillness. His thigh was pressed along hers. Her hand was awkwardly trapped under the pillow. They were skin to skin, and somehow it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was warm.

After a while, he stirred. Groaned a little. Shifted. His eyes opened slowly, unfocused and glassy, and then they landed on her.

He smiled. Sleepy. Unbothered. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she said, voice raspy from sleep.

There was a moment. A real, long, unhurried moment where neither of them rushed to fill the silence. “So... this is the part where you sneak out and leave a mysterious post-it note, right?”

He laughed, nose scrunching a little. “That’s not really my style.”

“No? What is your style then? Croissants and a discreet PR exit?”

He rolled onto his back and stretched, groaning like it hurt. “My style is hoping you’ll stay in bed a little longer before we figure out how weird this is supposed to be.”

She stared at the ceiling with a small smile. “You’re surprisingly chill for someone who accidentally had sex with a sarcastic tourist.”

“Not accidental,” he murmured. “Also, I like sarcastic tourists.”

“Good, because I’m booked here for three more days.”

He turned his head toward her again, brows lifted. “Seriously?”

“Yep.”

“Well, fuck. Looks like we’re gonna have to figure out what we are now.”

She narrowed her eyes playfully. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Romeo.”

“Too late. I’m emotionally invested.”

She snorted. “You’re a menace.”

He laughed and reached for her hand under the covers, lacing their fingers without ceremony. It was too casual. Too easy. And it shouldn’t have felt this good.

They got up eventually. She stole one of his shirts, which he pretended to protest but absolutely loved. He made shitty instant coffee in the little hotel room machine and burned his tongue. She mocked him for it relentlessly.

There was no awkwardness. No morning-after tension. Just two people who hadn’t planned for this but also didn’t seem in a rush to undo it.

They sat on the window ledge, looking out over the grey Berlin skyline. Quiet for a while. Then he said it, soft and unsure.

“I don’t want this to be just a night.”

She looked at him. At the way he didn’t try to take it back.

“Me neither,” she said.

And just like that, the door stayed open.

They didn’t plan to see each other again the next day. Not really. But Berlin had this way of letting things happen without permission, and so when she walked into the same diner - because, yes, she absolutely went back for the pancakes - there he was. Sitting in the booth. Hoodie pulled up. Sunglasses on. Like a disguise could erase the fact that she’d already seen him naked and soft and murmuring her name at 2 a.m.

She stopped by the door, unsure if she should pretend she didn’t see him. Give him the out. Keep things breezy and simple.

But then he looked up and smiled. Not the polite kind. The you’re-here-I’m-glad-you’re-here kind.

She sat down.

“You stalking me now?” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“I liked the coffee.”

“You burned your tongue on it.”

He shrugged. “Pain builds character.”

She shook her head, fighting the grin. “This is dangerous.”

“What is?”

“This thing. You. Me. Diner déjà vu. I don’t know what this is, and I’m leaving in two days.”

“I know,” he said simply.

“And you live in...?”

“London. But I’m here until Monday.”

They stared at each other for a moment, something unspoken bubbling underneath the surface.

“So we’ve got, like, forty-eight hours,” she said.

“Forty-seven, technically.”

“Wow, what a romantic countdown.”

He smirked. “Wanna waste them with me?”

She didn’t answer, just waved the server over and ordered coffee for both of them. He rested his chin in his hand, watching her like she was the most interesting thing in the room. Maybe she was.

They spent the day wandering. No big plans, just walking. Talking. Laughing. They found a small bookstore tucked into a side street, and she picked up a cheesy romance novel just to make fun of it. He bought it for her anyway.

“You’re going to read this and think of me,” he said, slipping the receipt in between the pages like a bookmark.

“I’ll think of you every time I cringe at a shirtless duke.”

“Perfect. That’s the dream.”

He held her hand in public. Didn’t flinch when a couple of girls did double-takes. Didn’t let go when someone clearly recognized him. He wasn’t hiding. Not really. Just choosing what to show.

Later that night, back in her hotel room, they didn’t rush. The sex was slower. Not less intense - just less about heat, more about want. Wanting to remember it. Wanting to leave fingerprints on each other’s skin that wouldn’t fade for a while.

After, she lay on his chest, listening to his heartbeat thud steady beneath her ear.

“What happens now?” she asked quietly.

He ran a hand up and down her spine, pausing every few seconds like he was thinking through each word.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I don’t want this to disappear just because we’re not in the same place.”

She tilted her head to look at him. “You’re suggesting what? Long-distance flirting? Weekly postcards?”

“I’m suggesting we figure it out.”

She nodded. “That’s terrifying.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But I think we’d be stupid not to try.”

She sighed and buried her face back against his skin. “If I end up writing a moody playlist about this, it’s your fault.”

“I’ll consider it a compliment.”

Two days later, they kissed goodbye at the train station. No big declarations. No promises they couldn’t keep. But he did press his phone number into her palm like it was something sacred. Told her he’d text her that night. Told her to get home safe.

She got on the train. Checked her phone halfway to the airport.

Miss you already. Let me know when you land. X

And that’s how it started.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading, you’re a total angel! Don’t forget to like, comment, and rebog if you enjoyed! It means everything to me! 💖

She spotted a diner, that was weirdly American in the most German way possible - red booths, neon signs, a jukebox no one was using. She slid into a corner seat and shrugged her coat off, her fingers red from the wind. A waitress with tired eyes handed her a laminated menu and walked off before Y/N could even crack a joke. Fine. Solo trip rules. No expectations, just vibes and overpriced pancakes.

She was halfway through reading about the “Elvis Special” (which involved bacon and Nutella for reasons she didn’t care to understand) when someone walked in. She didn’t look at first, but something about the air changed. Her eyes flicked up automatically. Tall. Hood up. Rings on his fingers. Head down.

Y/N immediately looked back at her menu, which suddenly seemed riveting. Because the guy walking in looked exactly like Harry Styles, and she was not about to be the weirdo making eye contact in case it was Harry Styles. This was Berlin, not TikTok. Things like that didn’t happen.

Except apparently, they did. Because two minutes later, he was sliding into the booth opposite her. She blinked. “Uh. Pretty sure this isn’t your seat.” The man looked up slowly, and yeah - no denying it now. Messy curls, green eyes, lazy smile that looked both tired and amused. Harry Styles, very much real and very much sitting across from her like this was totally normal.

“I know,” he said, voice low and rough in that 2am way. “Place is dead. Figured I’d ask if I could share. Didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I do mind,” she said automatically, even as her stomach flipped. “But I’m also curious enough not to kick you out yet.” That made him grin. “Fair trade.”

He pulled his hood down, and now it was just… obvious. She was sitting across from him. Harry Styles. And he looked like someone who had snuck out of somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be, like maybe a fancy hotel or a safe little bubble he paid people to maintain. There was a shadow under his eyes, a slight flush in his cheeks from the cold. He didn’t look famous. He looked real.

“You’re brave,” she said, sipping her water like she wasn’t suddenly sweating. “Or stupid.” He leaned back against the booth, eyes glinting. “Which one do you think?”

She tilted her head. “Bit of both. You’re not even pretending to hide.”

“You recognized me, didn’t you?”

“That’s not hard. You’re very… facey.”

“Facey?”

“Yeah. You’ve got one of those faces. Very symmetrical. Very irritating for the rest of us.”

He laughed, soft and genuine, and Y/N had the bizarre realization that Harry Styles had a really good laugh in person. Not that she was collecting data. Obviously.

“You’re funny,” he said. “What’s your name?”

She hesitated for a second. Something about this whole thing felt like a dream she shouldn’t poke too hard.

“Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you, Y/N. I’m Harry.”

She raised a brow. “No shit.” That made him laugh again, and this time he looked away like he didn’t want her to see how much he liked her sarcasm. Too late.

They ordered food - he got toast and eggs and something green she refused to acknowledge; she got pancakes with a side of hash browns and zero shame - and slowly, the space between them got less weird. He asked about her trip, and she told him bits and pieces. Solo travel, burnout recovery, a breakup she was mostly over but still kind of mad about. She was sarcastic but not guarded. He liked that.

He told her he was supposed to be asleep right now, that his team would lose their minds if they knew he snuck out alone, that he just needed to breathe for a second. “I can’t even get room service without someone writing about it,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “It’s mental.”

Y/N studied him. “So why come here?”

“Because I wanted to remember what it felt like to be nobody for a minute.”

She sipped her coffee. “You picked the wrong face for that, love.” He laughed again, but softer this time. His smile faded slowly as he looked at her, like maybe he was noticing how her eyes crinkled when she smirked or how her lip gloss was a little bit smudged. Something shifted.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said.

“Good?”

He nodded. “Very.”

Their food came, but the space between them was already full of something heavier than hunger. Something rare and warm and dangerous, the kind of feeling you only get when you meet someone you’re not supposed to want but do anyway. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and said, “Can I walk you back to your hotel?” She should have said no. It was late. He was Harry Styles. This was reckless.

She nodded. “Yeah. Alright.”

The streets were almost empty when they stepped outside. The cold hit her first, sharp and slicing against her cheeks, but then there was Harry, hands in his coat pockets, head ducked down against the wind like he’d done this a thousand times before. The city was quiet in a way that made every step feel louder than it should’ve. Their shoes scuffed the pavement as they walked side by side, brushing shoulders now and then in that accidental-not-accidental way.

“You always this charming with strangers in diners?” she asked, her tone light but her pulse stupidly fast. “Only when they insult my face within the first five minutes,” he said, glancing over with a smirk.

“You’re welcome.”

He chuckled and nudged her gently with his elbow. “Seriously, though. You’re easy to talk to. It’s rare.” She snorted. “You don’t talk to people?”

“Not like this. Usually it’s interviews or rehearsals or someone asking for a selfie when I haven’t even had coffee.”

She looked at him. His hair was a bit messy from the hood, eyes soft and heavy, and there was a line between his brows that hadn’t fully relaxed since he sat across from her. She wondered if it ever really went away.

“I won’t ask for a selfie,” she said. “But I do kind of want to see if your accent holds up when you’re drunk.”

“Oh, you’re dangerous,” he murmured.

“You have no idea.”

They reached the corner near her hotel, and she slowed down instinctively. There was a small bar across the street still open, music floating out into the air. When she turned to face him, he looked almost out of place in the best way. Like he didn’t belong to the world but had decided to visit anyway.

“This is me,” she said, nodding toward the entrance.

“Right.” He glanced up at the building, then back at her. “Thanks for letting me crash your booth.”

“Thanks for being weird enough to just slide in without aksing.”

A pause. A long one. The kind that stretches out like gum between fingers, sticky and unwilling to snap.

“I should go,” she said, though she didn’t move.

“Yeah,” he said, not moving either.

She could feel it. That flicker of stupid, electric tension, the way his eyes lingered on her lips for a second too long, how her body had already started leaning in before her brain caught up.

“I don’t do this,” she said quickly. “I mean, like, taking people upstairs. That’s not a thing I do.”

“I’m not people,” he said softly.

“You wanna come up?” she asked, quiet now, the sarcasm worn down to something raw.

“Only if you want me to.”

“I really shouldn’t,” she whispered.

“I know.”

Another pause. Another choice.

“Fuck it,” she said, already digging for her keycard.

In the elevator, they didn’t speak. She could feel his gaze on her, the quiet hum of anticipation crackling between them. It wasn’t just sex. Not really. It was something slower, messier. Like they both knew this moment existed in a bubble and didn’t want to pop it just yet.

When the doors opened and they stepped into the hallway, she glanced at him over her shoulder.

“If you’re a terrible kisser, I’m kicking you out.”

He smiled like he already knew he had nothing to worry about.

The second the door closed behind them, he kissed her. Hands on her hips, mouth insistent. She dropped her coat without thinking, fingers slipping under his hoodie to feel the heat of his skin, the softness of his stomach, the edge of a tattoo. He groaned when her nails grazed just below his ribs.

He pushed her gently against the wall, kissing down her neck like he’d been waiting his whole life to find that exact spot behind her ear.

“Jesus,” she breathed. “Do you train for this?”

He laughed against her skin. “Bit of a natural talent, I guess.”

“Oh, you’re that guy.”

He grinned and kissed her again, slower now. His hands slid up under her shirt, dragging it off in one motion before dropping it to the floor. His eyes lingered on her, appreciative, warm, and focused in a way that made her feel suddenly very seen.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured.

She rolled her eyes, flustered. “You probably say that to all your diner booth hookups.”

“You’re my first,” he said, leaning in. “Be gentle with me.”

Her laugh turned into a gasp when he kissed down her chest, his tongue tracing along the curve of her bra before unclasping it with ridiculous ease. Show-off. But god, the way he looked at her, like this was something holy and human all at once. It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t mechanical. He touched her like he meant it. When he finally dropped to his knees, fingers hooking in the waistband of her jeans, she tangled her hand in his hair.

“Wait,” she said, breathless.

He looked up immediately, concern flashing in his eyes. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just... don’t fall in love with me or anything.”

He smirked. “No promises.”

And then his mouth was on her.

She didn’t expect it to feel like that. Like he knew her already. Like this wasn’t the first time. He worked her open with his tongue and his hands, humming softly when she moaned his name, eyes fluttering shut as her thighs trembled around his shoulders. She came fast, embarrassingly fast, and he didn’t stop until she was pushing his head back, breath shaking.

He stood and kissed her, slow and deliberate, letting her taste herself on his tongue like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You alright?” he whispered.

She blinked up at him, legs still shaking. “I take it back. You definitely train for this.”

His laugh was low and pleased as he lifted her effortlessly, carrying her to the bed like she weighed nothing. She reached for his hoodie, tugging it off to reveal more tattoos, more skin, more of him, and then he was above her, hovering, waiting.

“You sure?”

“Yes. Come here.”

And he did.

His body settled against hers like it belonged there, warm and heavy, his skin hot against the cold hotel sheets. She didn’t realize how close they were until he kissed her again and her brain short-circuited completely. There was something different about kissing Harry—less about performance, more about intention. He kissed like he had nowhere else to be, like her mouth was the only thing he’d been craving all night.

Their hands moved together without much direction, tugging, exploring, her nails dragging down his back just to feel him twitch. He was shirtless now, fully hard against her thigh, and he hadn’t rushed anything. That was the part that got her—he wanted to take his time.

She reached between them, palming him through his boxers, and felt his breath stutter against her cheek.

“Fuck,” he whispered, forehead pressing against hers.

She leaned up and bit his lower lip gently. “Don’t fall apart on me yet, pretty boy.”

He huffed a laugh, kissing her again like it hurt to stop. “Bossy.”

“You like it.”

“Maybe I do.”

They undressed each other slowly, not perfectly - her jeans got caught on her ankle, his boxers ended up half on the floor and half hanging off his foot - but it didn’t matter. Nothing about this was clean or rehearsed. It was messy and breathy and so real it almost hurt.

When he rolled the condom on, she caught the way his hand shook just slightly.

“Nervous?” she teased, voice quieter now.

He looked at her like she was the only thing tethering him to the planet. “I just want to do this right.”

She kissed him, hands framing his face. “You already are.”

He pushed into her slowly, filling her with this quiet intensity that made her eyes flutter shut, made her legs tighten around his waist. He cursed softly under his breath, burying his face in her neck as he bottomed out.

“You feel... fuck, you feel unreal.”

“Talk less, move more.”

He laughed, breathless, and started to move - slow at first, dragging it out, rocking into her like he had nowhere to be and nothing to prove. Every thrust made her gasp, made her fingers dig into his shoulders like she was anchoring herself to him.

It wasn’t just the physical. It was the way he looked down at her, dazed and gentle, the way his lips kept finding her skin like he couldn’t help it. He murmured her name once, not loud, almost like he wasn’t even aware he said it.

She cupped his cheek, tilting his face toward her. “Look at me.”

His eyes locked with hers, green and glassy, and for a second everything slowed down. Just breathing and skin and the sound of her moans under his.

He started to move faster then, the rhythm building into something that wasn’t quite frantic but definitely close. Her back arched, head tipping back as he hit just the right angle, over and over, until her thighs were shaking again and she couldn’t keep her mouth closed.

“Fuck, Harry, I’m gonna-”

“I’ve got you. Let go.”

And she did.

Her orgasm rolled through her like heat under her skin, hips bucking as she cried out against his shoulder. He followed not long after, hips stuttering, fingers gripping her tighter as he spilled into the condom with a broken moan.

They didn’t move for a while after. Just breathing. Just hearts hammering, skin cooling slowly, the buzz of the city still distant through the windows.

Eventually, he rolled to the side and pulled her with him, keeping her close like it wasn’t a question.

“Well,” she said after a minute, “that was a decent use of Berlin.”

He laughed against her collarbone, warm and sleepy. “Best diner detour I’ve ever taken.”

She looked at him, smiling. “You gonna write a song about this?”

“Maybe.”

“If you do, I want royalties.”

He grinned and kissed her forehead. “Noted.”

They fell asleep tangled up, two strangers who weren’t quite strangers anymore, in a city that didn’t care what happened behind hotel doors. And maybe that was the best part.

She woke up to the sound of soft breathing and the unfamiliar weight of an arm across her stomach. The curtains were cracked open just enough for sunlight to spill through, casting pale gold over tangled sheets and bare shoulders. For a split second, she forgot where she was. And then she turned her head.

Harry. Asleep, messy-haired and shirtless, face half-buried in the pillow, mouth parted slightly like he was dreaming of something soft. Or someone.

Y/N blinked at the ceiling, the memories of last night trickling in like molasses. Diner. Walk. Kissing. The wall. The bed. His hands. Her noises. Them.

“Jesus Christ,” she whispered under her breath.

His arm tightened slightly around her waist like his subconscious heard her. She stared at him again. He was dangerously pretty in the morning, all flushed skin and stubble and quiet. Too much. Too real. She didn’t do this - waking up next to someone she barely knew, especially not someone famous. This was a very specific kind of chaos she usually avoided.

She didn’t move. Instead, she stayed right there. Let herself exist in the stillness. His thigh was pressed along hers. Her hand was awkwardly trapped under the pillow. They were skin to skin, and somehow it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was warm.

After a while, he stirred. Groaned a little. Shifted. His eyes opened slowly, unfocused and glassy, and then they landed on her.

He smiled. Sleepy. Unbothered. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she said, voice raspy from sleep.

There was a moment. A real, long, unhurried moment where neither of them rushed to fill the silence. “So... this is the part where you sneak out and leave a mysterious post-it note, right?”

He laughed, nose scrunching a little. “That’s not really my style.”

“No? What is your style then? Croissants and a discreet PR exit?”

He rolled onto his back and stretched, groaning like it hurt. “My style is hoping you’ll stay in bed a little longer before we figure out how weird this is supposed to be.”

She stared at the ceiling with a small smile. “You’re surprisingly chill for someone who accidentally had sex with a sarcastic tourist.”

“Not accidental,” he murmured. “Also, I like sarcastic tourists.”

“Good, because I’m booked here for three more days.”

He turned his head toward her again, brows lifted. “Seriously?”

“Yep.”

“Well, fuck. Looks like we’re gonna have to figure out what we are now.”

She narrowed her eyes playfully. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Romeo.”

“Too late. I’m emotionally invested.”

She snorted. “You’re a menace.”

He laughed and reached for her hand under the covers, lacing their fingers without ceremony. It was too casual. Too easy. And it shouldn’t have felt this good.

They got up eventually. She stole one of his shirts, which he pretended to protest but absolutely loved. He made shitty instant coffee in the little hotel room machine and burned his tongue. She mocked him for it relentlessly.

There was no awkwardness. No morning-after tension. Just two people who hadn’t planned for this but also didn’t seem in a rush to undo it.

They sat on the window ledge, looking out over the grey Berlin skyline. Quiet for a while. Then he said it, soft and unsure.

“I don’t want this to be just a night.”

She looked at him. At the way he didn’t try to take it back.

“Me neither,” she said.

And just like that, the door stayed open.

They didn’t plan to see each other again the next day. Not really. But Berlin had this way of letting things happen without permission, and so when she walked into the same diner - because, yes, she absolutely went back for the pancakes - there he was. Sitting in the booth. Hoodie pulled up. Sunglasses on. Like a disguise could erase the fact that she’d already seen him naked and soft and murmuring her name at 2 a.m.

She stopped by the door, unsure if she should pretend she didn’t see him. Give him the out. Keep things breezy and simple.

But then he looked up and smiled. Not the polite kind. The you’re-here-I’m-glad-you’re-here kind.

She sat down.

“You stalking me now?” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“I liked the coffee.”

“You burned your tongue on it.”

He shrugged. “Pain builds character.”

She shook her head, fighting the grin. “This is dangerous.”

“What is?”

“This thing. You. Me. Diner déjà vu. I don’t know what this is, and I’m leaving in two days.”

“I know,” he said simply.

“And you live in...?”

“London. But I’m here until Monday.”

They stared at each other for a moment, something unspoken bubbling underneath the surface.

“So we’ve got, like, forty-eight hours,” she said.

“Forty-seven, technically.”

“Wow, what a romantic countdown.”

He smirked. “Wanna waste them with me?”

She didn’t answer, just waved the server over and ordered coffee for both of them. He rested his chin in his hand, watching her like she was the most interesting thing in the room. Maybe she was.

They spent the day wandering. No big plans, just walking. Talking. Laughing. They found a small bookstore tucked into a side street, and she picked up a cheesy romance novel just to make fun of it. He bought it for her anyway.

“You’re going to read this and think of me,” he said, slipping the receipt in between the pages like a bookmark.

“I’ll think of you every time I cringe at a shirtless duke.”

“Perfect. That’s the dream.”

He held her hand in public. Didn’t flinch when a couple of girls did double-takes. Didn’t let go when someone clearly recognized him. He wasn’t hiding. Not really. Just choosing what to show.

Later that night, back in her hotel room, they didn’t rush. The sex was slower. Not less intense - just less about heat, more about want. Wanting to remember it. Wanting to leave fingerprints on each other’s skin that wouldn’t fade for a while.

After, she lay on his chest, listening to his heartbeat thud steady beneath her ear.

“What happens now?” she asked quietly.

He ran a hand up and down her spine, pausing every few seconds like he was thinking through each word.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I don’t want this to disappear just because we’re not in the same place.”

She tilted her head to look at him. “You’re suggesting what? Long-distance flirting? Weekly postcards?”

“I’m suggesting we figure it out.”

She nodded. “That’s terrifying.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But I think we’d be stupid not to try.”

She sighed and buried her face back against his skin. “If I end up writing a moody playlist about this, it’s your fault.”

“I’ll consider it a compliment.”

Two days later, they kissed goodbye at the train station. No big declarations. No promises they couldn’t keep. But he did press his phone number into her palm like it was something sacred. Told her he’d text her that night. Told her to get home safe.

She got on the train. Checked her phone halfway to the airport.

Miss you already. Let me know when you land. X

And that’s how it started.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading, you’re a total angel! Don’t forget to like, comment, and rebog if you enjoyed! It means everything to me! 💖

She spotted a diner, that was weirdly American in the most German way possible - red booths, neon signs, a jukebox no one was using. She slid into a corner seat and shrugged her coat off, her fingers red from the wind. A waitress with tired eyes handed her a laminated menu and walked off before Y/N could even crack a joke. Fine. Solo trip rules. No expectations, just vibes and overpriced pancakes.

She was halfway through reading about the “Elvis Special” (which involved bacon and Nutella for reasons she didn’t care to understand) when someone walked in. She didn’t look at first, but something about the air changed. Her eyes flicked up automatically. Tall. Hood up. Rings on his fingers. Head down.

Y/N immediately looked back at her menu, which suddenly seemed riveting. Because the guy walking in looked exactly like Harry Styles, and she was not about to be the weirdo making eye contact in case it was Harry Styles. This was Berlin, not TikTok. Things like that didn’t happen.

Except apparently, they did. Because two minutes later, he was sliding into the booth opposite her. She blinked. “Uh. Pretty sure this isn’t your seat.” The man looked up slowly, and yeah - no denying it now. Messy curls, green eyes, lazy smile that looked both tired and amused. Harry Styles, very much real and very much sitting across from her like this was totally normal.

“I know,” he said, voice low and rough in that 2am way. “Place is dead. Figured I’d ask if I could share. Didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I do mind,” she said automatically, even as her stomach flipped. “But I’m also curious enough not to kick you out yet.” That made him grin. “Fair trade.”

He pulled his hood down, and now it was just… obvious. She was sitting across from him. Harry Styles. And he looked like someone who had snuck out of somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be, like maybe a fancy hotel or a safe little bubble he paid people to maintain. There was a shadow under his eyes, a slight flush in his cheeks from the cold. He didn’t look famous. He looked real.

“You’re brave,” she said, sipping her water like she wasn’t suddenly sweating. “Or stupid.” He leaned back against the booth, eyes glinting. “Which one do you think?”

She tilted her head. “Bit of both. You’re not even pretending to hide.”

“You recognized me, didn’t you?”

“That’s not hard. You’re very… facey.”

“Facey?”

“Yeah. You’ve got one of those faces. Very symmetrical. Very irritating for the rest of us.”

He laughed, soft and genuine, and Y/N had the bizarre realization that Harry Styles had a really good laugh in person. Not that she was collecting data. Obviously.

“You’re funny,” he said. “What’s your name?”

She hesitated for a second. Something about this whole thing felt like a dream she shouldn’t poke too hard.

“Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you, Y/N. I’m Harry.”

She raised a brow. “No shit.” That made him laugh again, and this time he looked away like he didn’t want her to see how much he liked her sarcasm. Too late.

They ordered food - he got toast and eggs and something green she refused to acknowledge; she got pancakes with a side of hash browns and zero shame - and slowly, the space between them got less weird. He asked about her trip, and she told him bits and pieces. Solo travel, burnout recovery, a breakup she was mostly over but still kind of mad about. She was sarcastic but not guarded. He liked that.

He told her he was supposed to be asleep right now, that his team would lose their minds if they knew he snuck out alone, that he just needed to breathe for a second. “I can’t even get room service without someone writing about it,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “It’s mental.”

Y/N studied him. “So why come here?”

“Because I wanted to remember what it felt like to be nobody for a minute.”

She sipped her coffee. “You picked the wrong face for that, love.” He laughed again, but softer this time. His smile faded slowly as he looked at her, like maybe he was noticing how her eyes crinkled when she smirked or how her lip gloss was a little bit smudged. Something shifted.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said.

“Good?”

He nodded. “Very.”

Their food came, but the space between them was already full of something heavier than hunger. Something rare and warm and dangerous, the kind of feeling you only get when you meet someone you’re not supposed to want but do anyway. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and said, “Can I walk you back to your hotel?” She should have said no. It was late. He was Harry Styles. This was reckless.

She nodded. “Yeah. Alright.”

The streets were almost empty when they stepped outside. The cold hit her first, sharp and slicing against her cheeks, but then there was Harry, hands in his coat pockets, head ducked down against the wind like he’d done this a thousand times before. The city was quiet in a way that made every step feel louder than it should’ve. Their shoes scuffed the pavement as they walked side by side, brushing shoulders now and then in that accidental-not-accidental way.

“You always this charming with strangers in diners?” she asked, her tone light but her pulse stupidly fast. “Only when they insult my face within the first five minutes,” he said, glancing over with a smirk.

“You’re welcome.”

He chuckled and nudged her gently with his elbow. “Seriously, though. You’re easy to talk to. It’s rare.” She snorted. “You don’t talk to people?”

“Not like this. Usually it’s interviews or rehearsals or someone asking for a selfie when I haven’t even had coffee.”

She looked at him. His hair was a bit messy from the hood, eyes soft and heavy, and there was a line between his brows that hadn’t fully relaxed since he sat across from her. She wondered if it ever really went away.

“I won’t ask for a selfie,” she said. “But I do kind of want to see if your accent holds up when you’re drunk.”

“Oh, you’re dangerous,” he murmured.

“You have no idea.”

They reached the corner near her hotel, and she slowed down instinctively. There was a small bar across the street still open, music floating out into the air. When she turned to face him, he looked almost out of place in the best way. Like he didn’t belong to the world but had decided to visit anyway.

“This is me,” she said, nodding toward the entrance.

“Right.” He glanced up at the building, then back at her. “Thanks for letting me crash your booth.”

“Thanks for being weird enough to just slide in without aksing.”

A pause. A long one. The kind that stretches out like gum between fingers, sticky and unwilling to snap.

“I should go,” she said, though she didn’t move.

“Yeah,” he said, not moving either.

She could feel it. That flicker of stupid, electric tension, the way his eyes lingered on her lips for a second too long, how her body had already started leaning in before her brain caught up.

“I don’t do this,” she said quickly. “I mean, like, taking people upstairs. That’s not a thing I do.”

“I’m not people,” he said softly.

“You wanna come up?” she asked, quiet now, the sarcasm worn down to something raw.

“Only if you want me to.”

“I really shouldn’t,” she whispered.

“I know.”

Another pause. Another choice.

“Fuck it,” she said, already digging for her keycard.

In the elevator, they didn’t speak. She could feel his gaze on her, the quiet hum of anticipation crackling between them. It wasn’t just sex. Not really. It was something slower, messier. Like they both knew this moment existed in a bubble and didn’t want to pop it just yet.

When the doors opened and they stepped into the hallway, she glanced at him over her shoulder.

“If you’re a terrible kisser, I’m kicking you out.”

He smiled like he already knew he had nothing to worry about.

The second the door closed behind them, he kissed her. Hands on her hips, mouth insistent. She dropped her coat without thinking, fingers slipping under his hoodie to feel the heat of his skin, the softness of his stomach, the edge of a tattoo. He groaned when her nails grazed just below his ribs.

He pushed her gently against the wall, kissing down her neck like he’d been waiting his whole life to find that exact spot behind her ear.

“Jesus,” she breathed. “Do you train for this?”

He laughed against her skin. “Bit of a natural talent, I guess.”

“Oh, you’re that guy.”

He grinned and kissed her again, slower now. His hands slid up under her shirt, dragging it off in one motion before dropping it to the floor. His eyes lingered on her, appreciative, warm, and focused in a way that made her feel suddenly very seen.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured.

She rolled her eyes, flustered. “You probably say that to all your diner booth hookups.”

“You’re my first,” he said, leaning in. “Be gentle with me.”

Her laugh turned into a gasp when he kissed down her chest, his tongue tracing along the curve of her bra before unclasping it with ridiculous ease. Show-off. But god, the way he looked at her, like this was something holy and human all at once. It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t mechanical. He touched her like he meant it. When he finally dropped to his knees, fingers hooking in the waistband of her jeans, she tangled her hand in his hair.

“Wait,” she said, breathless.

He looked up immediately, concern flashing in his eyes. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just... don’t fall in love with me or anything.”

He smirked. “No promises.”

And then his mouth was on her.

She didn’t expect it to feel like that. Like he knew her already. Like this wasn’t the first time. He worked her open with his tongue and his hands, humming softly when she moaned his name, eyes fluttering shut as her thighs trembled around his shoulders. She came fast, embarrassingly fast, and he didn’t stop until she was pushing his head back, breath shaking.

He stood and kissed her, slow and deliberate, letting her taste herself on his tongue like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You alright?” he whispered.

She blinked up at him, legs still shaking. “I take it back. You definitely train for this.”

His laugh was low and pleased as he lifted her effortlessly, carrying her to the bed like she weighed nothing. She reached for his hoodie, tugging it off to reveal more tattoos, more skin, more of him, and then he was above her, hovering, waiting.

“You sure?”

“Yes. Come here.”

And he did.

His body settled against hers like it belonged there, warm and heavy, his skin hot against the cold hotel sheets. She didn’t realize how close they were until he kissed her again and her brain short-circuited completely. There was something different about kissing Harry—less about performance, more about intention. He kissed like he had nowhere else to be, like her mouth was the only thing he’d been craving all night.

Their hands moved together without much direction, tugging, exploring, her nails dragging down his back just to feel him twitch. He was shirtless now, fully hard against her thigh, and he hadn’t rushed anything. That was the part that got her—he wanted to take his time.

She reached between them, palming him through his boxers, and felt his breath stutter against her cheek.

“Fuck,” he whispered, forehead pressing against hers.

She leaned up and bit his lower lip gently. “Don’t fall apart on me yet, pretty boy.”

He huffed a laugh, kissing her again like it hurt to stop. “Bossy.”

“You like it.”

“Maybe I do.”

They undressed each other slowly, not perfectly - her jeans got caught on her ankle, his boxers ended up half on the floor and half hanging off his foot - but it didn’t matter. Nothing about this was clean or rehearsed. It was messy and breathy and so real it almost hurt.

When he rolled the condom on, she caught the way his hand shook just slightly.

“Nervous?” she teased, voice quieter now.

He looked at her like she was the only thing tethering him to the planet. “I just want to do this right.”

She kissed him, hands framing his face. “You already are.”

He pushed into her slowly, filling her with this quiet intensity that made her eyes flutter shut, made her legs tighten around his waist. He cursed softly under his breath, burying his face in her neck as he bottomed out.

“You feel... fuck, you feel unreal.”

“Talk less, move more.”

He laughed, breathless, and started to move - slow at first, dragging it out, rocking into her like he had nowhere to be and nothing to prove. Every thrust made her gasp, made her fingers dig into his shoulders like she was anchoring herself to him.

It wasn’t just the physical. It was the way he looked down at her, dazed and gentle, the way his lips kept finding her skin like he couldn’t help it. He murmured her name once, not loud, almost like he wasn’t even aware he said it.

She cupped his cheek, tilting his face toward her. “Look at me.”

His eyes locked with hers, green and glassy, and for a second everything slowed down. Just breathing and skin and the sound of her moans under his.

He started to move faster then, the rhythm building into something that wasn’t quite frantic but definitely close. Her back arched, head tipping back as he hit just the right angle, over and over, until her thighs were shaking again and she couldn’t keep her mouth closed.

“Fuck, Harry, I’m gonna-”

“I’ve got you. Let go.”

And she did.

Her orgasm rolled through her like heat under her skin, hips bucking as she cried out against his shoulder. He followed not long after, hips stuttering, fingers gripping her tighter as he spilled into the condom with a broken moan.

They didn’t move for a while after. Just breathing. Just hearts hammering, skin cooling slowly, the buzz of the city still distant through the windows.

Eventually, he rolled to the side and pulled her with him, keeping her close like it wasn’t a question.

“Well,” she said after a minute, “that was a decent use of Berlin.”

He laughed against her collarbone, warm and sleepy. “Best diner detour I’ve ever taken.”

She looked at him, smiling. “You gonna write a song about this?”

“Maybe.”

“If you do, I want royalties.”

He grinned and kissed her forehead. “Noted.”

They fell asleep tangled up, two strangers who weren’t quite strangers anymore, in a city that didn’t care what happened behind hotel doors. And maybe that was the best part.

She woke up to the sound of soft breathing and the unfamiliar weight of an arm across her stomach. The curtains were cracked open just enough for sunlight to spill through, casting pale gold over tangled sheets and bare shoulders. For a split second, she forgot where she was. And then she turned her head.

Harry. Asleep, messy-haired and shirtless, face half-buried in the pillow, mouth parted slightly like he was dreaming of something soft. Or someone.

Y/N blinked at the ceiling, the memories of last night trickling in like molasses. Diner. Walk. Kissing. The wall. The bed. His hands. Her noises. Them.

“Jesus Christ,” she whispered under her breath.

His arm tightened slightly around her waist like his subconscious heard her. She stared at him again. He was dangerously pretty in the morning, all flushed skin and stubble and quiet. Too much. Too real. She didn’t do this - waking up next to someone she barely knew, especially not someone famous. This was a very specific kind of chaos she usually avoided.

She didn’t move. Instead, she stayed right there. Let herself exist in the stillness. His thigh was pressed along hers. Her hand was awkwardly trapped under the pillow. They were skin to skin, and somehow it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was warm.

After a while, he stirred. Groaned a little. Shifted. His eyes opened slowly, unfocused and glassy, and then they landed on her.

He smiled. Sleepy. Unbothered. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she said, voice raspy from sleep.

There was a moment. A real, long, unhurried moment where neither of them rushed to fill the silence. “So... this is the part where you sneak out and leave a mysterious post-it note, right?”

He laughed, nose scrunching a little. “That’s not really my style.”

“No? What is your style then? Croissants and a discreet PR exit?”

He rolled onto his back and stretched, groaning like it hurt. “My style is hoping you’ll stay in bed a little longer before we figure out how weird this is supposed to be.”

She stared at the ceiling with a small smile. “You’re surprisingly chill for someone who accidentally had sex with a sarcastic tourist.”

“Not accidental,” he murmured. “Also, I like sarcastic tourists.”

“Good, because I’m booked here for three more days.”

He turned his head toward her again, brows lifted. “Seriously?”

“Yep.”

“Well, fuck. Looks like we’re gonna have to figure out what we are now.”

She narrowed her eyes playfully. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Romeo.”

“Too late. I’m emotionally invested.”

She snorted. “You’re a menace.”

He laughed and reached for her hand under the covers, lacing their fingers without ceremony. It was too casual. Too easy. And it shouldn’t have felt this good.

They got up eventually. She stole one of his shirts, which he pretended to protest but absolutely loved. He made shitty instant coffee in the little hotel room machine and burned his tongue. She mocked him for it relentlessly.

There was no awkwardness. No morning-after tension. Just two people who hadn’t planned for this but also didn’t seem in a rush to undo it.

They sat on the window ledge, looking out over the grey Berlin skyline. Quiet for a while. Then he said it, soft and unsure.

“I don’t want this to be just a night.”

She looked at him. At the way he didn’t try to take it back.

“Me neither,” she said.

And just like that, the door stayed open.

They didn’t plan to see each other again the next day. Not really. But Berlin had this way of letting things happen without permission, and so when she walked into the same diner - because, yes, she absolutely went back for the pancakes - there he was. Sitting in the booth. Hoodie pulled up. Sunglasses on. Like a disguise could erase the fact that she’d already seen him naked and soft and murmuring her name at 2 a.m.

She stopped by the door, unsure if she should pretend she didn’t see him. Give him the out. Keep things breezy and simple.

But then he looked up and smiled. Not the polite kind. The you’re-here-I’m-glad-you’re-here kind.

She sat down.

“You stalking me now?” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“I liked the coffee.”

“You burned your tongue on it.”

He shrugged. “Pain builds character.”

She shook her head, fighting the grin. “This is dangerous.”

“What is?”

“This thing. You. Me. Diner déjà vu. I don’t know what this is, and I’m leaving in two days.”

“I know,” he said simply.

“And you live in...?”

“London. But I’m here until Monday.”

They stared at each other for a moment, something unspoken bubbling underneath the surface.

“So we’ve got, like, forty-eight hours,” she said.

“Forty-seven, technically.”

“Wow, what a romantic countdown.”

He smirked. “Wanna waste them with me?”

She didn’t answer, just waved the server over and ordered coffee for both of them. He rested his chin in his hand, watching her like she was the most interesting thing in the room. Maybe she was.

They spent the day wandering. No big plans, just walking. Talking. Laughing. They found a small bookstore tucked into a side street, and she picked up a cheesy romance novel just to make fun of it. He bought it for her anyway.

“You’re going to read this and think of me,” he said, slipping the receipt in between the pages like a bookmark.

“I’ll think of you every time I cringe at a shirtless duke.”

“Perfect. That’s the dream.”

He held her hand in public. Didn’t flinch when a couple of girls did double-takes. Didn’t let go when someone clearly recognized him. He wasn’t hiding. Not really. Just choosing what to show.

Later that night, back in her hotel room, they didn’t rush. The sex was slower. Not less intense - just less about heat, more about want. Wanting to remember it. Wanting to leave fingerprints on each other’s skin that wouldn’t fade for a while.

After, she lay on his chest, listening to his heartbeat thud steady beneath her ear.

“What happens now?” she asked quietly.

He ran a hand up and down her spine, pausing every few seconds like he was thinking through each word.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I don’t want this to disappear just because we’re not in the same place.”

She tilted her head to look at him. “You’re suggesting what? Long-distance flirting? Weekly postcards?”

“I’m suggesting we figure it out.”

She nodded. “That’s terrifying.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But I think we’d be stupid not to try.”

She sighed and buried her face back against his skin. “If I end up writing a moody playlist about this, it’s your fault.”

“I’ll consider it a compliment.”

Two days later, they kissed goodbye at the train station. No big declarations. No promises they couldn’t keep. But he did press his phone number into her palm like it was something sacred. Told her he’d text her that night. Told her to get home safe.

She got on the train. Checked her phone halfway to the airport.

Miss you already. Let me know when you land. X

And that’s how it started.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading, you’re a total angel! Don’t forget to like, comment, and rebog if you enjoyed! It means everything to me! 💖