digistyles⋆˚࿔

linger [h.s] - ongoing, au series, plus size oc

What do you do when you find the kind of presence that lingers? In someone's laugh, in the way their hand brushed his, in the quiet moments that felt louder than words. For Harry, being with River was easy—like breathing. Until the day it wasn’t. When she walks away, she leaves more than an empty space at his side. She leaves the echo of what they built, haunting him in the smallest details of his days. A scent, a song, a memory he can’t shake. She moves forward. He stays behind, caught in the shadow of what they were. Linger is a story—Harry's story—about the sweetness of first love, the ache of loss, and the pieces of someone that remain even when they’re gone.

read before starting! part one part two

￬ stories written by @stylesonfilms (my other blog)

ink & innocence [h.s] - paused, au series, tattooartist!harry

Harry Styles learned long ago that the world respects strength-or at least the illusion of it. At 22, he's built a fortress around himself, one inked into his skin and punctuated by his sharp tongue and ever-present lip ring. As the owner of a thriving tattoo shop, Harry thrives in the chaos of late nights, buzzing needles, and the unspoken rules of a life outside the lines. He has no room for vulnerability, and he likes it that way. Aspen is everything Harry isn't: soft-spoken, wide-eyed, and utterly unprepared for the whirlwind of the world beyond her college campus. At 19, she's just beginning to find her footing, but her reserved nature keeps her in the shadows. The last thing she expects is to be drawn to someone so intimidating- and for him to notice her in return.

ink and innocence masterlist

the days are long, the days are hard [h.s] - one shot fluff!harry

after a long, excruciating week at work packed with bad news, all you want is your husband, harry. read here

behind the pew [h.s] - one shot angst!harry

where you, the priests daughter, and harry have a terrible fallout at the end of your relationship, and you find him praying (though he's unreligious) to have you back. read here

** drippin' down your body like gold [h.s]- one shot smut!harry

when harry performs in lisbon, he gets an idea to chug a beer on stage. what he doesn't know, is that the sight of his chest dripping makes you feral. read here

where the quiet was [h.s] - paused, au series, king!harry

Harry was born to rule—raised to believe legacy is everything and emotion is weakness. With a crown already etched in his blood, and a kingdom watching, he wears entitlement like armor and sees no value in those outside his lineage. Margaret is the second daughter of another royal bloodline—forgotten in favor of her sister and dismissed by everyone. She is background noise in a room full of power players. Irrelevant. Unseen. But the quiet has weight. And slowly, without meaning to, she becomes the only thing he cannot ignore. What begins as cold indifference turns to something else—something sharp, something aching. But realization comes too late. She is no longer waiting to be seen. And Harry, once so certain of his world, must now live in the silence he created. What remains when the silence you chose is the only thing that answers back?

“It sounds like you might have BPD, Harry.”

“BPD…?”

“Yes. It stands for borderline personality disorder.”

“I don’t… I don’t understand. I’m not splitting between personalities. I mean, I’m still me. I always have been.”

“Well, yes, but that’s not what that means. Borderline personality disorder is a mental health condition that is often characterized by unstable moods, behaviors, and relationships. Individuals with this disorder often experience intense emotions, impulsive actions, and a distorted self-image.” 

“Oh.”

“Mhm. It usually leads to difficulties in various aspects of life, including work, social interactions, and personal relationships.”

“Personal relationships?”

“Yes. It can often be difficult for you to fully enjoy it. Rapid mood swings that can last from hours to days often have negative impacts on these relationships.”

“What? Like I PMS?”

“No, silly. Like… like one day you’ll be happy. The best day with your partner, and then they say something that your brain doesn’t like. You can… how do I put this, overexaggerate your feelings, take things to the extreme.”

“Well, I don’t like that. I don't want to do that.”

“You already do, Harry. That’s why we’re here today, why I am officially diagnosing you.”

“I still don’t… I still don’t understand.”

Harry’s eyes flickered across Dr. Anderson's features. Green swarms twisted with an anxious look as he gained knowledge of this new disorder. A frown sat on his lips, brows pulled down in deep thought. Something was suddenly wrong with him, and it wasn’t the typical anxiety. He didn’t like that. He couldn’t handle change.

Harry’s knee bounced where it was planted against the floor, boot tapping too quick, too loud in the quiet of Dr. Anderson’s office. His mouth felt dry but his palms were slick, clammy against the fabric of his trousers as though he’d just walked in from a storm.

“Harry,” Dr. Anderson said gently, leaning forward just enough so her voice reached him without pressing. “I want to be very clear. Borderline personality disorder isn’t about having multiple personalities. You are you. Always. But your emotions… they can feel sharper, more extreme than the average person’s. They can change quickly, and sometimes it can be difficult to trust them—especially in relationships. Does that make sense?”

Harry swallowed, hard, the sound of it too loud in his own head. His voice cracked when he spoke. “I… I don’t know. It’s like you’re tellin’ me I’m—broken. Like I can’t—like I don’t know myself.”

“No,” she said quickly, softly. “Not broken. Misunderstood. And hurting.”

His eyes flicked up to hers, desperate and disbelieving all at once. “Hurting?”

“Yes,” she said. “Everything you feel, you feel so deeply. That can be a gift in some ways—it makes you empathetic, intuitive. But it can also make the world unbearable at times. The fear of abandonment, the push and pull between wanting closeness and being terrified of it… that’s why relationships are so hard. It’s not that you don’t love. It’s that you love too much—too hard, too fast. And it scares you.”

Harry’s chest felt like it was caving in. His breath hitched, shallow, and suddenly he couldn’t tell if he was hot or cold. His body shivered as though he’d stepped into winter, but his skin burned with sweat. His hands trembled where they gripped his thighs, knuckles whitening with the effort.

Dr. Anderson noticed immediately. “Harry. How are you feeling right now?”

His voice was small, shaky. “Cold. Like, shivering cold. But my palms are sweating. And my head feels… floaty. Like I’m not really here.”

She nodded gently, grounding her tone. “That’s called derealization, Harry. A form of dissociation. It happens when the body and mind are overwhelmed by something new, something frightening. You’re in this room, but part of you is trying to protect itself by stepping back, almost as if it’s not real.”

His throat worked around a lump. “So I’m—what? Losing it?”

“No,” she said firmly. “You’re protecting yourself. Your body is saying, ‘this is too much, too fast.’ And that’s okay. What you’re feeling right now makes sense. It’s your system adjusting to new information, trying to keep you safe.”

Harry pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, as if blocking out the light would stop the swell inside him. His voice cracked again. “I don’t—I don’t want this. I don’t want to be like this.”

“I know,” Dr. Anderson said quietly. “And that’s why we’re here. You don’t have to go through it alone.”

Harry let out a broken laugh, muffled behind his hands. “Feels like I’ve always gone through it alone.”

The room fell quiet for a long moment. His chest rose and fell in uneven rhythms, his body trembling, but for the first time he realized he wasn’t being told to stop. No one was telling him to “calm down” or to “get a grip.” The silence, the space she left for him, felt terrifying and relieving all at once.

The memory still pressed sharp against his chest, even six months later. Sitting in that chair across from Dr. Anderson, his palms damp, his heart racing as the word disorder rearranged everything he thought he knew about himself. He remembered the hollow chill that had settled in his bones that day, the way he’d wanted to run and crawl into a hole at the same time.

Now, though, he could look back with different eyes. Not softer, not exactly, but steadier. He’d spent months sitting in that same office, sometimes furious, sometimes in tears, sometimes silent for the full hour. Slowly, painfully, he’d learned to sit with feelings instead of letting them drown him. Learned that the terrifying swings in his head didn’t have to define every part of his life. Some days were still brutal, he knew they always would be, but he wasn’t adrift anymore. 

Dr. Anderson had given him an anchor.

Harry exhaled through his nose, dragging the palm of his hand down his jaw as he studied himself in the mirror. His hair had been combed back in loose waves, not too neat, not careless either. A simple white linen shirt fell soft against his skin, sleeves rolled at the forearm, collar left open just enough to catch the sea breeze later. He smiled faintly, dimples flashing at his own reflection before he shook his head, tucking his phone and keys into his pockets.

This was different. River was different. No dogs, no flying frisbees this time—just the two of them and the quiet hush of the ocean. He’d insisted on cooking, wanting to put a little bit of himself into the evening, and the basket waiting by his front door was proof: grilled chicken tucked between slices of fresh bread, a simple salad, a bottle of white chilled just enough. He’d even packed chocolate-dipped strawberries, embarrassed with how long it had taken him to make them without smudging the kitchen counters.

It wasn’t just a picnic. It was him showing up, trying. He wanted to mangle that disorder by the throat and stop it out of his system.

As he bent to lace his boots, he felt that old flicker of doubt tug at him, the echo of the voice that told him he wasn’t cut out for connection. But then he pictured River’s grin, that laugh spilling out of her when she told the crumpet story at her Jeep, her eyes bright with mischief. The way she’d called out to him, nervous but sure, asking if he wanted to go out.

Warmth spread through him, a low thrum under his skin, stronger than the summer evening bleeding through the open window.

He grabbed his phone from his back pocket as he slid into the driver’s seat, fingers moving faster than his nerves. The engine’s hum rose up, cutting into the faint chatter of the boardwalk behind him.

H: On my way! Be there in ten.

He tossed the phone down on the console, glancing toward the passenger seat. A bundle of white daisies and vibrant yellow sunflowers leaned lazily against the wicker picnic basket, their petals glowing soft in the last stretch of daylight. The sight made his mouth tug into a grin, dimples etching deep. He had this. He had to.

The screen lit again.

R: perfect! can’t wait. X

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, steadying his hands on the steering wheel before pulling out into the street.

The ocean stretched out before them, a coppery wash of light where the sun was dipping low, painting the horizon in soft golds and bruised purples. The air was cooler now, salted breeze licking at their hair as gulls cried faintly in the distance. They sat close on the blanket River had brought, plates balanced on their laps, the wicker basket half-emptied between them.

Harry swirled what was left in his glass of wine, the pale liquid catching the glow of the setting sun. River popped a grape into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully before tipping her head at him.

“So,” she began, voice light, curious, “what is it that you do, exactly?”

He glanced over, lips quirking. “Ah. Tricky question.”

“Tricky? C’mon, how’s that tricky? Everyone’s got a job, right?”

“Mhm.” He gave a small nod, then shrugged. “I write music. Songs, mostly.”

Her eyes lit. “Really? That’s… that’s amazing.”

Harry snorted softly, ducking his head to look at the sand instead of her face. “Don’t get too excited. I don’t put them anywhere. Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” she pressed, eyebrows raised.

“Because,” he said quickly, chuckling at his own defensiveness. “I’m insecure as hell about it, that’s why. Writing’s one thing, but sharing it? Nah. No one needs to hear me whine with a guitar.”

River shook her head, smiling, though there was a softness to it. “I’d disagree. But fine. What else do you do, then?”

He tipped his glass toward the basket. “Work at a French bookstore downtown sometimes. Just helping the owners. They’re older, could use the extra hands.”

“That sounds… kind of wonderful, actually.”

“It is.” He leaned back on one hand, toes digging into the sand. His boots sat beside her birkenstocks, collecting sand along with each smooth breeze. “Quiet. Smells like paper and coffee all the time. Perfect place to hide.”

River tilted her head. “But it can’t pay much if you’re only there occasionally. Yet here you are, with your own house and car. I’m curious.”

Harry’s smile faltered a little, but he forced it steady. “The house was passed down. From my mum. She, uh… passed away a while back.” His thumb traced the rim of his glass, voice low. “I only moved in about a year ago, after bouncing around for a bit. Love it, though. Feels… hers, but mine too.”

River’s expression softened, her body angling toward him, but she didn’t crowd. Just listened.

“As for the car,” he went on with a small grin, “had it since I was eighteen. Bit of a relic now, but I keep it running. Sentimental, I guess.”

She laughed gently, reaching to pluck a sunflower petal from the basket where it had fallen. “You sound like someone who doesn’t like to let go.”

His green eyes flickered to her face, something unguarded flashing across them before he smirked faintly, leaning back again. “Yeah. You could say that.”

The tide hissed against the shore, pulling back as the sun bled lower, and for a moment the silence between them felt easy.

Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, glass dangling loosely between his fingers. The sound of the tide filled the space as he glanced at her, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

“So what about your lot?” he asked. “The dogs. How long’ve you had ’em?”

River brightened a little at the mention, her gaze flicking toward the dunes as if picturing them there. “Both four years now. Got them around the same time, actually.”

Harry’s brows lifted. “Together?”

“Not exactly.” She pulled her knees up, wrapping her arms loosely around them. “Gideon—he was supposed to be a service dog. Didn’t quite make the cut. Too distracted, too… himself, I guess.” Her lips curved with affection. “So I took him in.”

Harry chuckled softly. “Can’t imagine him being much good at sit-still-and-listen.”

“Exactly,” she said, smiling back. Then her tone shifted, quiet but steady. “He’s also got a condition. It means he won’t be around forever. Year, maybe year and a half, if we’re lucky.”

Harry blinked, his smile fading into something softer. “I’m… sorry.”

River shook her head gently, eyes on her wine glass now. “It’s alright. I’ve made peace with it. He’s had a good life. Gets spoiled rotten. He’ll keep getting spoiled until… well.” She trailed off, then exhaled, the corners of her mouth lifting again. “That’s the deal when you love something with a clock on it, right?”

Harry swallowed, gaze steady on her. There was something about the calm way she said it that struck him deeper than if she’d cried. “That’s tough, though. Knowing the time’s coming.”

“It is,” she admitted, her voice low but sure. “But it also makes every day feel important. I don’t take him for granted. Not once. And honestly, I think that’s the best gift he could’ve given me.”

Harry sat with that for a moment, watching her, the sincerity in her eyes, the steadiness of her voice. He thought about his own mother, about loss and how it could carve you out in places you never expected, and he felt the heaviness of her words settle in his chest.

He cleared his throat gently, trying to bring back some lightness without brushing past what she’d shared. “And the other one? Not a failed service dog, I hope?”

River’s mouth curved again. “Nope. Just a rescue with way too much energy. Between the two of them, they keep me moving.”

Harry laughed softly, leaning back into the blanket. “Yeah, I’ve seen that. Pretty sure they nearly pulled your arm off last week.”

River laughed too, the sound carrying easily on the breeze, and for a moment the heaviness eased.

Harry tipped his glass back for another slow sip, eyes glinting as a grin tugged at his lips. “Well, maybe that’s a good thing then. Keepin’ you movin’. Otherwise you’d just be sittin’ at home, gettin’ all old and creaky.”

River let out a laugh, incredulous, and immediately swatted his arm with the back of her hand. “Excuse me? Old and creaky?”

He laughed at the indignant look on her face, holding his free hand up in mock surrender. “What? I mean—someone’s gotta keep your joints from lockin’ up.”

She shook her head, still laughing, a flush of pink rising across her cheeks. “I’m twenty-five, Harry.”

“Exactly,” he teased, leaning closer. “That’s practically ancient.”

River rolled her eyes, but she was grinning too wide to hide it. “Oh, shut up. You act like you’re not right behind me.”

“Behind you, sure,” he said, smirking, “but not nearly as creaky.”

She laughed again, shaking her head.

Harry let his smirk soften, resting his arm across his bent knee as he looked at her. “Alright then, ancient one,” he teased once more before letting his voice mellow. “D’you enjoy it? Workin’ at the café?”

River glanced down at the stem of her wine glass, twisting it between her fingers as if weighing the truth. “I do,” she said after a moment, eyes flicking back up to meet his. “I love it, really. The people, the rhythm of it—it feels… I don’t know, steady.”

Harry nodded slowly, taking that in. There was something grounding in the way she said it, like she wasn’t trying to dress it up for him.

“But,” she went on, a little laugh tumbling out, “if we’re talking about dreams… it was never coffee I wanted to pour. I always wanted to pick up hair.”

Harry blinked, then tilted his head, amused. “Pick up hair?”

She grinned, catching his confusion. “I mean—be a stylist. Work some magic with scissors, color, all that. Make people feel… well, beautiful, I guess. Like they could walk out the door and take on the world.”

Something about the way her smile softened at that made Harry’s chest tighten. He leaned back on his hands, studying her like she’d just revealed a part of herself no one else had seen. “So makin’ other people happy would make you happy.”

“Exactly,” she said quietly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes skimming the horizon before darting back to him.

Harry hummed, a small smile pressing at his lips. “Sounds like a bit of magic to me.”

River laughed, shaking her head at herself. “Yeah, I didn’t really sell it well, did I? ‘Pick up hair.’ Sounds like I’d just sweep the salon floor for a living.”

Harry smirked into his wine. “Oi, don’t knock it. Maybe you’d be the best hair-picker-upper in town.”

She leaned toward him, nudging his arm with her elbow. “Oh, shut up.”

His grin widened at the warmth in her voice. “Alright, alright. But seriously… you’d be brilliant at it. Bet you’ve seem t’got that eye for detail. Like you can look at people and see what’d make ’em shine.”

That quieted her for a second, her lips parting like she wanted to argue, but instead, she ducked her head and smiled. “Maybe. One day, I’ll make it happen.”

“Good,” he said simply, then shifted the focus. “So, what else? Outside the café and dogs, what fills your time?”

River toyed with her bracelet as she thought. “I read a lot. Walk the boardwalk when I can. I’m trying to learn how to paint, but… I’m mostly terrible.”

Harry chuckled. “S’pose we all need something we’re terrible at. Keeps us humble.”

She raised a brow. “And what’s yours?”

“Mm.” He leaned back, pretending to think hard. “Basketball. Tried to play once and tripped over m’self so badly, banged the damn ball into my face so hard that I swore off ever touchin’ a ball again.”

River burst into laughter, her head tipping back, the sound rolling into the breeze. “No way.”

“Way. Nearly broke m’nose. Then my legs. Not very rockstar, is it?”

“Not at all.” She giggled, then tilted her head curiously. “But… you mentioned music. That doesn’t sound like something you’re terrible at.”

Harry’s jaw ticked slightly, the admission sitting heavier with him than he meant. “I… like writing. But that’s different than showing the world, isn’t it?”

River studied him gently, but she didn’t push. Instead, she let the lull between them stretch, only filled by the sound of waves breaking against the shore.

After a moment, she smiled. “Well, I think the world would be lucky to hear it. But I get it. Some things feel better kept… just yours.”

Harry found himself watching her a little too long, the sincerity in her words nestling somewhere deep. He cleared his throat, nudging the conversation lighter again. “So, Miss Future Stylist—tell me your guilty pleasure. Everyone’s got one.”

River grinned, eyes glinting. “Easy. Terrible reality TV. The trashier the better.”

Harry let out a bark of laughter. “You’re jokin’.”

“Nope. Keeps me entertained, what can I say?”

He shook his head, grinning. “And here I thought you were refined. Can’t believe I’m sharin’ wine on the beach with a reality TV addict.”

“Guess it’s too late to back out now,” she teased, sipping her glass.

Harry hummed, green eyes observing the sight in front of him. The salt air curled around the soft waves of her strawberry blonde hair, her blue eyes captivated by the sea. Her cheeks tinted red—maybe from him and his banter or maybe from the tinge of cold air. The flowers he bought her, the same ones she brought to her nose and twirled, yes, twirled, in delight from, laid half on her lap and half on the blanket beneath. Her fingers would graze through the petals every now and then, glancing a shy look whenever he’d made her blush.

The waves crashed against the shore before they eased out into a steady rhythm. One lap, then two around his feet, cool saltwater curling like curious fingers over his bare ankles before retreating with a hiss. The air carried that briny sharpness unique to summer nights, heavy with the scent of seaweed and the faint tang of fishnets left to dry somewhere down the beach.

Roaring oranges and deep blues engulfed the sun in its slow descent, its fading light sinking into the sea like a secret being swallowed whole. Every few seconds, the sky shifted—gold bleeding into pink, indigo deepening into violet—casting Oak Bluffs, Massachusetts in the kind of glow that made everything feel fragile and fleeting. The sea stretched endlessly, vast and far, its horizon bending just enough to make him wonder what lay beyond.

Harry’s hands were tucked into the ragged back pockets of the jeans he’d had since nineteen, the denim frayed at the seams and bleached in patches by years of sun and salt. Twenty-two now, and still stubbornly attached to them, as though the fabric held all the versions of himself he wasn’t ready to let go of. A soft tune carried in his hum, low and absentminded, a melody for no one but the tide. He squinted against the breeze that skimmed his face, strands of hair catching in the wind before falling back over his brow. The night was just cold enough to raise goosebumps along his arms, but he welcomed it. He liked the sharpness of summer air when the day gave way to night.

“Win—Gideon, no!”

The voice tore across the wind, ringing with ecstatic laughter, sharp and breathless. Harry barely had time to glance over his shoulder before the sound of thundering paws broke against the sand like a stampede. Two dogs—big, eager, unstoppable—collided into his leg with the kind of force that left him sprawling backwards, his palms sinking into the cool grit as he toppled into the shore. Sand sprayed against his arms, clinging to the worn knees of his jeans.

The dogs stood triumphantly, each gripping one end of a slobbery frisbee, tails wagging like frantic metronomes. Their panting came in hot bursts, droopy lips slick with spit, before they bolted again, leaving only paw prints scattered across the damp sand.

Behind them, their supposed owner finally appeared, slowing as she approached, the echo of her laugh still unraveling in the salty air.

Harry brushed a few grains of sand from his forearm before glancing up; and for a moment, he forgot the sting of the fall altogether. She was there, standing against the streaked horizon, hair pulled back loosely with strands catching the wind, cheeks flushed from running after the dogs. Her eyes—bright, amused, and a little breathless—met his, and he couldn’t stop the surprised laugh that spilled from his chest. It wasn’t mocking, just startled and warm, the kind of laugh that came when the world caught him off guard in the best way. Her jeans were cuffed like his were, loose around her frame and paired with a button up that caught the loose breeze.

She bent forward, offering her hand, slim and delicate against the backdrop of the fading sun. He took it without hesitation, her grip firm but soft, grounding him as she helped pull him up from the sand. Their palms pressed together longer than necessary, the edges of their hands stubbornly refusing to separate.

“I’m so sorry…?” Her voice lilted upward at the end, as though she were half-apologizing and half-asking, waiting for him to fill in the blank with his name.

“Harry,” he said, dusting off his jeans, though his gaze didn’t leave hers. “M’names Harry.”

Her lips curved, a small, knowing smile tugging as she squeezed his hand once before finally letting go—though the warmth stayed. “I’m so sorry, Harry.” Then, after a beat, with the kind of ease that made her feel both familiar and brand new, she added, “I’m River.”

The name hung between them, carried by the breeze, slipping into him as naturally as the tide rolling back across his feet. The woman tucked her hands in her backpocket, glancing over her shoulder towards her erratic dogs before a light laugh fell through her lips. 

“Sorry ‘bout them. Gideon and Winston never know when to hit the brakes…” Another breathless laugh as their eyes met again, and Harry offered a kind smile. 

“No worries, none at all. They seem… great.”

“Crazy,” she corrected and shook her head, “no matter how much time we spend here, they act brand new all over again.”

As if on cue, the dogs came tearing back, sand kicking up behind them in wild bursts. One nearly tripped over its own paws, the frisbee clamped stubbornly in its jaw. River rolled her eyes, a fond sort of exasperation softening her features. Harry chuckled, brushing a streak of sand off his knee.

“Looks like they’re not finished with you just yet,” he said.

She tilted her head at him, squinting against the last slice of fading sun. “Guess not. You, uh—staying much longer?”

Harry shifted his weight, the breeze tugging at his shirt as though reminding him the night was coming fast. “Nah. Think I’ll head off before they run me over again.” His grin was light, teasing, but his chest felt strangely heavy at the thought of leaving.

River nodded once, her smile faint but genuine. “Fair enough. Good night, Harry.”

“Night, River.”

And then he walked on, the sound of crashing waves filling the silence where her voice had been, her name still echoing like a song he didn’t want to stop humming. The man took a final glance over his shoulder in time to catch her hands ruffling behind her dog’s ears, patting their heads before the disc went flying again.

The second time they met was two days later. Harry took his casual stroll down the docks, the wood planks creaking beneath his boots, the scent of salt and fried clams wafting faintly from the harbor. The evening was brisk, the kind of late winter chill that raised goosebumps even as the air still held the day’s warmth. He let his feet carry him toward the water, a rhythm as steady as the tide.

It was only when he noticed the paw prints stamped into the damp sand that his mind tugged with recognition. He followed them with his eyes, and sure enough, there they were. Winston and Gideon barreled down the shoreline, a blur of fur and flying sand, chasing a frisbee that spun cleanly against the sky before crashing into the surf.

And there she was too—River. Standing barefoot in the sand, jeans cuffed, her hair down and loose tonight, strands whipping back as she whistled for the dogs. The last light of the sun painted her in gold, and Harry stopped without meaning to, caught like the tide pausing before it turned back again.

She turned then, blue eyes bright as they landed on him, lighting with easy recognition. “Harry!” Her voice carried across the breeze, her hand shooting up in an eager wave before she glanced once more at the dogs and jogged toward him.

His feet were already moving, sand crunching beneath his boots, a smile tugging at his lips before he could stop it. Funny, he thought, how a name and a laugh could linger long enough to feel like this moment had been waiting for him.

“Hey. River, right?” Their steps came to a dusty halt.

“The one and only,” she beamed, brushing the loose strands of her light brown hair out of her face. Then she turned, whistling to draw her boys in and patted the side of her thigh. “They’ve got something to say to you. Boooys… say sorry.”

On cue with her words, the dogs dipped down into a theatrical bow, tails wagging furiously. A gentle whimper escaped each of them before they sprang up, triumphant, and dropped the frisbee directly at Harry’s feet.

Harry laughed an easy, unguarded sound. “You’re kidding me. They know tricks?”

“Only the important ones,” River said, grinning as she nudged one of the dogs with her knee. “Apologies and showing off and… that’s about it.”

Harry bent to pick up the frisbee, turning it over in his hand with mock seriousness. “Bit slobbery, this apology.”

“Consider it sincere,” she quipped, her voice light as the breeze.

With a quick flick of his wrist, he sent the frisbee out into the fading light. It wobbled slightly before catching air, and both dogs tore after it, kicking up a spray of sand. Harry shoved his hands in his pockets again, chuckling when Winston stumbled over Gideon in the chase.

“They’ve got no sense of personal space, do they?” he asked.

“None at all,” River replied, shaking her head. “But I guess that’s what makes ‘em fun. Never a dull moment.”

Harry hummed in agreement, watching the dogs wrestle each other for the frisbee. “Could use a bit of that, honestly. Been trying to get out more lately.”

She glanced at him, curious. “What, are you usually cooped up somewhere?”

“Something like that,” he said with a half-shrug. “Work takes me indoors most days. Music, writing, recording—it’s all staring at walls and instruments for hours. Gets a bit… stale, sometimes.”

“Yeah, I get that,” River said, nodding thoughtfully. “I used to work long shifts at a café. Sun would be setting by the time I even saw daylight. Felt like I was missing whole days.”

“Exactly.” Harry grinned, pleased at the shared understanding. “So lately I’ve been trying this thing—come down here, walk the shoreline, pretend I’m one of those people who actually has a social life.”

River let out a laugh, light and easy. “Walking alone at the beach counts as a social life now?”

“Sure it does,” Harry said, his smile tugging wider. “Me, the seagulls, whoever’s unlucky enough to get hit with a frisbee.”

She snorted, nudging him with her elbow. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

The dogs came barreling back then, tongues lolling, triumphant with the frisbee clamped in Gideon’s mouth. He dropped it square at River’s feet this time, his tail smacking her calves with happy thuds.

“Alright, alright,” River said, scooping it up. She gave it a strong, clean throw that had Harry raising his brows in mock admiration.

“Better form than me,” he admitted.

“Years of practice,” she teased. “These two never let me rest.”

They fell into an easy rhythm after that—taking turns throwing the frisbee, laughing when the dogs fumbled their catches, trading small stories that came out without effort. Harry learned she’d grown up in town, that the beach had always been her place to escape, and that Winston had once eaten an entire pizza off the counter while she’d been distracted. In return, he told her about his disastrous attempt to surf the summer before, and how he still couldn’t look at a surfboard without hearing the lifeguard yelling at him to get out of the water.

The sky darkened slowly, streaks of pink fading into lavender as the tide crept higher. Their conversation wandered just as easily—work, music, travel, even the best place to get ice cream in town. It wasn’t heavy, wasn’t loaded. Just two people talking, with dogs barking in the distance and the sea breathing in and out around them.

The sky had deepened into a smoky violet by the time Harry glanced down at his phone. He hadn’t even noticed how much the light had shifted, how the waves were darker now, the spray catching the moon instead of the sun.

“Didn’t realize it was this late,” he murmured, tucking the phone back in his pocket.

River followed his gaze toward the horizon, then down at her dogs. Winston had flopped dramatically onto the sand, tongue lolling, while Gideon half-heartedly chewed at the frisbee as if the effort was almost too much. She laughed softly. “Yeah, they’re worn out. Won’t even make it back to the car if we don’t call it.”

“Think I can manage a walk,” Harry said, brushing sand off his palms as he fell in step beside her. Together they started across the beach, the dogs trailing at their heels in lazy zigzags. The air was cooler now, crisp enough that Harry shoved his hands into his pockets again, shoulders hunched just slightly against the breeze.

River’s Jeep sat in a quiet corner of the lot, its dark paint dulled with a salt-spray sheen. Winston and Gideon circled once in front of it before promptly collapsing in the gravel with twin groans, as though to announce they were absolutely finished for the night.

Harry chuckled under his breath. “They’re not even trying.”

“Usually they launch themselves into the back,” River said, hands on her hips. “Guess I overdid it with the frisbee.”

“Or I did with my terrible throws,” Harry teased.

Before she could argue, he bent down and scooped Winston into his arms with a grunt, the dog heavier than he looked. Winston’s head flopped against Harry’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes, his eyes already drooping shut. River’s brows lifted, surprised, but she bit back a smile.

“Thanks,” she said, opening the back door so he could slide the dog in. Harry made sure Winston was settled before reaching for Gideon, who didn’t even bother lifting his head as he was hoisted up.

“Second one’s easier,” Harry muttered, easing Gideon down onto the blanket-covered seat.

River laughed, shaking her head as she reached in to clip their harnesses to the safety latches. “Look at them—like toddlers after a carnival. Out cold before the car even moves.”

Harry dusted his hands off and stepped back, watching as she closed the door gently and leaned against it with a small, content sigh. For a moment, the only sound was the faint crash of waves beyond the lot and the soft tick of the Jeep’s cooling engine.

“Well,” River said at last, her smile faint but genuine, “guess that’s our cue to call it a night.”

“Guess so,” Harry agreed. He shifted back a step, tucking his hands deeper into his pockets. “Thanks for letting me steal some of their frisbee time.”

“Thanks for saving me from carrying them,” she shot back, a playful lilt in her tone. Then, softer, “Goodnight, Harry.”

He gave a small nod, lips quirking. “Night, River.”

And then he turned, walking back across the boardwalk toward his place. The lights of Oak Bluffs glittered ahead, reflected in the still water of the harbor. His steps were unhurried, his shoulders light. It struck him, somewhere between the creak of the planks and the salt on the wind, that it was nice—really nice—to have made a new friend.

After that night, they fell into a steady rhythm.

Every evening, once the last customer had drifted out of the café, River would move through the closing ritual she knew by heart. She tugged the blinds down, the faint rattle of the strings breaking the quiet hum of the espresso machine winding down. The sign in the window flipped from open to closed with a small click, and she wiped her flour-dusted palms on her apron before pulling it loose from her neck. The air still smelled faintly of coffee beans and warm sugar, clinging to her hair and clothes, as she hung the apron neatly on its hook.

She always carried something with her—a chocolate croissant wrapped in paper, two miniature cups of whipped cream tucked carefully into her bag. By the time she pulled into her driveway, Winston and Gideon were already circling the door, tails thudding against the wood like drums. River laughed every time she peeled open the cups and set them down on the tile floor. The dogs lapped wildly at the cream, noses smeared, ears dipping into the sticky mess until they were practically buzzing with sugar-spurred energy. It never failed to make her shake her head and laugh, the kind of laugh that loosened something in her chest after a long day. And then, with the orange frisbee tucked under her arm, they piled into the car and headed toward the beach.

Harry’s nights unfolded differently.

He lingered in the quiet of his house, notebooks splayed across the table, pages filling with lines of new lyrics or scribbled edits of old ones. Some nights he let the words flow easy, chasing half-melodies in the stillness. Other nights he crossed out more than he kept, restless, his handwriting slanted and heavy where the pen pressed too hard. Always, though, there was the same cup of tea—his small, steady comfort since he first moved in. The steam curled from the mug as he settled into his spots: the beanbag by the fireplace when he needed softness, or the wooden chair in the corner, worn smooth by years of his father’s use.

And yet, as consistent as his rituals were, they began to bend.

He could hear her from the window—River’s laugh carrying across the sand, sharp and unrestrained, mingling with the barks of her dogs. Sometimes it was laughter, other times a mock-scolding shout when one of them stole the frisbee and bolted away. The sound drifted up through his half-open window and caught him every time, tugging at him until he closed the notebook mid-sentence. It was taunting in its way—too alive to ignore.

At first, he told himself Friday would be his night. Just one evening to wander down to the boardwalk, to let Winston and Gideon knock him flat in the sand, to talk with River under the shifting sky until it was dark enough for the boardwalk lights to flicker on. But Friday turned into Thursday and Friday. Then the whole weekend. Until, without really planning it, he was there most nights too.

Days bled into weeks, and the beach became their place. Winston and Gideon adored him now—bounding across the sand on all fours, ears flapping as they tumbled him straight to the ground the second he stepped off the boardwalk. Harry always laughed through it, brushing sand from his jeans as they pawed at him for attention. River stood nearby, frisbee tucked under her arm, eyes lit with that ever-present spark he was beginning to recognize as hers alone.

And Harry found himself chasing it, the light she carried. Whether they were tossing the frisbee until dusk or talking through the slow, quiet hours as the sun melted into the horizon, he realized he always ended up at her side.

Harry leaned against the side of River’s Jeep, one arm propped on the open back as his fingers absentmindedly scratched behind Winston’s ears. The dog’s tail thumped lazily against the bumper, while Gideon’s head rested heavy on his other hand, eyes drooping from exhaustion. Harry chuckled under his breath at the pair, his gaze flicking back to River as she leaned against the opposite side of the car, face lit up in animated storytelling.

“So get this,” she said, gesturing with her hands, her tone half disbelief and half amusement. “Some guy calls up the café, right? And he’s like, ‘I want to book the place for a book signing,’ which I thought was… alright, not too crazy. But then he goes, ‘And I’ll need two thousand and fifty crumpets.’”

Harry blinked, his head pulling back like he hadn’t heard her right. “Two thousand and fifty crumpets?” The word caught in his mouth, half laugh, half disbelief.

“Yes!” she burst out, laughing so hard her shoulders shook. “I repeated it back, asked him if he meant two hundred and fifty, which is still absurd but at least it was doable, and he insisted he needed thousands. ‘Oi, they are quite good! Give me me crumpets!’”, she mocked an overexaggerated English accent, “and you know what the kicker is? We don’t even sell crumpets!”

That did him in—Harry’s laugh cracked through the quiet parking lot, deep and boyish, making Winston stir just enough to nuzzle into his hand again. “No, no, wait—so what’d you say to him? You didn’t let him down, did you?”

River pressed her lips together, trying not to smile but failing miserably. “I said, ‘oh absolutely not,’ and hung up. Har, there is no way in hell us three would be able to make two thousand British nuggets of dough.”

Harry doubled slightly in laughter, shaking his head. “That’s brilliant. Two thousand and fifty crumpets, like you’ve got a whole factory in the back. Madness.”

Her grin widened, pleased with his reaction, and for a moment their laughter mingled and carried out into the night air. The absurdity of it all left a warm ache in his chest—one of those rare moments that felt both simple and exactly what he needed.

Conversation ebbed after that, softening into easy chatter about the café, the beach, the weather shifting warmer. Harry stayed leaning against the Jeep, stroking the dogs who by now had gone boneless with exhaustion, tongues lolling as they let the night swallow them in. The whole scene—River still smiling, the dogs half-asleep, the salt-heavy air—felt far away from the world he usually carried on his back.

When the hour slipped later, Harry straightened, giving Winston and Gideon final affectionate pats. “Alright, boys. Rest up, yeah? You’ve worked yourselves into the ground.”

River laughed quietly, moving to check the dogs’ harnesses where they were clipped in. “They’ll sleep like rocks after this. Thanks for helping with them tonight.”

“‘Course,” Harry murmured, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. He met her eyes for a beat, offering that small, easy smile before turning toward the boardwalk. “Night, River.”

“Night, Harry.”

He’d made it a good stretch across the lot, his boots thudding lightly against the sand towards the wooden boards, when her voice carried after him.

“Harry!”

He stopped and turned, the distance stretching between them like an invisible thread. She stood by her Jeep, half-lit by the dim streetlamp, her hair loose and shifting in the breeze. For once, she didn’t look effortlessly self-assured—her hand lifted like she’d thought better of calling him at all, but the words tumbled out anyway.

“Would you—” she hesitated, then steadied, “would you like to go out sometime? Like… like um, a date?”

Harry’s brows lifted, surprise flickering first, though it melted quickly into something softer. For a second he only stood there, caught in the quiet weight of the moment. Then it hit him, warming through like a tide rolling in. His face broke into a grin, dimples carving deep as his laughter threaded through it, not mocking, but bright and real.

“Yeah,” he called back, voice carrying easy. “Yes. I’d love to.”

Even from that distance, he saw the way her shoulders loosened, her laugh slipping out almost breathless as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Okay… I’ll text you.”

Harry gave her a nod, still smiling as he turned back toward home, boots steady on the planks. The night air felt different now, lighter somehow. Taking his bottom lip between his teeth, the moment flashed in his mind before he let out a laugh beneath his breath, shaking his head.