masterlist stories written by digistyles ïœĄđŠč°â§â.á
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Cosimo Galluzzi

Origami Around

JVL

⣠Chile in a Photography âŁ
noise dept.
tumblr dot com
Peter Solarz

blake kathryn
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH

Kaledo Art

if i look back, i am lost
dirt enthusiast
Misplaced Lens Cap
Today's Document
I'd rather be in outer space đž

shark vs the universe
Three Goblin Art
seen from Australia

seen from United States

seen from Sweden

seen from Romania

seen from TĂŒrkiye

seen from Netherlands

seen from United States
seen from Belgium
seen from United Kingdom

seen from China
seen from Japan

seen from Malaysia
seen from Dominican Republic

seen from United Kingdom

seen from Belgium

seen from Brazil

seen from Brazil
seen from Saudi Arabia
seen from United States
seen from United States
@digistyles
masterlist stories written by digistyles ïœĄđŠč°â§â.á
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 easyâlike breathing. Until the day it wasnât. 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 canât shake. She moves forward. He stays behind, caught in the shadow of what they were. Linger is a storyâHarry's storyâabout the sweetness of first love, the ache of loss, and the pieces of someone that remain even when theyâre gone.
read before starting! part one part two
ïżŹ 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 ruleâraised 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 bloodlineâforgotten 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 elseâsomething 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?
where the quiet was masterlist

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linger - part two [h.s]
word count: 3.3k warnings: mentions of bpd, mild anxiety attack (if you squint)/derealization. â«âïœĄâȘ âË: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1qZ590WfJvRX2NqZMyONOh?si=313024e7a77649a5 a/n: please see my masterlist for a link to the story's introductions which dives into the warnings for the overall story. the story is written with harry and a plus size oc!
âIt sounds like you might have BPD, Harry.â
âBPDâŠ?â
âYes. It stands for borderline personality disorder.â
âI donât⊠I donât understand. Iâm not splitting between personalities. I mean, Iâm still me. I always have been.â
âWell, yes, but thatâs 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.âÂ
âOh.â
âMhm. It usually leads to difficulties in various aspects of life, including work, social interactions, and personal relationships.â
âPersonal relationships?â
âYes. 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.â
âWhat? Like I PMS?â
âNo, silly. Like⊠like one day youâll be happy. The best day with your partner, and then they say something that your brain doesnât like. You can⊠how do I put this, overexaggerate your feelings, take things to the extreme.â
âWell, I donât like that. I don't want to do that.â
âYou already do, Harry. Thatâs why weâre here today, why I am officially diagnosing you.â
âI still donât⊠I still donât understand.â
Harryâs 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 wasnât the typical anxiety. He didnât like that. He couldnât handle change.
Harryâs knee bounced where it was planted against the floor, boot tapping too quick, too loud in the quiet of Dr. Andersonâs office. His mouth felt dry but his palms were slick, clammy against the fabric of his trousers as though heâd just walked in from a storm.
âHarry,â Dr. Anderson said gently, leaning forward just enough so her voice reached him without pressing. âI want to be very clear. Borderline personality disorder isnât about having multiple personalities. You are you. Always. But your emotions⊠they can feel sharper, more extreme than the average personâs. They can change quickly, and sometimes it can be difficult to trust themâespecially in relationships. Does that make sense?â
Harry swallowed, hard, the sound of it too loud in his own head. His voice cracked when he spoke. âI⊠I donât know. Itâs like youâre tellinâ me Iâmâbroken. Like I canâtâlike I donât know myself.â
âNo,â she said quickly, softly. âNot broken. Misunderstood. And hurting.â
His eyes flicked up to hers, desperate and disbelieving all at once. âHurting?â
âYes,â she said. âEverything you feel, you feel so deeply. That can be a gift in some waysâit 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⊠thatâs why relationships are so hard. Itâs not that you donât love. Itâs that you love too muchâtoo hard, too fast. And it scares you.â
Harryâs chest felt like it was caving in. His breath hitched, shallow, and suddenly he couldnât tell if he was hot or cold. His body shivered as though heâd 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. âHarry. How are you feeling right now?â
His voice was small, shaky. âCold. Like, shivering cold. But my palms are sweating. And my head feels⊠floaty. Like Iâm not really here.â
She nodded gently, grounding her tone. âThatâs called derealization, Harry. A form of dissociation. It happens when the body and mind are overwhelmed by something new, something frightening. Youâre in this room, but part of you is trying to protect itself by stepping back, almost as if itâs not real.â
His throat worked around a lump. âSo Iâmâwhat? Losing it?â
âNo,â she said firmly. âYouâre protecting yourself. Your body is saying, âthis is too much, too fast.â And thatâs okay. What youâre feeling right now makes sense. Itâs your system adjusting to new information, trying to keep you safe.â
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. âI donâtâI donât want this. I donât want to be like this.â
âI know,â Dr. Anderson said quietly. âAnd thatâs why weâre here. You donât have to go through it alone.â
Harry let out a broken laugh, muffled behind his hands. âFeels like Iâve always gone through it alone.â
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 wasnât being told to stop. No one was telling him to âcalm downâ or to âget a grip.â 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 heâd 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. Heâd spent months sitting in that same office, sometimes furious, sometimes in tears, sometimes silent for the full hour. Slowly, painfully, heâd learned to sit with feelings instead of letting them drown him. Learned that the terrifying swings in his head didnât have to define every part of his life. Some days were still brutal, he knew they always would be, but he wasnât adrift anymore.Â
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 timeâjust the two of them and the quiet hush of the ocean. Heâd 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. Heâd even packed chocolate-dipped strawberries, embarrassed with how long it had taken him to make them without smudging the kitchen counters.
It wasnât 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 wasnât cut out for connection. But then he pictured Riverâs grin, that laugh spilling out of her when she told the crumpet story at her Jeep, her eyes bright with mischief. The way sheâd 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 driverâs seat, fingers moving faster than his nerves. The engineâs 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! canât wait. X
He let out a breath he hadnât 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.
âSo,â she began, voice light, curious, âwhat is it that you do, exactly?â
He glanced over, lips quirking. âAh. Tricky question.â
âTricky? Câmon, howâs that tricky? Everyoneâs got a job, right?â
âMhm.â He gave a small nod, then shrugged. âI write music. Songs, mostly.â
Her eyes lit. âReally? Thatâs⊠thatâs amazing.â
Harry snorted softly, ducking his head to look at the sand instead of her face. âDonât get too excited. I donât put them anywhere. Absolutely not.â
âWhy not?â she pressed, eyebrows raised.
âBecause,â he said quickly, chuckling at his own defensiveness. âIâm insecure as hell about it, thatâs why. Writingâs one thing, but sharing it? Nah. No one needs to hear me whine with a guitar.â
River shook her head, smiling, though there was a softness to it. âIâd disagree. But fine. What else do you do, then?â
He tipped his glass toward the basket. âWork at a French bookstore downtown sometimes. Just helping the owners. Theyâre older, could use the extra hands.â
âThat sounds⊠kind of wonderful, actually.â
âIt is.â He leaned back on one hand, toes digging into the sand. His boots sat beside her birkenstocks, collecting sand along with each smooth breeze. âQuiet. Smells like paper and coffee all the time. Perfect place to hide.â
River tilted her head. âBut it canât pay much if youâre only there occasionally. Yet here you are, with your own house and car. Iâm curious.â
Harryâs smile faltered a little, but he forced it steady. âThe house was passed down. From my mum. She, uh⊠passed away a while back.â His thumb traced the rim of his glass, voice low. âI only moved in about a year ago, after bouncing around for a bit. Love it, though. Feels⊠hers, but mine too.â
Riverâs expression softened, her body angling toward him, but she didnât crowd. Just listened.
âAs for the car,â he went on with a small grin, âhad it since I was eighteen. Bit of a relic now, but I keep it running. Sentimental, I guess.â
She laughed gently, reaching to pluck a sunflower petal from the basket where it had fallen. âYou sound like someone who doesnât like to let go.â
His green eyes flickered to her face, something unguarded flashing across them before he smirked faintly, leaning back again. âYeah. You could say that.â
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.
âSo what about your lot?â he asked. âThe dogs. How longâve you had âem?â
River brightened a little at the mention, her gaze flicking toward the dunes as if picturing them there. âBoth four years now. Got them around the same time, actually.â
Harryâs brows lifted. âTogether?â
âNot exactly.â She pulled her knees up, wrapping her arms loosely around them. âGideonâhe was supposed to be a service dog. Didnât quite make the cut. Too distracted, too⊠himself, I guess.â Her lips curved with affection. âSo I took him in.â
Harry chuckled softly. âCanât imagine him being much good at sit-still-and-listen.â
âExactly,â she said, smiling back. Then her tone shifted, quiet but steady. âHeâs also got a condition. It means he wonât be around forever. Year, maybe year and a half, if weâre lucky.â
Harry blinked, his smile fading into something softer. âIâm⊠sorry.â
River shook her head gently, eyes on her wine glass now. âItâs alright. Iâve made peace with it. Heâs had a good life. Gets spoiled rotten. Heâll keep getting spoiled until⊠well.â She trailed off, then exhaled, the corners of her mouth lifting again. âThatâs the deal when you love something with a clock on it, right?â
Harry swallowed, gaze steady on her. There was something about the calm way she said it that struck him deeper than if sheâd cried. âThatâs tough, though. Knowing the timeâs coming.â
âIt is,â she admitted, her voice low but sure. âBut it also makes every day feel important. I donât take him for granted. Not once. And honestly, I think thatâs the best gift he couldâve given me.â
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 sheâd shared. âAnd the other one? Not a failed service dog, I hope?â
Riverâs mouth curved again. âNope. Just a rescue with way too much energy. Between the two of them, they keep me moving.â
Harry laughed softly, leaning back into the blanket. âYeah, Iâve seen that. Pretty sure they nearly pulled your arm off last week.â
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. âWell, maybe thatâs a good thing then. Keepinâ you movinâ. Otherwise youâd just be sittinâ at home, gettinâ all old and creaky.â
River let out a laugh, incredulous, and immediately swatted his arm with the back of her hand. âExcuse me? Old and creaky?â
He laughed at the indignant look on her face, holding his free hand up in mock surrender. âWhat? I meanâsomeoneâs gotta keep your joints from lockinâ up.â
She shook her head, still laughing, a flush of pink rising across her cheeks. âIâm twenty-five, Harry.â
âExactly,â he teased, leaning closer. âThatâs practically ancient.â
River rolled her eyes, but she was grinning too wide to hide it. âOh, shut up. You act like youâre not right behind me.â
âBehind you, sure,â he said, smirking, âbut not nearly as creaky.â
She laughed again, shaking her head.
Harry let his smirk soften, resting his arm across his bent knee as he looked at her. âAlright then, ancient one,â he teased once more before letting his voice mellow. âDâyou enjoy it? Workinâ at the cafĂ©?â
River glanced down at the stem of her wine glass, twisting it between her fingers as if weighing the truth. âI do,â she said after a moment, eyes flicking back up to meet his. âI love it, really. The people, the rhythm of itâit feels⊠I donât know, steady.â
Harry nodded slowly, taking that in. There was something grounding in the way she said it, like she wasnât trying to dress it up for him.
âBut,â she went on, a little laugh tumbling out, âif weâre talking about dreams⊠it was never coffee I wanted to pour. I always wanted to pick up hair.â
Harry blinked, then tilted his head, amused. âPick up hair?â
She grinned, catching his confusion. âI meanâbe 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.â
Something about the way her smile softened at that made Harryâs chest tighten. He leaned back on his hands, studying her like sheâd just revealed a part of herself no one else had seen. âSo makinâ other people happy would make you happy.â
âExactly,â 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. âSounds like a bit of magic to me.â
River laughed, shaking her head at herself. âYeah, I didnât really sell it well, did I? âPick up hair.â Sounds like Iâd just sweep the salon floor for a living.â
Harry smirked into his wine. âOi, donât knock it. Maybe youâd be the best hair-picker-upper in town.â
She leaned toward him, nudging his arm with her elbow. âOh, shut up.â
His grin widened at the warmth in her voice. âAlright, alright. But seriously⊠youâd be brilliant at it. Bet youâve seem tâgot that eye for detail. Like you can look at people and see whatâd make âem shine.â
That quieted her for a second, her lips parting like she wanted to argue, but instead, she ducked her head and smiled. âMaybe. One day, Iâll make it happen.â
âGood,â he said simply, then shifted the focus. âSo, what else? Outside the cafĂ© and dogs, what fills your time?â
River toyed with her bracelet as she thought. âI read a lot. Walk the boardwalk when I can. Iâm trying to learn how to paint, but⊠Iâm mostly terrible.â
Harry chuckled. âSâpose we all need something weâre terrible at. Keeps us humble.â
She raised a brow. âAnd whatâs yours?â
âMm.â He leaned back, pretending to think hard. âBasketball. Tried to play once and tripped over mâself so badly, banged the damn ball into my face so hard that I swore off ever touchinâ a ball again.â
River burst into laughter, her head tipping back, the sound rolling into the breeze. âNo way.â
âWay. Nearly broke mânose. Then my legs. Not very rockstar, is it?â
âNot at all.â She giggled, then tilted her head curiously. âBut⊠you mentioned music. That doesnât sound like something youâre terrible at.â
Harryâs jaw ticked slightly, the admission sitting heavier with him than he meant. âI⊠like writing. But thatâs different than showing the world, isnât it?â
River studied him gently, but she didnât 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. âWell, I think the world would be lucky to hear it. But I get it. Some things feel better kept⊠just yours.â
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. âSo, Miss Future Stylistâtell me your guilty pleasure. Everyoneâs got one.â
River grinned, eyes glinting. âEasy. Terrible reality TV. The trashier the better.â
Harry let out a bark of laughter. âYouâre jokinâ.â
âNope. Keeps me entertained, what can I say?â
He shook his head, grinning. âAnd here I thought you were refined. Canât believe Iâm sharinâ wine on the beach with a reality TV addict.â
âGuess itâs too late to back out now,â 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 redâmaybe 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 heâd made her blush.
Then, he shook his head. âI wouldnât want to either way.â
linger - part one [h.s]
word count: 3.8k warnings: none for this part. â«âïœĄâȘ âË: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1qZ590WfJvRX2NqZMyONOh?si=313024e7a77649a5 a/n: please see my masterlist for a link to the story's introductions which dives into the warnings for the overall story. the playlist is one i had personally, and is applicable to linger. please enjoy! the story is written with harry and a plus size oc!
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 shiftedâgold bleeding into pink, indigo deepening into violetâcasting 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.
Harryâs hands were tucked into the ragged back pockets of the jeans heâd 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 wasnât 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.
âWinâGideon, no!â
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 dogsâbig, eager, unstoppableâcollided 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 eyesâbright, amused, and a little breathlessâmet his, and he couldnât stop the surprised laugh that spilled from his chest. It wasnât 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.
âIâm so sorryâŠ?â 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.
âHarry,â he said, dusting off his jeans, though his gaze didnât leave hers. âMânames Harry.â
Her lips curved, a small, knowing smile tugging as she squeezed his hand once before finally letting goâthough the warmth stayed. âIâm so sorry, Harry.â Then, after a beat, with the kind of ease that made her feel both familiar and brand new, she added, âIâm River.â
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.Â
âSorry âbout them. Gideon and Winston never know when to hit the brakesâŠâ Another breathless laugh as their eyes met again, and Harry offered a kind smile.Â
âNo worries, none at all. They seem⊠great.â
âCrazy,â she corrected and shook her head, âno matter how much time we spend here, they act brand new all over again.â
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.
âLooks like theyâre not finished with you just yet,â he said.
She tilted her head at him, squinting against the last slice of fading sun. âGuess not. You, uhâstaying much longer?â
Harry shifted his weight, the breeze tugging at his shirt as though reminding him the night was coming fast. âNah. Think Iâll head off before they run me over again.â His grin was light, teasing, but his chest felt strangely heavy at the thought of leaving.
River nodded once, her smile faint but genuine. âFair enough. Good night, Harry.â
âNight, River.â
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 didnât want to stop humming. The man took a final glance over his shoulder in time to catch her hands ruffling behind her dogâs 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 dayâs 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 tooâRiver. 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. âHarry!â 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.
âHey. River, right?â Their steps came to a dusty halt.
âThe one and only,â 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. âTheyâve got something to say to you. Boooys⊠say sorry.â
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 Harryâs feet.
Harry laughed an easy, unguarded sound. âYouâre kidding me. They know tricks?â
âOnly the important ones,â River said, grinning as she nudged one of the dogs with her knee. âApologies and showing off and⊠thatâs about it.â
Harry bent to pick up the frisbee, turning it over in his hand with mock seriousness. âBit slobbery, this apology.â
âConsider it sincere,â 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.
âTheyâve got no sense of personal space, do they?â he asked.
âNone at all,â River replied, shaking her head. âBut I guess thatâs what makes âem fun. Never a dull moment.â
Harry hummed in agreement, watching the dogs wrestle each other for the frisbee. âCould use a bit of that, honestly. Been trying to get out more lately.â
She glanced at him, curious. âWhat, are you usually cooped up somewhere?â
âSomething like that,â he said with a half-shrug. âWork takes me indoors most days. Music, writing, recordingâitâs all staring at walls and instruments for hours. Gets a bit⊠stale, sometimes.â
âYeah, I get that,â River said, nodding thoughtfully. âI used to work long shifts at a cafĂ©. Sun would be setting by the time I even saw daylight. Felt like I was missing whole days.â
âExactly.â Harry grinned, pleased at the shared understanding. âSo lately Iâve been trying this thingâcome down here, walk the shoreline, pretend Iâm one of those people who actually has a social life.â
River let out a laugh, light and easy. âWalking alone at the beach counts as a social life now?â
âSure it does,â Harry said, his smile tugging wider. âMe, the seagulls, whoeverâs unlucky enough to get hit with a frisbee.â
She snorted, nudging him with her elbow. âYouâre never going to let me live that down, are you?â
âNot a chance.â
The dogs came barreling back then, tongues lolling, triumphant with the frisbee clamped in Gideonâs mouth. He dropped it square at Riverâs feet this time, his tail smacking her calves with happy thuds.
âAlright, alright,â River said, scooping it up. She gave it a strong, clean throw that had Harry raising his brows in mock admiration.
âBetter form than me,â he admitted.
âYears of practice,â she teased. âThese two never let me rest.â
They fell into an easy rhythm after thatâtaking turns throwing the frisbee, laughing when the dogs fumbled their catches, trading small stories that came out without effort. Harry learned sheâd 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 sheâd been distracted. In return, he told her about his disastrous attempt to surf the summer before, and how he still couldnât 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 easilyâwork, music, travel, even the best place to get ice cream in town. It wasnât heavy, wasnât 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 hadnât even noticed how much the light had shifted, how the waves were darker now, the spray catching the moon instead of the sun.
âDidnât realize it was this late,â 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. âYeah, theyâre worn out. Wonât even make it back to the car if we donât call it.â
âThink I can manage a walk,â 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.
Riverâs 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. âTheyâre not even trying.â
âUsually they launch themselves into the back,â River said, hands on her hips. âGuess I overdid it with the frisbee.â
âOr I did with my terrible throws,â Harry teased.
Before she could argue, he bent down and scooped Winston into his arms with a grunt, the dog heavier than he looked. Winstonâs head flopped against Harryâs shoulder like a sack of potatoes, his eyes already drooping shut. Riverâs brows lifted, surprised, but she bit back a smile.
âThanks,â she said, opening the back door so he could slide the dog in. Harry made sure Winston was settled before reaching for Gideon, who didnât even bother lifting his head as he was hoisted up.
âSecond oneâs easier,â 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. âLook at themâlike toddlers after a carnival. Out cold before the car even moves.â
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 Jeepâs cooling engine.
âWell,â River said at last, her smile faint but genuine, âguess thatâs our cue to call it a night.â
âGuess so,â Harry agreed. He shifted back a step, tucking his hands deeper into his pockets. âThanks for letting me steal some of their frisbee time.â
âThanks for saving me from carrying them,â she shot back, a playful lilt in her tone. Then, softer, âGoodnight, Harry.â
He gave a small nod, lips quirking. âNight, River.â
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 niceâreally niceâto 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 herâa 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.
Harryâs 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 teaâhis 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 fatherâs use.
And yet, as consistent as his rituals were, they began to bend.
He could hear her from the windowâRiverâs 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 wayâtoo 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 nowâbounding 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 Riverâs Jeep, one arm propped on the open back as his fingers absentmindedly scratched behind Winstonâs ears. The dogâs tail thumped lazily against the bumper, while Gideonâs 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.
âSo get this,â she said, gesturing with her hands, her tone half disbelief and half amusement. âSome guy calls up the cafĂ©, right? And heâs like, âI want to book the place for a book signing,â which I thought was⊠alright, not too crazy. But then he goes, âAnd Iâll need two thousand and fifty crumpets.ââ
Harry blinked, his head pulling back like he hadnât heard her right. âTwo thousand and fifty crumpets?â The word caught in his mouth, half laugh, half disbelief.
âYes!â she burst out, laughing so hard her shoulders shook. âI 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. âOi, they are quite good! Give me me crumpets!ââ, she mocked an overexaggerated English accent, âand you know what the kicker is? We donât even sell crumpets!â
That did him inâHarryâs laugh cracked through the quiet parking lot, deep and boyish, making Winston stir just enough to nuzzle into his hand again. âNo, no, waitâso whatâd you say to him? You didnât let him down, did you?â
River pressed her lips together, trying not to smile but failing miserably. âI said, âoh absolutely not,â and hung up. Har, there is no way in hell us three would be able to make two thousand British nuggets of dough.â
Harry doubled slightly in laughter, shaking his head. âThatâs brilliant. Two thousand and fifty crumpets, like youâve got a whole factory in the back. Madness.â
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 chestâone of those rare moments that felt both simple and exactly what he needed.
Conversation ebbed after that, softening into easy chatter about the cafĂ©, 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 sceneâRiver still smiling, the dogs half-asleep, the salt-heavy airâfelt 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. âAlright, boys. Rest up, yeah? Youâve worked yourselves into the ground.â
River laughed quietly, moving to check the dogsâ harnesses where they were clipped in. âTheyâll sleep like rocks after this. Thanks for helping with them tonight.â
ââCourse,â 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. âNight, River.â
âNight, Harry.â
Heâd 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.
âHarry!â
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 didnât look effortlessly self-assuredâher hand lifted like sheâd thought better of calling him at all, but the words tumbled out anyway.
âWould youââ she hesitated, then steadied, âwould you like to go out sometime? Like⊠like um, a date?â
Harryâs 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.
âYeah,â he called back, voice carrying easy. âYes. Iâd love to.â
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. âOkay⊠Iâll text you.â
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.
A date. Harry Styles, the notorious, BPD-having loner, was going on a date.