reblog dash

Even after the first couple of hookups—you both, drunk after a party, or him calling you at two in the morning—you would answer, tell him yes, come over, and the justification would be that you weren’t the one who caved and called, so you were still winning. And when he left the next morning, sometimes without a word, you told yourself this was the trade. This was the cost. Stubborn was both of you bringing dates to a party, then ditching them to fuck in a spare room, then coming back as if nothing had happened, the press of him still lingering between your thighs, because nobody else knew how to fill you like that, how to fuck you just the way you wanted. 

Because you had tried. Had done the hook-up thing with randoms you met on whatever dating app you were using that week, cycling through them, each a reflection of just where you were with yourself mentally, though that was what you would figure out later. But in the moment, in the thick of it, they were all the same. You were trying to force yourself to get over the one guy who kept coming back in some way or another. Fun fact: it never worked. 

They all sucked; most of them were only out for themselves. Their talk was always better than when they would put it into action, and truthfully, it was fucking boring—always the same shit. Some even brought the size but didn’t know how to use it. Not like Harry, who could bring both. Who could fuck you any way you wanted, could have you coming in minutes, sometimes for hours when you guys were really deep into it all. 

But it wasn’t just the sex. You guys were good at that. That was a no-brainer. It was everything else about him. He was your person, the one who would let you talk his ear off. You could spill your mind, your dreams, your thoughts at his feet, and he would just get it. He cared; he wanted to know. He wanted a future, so your breakup was a shock to both of you. It just happened, and now you don’t even know how or for what? Because the only thing you remembered now was how much you missed him, not just now but then. There always seemed to be so much distance, your job seeming to create the divide you guys thought you could navigate, something you thought you were strong enough for.

God, it was all so crazy now. In the bad moments, all you could think about was the fights, the distance you felt, even when he was lying next to you in bed. All you could think about was: I miss you, I want you—just be with me. Right here, right now, I don’t want to fight anymore. But fuck, you guys were so fucking stubborn—you to a fault. Because when it was bad. Whenyou guys couldn’t even get through one day without fighting, all it took was him saying, “We’ll maybe this isn’t working…” at your breaking point for you to just run with it. 

Stubborn—was you latching on to that one thing and throwing it back in his face, telling him, “Well, if that’s how you feel, then let’s end this.” And the truth was, in that moment, it felt good to say it. It felt good to see the stunned look on his face. To finally say what you thought you both were thinking. Because to you, if he wasn’t thinking it, he would never have said what he said in the first place. Yet he was the one who said you were being ridiculous, twisting his words, and that he meant that how you guys were handling the situation wasn’t working. And you, god. You were persistent in that stubbornness, stood your ground, and told him it was over, and maybe even that tired, defeated side of you who just wanted everything back to normal meant it—that you could admit to yourself now. 

Still, the part of you that only wanted normal was lying to yourself. What was normal anymore without him? He had been so deeply woven into every aspect of your life that you couldn’t even go to the same coffee shop without them asking if you were getting his drink too that morning. It had been almost a year since you had been apart. Still, there were days when you saw him, when you would be walking and spot him across the street, then you would stall at the crosswalk until he walked in the direction where “home” used to be for you both. But that was another source of stubbornness where your restless heart could stew, your downfall, because the coffee shop was yours, the neighborhood was yours. You had chosen it, and he had put up a fight, and now he was still there.

To make it worse, if you thought you knew the distance before, the distance now was a fucking endless black hole that opened the day you left. Because you couldn’t even remember what light felt like, you couldn’t remember the clarity of a single, defining thought. To start down a path and think, yes, this is exactly where I need to be, you’re on the right track, it’s only up from here. Because now your path was changing, and all it took was two pink lines appearing on a piss-soaked strip for you to really put all your wreckage into focus. 

Pregnant. That’s what the plastic stick in your hand said. That was your reality, alone at one in the morning on a Saturday night. You knew who the father would be. Knew the exact moment it happened. Could remember lying there afterward, the one night Harry decided he wanted to sleep over because it had been a while. It seemed the more you hooked up, the more casual it became, and the more distance he wanted to keep between you. You thought, okay, two can play this game. So you went with it. But that night felt different; he wanted to hold you. It was like he didn’t want to let go. It wasn’t the horny clash of bodies that night. He made love to you slowly, like all the times in the past when you guys didn’t want to leave your bed.

He stayed the night, and you thought, I want this, I want him back. So you went with it, letting him set the tone, not wanting to rock the boat. You wanted to savor every moment until he had to go. When you woke the next morning, he was still there. He stayed until breakfast, then made you both a late lunch after hours of being inside you, still slow, still taking his time over every inch of your skin. It felt like a fever dream. It felt like you could slip back into your old life, and all you would have to do was wait for him to say it. 

When he stayed another night, you thought, okay, this is it, but when you woke that next morning, he was gone, his only communication a note that said:

 “Thought I could do this, sorry, H.”

That was it. That was how he left it—him leaving that time. You didn’t even know it was happening, didn’t even know there might have been a choice, a discussion to have. It didn’t feel fair. It was the first time he left you in the dark, like all the other times were a mutual smorgasbord, a game you were in on too, but to just leave without even saying why he was there in the first place left you empty, left you fucking discarded like the condoms you swore by with every hookup outside of him. It’s not like he wasn’t doing the same, except that for him, it was only two other people. One, he fucked right after you broke up to get back out there, and the other, who was on and off, someone he talked to regularly. Which should have been a fucking red flag, the sign that he was moving on.

And now here was the breaking point, fucking snapping, because you were searching for his name on your phone. You were going to call. For the first time since the breakup, you were going to fucking cave and call. You were already shaking, but as soon as the first ring sounded, panic seized your throat, choking the breath you were taking. You felt sick, like you were going to throw up. Sick like all the nights you had spent heaving over the toilet, which you could now finally fucking name. Why did they even call it morning sickness if you could be sick any time of the day?

You were sitting on the edge of the tub, listening to each ring as your hand went to the band of your bra, hooking a finger under the wire where it had been digging in all week. You thought, maybe this should have been another sign, because it was so obvious now. Your boobs hadn’t fit in anything for weeks. They were sore and spilling out of the cups, and for some reason, you had been telling yourself it was PMS, that your period was late because you were a mess. Because everything that was supposed to be your life was fucking messy, and you believed it because you wanted to. That was the truth. There were no other options; your delusion said there were none.

By the third ring, you were looking down at your stomach, at the way the waistband of your leggings was being sandwiched between two rolls at your middle, the stretch already pushed past its limits, and you sat up straight. You didn’t even think about it. You just sat up, and then you realized what you had done, and that was when it hit you. Not the fucking test you just took. Not the math you had just done on your phone, as if the answer would change. It was that. This gut should have been a sign; this wasn’t your normal bloat. In fact, you weren’t even sure if you had ever been this bloated in your life.

When the phone rang again, you were scared in a way you had never been scared in your life. Not scared of anything happening—but scared like it already had, and there was no version of your life now where it hadn’t. And you were alone, god, you were so alone. You were doing this by yourself, sitting with not just the grief of losing the love of your life, but with this. With what you both had created, and it wasn’t just the mess of your lives. No, because this was the consequence. That was the part you kept coming back to. 

It was almost two in the morning on a Saturday, and there was only one person you wanted to call, and you hadn’t seen or talked to him in two months. What did this look like? What would he think this was, you being pathetic, calling him drunk somewhere? This had been the longest silence you guys had ever had. Even when you broke up, you somehow saw him more. What was the point of any of this? The silence. Why was there ever any distance? Because now all of the other bullshit felt silly compared to the life that you were holding in your fucking body. 

You had to stop thinking about it. The thought had to go away, and when the fourth ring sounded, you almost hung up, because you didn’t think you could do it. You could barely convince yourself, and you had the proof sitting face down on the bathroom counter. Maybe you weren’t ready to admit it. Because here’s where your emotions were spiraling again, because maybe if he didn’t answer, you could still be the same person who wouldn’t have to ask for anything. But just when you had almost talked yourself out of this call, his voice rasped through the phone—

“Hey...” He whispered. He sounded like he had been sleeping, like you had woken him up, which was strange, because it was Saturday, and it wasn’t like his world had fallen apart yet; he was still free. 

Your words were lodged in your throat, burning like coal as tears pricked at your eyes. “Hey…” Was all you could say.

“I’m not sure I can get away… It’s kind of late.” He told you, which hurt even worse, because he was already assuming, and now you really did feel pathetic. But worse, he was being quiet, and that had your gears turning more.

“Can you come over?

Harry was silent for a long breath, and then you tried again, “Well, can I come there, then?” You asked, feeling frustration surge beyond your control. You were already bursting at the seams of your mind with everything you were trying to hold to yourself, and he was giving you nothing.

When he didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. You knew why, and your heart sank with the thought. That sickness that had been looming was threatening to stir into something more, and you were holding your breath, trying to fight the tears and your stomach from turning. But the tears were already silently falling. 

“Is there someone else there?” You questioned, although you already knew the answer.

“Yeah…” He breathed.

God, and then you really started crying. Not for any particular reason, not even for him—it was all just hitting you, your emotions coming like tidal waves, like they had for the last two months. Except this time, he could hear it, and you pressed your hand over your mouth, but it didn’t help. Because this was ugly, and broken, and you were falling apart, and you had no one. There was no one. There was no one you wanted more than him, because you wanted him so badly, you wanted every single thing—the good and the bad. You wanted him to come over and make everything better, to tell you that everything would be okay. To tell you that you were in this together.

“Please, H.” You whimpered out, like it was life or death, and to you in that moment it was. Because you didn’t think you would survive this—if you could survive the rejection from someone who once told you you were the only thing he loved on this earth.

“Can you just please come over, please H—please.”

You were begging. You knew you were begging, and you did it anyway, because being the one who never called didn’t mean anything anymore. None of it mattered anymore. Not when everything was on the line—

“Just this one time,” you pleaded. “Please—just this one time, I swear. I’ll never call again. I haven’t called this whole time—just this one time.” He was quiet for too long. Long enough that your body was already reacting to the answer no, every inch of you trembling.

“Just this one time. I’ll be there soon.” He snapped, then hung up the phone, and you sat there with the phone still against your ear. He didn’t live far, especially if he walked fast, and since he was mad, you knew he really would be there in no time. 

Adrenaline jumped through you then, not relief, as every emotion shifted again. You took the test off the sink, put it in the trash, then stood there looking at the trash like it could rewrite your whole life story. And then you took the whole bag out, tied it off, and put a new one in. You knew he wasn’t going to look in your trash, but you did it anyway. Because more than anything, even though you were an adult, your body kept reacting to the sight of that pregnancy test with an adolescent fear all over again, hitting you with a strange shame that only ripped open the reckless guilt you felt pressing at your chest.

You brushed your teeth because your mouth tasted like shit, and honestly, you couldn’t remember the last time you brushed them. Tonight was the first night you had gotten out of bed in days, still wearing the same clothes from when you called out to work on Wednesday. Then you brushed them again, feeling more shame and more guilt, and sat down on the bathroom floor with your back against the tub after you were done. You needed some kind of guidance, needed to Google ‘how to tell your ex you’re pregnant’ just to have some kind of base. But you only got past the first two lines of the first thing you clicked, and put the phone face down on the tile. 

The words were too calm for what this was. Everything on that page felt written by someone calm and clear-minded, and you were none of those things. You sure as hell knew he wasn’t calm by the way he hung up the fucking phone. Your emotions were churning into rage because nothing about the two of you had ever been calm or easy; this wasn’t something you could say without ruining someone else’s life. It didn’t feel fair that you were the one who had to sit with it all. Why you? Why now?

Because truly, how were you supposed to say it? That was the whole mindfuck of it all. Did you say it at the door, before he even got inside, just say it and let it hit him like it hit you, fast and devastating? Did you sit him down first? Did you wait? But wait for what? There was no good timing for any of this. There was never going to be a good time to say it, was there? There would be no moment when everything was fine, and he would be open and receptive to what you needed to tell him. Because he had no clue why he was even coming over here.

God, and then there was the topic of whether he would even want to keep it. You didn’t know. You honestly didn’t know, and you had known this man for years. The one who had said he wanted a future with you, but also the same man who left a five-word note. Somehow, they were the same person, and you didn’t know which one was walking over.

Did you want to keep it? That question hit you like a bullet to the chest. You could hardly keep the thought straight in your mind. It kept circling, slipping in and out of focus—your mind still unable to grasp what it actually meant to be pregnant. Weren’t you supposed to know this kind of shit? Women were supposed to know, right? Your like-nature-born instinct, or whatever. You were looking down at your stomach again, and yet you still didn’t know anything. Then you took your hand away, trying to search your mind for the answer. For a few minutes, it became a vicious cycle. You would put it back, then take it away.

Still nothing.

And beneath everything, and the time it was taking Harry to get there, there was something else gnawing at the surface of your mind: who was at his place? Was it just some random, another body that didn’t matter—or was it her? The one who had become the on-and-off hookup. The one he talked to. You had known about her for months and had decided she wasn’t a threat, because he was still seeing you. But now she was probably at your old apartment, sleeping in your bed. Why did he even pick up in the first place? God, he was whispering because of her, and fuck, you knew it shouldn’t have mattered, but tonight, of all nights, it fucking mattered. The thought was suffocating you, and now you could hardly breathe around the thought of her.

You forced yourself into the living room, waiting by the door because you felt that if you sat down again, you would never get back up. When the knock sounded, you lurched forward and opened the door, surprised by your sudden burst of energy. Harry looked like a wreck—his T-shirt was inside out, the seams showing at the shoulders. He must’ve dressed in the dark so he wouldn’t wake her. You could see it all as you took him in. 

You knew what it meant, and you let him in anyway. As soon as he took a step forward, you were on him before he could even get the door shut all the way—arms around his neck, face against his throat. You felt like it was the first time you could breathe since you had taken the test. It was that fast. After two months of neglecting your body, doing everything wrong, it only took one second against his neck, and you were alive again.

At first, his arms stayed at his sides, standing there like a statue carved from stone. Your stomach dropped, but you didn’t let go; you refused to let go. The seconds ticked by, but your grip stayed firm, his scent the only thing keeping you tethered in that moment. Then you felt him move; he was deciding. You could feel it in the shift of his breath, and when your bottom lip dragged against the pulse of his neck, his hand came up to the back of your head, fingers in your hair, drawing you closer as his other arm wrapped around you. He let out a heavy breath into your hair and held on as if he meant it.

You grazed his neck with your mouth again, your entire body pulsing with the energy of new life. Everything about this felt right, so fucking natural that you weren’t going to stop. Your mouth moved against the heat of his neck, because it was there, because he had come to you, and there was nothing else but him and you. That’s the truth of it. In that moment, he had chosen you; he was yours. Because in that moment, the delusion was a fact. 

Because his skin was so warm, and he was right there, and your mouth was just doing what it knew best when it pressed to the heated hollow of his neck. This was what you guys did, as natural as breathing, what your body was designed for when you were in his arms. Then he made a low sound in his throat, and the door clicked shut as your feet lifted off the floor. He picked you up, and your legs went around him without a thought, your mouth sucking hard into his skin. Your mouth moved to his as he carried you across the living room, your mind going blank.

Maybe you knew this wasn’t supposed to happen, that you needed to stop it—or maybe you knew it was happening the entire time, and maybe both things were true at once, but neither one was slowing anything down. It was all happening so fast. It was fast and confusing, and it all seemed to carry new weight, like something rolling downhill. Like if you tried to catch the mistake while it was happening, you would lose the only thread you had keeping you sane in that breath.

Somewhere in you, there was a version of you, deep down, still holding the plan, all the words you had meant to say first. But the longer your mouth pressed to his, tasting him, wanting him more, that voice that should have been there grew quieter and quieter, and then you couldn’t hear anything at all except for your breath mixing. You couldn’t even remember why you had asked him to come. Because you had asked him to come, and here he was, and wasn’t that good enough? Couldn’t you just have this first? This was what you needed. That was all. To be here, just like this, just for now.

As soon as he laid you down on the couch, he lifted your shirt, and it came off in one fluid motion. He moved his face to your neck as his hands gripped your hips and tugged you down the couch, pulling back to get a look at you. His eyes were wild, and maybe you would have felt that insecure ping that had haunted you in the bathroom earlier, but you were too distracted by how different he looked, by the wild rushing through his gaze. Then he started talking—

“You’re so beautiful.” He rasped as his mouth moved to your jaw, then to your neck again. “God— baby, look at you.” He continued as a hand slid up from your hip and settled flat and warm against your ribs. “Your body—” He pulled back again. 

“Fuck— You look so good.” He cooed, his mouth inching down your body, his hands squeezing you tight. “So fucking good, love—”

He kept saying it over and over, ‘You look so good.’ And every time he said it, something in you flinched because he could see it. The changes. The difference was being gripped and handled like meat, his touch explorative and untamed, as if he had never seen you like this. Part of you wanted him to slow down so he could see it, but he didn’t know what he was looking at, and you did. He was saying it like it was good news, like all along this was what he wanted. 

Yet all the while he sounded confused, because that was the other thing—he kept saying it like he hadn’t planned to, like the words were coming out of him the same way everything else had been happening since you opened that door, or maybe even when you called. None of this had been decided because the choice was still there to be made.

But maybe the truth was that the choice had been made months ago, both of you unknowingly making it, without a conscious thought, or that’s what you wanted to believe. Maybe that should have made this easier. But it didn’t, it wasn’t, because you were so fucking scared, and the only choice you felt you had was to offer your body, whether you wanted this or not, you knew this was the only way you could make him yours, that you could have him a little longer. This is what he thought this was, right? Why else would you call him this late?

You wanted him to look at you, at your face, not just your body. But already he was distant. In that moment, you were just a body to him, because that’s what it felt like. This was the choice you were making with yourself, not with him, with you. This was the tone you had set with him the second you said “yes,” the first time he called you after your breakup, and every time after, when you found yourself beneath him, whenever he had been inside you. What did this even mean for him anymore? What did it mean to you? What had you guys let this become?

He pulled the cup of your bra down and put his hot mouth on your nipple, and you jerked underneath him, hard, because it hurt. Because everything was hurting, bearing down on you tenfold. The harder he sucked, the more you moaned. Your boobs had been tender for weeks, which is partly why you had found yourself standing in your bathroom earlier. His mouth was overwhelming—a little too much, and yet just right. When he sensed you flinch, he lifted his head and smiled.

“So sensitive for me,” he said, thinking it was him, and you let him because what was the alternative? You were going to have this no matter how it felt afterward. He wanted you; you could feel the hunger in his grasp, the way his eyes were locked on your tits spilling heavy out of your bra as he unhooked it with ease.

Then he was working your leggings down, stopping halfway down your thighs, just enough to drag two fingers up your slick center. You knew you were already wet, that your body was fucking vibrating to be touched, your clit so thick it hurt every time it pulsed. Harry breathed the word“fuck” against your neck, faintly, the way he always did, and slid two fingers inside you, and your hips came up to meet his hand as you shuddered in a deep breath.

It was so fucking good, but it wasn’t enough, because his fingers were leaving too much room for thought. Too much room for reality to creep back in. Room for the trash bag and the test and fucking Google search to loop in your head, and you didn’t want to think about any of it. You wanted there to be no room in you for anything but him, and the press of his big dick inside you.

“Fuck me,” you demanded, right into his mouth. “I want you inside me, right now—I need you.”

He didn’t make you say it twice. In seconds, he was shoving down the front of his sweatpants. There was no time to make this official by taking everything off. He was just as greedy, his thumbs hooking back into the band of your yoga pants, dragging them down and off one leg with a brutality you knew would leave marks later, your ankle still caught in the other. Then he pushed into you, his tip catching on your opening and making you wince. In one long stroke, you both were making the same sound at the same time as he stretched his way into you.

Fuck, it hurt so fucking good. You hadn’t had sex since him. It was good, exactly what you knew it would be, because it was never not good with him; that had always been the problem with you two. For a long, halting breath, you both stayed like that. His dick buried to the hilt deep—him waiting as your pussy walls spasmed around the girth of his thick cock. 

You were already on the verge of coming, your body so turned on that you could probably even come just like this. But then he was pulling out slowly, thrusting against the tightness, your body tensing as he pushed back in just as hard as the first thrust. You knew this was going to be fast for both of you when he kept saying “fuck” over and over, as if he was already trying to hold on.

Then he was fucking you fast and hard with one knee braced into the cushion, the couch scraping across the floor a notch every time he thrust back in. He kept talking—so good, you feel so good, so beautiful as your sore tits bounced and you spread yourself wider for him. 

He was falling apart the same way everything else was. Every time you felt yourself slipping toward that realm of thought, ready to let it take you, you would come back to the feeling of him inside you. To the weight of him, to the stretch of him, his mouth at your jaw. But then the creak of the couch would echo, and you would try to look him in the eye, but he was looking everywhere else but at you. 

You were in and out of these pockets, dragging yourself back down into your body every time, because this was the last time. You knew it was the last time. You didn’t know how you knew, but you knew, and you were going to be here for it, and maybe somewhere underneath all of it, that whole time, you kept telling yourself, “he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know.”

Then all at once you were coming with no warning, no build that you could track—your fucking body just locked down around him and let go, the wave hitting like a hand twisting inside you as you gripped at his inside-out shirt. He followed, just as quick, your moaning release echoing through the space, spurring him on, as you repeated his name over and over. In a few more strokes, he was pressing a guttural groan into your neck, sucking and biting into your skin. He was coming inside you; there was no thought about it. He always came inside you, so it made no difference now. That was how it had always been with him, and it didn’t matter anymore. It couldn’t do anything that hadn’t already been done. 

Neither of you moved. Then, suddenly, the room was too quiet, the air thick and still, humming with the rush of what had just happened. He stayed heavy against you, face buried in the crook of your neck, his breathing rough and ragged in your ear. You were stunned, lying there, staring at the ceiling fan spinning, wondering how the hell you were supposed to tell him now.

There had been a plan; there were supposed to be words first. But now, anything you said would sound like it came from someone wrapped up in whatever you had just done. It would sound like a lie or an afterthought; it wouldn’t sound like everything you had wanted to say since you read that note or saw the two pink strips on that plastic stick. What were you supposed to do now? How were you supposed to tell him? Every syllable you could say would be tarnished by the sweat and heat of what had just happened. You had those two words right there, but you couldn’t say them now, not on this couch, pinned under his weight while he was still inside you. There was just no way.

When he finally moved, it happened all at once. When he pulled back and pulled out, you felt the wet, sliding friction as he left you, the sudden gush as the air hit the mess spilling out with him. He didn’t even look at you. He tucked himself back into his pants, yanked the waistband of his sweats back up, and slumped onto the edge of the cushion. He was stone again, a statue sitting there with his elbows digging into his knees and his eyes cast to the floor, his own shame probably eating at him, everything about him unreadable. But you already knew what he was thinking. You didn’t need words to translate the distance you had felt since the moment he walked through that door. You sat up, shivering, and reached for your leggings, the bridge of your nose burning as you fought back tears.

You had never felt this way with him. Getting dressed while someone watches is one thing, but doing it while they’re pointedly not looking is worse. The whole time that you fumbled, he stayed silent as if he had nothing else to say. You had to lift your hips off the couch to squirm into the too-tight material, your body limp and clumsy, hands shaking in a frantic motion that felt pathetic and disgusting. 

You felt exposed, you felt used—all the while your stomach twisting as the skin of your thighs stuck to the fabric, the smell of him still heavy on your skin. You kept trying to catch his eye, desperate for a hook, but he wouldn’t let you in. He was three feet away and already gone—you could practically see the regret settling over him like ash. There was nothing to grab onto, no way to bridge the gap, because he was already buried in his head, face hidden in his hands.

“This was a mistake,” he said, words you knew were coming.

A mistake. You had just had him inside you, and now you were just a mistake. It felt cruel, a slow-twisting knife of a realization that had been buzzing in the background since the moment he walked in. You had felt it then, in the way he didn’t hug you right away—the hesitation, the stiff distance in his arms that told you he was already questioning why he was there. He had known it was a mistake before he even touched you, and yet he had stayed. Why? Had he only come here for this? Had your tears on the phone not suggested more?

Now, the silence in the room was confirming the worst of it: he hadn’t come for you, or for the words you needed to say. Had he come here just to take what he wanted? Was his opinion of you really that low? Were you another body being added to his list—the ones he had discarded, the ones that didn’t matter? Because more than anything, it felt like he had just used you to drown out any indecision he might have had, and now all that was left was the cold, gritty reality of what you guys had done. Maybe you weren’t a person to him anymore; maybe you were just going to be the body where he left his regret.

When he didn’t say anything else, you waited, the silence stretching with the sharp ache of suffering that was already settling in, “Why did you leave?” you asked, because in the moment, that was the only thing you could think about.

“That morning. I woke up—and you were just gone, Harry. You stayed for two days. You even held me, and it felt like—I don’t know—like maybe you wanted more… And then you were gone, and you left a fucking note—a note, Harry, what was that?”

He stood up fast, took a few steps away, then turned around. “Because you didn’t want it—” He rasped out fast, like he had been waiting to say it for months. “Because you ended things. You. And then that whole time you never called—not once, not one time, not ever. How could I know if I was the only one who ever called or took any initiative?”

In a way, it was true, you knew it, but tonight you had called him. Tonight you had begged him even. You wanted to say that. You wanted to ask if it counted, if it could redeem the foolish game you had made this into. Harry was looking you in the eyes now, his gaze intent on searching for the truth. His green eyes were piercing you, stunting the words in your chest. You opened your mouth to tell him what tonight’s call was, what it was actually for, but nothing came out, and you shook your head, not feeling strong enough to convince him. The words you wanted to say were getting lost, adding pressure to every second stretching by, and he was still going, still slipping, barely a tether to reach for—

“I shouldn’t have come.” He snapped, already frustrated by your lack of words, and dragged both hands down his face. “You know what—I’m fucking seeing someone. She’s at my place right now. I knew this was going to happen. Why else would you call me? What else have we been—the two of us? This fucking game we’ve made it into—”

“You mean our old place.” You answered, your voice coming out flat, already feeling the loss of him all over again, his words only confirming what you felt was coming the second he said someone was there. “That was our place—And now you’re fucking her in our bed.”

“Oh—don’t give me that shit now. It stopped being “our” place the day you decided to leave.”

Now you were getting up, your own frustration rising with your tone, “What do you mean, don’t give you that shit? Harry, you didn’t even fight me on it. You just let me leave—”

“Yeah—And what was I supposed to say?” he said, matching your anger. “It was your choice. Your decision, and you made it for both of us—What is this fucking game? I never wanted it to end. You did that. Not me. So don’t you dare throw that back on me. I was the one who never stopped calling.”

“Give me a fucking break—” you scoffed, “It’s funny how none of that seemed to matter when you were still getting what you wanted, did it—All that fucking sex—”

He laughed, a sharp, bitter laugh that sliced right through you, “Oh, please—Like you weren’t benefiting from that too. Like, I didn’t see the game from the start. How stupid do you think I am? It’s like you give me no credit for anything,”

God, it was all true. That was the sting of it—the worst things he said were the things you couldn’t argue with, the parts you had both lived through and even enjoyed. But the truth felt useless now; it didn’t fit, it was only adding more devastation. You were shaking so hard you could feel your pulse in your teeth. When you finally spoke, your voice didn’t even feel like yours. It was someone else inhabiting your body, your throat. That frustration was turning mean, colder. You didn’t give a shit about the consequences; you were ready to let it rip. 

Part of you didn’t care anymore. You were ready to have this out, and maybe it was the hormones—you had been Googling it in the bathroom, trying to flesh out every symptom that you had been feeling in that sudden panic—but knowing the science didn’t make the wreckage any less real. Nothing was stopping the downfall you knew was coming. You could tell you were about to burn the bridge by the way your anger was flashing red. You were still standing right in the middle of it; it was going to hurt you, too, but you needed him to hurt, needed him to feel the emptiness that you were becoming

“And the last time?” you asked, your voice breaking in the middle. “You could have said something—anything. But you didn’t. You just left. Why did you just leave? If you had been putting so much effort into it—why did you just walk away like a fucking coward? You want to talk about games—well then what the fuck was that?”

He shook his head, his gaze dropping to the floor. When he finally spoke, all the fight was gone from his voice. That was the part that hit harder than anything else. It wasn’t a roar you were still ready to combat, the defense he was holding; it was empty, it was him finally revealing the hollow of his own sunken emptiness. The sound of his breaking stole your breath. You knew how to survive a screaming match, how to hold your ground when things were heated and loud, but you didn’t know how to exist in the silence you had made of him. You didn’t know how to be in the ruins once the fire had gone out, once you really saw what your damage had done—what it was still doing.

“Because I thought if I stayed, we’d end up right back where we started. And I wasn’t sure I could survive it… Losing you all over again—if you didn’t want the same thing.” He answered.

And when he went quiet, the silence pressed around you, sucking the air out of the room until the breath in your lungs was thin and useless. It wasn’t just quiet—it was the fucking finale, a dense, strangling stillness that made the space between you feel like a grave opening up. You stood there staring at him, waiting for a breath or a blink, but there was nothing left to say and nowhere left to go. His stillness was stripping you bare, turning the memory of his flesh pressed to yours into remorse, leaving you both sitting in the collapse of a life that had ended the second he pulled out of you.

That was your moment, you felt it. You could have said it then. He was being honest, and you could have been honest back, and the words were right there, but standing there, knowing he was defeated, all you could say was—

“And now?”

“I’m with her. We’ve talked about everything. We’re together.”

He was with someone else; Harry had promised himself to somebody else. That was his truth, that was the reality of all of this, and all you could do was stand there. You didn’t collapse and cry like you thought you would; you were going to stand there and take it—you deserved this blow, and now you were bracing against his stare because there was no other version of you left to be, but unlike him, there was still that one reason to hang on—

“But you’re here.” You forced.

Harry closed his eyes and let out a long, shuddering breath. “Yeah… And I think you know as much as I do that this was a mistake—and now I have to go.” Then he turned away, walking toward the door, and you went after him, not missing a step as your heart jumped to your throat, pounding so hard you felt dizzy.

“But Harry—”

“Listen,” He said, halting you in place as his hand came up between you. “This can’t happen again, okay? I’m with her. I can’t have you call me again. We’re over, okay? We have to be over this time. I can’t do this anymore.”

“But I—I’m—”

God, it was right fucking there. It was in your mouth, you could feel it, you could hear the words playing on repeat in your head.

“I can’t hear anymore—I have to go.” He forced, already standing at the door, patting his pockets for his keys, his phone. “I have to fucking leave. God—fuck—what was I fucking thinking?”

His eyes were everywhere but on you, he wasn’t even talking to you anymore, his panic thick and grating in the tension between you, and when his hand closed around the doorknob, you grabbed his arm. You were gripping hard, but he didn’t pull away. He just stood there and let you hold on, and somehow that felt more painful than if he had shaken you off.

“Harry, please, baby—wait—okay, please.”

When he turned to look at you, his eyes were filling with tears. “What else could you want from me?” he asked as they spilled over and ran down his flushed cheeks. 

As you searched his face, your eyes drifted to his neck. There was a mark. You had left a small dark spot of evidence, a reminder that he was yours first, and now someone else was going to find it. How could you keep him? What could you say to keep him from walking through that door? What could you give him that was just as true as the truth waiting to be revealed?

“What else can I give that you haven’t already taken? I’m begging you—can we please just end it? Let me go… so I can let you go. I need to move on. I want to move on, okay? I want to. I deserve to see where this goes with her.”

When he said “I want to” twice, the first for you, the second for him. He wasn’t saying it to you anymore; that much was clear. Maybe this was even the first time he had said it out loud to himself, and you watched it hit its mark in his mind and settle into his features, pulling him completely away from you.

Standing there, your hand trembling on his arm, the realization settled in like ice. You knew the card you could play. One sentence, two words, and his hand would drop from that doorknob. He would stay, but he wouldn’t be staying for you. He would be staying because he was trapped, and for the rest of your life, you would never know if he was there because he wanted to be or because you had shackled him to you with another selfish line. 

As you took him in, your eyes roamed over him, and something in you knew you couldn’t do it. It was the set of his shoulders and the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes. He wasn’t just leaving; he really was begging you to let him go with every fiber of his being. He was pleading with his whole body for an exit, and you were the only thing standing in the way of his escape.

So you buried it. You felt the shift deep inside, a stony, tectonic slide of emotions as you took the heaviest thing you had ever carried and shoved it down into the darkest crevice of yourself, its weight settling in your gut, knowing it would stay there, decaying. You let go of the truth that would have shattered him even more, and instead, you reached for the only other honest thing you had left, that one other truth—

“But I love you.”

Under your touch, he went still, his muscles locking tight as if he were bracing for a blow that would never come, but that was your last one. When he finally answered, his voice was soft and level, worse almost kind. That was the part that actually destroyed you—the kindness. His tone was gentle, like he was already standing on the other side of the door, like someone who had already stopped loving you enough to just stay angry—stage two of the grieving process playing out in real time. The kind of soft you heard people use for the dead—

“Well. Sometimes love isn’t enough,” he said. Then his arm slid out from under your fingers, easy as water. The door opened, and then it clicked shut, and he was gone. He did it quietly. Even now, even as he was ending you, he couldn’t even be bothered doing it with his chest, with more sound, because then at least it would feel real.

But this was the part you didn’t remember, because later, when you tried to play this part over in your head, it was blank every time. All you remembered was standing there, listening to the hollow thud of his footsteps down the stairs until the numb silence in your head swallowed it all. A piece of you waited for the footsteps to stutter, for the door downstairs to stay shut, for him to realize he couldn’t just walk away—but he didn’t come back. 

You remembered sliding down the door’s wood until you hit the floor, your knees pulling toward your chest as your hand moved to your stomach instinctively. You had let the only person you had ever wanted just disappear into the night, and now you were left with the darkness of your mind, with a secret that was growing larger with every second. It was strange, the thoughts that followed—that in all of the terrifying ache of this, the thought of the baby seemed dull, seemed doable compared to the unknown. Because in that stifled breath, the vast, empty stretch of a life without him felt like a void that was going to consume you entirely. 

The strange clarity was that even though your heart was breaking, you knew the answer you had been searching for. As you pressed your hand into your belly, you felt your answer prickle across your skin and up your spine, and as a sob burst from your chest, the answer was yes. The answer was that this was your baby, the universe had given you this, and what that meant, you still weren’t sure—the why. But you didn’t need to know that right now. 

Now it was just the two of you, and that was the reality you needed to face. 

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Harry’s barely picking up the pace as he starts to chase the arousal that was building heavy and unavoidable in his belly.

When YN’s voice, breathless, still recovering from her orgasm, manages out, “Ha-baby.” “Yeah,” He rumbles in reply, his muscles starting to tense up as he huffs out an agreeable, “S’good, yeah.”

YN moves her hand to tug at the hair at the nape of his neck, getting distracted for a moment herself when he hits her spot head on, and he hisses when she squeezes snug around, “It’s good but…the announcement.”

Harry finally focuses on the voice booming over the speaker, encouraging people to get back to their seats in the next five minutes so that Harry can take the stage.

“Giving you a baby s’more important to me,” Harry mumbles stubbornly but he does pick up his pace.

He hated being rushed which he shouldn’t complain about because he knew they had a time crunch but the idea of not satiating that jealously, that possessiveness seemed worse than this.

Despite herself, even though she had tried to focus him, YN gasps out, seeming like she’s surprising herself, “I can…I can again.”

Harry moves his thumb back to her bud from where it was resting at the crease of her hip to give her a break.

The same motions that she likes, the easy way to get her there, and when she squeezes around him as her second orgasm hits.

Harry follows right afterwards, hips stuttering as he presses in, in, in, and buries himself there while they both come down.

-

Harry attempts to help her clean up as he grabs the wet towelettes from the counter and starts dabbing gently between her thighs, careful because she gets so sensitive after she comes.

His focus entirely on her as if there wasn’t an entire event he was hosting on the other side of these walls, he has to hush her once when she whines about being too rough (he wasn’t, she just gets whiny after).

His name is announced over the speakers, and it is loud enough that it echoes through the hallway and into the bathroom.

Harry barely reacts and he doesn’t stop helping her clean up, his attention doesn’t shift because in his mind, this comes first.

It’s much more important to him that his wife was taken care of first.

He leans in slightly, still trying to wipe her off, his hand on her hip to keep her steady.

YN lets out a breathy laugh, still coming down from her nearly consecutive orgasms, she bats his hands away when he keeps trying, shaking her head at him.

“Go, H,” She tells him, there’s an eyeroll in her tone because she knows how stubborn he is, how she doesn’t always understand how he can be comfortable having a room of hundreds of people wait on him but still smiling as she nudges him back slightly, “You’re supposed to be up on stage. Get your ass out there.”

Harry exhales through his nose, clearly not pleased with the timing (even though he knew this was going to happen, it still annoyed the fuck out of him) as his jaw tightens for a moment.

His hands lingering at her waist because he doesn’t want to let go of her or leave this moment quite yet.

“Shouldn’t be rushing out like this,” He mutters lowly, more to himself than to her because he doesn’t feel like its proper treatment of the situation, of what they just shared or the intimacy of it.

“You act like it’s a random hook-up,” YN teases him, her hands coming to fix the messed up collar of his sleeve, smoothing it out, “You can’t hit it and quit it when you’re married. You stuck with me.”

He steps back, dragging a hand through his hair which probably only makes it more messy before yanking his pants up properly and adjusting himself, straightening his shirt and jacket to be presentable again.

Before he turns to leave, he leans in again, this time slower, pressing a softer, more sweet kiss to her lips.

“Good luck,” YN murmurs against his mouth when he pulls back, there’s a smile there because she can tell he's grumpy and sometimes, unlike anyone else in the world, she thinks when he’s grumpy he’s endearing which he doesn’t quite understand.

He finally turns and pushes the door open, stepping back into the hallway and toward the stage, and he doesn’t care how it looks, doesn’t care that he’s a half-minute late walking up to the podium, doesn’t care if people are whispering.

He steps up to the podium and adjusts the microphone but his gaze is already drifting back towards where their table was, and it takes an extra moment but he spots her as she starts walking back to her seat, put together again.

He watches as she makes her way back through the room, her expression relaxed as she returns to the table like nothing out of the ordinary has happened.

And then he sees Theo pull her chair out for her.

Whatever Harry had been hoping to work out of his system just minutes ago settles right back into his chest like it had never left.

It doesn’t matter that he just had her, it doesn't matter that his hands were on her, that she had been snug around him, that he got to claim her in every single way that he could as her husband.

It doesn’t fucking matter.

The feeling is still there.

Harry straightens slightly at the podium, rolling and broadening his shoulders as he begins his speech, his voice smooth and professional as every word comes out precise and as he intended.

Public speaking has never been something he struggles with, especially when he’s talking about his own company, his own success, and there’s no better person who could speak on those topics than him.

To everyone watching, it is a great, nearly perfect presentation but behind it, his focus continues to waver, his gaze pulling back to the table often, he can help but find himself tracking the interactions.

The way Theo leans slightly closer when he speaks because the room is quiet elsewise, the way YN responds even if she doesn’t even look at him but simply replies to whatever he’s saying because it’s casual.

When Harry finishes, the room erupts into applause, the crowd of employees and partners all giving him a standing ovation that fills the space with loud whistles, clapping, and it’s super overstimulating.

He doesn’t smile, doesn’t wave, all he does is gives a brief, acknowledging nod, and then he walks off the stage.

-

Numerous people stopped him on the way back to the table because it was going to be their only opportunity to chat with him, they all had been waiting for an opportunity to corner him all night and this was finally it.

So many hands reach out to shake his, voices overlap as they try to grab his attention by calling his name, questions about everything under the sun, and Harry handles it the way he always does.

He gives every person as little time as possible without coming off like a complete asshole, he’ll answer a question before turning to the next person, acknowledge someone else before moving on but there is an impatience in him now.

All he wants to do is get back to the table.

And it has nothing to do with mistrust.

Harry trusts YN completely, without hesitation, without question in his mind, body, and soul, in a way that has never wavered since they became a couple.

This is not about her.

It is about him, about something uncomfortable and unfamiliar that has been itching under his skin all night.

Something he has never had to address in the past because he never had to feel jealous like this before because he never cared about anyone enough to want to have that claim to them.

Now that he does, he finds himself reacting in ways that aren’t his normal behahvior.

By the time he finally makes it back to the table, his patience is nearly fucking gone, his shoulders tense from having to have at least twenty meaningless conversations that were a waste of time that Harry would never get back in his life.

Theo and YN are already having a conversation after the speech is over.

The moment YN spots him, she breaks off mid-sentence without a second thought to Theo, her attention shifting to him immediately as she stands, her expression bright and happy as she moves toward him.

“Harry—” She starts, clearly about to congratulate him by the lift of her tone, the smile that was on her lips but he doesn’t let her.

His hand comes up to her jaw the second she’s close enough, his fingers firm where they cup her cheek as he pulls her into him and kisses her.

The kiss isn’t inappropriate.

Not really.

But it’s just a fraction too long compared to their normal PDA.

His hand doesn’t drop immediately when he pulls back from the kiss, his thumb brushing once along her cheek as his gaze flicks past her shoulder toward Theo.

“So proud of you, always,” She says softly, interrupting tension she isn’t even noticing because she’s literally beaming, her tone warm and so genuine as she puts her hand up on his chest, over his heart.

Harry leans in and kisses her again because there is still something sitting under his skin that hasn’t chilled out, his hand still firm at her jaw as he holds her there just a second longer than necessary, the kiss turning into something more than it needs to be in a room like this.

She laughs softly into it, a little surprised but still completely receptive, her fingers tightening slightly against his shirt as she tilts her head to meet him.

As he ends the kiss, his attention shifts back to Theo, and the look on his face is what sets Harry off.

His eyebrows are raised slightly, his expression reads as amused like he just watched something entertaining or adorable, like he has any place reacting to it at all, and Harry doesn’t care if it’s meant as a joke or not because he doesn’t fucking like it.

The irritation spikes fast and sharp, and this time he doesn’t stop it.

“Am I not allowed to kiss my wife?” Harry says, his tone flat to not give away his anger, it seems like an innocent enough jest but if Theo was smart, he would catch the undertone of it.

YN’s head turns immediately, her brows pulling together as she looks between the two of them, trying to figure out if Harry is serious or if this is him just teasing because when he did, it was still dry.

Theo clearly assumes it’s a joke.

Of course he does because why would he assume that Harry is struggling with childish jealousy over a simple interaction?

He leans back slightly in his chair, lifting his hands in mock surrender with a grin as if they’re friends who have a back and forth.

And that only makes it way fucking worse because he’s comfortable.

He’s a fucking employee.

“Theo, jealous, are we?” She teases, her tone light, playful because Theo handles it well, she assumes it’s also a joke which Harry doesn’t feel anything negative towards her because she would expect better of her husband.

“More than you know,” Theo replies without missing a beat, his smile turning a wistful as he throws the comment back at her.

YN laughs loudly at his response, he’s clearly missing some type of inside joke between the two of them because he feels out of the loop, not on purpose, normally it wouldn’t bother him.

Harry feels his jaw lock hard enough that it almost hurts.

It’s the fact that Theo feels comfortable enough to joke like that in front of him, like he isn’t the one who decides whether Theo has a future in this company or not.

He feels stupid for all of the drama he’s creating.

He knows this is immature, knows that he’s reacting like some insecure asshole over nothing but knowing that doesn’t make it go away.

It just makes him more irritated because now he’s dealing with Theo and himself.

And right now, he doesn’t have the patience for either.

He exhales slowly through his nose with a forced smile, his posture staying rigid as he forces himself to stand there and not say something worse, not escalate it further.

They are not even flirting.

If they were, if there was something inappropriate happening right in front of him then at least his reaction would make sense but there isn’t.

Harry cannot even remember why they broke up, cannot recall YN ever speaking about it in any real detail, and he doesn’t like the unknown of that.

He knows that he wants YN to have friends, that at his core he has never cared about something as insignificant as the gender of the people she calls her friends because he is not insecure in their marriage, not in the way they chose each other, not in what they have built together.

That has never been the issue.

The problem is something else entirely.

It is the way he struggles with sharing what he views as his, a possessive instinct that he is fully aware is not always fair, not always reasonable but there regardless.

And right now, it is louder than it has ever been.

He knows exactly where this is headed if he lets it continue.

His filter is already slipping and his patience is already thin.

So the decision happens quickly, he wants to go home, and remove himself from the situation completely.

-

YN didn't know.

How could he expect her to pick up on his jealousy when there was no logical reason for it? 

YN was usually so perceptive, so in tune to his moods that she could usually sense his stress before he even recognized it in himself.

"You were incredible tonight," She says and there's so much pride in her voice, "Your speech was perfect.”

"It went alright," Harry says, his voice more clipped than he wants it to because he didn’t want to take this out on YN.

"Alright?" YN laughs, the sound soft and teasing, "It was amazing. I can’t believe you’re my husband.”

Harry swallows, guilt starting to seep in because he doesn’t deserve any praise right now, not for his thoughts, "You don't have to—"

YN interrupts gently. "I'm so proud of you. You deserve to feel good about tonight."

But he doesn't feel good. 

He feels like a miserable prick, sitting here while his wife…his kind, supportive, loving wife praises him with such genuine pride, completely unaware that he's been stewing in irrational jealousy all fucking night.

He reaches over, placing his hand on her upper thigh, sneaking up under the hem of her dress where the fabric had bunched up when she sat down, and squeezes as a silent ‘thank you’ for her words. 

YN's hand immediately covers his, she begins toying with his wedding band as she always liked to do.

She moved it on his finger, ran her fingers over the smooth metal of it in a way she has when she's comfortable and feeling calm.

He loves her so fucking much. 

Then she softens even more (if that’s even possible), "I wonder if this time was it."

"What's that, m'heart?" Harry murmurs, refocusing his attention now, pulling himself out of the spiral he's been trapped in all evening. 

He glances over at her and what he sees makes his chest ache a little.

She's biting at the corner of her lip, a small but sad smile there as she thinks whatever through, processing and deciding how to say it.

She doesn't answer right away which Harry knows that means whatever she is going to say is going to hold emotional weight.

YN takes a moment, her fingers tightening around his hand before she guides it from her thigh, lifting it with both of hers, and places it on her lower belly. 

"I wonder if this is the time," YN repeats softly, with a hopefulness that hurts, "If we get our baby this time.”

She guides his palm to spread flat against her, her own hand pressing his down as if she's imagining a round belly there.

Her eyes close briefly and Harry can see the flutter of her eyelashes as she holds back tears, the way her brow furrows as she tries to think through her emotion, and how her bottom lip quivers.

And god, that fucking breaks his heart because he could buy her nearly anything else on this earth.

Jewelry, cars, houses, vacations, whatever material thing she might want but he can't make this happen. 

It breaks his heart because this isn't the first time she's said it. 

It's something that YN has started doing in the past few months, always after they've tried during her peak ovulation days.

She puts it out there, "I wonder if this time was it." 

And then, a week or two later, come the negative pregnancy tests. 

The single line instead of two. 

The disappointment that she tries to hide but that he sees anyway in the way her shoulders drop, in the extra moment she takes in the bathroom before emerging with a too-bright smile.

The jealousy, all of it, every petty, irrational bit of it, evaporates like steam.

The irrational possessiveness that had consumed Harry for hours is so fucking stupid, so embarrassingly small compared to this. 

It's so much more important that he's present for his wife right now.

He moves his thumb back and forth over her belly in a soothing motion,"And if it isn't, we won't stop tryin' until I can give you what you want, dove. What we both want."

-

Harry's still half-asleep when YN pads into the shower, and he automatically reaches for her, pulling her under the spray with him, and positions her in front of him, her back to his chest, and letting her get the most of the spray.

He reaches for her shampoo and works it between his palms until it foams even though she normally washes his first, he wanted to take care of her this morning though she didn’t know what had gone on in his mind.

YN tips her head back automatically, welcoming it easily, and Harry begins working the soap through her hair, his fingers sliding through the wet strands.

"What has you up so early? Though you were going to sleep in, baby," He asks, his voice still rough with sleep because he’d skipped his workout, he had slept in because work had been kicking his ass, and he couldn’t find any interest in working out in his exhaustion.

He digs his nails lightly into her scalp, the way he knows she likes, and the mewl that escapes her is instant as she melts back against him, her body melting under his hands.

"S’good," YN hums, her eyes fluttering closed, head tilting back further to give him more to massage, greedy.

"Are you going to stay up or did you just want a chance to see my cock before you go back to bed?” He murmurs even though his voice was soft, his words were crude, and somehow still endearing.

YN gives him the appropriate reaction, a pretty giggle and she wiggles her bum back on him before she actually answers, " Wanted to see your cock and Theo invited me to morning yoga with Casey. I'm going to do that and then I have two meetings. One for the scholarship charity and another for the one I want to get up and running for single mums."

That bubbling feeling of jealousy that he'd thought he'd put to rest, that he'd told himself he'd let go of in the car, and he wasn’t going to revisit comes roaring back to life without his permission.

Theo invited her to yoga.

His fucking employee invited his wife to yoga.

"Theo invited you," Harry repeats, his voice carefully neutral to not give anything away about it, didn’t want YN to think he had a problem with her going because it wasn’t that, he knows she loves yoga and doesn’t do it enough.

YN doesn't seem to notice, still relaxed against him, still enjoying his attention as he starts to wash it out, "Mmhmm. He said Casey's been wanting to try this new instructor at that studio in Chelsea and he remembered I love yoga.”

“Sounds like fun,” Harry replies with as much realness as he can because it’s not really about jealousy at this point, it’s the fact that he feels like his employee is crossing boundaries.

Or maybe that’s just what he needs to keep telling himself.

-

Harry is sat behind his desk when Dorothy knocks lightly before opening the door to let Theo in then closing it behind him with a gentle click.

Theo's dressed in a nice suit, carrying a leather briefcase that looks new, and there's a smile on his face. 

And that stupid smile, that easy, comfortable, chipper fucking smile makes his teeth itch.

"Hi, it's great to see—" Theo begins, his voice friendly and ready to make a good impression.

Harry cuts him off with a sharp gesture toward the chair across from his desk, not matching the warmth whatsoever, "Sit."

Theo's smile falters slightly, confusion flickering across his features but he moves to the chair, setting his briefcase down carefully beside it, and he's barely sat down when Harry speaks again.

"Before we get started," Harry says, his voice flat and harsh, "I'm making it crystal fucking clear right now that you're not getting any type of special treatment because of your connection to my wife."

Harry watches Theo's face carefully to see if it gets any reaction, watches the way his eyebrows rise in surprise before furrowing, the confusion deepens, "Sir, I would never expec—"

"Let's get started," Harry doesn't let him finish, doesn't give him the opportunity of completing a single sentence, "I don't have time for bullshitting."

Theo's mouth closes at Harry’s abruptness, there's a flicker of something in his eyes.

It may be hurt or frustration but he nods either way, straightening in his chair, trying to maintain his professional composure despite what’s being thrown at him.

Harry leans back in his chair, casual, relaxed but there's nothing relaxed about the way he's looking at Theo.

"You are a manager of a small branch of your department currently," Harry asks, his tone flat and bored, "How will you pivot when you're managing an multiple departments with nearly twelve times the staff?"

It's an easy enough question, it wouldn't be easy for someone who didn't know the field but Harry doubts Theo will struggle with the answer. 

Theo clears his throat, shifting in his seat as he tries to steady himself, “Well, currently I manage a team of thirty, and my approach has been to—”

“Currently,” Harry cuts in, not raising his voice but it’s not friendly, it is enough that the word alone is enough to stop Theo mid-sentence, “I didn’t ask about your current responsibilities. I asked about how you will adjust, not how you manage now. You can clearly do the job you’re working now so answer the question I actually asked.”

Theo pauses briefly but he recovers quickly and instead gives Harry exactly what he is asking for.

And he does it well, he doesn’t fumble through it or default to something generic.

Harry doesn’t give him any reaction or response at first.

“What are your thoughts on the growth and improvement financial model now compared to the one that was in place when I first built the company?” Harry asks next but the question is purposefully more difficult but not impossible.

He breaks it down in a way that shows he has studied the company beyond surface level, that he understands how it began, and where it’s at now.

It is a strong answer because Theo is doing exactly what he should be doing, and showing the kind of skills that would normally make Harry interested, engaged, the way it challenged him in the first interview.

“Alright,” He says, his tone controlled, almost casual but there is something underneath it that signals a shift before the question even comes, “Walk me through how you'd handle a complete restructure of the European sector if we lost our primary vendor overnight."

The question hangs in the air, unreasonable and way too fucking specific and completely outside the range of anything Theo would need to know off the top of their head.

Harry knows this, it’s a question he wouldn’t normally ask.

Theo blinks, clearly taken aback, and he starts to shuffle through the papers he brought with him and says after a moment, his voice hesitant, "I don't think that was on the prep sheet that HR gave me."

"Those are the only things you decided to study?" Harry asked and there's clear judgement in his voice now.

"I prepared thoroughly for the interview based on the materials provided," Theo says, his tone was still impressively professional but there was a new hint of defensiveness creeping in that Harry didn’t miss, "The question you just asked requires access to information I don't currently have access to in my role."

Harry doesn't acknowledge that he was one hundred percent right.

Instead, he leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the desk, and asks another question, this one even more specific, even more impossible.

“What do you think increased our sales in Q3 in South East Asia? Do you think it was a fluke, their recession or something that specifically crafted by the work out team had been working on in the region for the last five years? Why all of a sudden would this have occured? How would you continue to support this financial influx without fumbling it?"

"Sir," Theo says slowly, carefully because it’s clear he is in over his head with Harry, that he may have been prepared for the questions but not the person asking them, "I mean no disrespect but I feel like your goal is for me to fail this interview."

Harry's expression doesn't change. 

"These are not anywhere close to the prep questions provided," Theo continues and he’s letting slight frustration show, "And I would need to do very specific research to have those answers. Which I can do if I have time to prepare."

Harry leans back in his chair, expression giving away nothing like his choice wasn’t made before Theo even stepped foot in here, his face remaining completely neutral.

“That won’t be necessary,” Harry says, his tone bored and unbothered though there is a decisiveness to it that leaves no space for argument, “I think the role that you are in currently is the best fit for you and I’ll be exploring other options to fill this role.”

He does not expand on it or offer clarification.

“Am I not getting the job because YN told you that I’m—” Theo starts, his tone sharper now, his anger rising.

Harry lifts his hand without breaking eye contact, the gesture dismissive as he cuts him off before he can finish, making it clear that whatever Theo is about to say is not something he is willing to discuss further.

“That’s all, Theo, thanks for coming in,” Harry says in a way that doesn’t seem appreciative at all.

Theo hesitates for a fraction of a second, clearly deciding whether he should push back against the treatment or challenge the outcome he just received but whatever he reads in Harry’s expression makes him decide against either. 

He stands instead, the movement abrupt as his chair clanks behind him, his frustration visible in the way he gathers his things with less care than before, and he doesn’t say anything else to Harry.

The door closes behind him with more force than necessary.

Theo had been his best candidate by a far and under any other circumstances that would have been enough for Harry to hire him today.

The old version of Harry wouldn’t have felt guilt for a minute.

He most likely wouldn’t now either but he knows that this would be acceptable behavior by YN’s standard, and he instantly regrets letting his emotions get the best of him.

YN doesn’t ask about the interview, which is the only reason he is able to not be held accountable because he does not have an answer that would hold up if she asked him about it, and he is aware that is a real possibility of still happening even if it didn’t happen quite yet.

When he leaves for Australia the next day on a four day long work trip, he tells himself that the distance will help, that the space will give him enough time to get the fuck over all these feelings, and the guilt. 

Even though he knows that the problem isn’t going to disappear just because he didn’t hire him.

-

YN has been texting Theo since Monday after yoga.

At first, it was just a thank you.

YN:Had such a great time this morning! We need to do that again soon.

Theo responded immediately.

THEO: Anytime. You know I'm always down for yoga and overpriced smoothies!!!

And then, around two in the afternoon, the messages just... stopped.

YN had sent him a link to an article about a new pottery studio she was thought would be fun for him and Casey. 

No response.

She'd asked if he wanted to grab coffee later in the week. 

Nothing.

By Tuesday, she was rereading their conversation, trying to figure out what she'd said wrong, trying to recount what happened at yoga that she did.

By Wednesday, she was genuinely worried. 

And by Thursday morning, when her phone finally buzzed with Theo's name on the screen, it didn’t make her feel much better.

THEO: Can we meet for dinner tonight? I need to talk to you about something.

The message sits in her stomach all day, a massive knot of anxiety that gets worse with every passing hour.

-

Theo, already seated in the back of the small italian restaurant, his shoulders tense which was unlike him, and when he looks up to see YN, his smile is wrong. 

It doesn't reach his eyes which makes her chest tighten with dread.

"Hey," She says hesitantly, sliding into the chair across from him.

"Hey," Theo replies and even that single word feels off.

"I've been wracking my brain to figure out what I did or said to hurt you, to make you need space," YN blurts out before she's even fully sat, the words tumbling over each other in her rush to get them out, "I am so sorry, Theo. It was never my intention to—"

"No, no," Theo cuts her off, shaking his head quickly, and there's something that soften slightly in his expression, "It's not anything you've done, YN. I'm sorry. I just - I needed time to process and to figure out how to talk to you about this without offending you. I'm worried if I bring up what's bothering me, it will make you upset with me."

"What is it about?" She asks, and her voice is barely above a whisper now.

Theo looks at her for a long moment, his expression conflicted, like he's still debating whether to say it at all. 

A couple weeks after Italy, Nora found herself missing it in strange little ways. Not even the big things. Not the villa or the sea or the wine at sunset. Just the feeling of it. The slowness. The ease. The way everything had felt hopeful there.

Now they were back in London and real life had settled around them again in its familiar rhythm — play date drop offs, meetings, laundry piles that somehow regenerated overnight, dance classes, forgotten grocery lists, wet towels abandoned on floors. And underneath all of that, quietly, persistently, there was this new thing living inside Nora’s chest.

Waiting.

She hadn’t expected that part. She had said no pressure and meant it. Harry had said no pressure and meant it too. But somehow her body hadn’t gotten the memo. Because now every tiny thing felt loaded with possibility. Every headache. Every wave of tiredness. Every flicker in her stomach. And she hated how quickly hope could build itself from absolutely nothing.

Upstairs, the bathroom was still warm from Harry's shower earlier that morning. Soft grey light filtered through the frosted windows while Nora stood barefoot on cold tile staring down at the pregnancy test in her hand.

Negative.

Completely, unmistakably negative.

Downstairs she could hear absolute chaos unfolding. Leo was yelling something at full volume. Remy was singing — not even one song, somehow several songs at once — while Harry tried to mediate breakfast.

“Mate, you cannot survive entirely on strawberries!”

“STAWBEEEEEE!”

“Yeah, I know, but you also need actual foo— REMY STOP STANDING ON THE CHAIR!”

“I’m singing!”

“You can sing sitting down!”

“I cannot!”

Nora closed her eyes briefly as their voices floated upstairs. And stupidly, despite herself, tears pricked behind her eyes. Because this part felt ridiculous. She wasn’t even late. It had barely been any time at all. And rationally she knew all of that. She knew it didn’t happen immediately for everyone. She knew one negative test meant absolutely nothing.

But still. Her hopes had gotten up there somehow. She’d thought maybe she’d felt something. A shift. A difference. And now standing there alone in the bathroom, she suddenly felt embarrassed by how much she cared already.

The test trembled slightly in her fingers before she let out a slow breath and whispered softly to herself, “It’s okay.”

And she meant it. Or at least she was trying to.

She wrapped the test carefully in toilet paper before dropping it into the bin, then stood there for another second with both hands braced against the counter.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Downstairs Leo screamed triumphantly about something. Remy immediately screamed louder.

“Why are we yelling?!”

“Because Leo yelled!”

“DADDY!”

Nora laughed despite herself. Then finally she pushed away from the sink and headed downstairs toward the noise. The kitchen looked exactly like it sounded. Complete carnage.

Remy sat sideways on one of the stools wearing a princess dress over pyjamas while aggressively singing into a banana like it was a microphone. Leo was covered in yoghurt despite apparently refusing to eat yoghurt. Milo hovered beneath the table waiting for casualties.

And Harry stood in the middle of it all looking deeply exhausted already. His hair was messy. He wore running shorts and a hoodie with one sleeve shoved halfway to his elbows while he tried to make coffee and stop Leo from feeding blueberries to the dog simultaneously.

“Mate,” Harry sighed as Leo dropped another blueberry deliberately. “That’s not for him.”

“Milo eat.”

“No, Milo gets sick if he eats too many.”

“Milo WANT.”

“Milo also wants to lick strangers in Hampstead Heath. Doesn’t mean he should.”

Nora stood there quietly for a second just watching them. Her family. Her beautiful, loud, messy family. Then she walked straight over to Harry and wrapped both arms around him from behind.

Harry stilled immediately. One hand came down automatically over hers where they rested against his stomach. He turned his head slightly. “Y’alright, baby?”

Nora opened her mouth automatically to say yes. I’m fine. It’s okay. The usual things. Then her therapist’s voice floated through her head from earlier that week. You don’t always have to finish the thought before you share it. Let him sit in the unfinished parts with you.

So instead she swallowed hard and said quietly, “No.”

Harry turned properly then. Immediately attentive. Immediately there. But before he could say anything—

“Daddy,” Remy announced loudly, “Leo put toast in his milk.”

Harry closed his eyes briefly. “Why?”

Leo grinned proudly. “Toast swim.”

“Right.”

Nora laughed weakly into Harry’s shoulder. Harry squeezed one of her hands gently before turning back toward the children. “Okay. New rule. Food does not go swimming.”

“Even crackers?” Remy asked.

“Yes, even crackers.”

“That's not fun.”

“I’m devastated for you.”

Remy sighed heavily like she’d personally suffered.

Eventually Nora pulled away long enough to make herself coffee while Harry rescued the kitchen from total collapse. She moved slowly, quieter than usual, and Harry noticed immediately. He always noticed.

By the time she sat down at the island with her toast and coffee, he’d settled the kids enough that they were mostly entertaining themselves. Mostly. Remy had started making up a dance routine to some song stuck in her head while Leo copied approximately every third movement half a beat too late.

Harry slid into the stool beside Nora and lowered his voice gently. “Talk to me.”

Nora stared down at her mug for a second.

“Don’t worry about them,” Harry added softly, glancing toward the kids. “They’re busy.”

As if on cue, Leo yelled “SPIN!” while Remy nearly fell off her stool attempting one.

Harry winced slightly. “Well. Busy enough.”

Nora huffed a small laugh. Then quieter she said, “I need to be unfinished.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

She rubbed tiredly at her forehead. “Sorry. That sounds insane out loud.” She exhaled shakily. “My therapist said I need to stop trying to organise every feeling before I say it to you. That I can just… say things unfinished.”

Harry’s entire face softened. “Okay,” he said gently. “Then be unfinished.”

And somehow that nearly made her cry more. Nora looked down at her hands. “I took a test this morning.”

Harry went still immediately, but he didn’t interrupt.

“It was negative,” she admitted quietly. “And I know that means absolutely nothing because it’s been like… five seconds.” She laughed weakly. “But I got upset anyway and now I feel stupid because I said no pressure and there isn’t pressure and you haven’t made me feel pressured at all but somehow I still feel pressure.”

Harry listened carefully. No interruption. No fixing. Just listening.

Nora shook her head slightly. “And I know how ridiculous it sounds because we literally only just decided to do this and I already—” She stopped herself, frustrated. “See? I don’t even know how to explain it.”

Harry reached over quietly and pulled her stool closer with one hand.

“You don’t have to explain it perfectly,” he said softly.

Nora looked at him helplessly. “I think I just got excited.”

There it was. Harry’s expression softened so completely it made her chest ache.

“Oh, baby.”

And that was all it took. Nora leaned straight into him, forehead pressing against his shoulder while he wrapped both arms around her immediately.

“It’s okay,” he murmured quietly against her hair. “It’s okay.”

She nodded against him even as tears stung her eyes a little. “I know.”

“You’re allowed to feel disappointed.”

“I know.”

“You’re allowed to want this.”

Another nod.

“And for the record,” Harry added softly, “I think it’s pretty beautiful that you got excited.”

Nora let out a watery laugh. “It feels cringey.”

“It’s not cringey.”

“It is a little.”

“It’s not.” He kissed the top of her head gently. “You’re excited about making another little person with me. That’s objectively adorable.”

She laughed harder then, muffled against him. Immediately Remy gasped dramatically from across the kitchen.

“BIG HUG.”

Harry closed his eyes briefly. “Oh no.”

“I tell you ALL the time,” Remy said while climbing off her stool at alarming speed, “that if there’s a family cuddle I need to be there.”

Before either of them could respond she wedged herself directly between their legs and wrapped her arms around both of them dramatically.

“Hug attack!”

Leo immediately started yelling too. “HUG HUG HUG!”

Harry pulled in Leo's high chair to be included. Suddenly there were four people and one confused dog involved in a kitchen cuddle. Nora laughed properly this time through lingering tears while Harry held all of them together somehow.

“This family,” he muttered affectionately.

Remy tilted her head up suspiciously. “Why are you sad, Mumma?”

Nora brushed hair gently out of her daughter’s face. “Just feelings, bug.”

“What feelings?”

“The complicated grown up kind.”

“Oh.” Remy considered that seriously. “Those are annoying.”

Harry barked out a laugh. “Correct.”

Nora smiled softly and kissed Remy’s forehead. “Very annoying.”

After another minute Harry smoothed Nora’s hair back gently and asked, “What do you wanna do today?”

Nora surprised herself with the answer immediately.

“I wanna do a cold plunge.”

Harry stared at her.

“A what?”

“An ice bath.”

Harry blinked slowly like he’d misheard her. “I thought I heard you correctly. Are you feeling alright?”

Remy gasped loudly. “THE ICE BATH?”

“The very one,” Harry deadpanned.

“The one Daddy does outside and Milo barks at?”

“Yes.”

Nora let out a huge breath and rubbed both hands over her face tiredly before laughing softly at how absurd this all sounded. “I just…” She shook her head. “I think I need a shock to my system or something.”

Harry studied her carefully for a second before nodding slowly.

“Okay then.”

“You’ll help me?”

“Obviously.” He smiled softly. “I’ll get it ready for you, my little ice queen.”

Remy immediately shrieked with laughter. “ICE QUEEN!”

Harry pointed at her. “And you are the ice princess.”

Remy gasped dramatically. “Mummy did you hear that?”

“I did.”

“I’m an ice princess.”

Leo pointed excitedly. “ICE!”

Remy looked overcome with emotion from this new title. Harry leaned over and kissed Nora softly on the temple while Remy descended into an Elsa impression behind them. And quietly, beneath all the noise and mess and uncertainty, Nora felt something settle a little inside her.

The cold plunge sat out on the back terrace like some kind of punishment device. At least, that was what Nora had always called it. Harry had been obsessed with the thing for months — swearing by it after runs, after stressful days, after touring, after literally anything — and every single time he’d invited her to join him she’d looked at him like he’d lost his mind.

And now here she was. Standing outside in one of Harry’s hoodies over a swimsuit, clutching a towel around herself while questioning every life decision that had led her to this moment.

“I genuinely think this might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever suggested,” she announced.

Harry, who was crouched beside the plunge adjusting something with complete calm, looked up at her with far too much amusement. “Bit dramatic.”

“I can feel the temperature from here.”

Remy sat cross-legged on one of the outdoor lounge chairs beside Leo, who was standing between her knees clutching a banana. Both children were bundled into little jumpers despite the mild weather. Remy pointed dramatically at the plunge. “Mummy, you look scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Nora argued immediately.

Harry raised an eyebrow. Nora paused. “Okay maybe a little.”

Leo pointed toward the tub excitedly. “Swim swim!”

“This,” Nora informed him, “is not swimming, my little lion.”

Remy leaned toward Leo importantly. “Leo, it’s too cold. So don’t touch.” Leo nodded very seriously. Then immediately tried to walk toward it anyway.

Harry scooped him up one-handed before disaster struck. “Absolutely not, mate. You're not doing a cold plunge at almost two.”

Leo protested loudly, not that he really understood anything that was going on. “Why?”

“Because I enjoy being reported to absolutely nobody.”

Nora snorted softly while Harry set Leo back down beside Remy. Then Harry stood fully and stretched slightly before looking toward Nora with that annoying calm confidence he always had around this thing.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll go first.” He pulled his hoodie over his had and tossed it onto one of the chairs. Immediately Nora’s eyes flicked down his body automatically. Harry caught her instantly.

“Baby,” he said smugly, “focus.”

“I am focused.”

“On my abs.”

“You didn't specify what to focus on.”

Remy pulled up her own hoodie and t-shirt. “When will I get abs?”

Nora laughed while Harry climbed carefully into the plunge like some kind of deranged Viking. He barely reacted. Which honestly annoyed her more.

“Oh shut up,” Nora muttered.

Harry smirked. “What?”

“You’re acting like it’s a warm bath.”

“It’s mindset.”

“It’s psychotic.”

Remy jumped up cheering suddenly. “GO DADDY GO!”

Leo immediately copied her at full volume. “GO DADDA GO!”

Harry laughed before taking one dramatic breath and fully dunking himself under. Nora physically recoiled just watching it. When Harry resurfaced a few seconds later, pushing wet curls back from his forehead, he inhaled sharply through his teeth before grinning wildly.

“Ah,” he announced dramatically. “The things I do for love.”

Nora stared at him. “You look unwell.”

“I feel alive.”

Remy clapped enthusiastically anyway. Harry finally climbed back out, water dripping everywhere while he rubbed a towel through his hair. “Alright, ice queen. Your turn.”

Nora immediately looked offended. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? You’re the one who wanted this.”

“I was clearly having some kind of emotional crisis.”

Harry laughed softly and walked toward her, still warm somehow despite the freezing water. “C’mon, baby. You wanted a shock to your system.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

Remy immediately started chanting, “Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!”

Leo bounced beside her yelling, “MUMMA GO SWIM!”

Nora looked at Harry helplessly. “I hate all three of you.”

“Love you too.”

He helped tug the towel from around her shoulders gently before guiding her toward the plunge. Nora took the hoodie off and shoved it into Harry's chest. The second her toes touched the water she gasped violently. “Oh my GOD.”

Harry burst out laughing instantly. “Baby.”

“It’s freezing!”

“Correct.”

“No, but genuinely, I think my soul just left my body.”

Harry stepped closer immediately then, hands settling warm against her arms. “Hey. Look at me.”

Nora did. And immediately some of the panic melted because it was Harry. “Don’t think about the cold,” he said softly. “Just breathe with me first.”

The kids were still yelling nonsense behind them somewhere, Milo barking because everyone else was excited, but suddenly Nora only really heard Harry.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Big breath in.”

She copied him.

“Again.”

Another breath.

“Good girl.”

Nora rolled her eyes weakly. “Don’t use that voice on me right now.”

Harry laughed quietly. “Focus.”

“I am focusing.”

“No you’re not.”

He brushed damp hair back behind her ear gently. “You don’t have to jump straight in if you don’t want to.”

Nora looked toward the water again. Then back at him. Then suddenly squared her shoulders.

“No,” she said firmly. “If I think too much I won’t do it.”

“That’s my girl.”

“Right.” She inhaled sharply. “So I just get in?”

Harry nodded calmly. “And when you’re ready you dunk under.”

“Fantastic.”

“You’ve got this.”

Remy cupped her hands around her mouth dramatically. “MUMMY BE BRAVE!”

Leo screamed, “MUMMA SWIM!”

Nora laughed breathlessly. “Okay. Okay.”

And before she could overthink it, she climbed in all at once. The cold hit her like an actual physical force. “OH MY GOD—”

Harry immediately burst out laughing. But before she could climb back out, before panic could fully settle in, she took one huge breath and dunked herself fully under. Harry’s expression changed instantly. Because she stayed there longer than he had. “YES BABY!” he shouted immediately.

Remy screamed excitedly. Leo started clapping wildly. When Nora finally resurfaced she inhaled sharply, water streaming down her face, hair slicked back, cheeks flushed bright pink and then unexpectedly she started laughing. Big, breathless, surprised laughter. “Oh my God,” she gasped. “OH MY GOD.”

Harry looked delighted. “You did it!”

“That was horrible!”

“But?”

Nora wiped water from her eyes, grinning despite herself. “But kind of amazing?”

Harry held a towel open instantly as she climbed out shivering violently while laughing the entire time. Remy approached cautiously like Nora had just survived combat. “Mummy… is it really really really really cold?”

Nora nodded immediately. “Yes. Horrifically cold.”

“Good cold or bad cold?”

Nora paused. Then smiled softly. “Bad cold that turns into good cold.”

Remy considered this very seriously before sticking one tiny finger into the plunge. Instant regret. “No.” She yanked it back immediately. “I don’t like that.”

Then Harry wrapped the towel fully around her and pulled her against his chest automatically while she shivered.

“You alright?”

Nora nodded against him. “Yeah.”

“You survived.”

“Barely.”

“Proud of you though.”

Nora looked up at him then, cheeks still pink from cold and adrenaline and laughter, and smiled softly. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

She shrugged slightly. “I actually feel better.”

Remy suddenly shoved herself dramatically into the cuddle too. “Family hug.”

Leo followed immediately. “Hug.”

Harry laughed as all four of them ended up tangled together in towels and damp jumpers while Milo barked excitedly around their feet. And standing there in the middle of the chilly London morning, wrapped in her ridiculous loud beautiful family, Nora thought maybe this was what healing actually looked like.

──────────────

A couple more weeks pass before life settles into something that almost feels normal again.

The kind of weeks where nothing major happens, but everything still feels emotionally loaded somehow. Play dates and dance classes and Harry leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor and Leo insisting on eating blueberries one at a time with the concentration of a surgeon. The kind of weeks where they don’t really talk every second about trying for another baby because they promised each other they wouldn’t let it consume them, but it still lingers quietly underneath everything anyway.

And then Nora gets sick. Not horribly sick. Nothing dramatic. Just one of those awful lingering colds where your head feels full of cement and your throat hurts and suddenly being horizontal feels like the greatest achievement known to mankind.

By the third day she’s fully surrendered to it. She’s cocooned under a blanket on the living room sofa in one of Harry’s hoodies, hair tied badly on top of her head, surrounded by tissues and half-finished cups of tea while daytime television murmurs quietly in the background. She looks deeply unimpressed with existence.

Harry walks in carrying another mug of tea anyway.

“Delivery for the world’s bravest soldier,” he says solemnly.

Nora barely lifts her head from where she’s buried in the cushion. “I can’t breathe or taste anything,” she rasps dramatically. “So I’m hoping to just become part of the sofa permanently.”

Harry snorts softly as he hands her the mug. “You’re very committed to this illness.”

“I’m dying.”

“You have a cold.”

“Dying from a cold.”

He just shakes his head fondly before stretching out beside her on the couch. The second he settles, Nora immediately melts sideways into him like gravity itself shifts toward Harry whenever she’s upset. Which honestly isn’t far from the truth.

He wraps an arm around her automatically and presses a kiss into her hair. “Gemma just texted,” he murmurs. “Apparently Remy is thriving at pottery painting.”

Nora hums weakly into his chest. “Mm.”

“She made an ‘abstract cat bowl’ apparently.”

“That means it’s ugly.”

“Almost definitely.”

“And Leo?”

Harry smiles softly. “Completely passed out upstairs. Dead to the world.”

Nora curls further into him, letting out a long exhausted breath. For a while neither of them says much. Just quiet television noise and the occasional sniffle from Nora while Harry absentmindedly rubs his hand up and down her arm.

Then eventually she says quietly, “I’m sad.”

Harry’s fingers still slightly against her sleeve.

“About the test this morning?” he asks gently.

“I really thought maybe…” She swallows thickly. “I don’t know. I just had a feeling.” Nora sniffles again before continuing quietly, “And then it was negative and suddenly I felt ridiculous for caring so much.”

“You’re not ridiculous.”

“I know it doesn’t happen immediately,” she says tiredly. “I know that. But it still felt shit.”

Harry nods slowly. “Yeah.”

Another silence stretches between them before he asks softly, “Do you feel pressure?”

Nora hesitates. “Maybe,” she admits eventually. “But not from you.”

“From yourself?”

She nods again. “I think because we decided to do this… suddenly every month feels important.” She laughs weakly through her congestion. “Which is ironic because we said no pressure.”

“We meant it too.”

“I know.” She rubs tiredly at her eyes. “And I still love this part. Like… I know it sounds cheesy but I love being with you like this. It feels exciting and hopeful and intimate and…” She exhales shakily. “But then when it doesn’t happen I suddenly feel like I failed some invisible test no one actually gave me.”

Harry’s face softens immediately. “Oh, baby.”

Nora groans softly and buries her face further into his neck. “Don’t ‘oh baby’ me. I’m already emotional and sick and I can’t breathe.”

He laughs quietly before tightening his arm around her slightly. “Hey. Listen to me.”

She peeks up reluctantly.

“If it starts feeling like pressure,” he says gently, “we stop.”

Nora immediately shakes her head. “No, I don’t want to stop.”

“I’m serious.” His thumb brushes slowly against her shoulder. “I mean it. If trying starts making you miserable or anxious or takes away the fun or makes you feel like your body’s failing you or anything like that… we stop and regroup. Okay?”

Her eyes sting unexpectedly.

“I think,” Harry says carefully, “sometimes when sex gets attached to something emotionally huge, it changes things a bit. Even if it’s still good and loving and fun… it can still carry pressure underneath.”

Nora nods slowly. “Yeah.”

“So tell me what you need from me.”

The answer comes immediately. “This.”

Harry’s expression softens further somehow.

“Just…” Nora curls impossibly closer. “Being here with you right now. I think I just need to feel like we’re okay no matter what happens.”

Harry presses another kiss against her forehead. “We are okay.”

“I know.”

“We’ll complete our family,” he murmurs quietly. “However that happens. Just take it easy, yeah? Keep talking to me. We’ve got this.”

Nora’s eyes fill a little at that. And before she can stop herself she sneezes violently straight into his neck. Harry freezes. Nora gasps in horror. “I'm sorry.”

Harry looks deeply betrayed.

“That came out of nowhere,” she croaks miserably.

“I’m actually never recovering from this.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“You sneezed directly into my soul.”

Despite herself Nora starts laughing, congested and exhausted and half wheezing through it while Harry groans dramatically.

“See?” he says, smiling now too. “You’re already feeling better.”

A couple of days later Nora does feel physically better. Mostly. At least the cold has gone. But something still feels… strange. Not sick exactly. Just off. She can’t explain it properly. Which is why she’s standing in the bathroom staring at a pregnancy test like it personally insulted her.

“Okay,” she whispers to herself nervously. “It’s okay. We can do this.”

She’d taken the test almost absentmindedly. Not because she truly expected anything. More because she’d been folding laundry and suddenly realised she was late enough that maybe—

maybe.

But now the test is sitting on the bathroom counter while she paces around the bedroom trying not to look at it too soon. The house is quiet. Leo is down for his nap. Remy is at her piano lesson. Harry had gone for a run before picking her up. And Nora is alone with her thoughts which is honestly never ideal.

She forces herself to finish folding a pile of laundry just to distract herself. Tiny socks. One of Harry’s jumpers. Leo’s dinosaur pyjamas. And then finally she walks back into the bathroom and looks down.

She stops breathing. Because there is a line. Faint. Very faint. But definitely there. Nora stares at it so hard her eyes start watering.

“No,” she whispers instantly. “No no no don’t do that.”

Her heart starts hammering. It’s too faint. Way too faint. It could be wrong. An evaporation line. A chemical pregnancy. Her mind immediately spirals through every possibility at once.

“Fuck.”

She grips the edge of the sink hard. And right then downstairs she hears the front door open. Remy’s loud voice immediately fills the house. “MUMMY I GOT A STICKER TODAY—”

Nora practically bolts downstairs. Harry barely gets one shoe off before she appears.

“Woah,” he laughs breathlessly. “Where’s the fire?”

Remy spins dramatically in the hallway. “I got a glitter sticker because Miss Emily said my scales were excellent.”

“That’s amazing, baby,” Nora says quickly.

Too quickly. Harry notices immediately. His expression shifts. “You alright?”

“Remy,” Nora says gently, voice tight, “why don’t you go practice piano for me?”

Remy gasps dramatically. “Even Hot Cross Buns?”

“Especially Hot Cross Buns.”

That’s apparently the greatest news she’s ever heard because she immediately runs off toward the piano.

Harry looks back at Nora slowly now. “Nora?”

“I need you right now.”

Harry blinks once. Then glances down at himself, sweaty from his run. “Okay,” he says cautiously. “I mean I’m kind of sweaty but—”

“No!” Nora grabs his wrist immediately. “Not that. Just come upstairs please.”

That gets his attention instantly. He follows her upstairs quickly now, concern growing with every second. “Nora, what’s going on?”

She leads him straight into their bathroom before finally lifting the pregnancy test with shaky fingers. Harry looks down. Sees it. And immediately his entire face breaks open.

“You're pr—”

Nora slaps a hand over his mouth so fast it startles him. “No,” she whispers frantically. “Don’t. Don’t celebrate yet.”

Harry’s eyes widen slightly.

“It’s faint,” she says, already crying now. “It’s really faint and I don’t know if it’s real and I need you to stand outside while I take another one because I’m freaking out.”

Harry nods instantly. Just immediate understanding. “Okay,” he says softly behind her hand.

So he waits outside the bathroom door while Nora takes another test. And then another. Her hands shake the entire time. Once the three minutes are up, she opens the door again she looks completely overwhelmed.

Harry stands immediately. “Well?”

Nora holds both tests out silently. Both faint. Both positive. Harry exhales sharply like someone punched the air out of him.

“Fucking hell,” he whispers.

Nora immediately starts crying harder. “What if it’s not real?” she says shakily.

Harry steps toward her slowly like he’s afraid sudden movement might break the moment apart. “Hey.”

“What if—”

“One step at a time,” he says gently.

Nora nods quickly even though tears keep falling. “Right. Right.”

“We book an appointment,” Harry says carefully, clearly trying very hard not to get too ahead of himself emotionally too. “And we see. Yeah?”

“Yes.” Nora nods again instantly. “Okay. Yes. That makes sense.”

Harry reaches up slowly and brushes tears from under her eyes. “Talk to me.”

Nora laughs weakly through tears. “I think… I think I didn’t realise how much this meant to me until right now.”

Harry’s own eyes go glassy at that.

“And I’m scared to be happy,” she admits quietly. “Because what if—”

“Hey.” He cups her face gently. “That’s okay.”

Nora closes her eyes briefly.

“I think,” she whispers, “I’m just scared to lose it before I even let myself have it.”

Harry nods slowly because he understands exactly what she means.

“I know.”

For a second neither of them says anything.

Then Harry finally lets himself smile just a little. Tiny. And Nora sees it immediately. “You’re trying not to celebrate.”

“I'm excited.”

Harry presses his forehead gently against hers. “Whatever happens,” he says quietly, “we do it together.”

And downstairs, completely unaware that the entire shape of their family might have just changed again, Remy loudly bangs the opening notes of Hot Cross Buns on the piano for the seventh time that afternoon.

──────────────

Anne is suspicious almost immediately. Not suspicious enough to actually question them. Just suspicious enough that Nora notices the look. The one that says I know you're up to something but I'm choosing not to interrogate you because I'm a mature adult. Which, unfortunately, is almost worse.

"You're dressed nicely," Anne says from the kitchen as Nora reaches for her handbag.

Nora freezes. Very briefly. Very noticeably. Harry immediately coughs into his coffee. Anne's eyes narrow.

"Oh my," Nora mutters.

"What?" Anne asks innocently.

"You've got the look."

"What look?"

"The look."

Anne smiles into her tea. Harry abandons ship immediately. "Right," he says, grabbing his keys. "Well. We're leaving."

"Where are you going?" Anne asks.

"Date."

The answer comes far too quickly. Nora closes her eyes. Anne raises an eyebrow. "A date?"

"Yep."

"On a Tuesday morning?"

"Changing it up with breakfast instead of Pizza."

"Interesting."

Harry nods seriously. "Should be romantic."

Anne looks between them. Nora looks like she might throw herself into traffic. Harry looks entirely too pleased with himself.

"Hm," Anne says.

And somehow that single sound is more threatening than an actual interrogation. Remy, thankfully, chooses that moment to burst into the kitchen.

"Where are you going? Can I come?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because we're going on a date."

Remy thinks about this. "Can Leo come?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because then it wouldn't be a date."

Remy considers this information before nodding. "Okay. Can you bring me back a croissant?"

Harry immediately points at her. "Manners."

"Can you bring me back a croissant, please?" Remy corrects.

Anne laughs. Leo, meanwhile, is attempting to feed Milo part of his banana. Which is its own problem. By the time Harry and Nora finally escape the house, both of them practically sprinting for the car, they're already laughing.

"Oh my God," Nora groans as she buckles her seatbelt.

Harry starts the engine. "My mum knows something."

"Your mum absolutely knows something."

The drive to the clinic is strangely quiet. Not uncomfortable. Just loaded. Because for the first time since seeing those faint lines, this feels real. Not bathroom counters. Not Google searches. Not staring at tests in different lighting. Real.

Harry reaches across the centre console and finds her hand almost immediately. Nora squeezes back. "You alright?" he asks softly.

She nods then immediately shakes her head. "Not really."

Harry smiles gently. "Yeah."

"Is it weird that I feel sick?"

"You are pregnant."

"No. Nervous sick."

"Oh."

"Like if I throw up in the waiting room we'll have to move countries."

Harry snorts. "I'll support you."

"Thank you."

"I'll throw up too."

"Solidarity?"

"Exactly."

That finally earns a laugh. And Harry watches some of the tension leave her shoulders.

The waiting room isn't busy. Which somehow makes it worse. Nora hates waiting. Especially when she's anxious. She keeps fiddling with the sleeve of her jumper. Checking the clock. Looking around. Checking the clock again. Harry eventually catches her hand before she can destroy the cuff completely.

"Hey."

"Hm?"

"You know this is the worst date we've ever been on."

Nora blinks. "What?"

He gestures around the waiting room.

"No wine. No food. No music. No flirting."

Nora snorts. "You're always flirting."

"Always."

She rolls her eyes. Harry squeezes her hand. "I'm serious though."

"About what?"

"The date."

She laughs softly. "Of course you are."

"Usually when I take you out there's at least pasta involved."

"You're setting very high standards."

"That's because you're worth very high standards."

Nora immediately looks away. Harry grins. "Still got it."

"You're annoying."

"You love me."

And thankfully it distracts her long enough that she's not staring at the clock anymore when the nurse appears.

"Nora? Harry?"

Both of them stand immediately. The Doctor smiles warmly. "Good to see you both again."

"You too," Nora says. Though her voice comes out much smaller than intended.

The nurse notices. Of course she notices. And her smile softens immediately. "Let's have a look."

The room feels familiar. Which is comforting and terrifying. Both at once. Nora sits on the examination bed while Harry remains beside her, his hand never leaving hers.

"Well." The doctor settles into her chair. "I heard we had some faint positive tests."

Harry glances at Nora. Nora immediately looks nervous again. The doctor notices that too. "So," she says gently, "tell me what happened."

Nora explains everything. The faint line. The second test. The third test. The panic. The crying. The not wanting to celebrate. The wanting to celebrate. All of it.

The doctor listens patiently. Then nods. "That all sounds very normal."

"Really?"

"Really."

Nora lets out a breath. "So faint doesn't mean bad?"

"Not necessarily." The doctor smiles. "It often just means early."

The doctor glances at her notes. "Based on your dates, you're likely only around four to five weeks."

Nora's eyes widen. "That's early."

"Very early."

Harry squeezes her hand.

The doctor continues, "At this stage we usually wouldn't expect to see much with a standard abdominal ultrasound, which is why we'll likely need to do a transvaginal scan today."

Nora nods immediately. "Okay."

"Just so we're all on the same page," the doctor explains gently, "we may not see a heartbeat yet."

Harry's hand tightens slightly. Nora's too. The doctor notices.

"But that wouldn't necessarily be concerning at this stage."

"Okay."

"You are extremely early."

Nora nods again. "Okay."

A little while later the room is darker. The monitor glows softly. Harry sits beside her. One hand wrapped around hers. The other resting on her knee. The sonographer works quietly.

Professional. Calm. Patient. The room feels impossibly silent.

Then... "There."

Nora immediately looks up. Harry does too. The sonographer points gently. A tiny shape. Barely anything. A small dark circle.

Nora blinks. "What am I looking at?"

The sonographer smiles. "That's the gestational sac."

Nora stares. Then stares harder. Then looks at Harry. Then back at the screen. Then back at Harry again.

"That's a baby?"

The sonographer laughs softly. "It's the very beginning of one."

"Oh." Nora's eyes immediately fill. "Oh."

Harry's hand comes up to her face instantly. "Hey."

Her voice breaks. "That's real."

The sonographer smiles. "Yes."

Nora starts crying immediately. No hesitation. No warning. "That's real?"

"Nora," the doctor says gently from beside the monitor. "Yes. Believe me. You're pregnant."

Nora laughs through tears. Then cries harder. Then laughs again. Harry is crying now too. Though he'd deny it later.

"Baby."

Nora looks at him, completely overwhelmed. "I'm pregnant?"

Harry smiles so hard it almost hurts to look at. "Yeah."

"Like actually pregnant?"

"Yeah."

"There's really a baby?"

"Yeah." His own voice cracks slightly. "You're pregnant."

Nora immediately hides her face. "Oh my God."

Harry leans over and presses kisses into her hair. Then her temple. Then her forehead. Repeatedly.

"I know."

"Oh my God."

"I know."

The conversation afterwards is quieter. It's more practical but still holds emotion. The doctor is reviewing everything carefully.

Health looks good. No immediate concerns. Everything appears exactly where it should be.

And eventually Nora gathers enough courage to ask the question she's been holding the entire appointment. "What about..." Her voice catches. The doctor waits patiently. "The miscarriage."

The doctor nods slowly. "I wondered when we'd get there."

Nora stares at her hands.

The doctor speaks gently. "Nora. When I saw you after your miscarriage, everything healed exactly as we'd expect. There was no tissue scarring. No concerns. No indications that it would affect future pregnancies."

Harry reaches for her hand again.

"You were healthy then," the doctor says gently. "And you're healthy now."

Nora's eyes immediately water. "Sometimes it just happens?"

The doctor nods sadly. "Unfortunately, yes. I know you're going to worry."

Nora laughs wetly. "You know me well."

"And because I know you're going to worry..." the doctor smiles gently, "...I'm more than happy to bring your next scan forward."

Nora immediately perks up. "Really?"

"Absolutely."

Harry actually laughs. Because the relief on Nora's face is instantaneous.

"Yes please."

"Let's get everything booked in."

The drive home feels completely different. It feels lighter but also terrifying. Neither of them quite knows what to do with themselves. Harry keeps glancing at her. Nora keeps laughing randomly.

Then panicking. Then laughing again. Then staring out the window. Then smiling. Then panicking. Then smiling.

Eventually she says quietly, "Can we not tell anyone yet?"

Harry nods immediately. "Of course."

"It's just..."

"I know."

She twists her wedding ring nervously. "It's early."

"It is.."

"And I'm happy."

"I know."

"And scared."

"That's ok."

"And I want this so much."

Harry reaches over and squeezes her knee. "I know you do."

Nora exhales. Then groans dramatically. "Your mother is at home."

Harry immediately starts laughing. "Oh no."

"Exactly."

"My mum is going to know."

"Your mum always knows."

A few minutes later Nora says, "Can we get lunch?"

Harry glances over. "Yeah?"

"I feel like we should at least pretend this was a date."

Harry grins immediately. "Honestly? So far it's been a pretty good date."

Nora laughs. Harry reaches across and rests his hand gently against her stomach. Still flat. "Hi baby," he says quietly. Then he turns and looks at Nora. "Hi baby."

Nora immediately starts giggling. "You're ridiculous."

The thing Harry hadn't anticipated was that losing someone didn't always look dramatic. Sometimes it looked like everything continuing exactly as normal. That was somehow worse because from the outside, nothing had changed.

Tour prep was running smoothly. The Amsterdam residency was on schedule. Production meetings were happening on time. Transport was organised. Wardrobe was organised. Security briefings were organised. Every hotel room for the crew was booked correctly. Every credential was accounted for. The machine was running perfectly. And she was the reason why.

The trouble was, Harry had spent so many years relying on her that he hadn't realised how much of their relationship existed in the spaces between the work. It wasn't the schedules he missed. It wasn't the emails. It wasn't the logistics. It was everything else.

The way she'd wander into a room and immediately know if he was overwhelmed before he'd worked it out himself. The way she'd tell him when an idea was stupid without anyone getting offended. The way she'd laugh at him when he deserved it. The way she'd somehow become the person he looked for first after every show, every interview, every stupid little moment that happened throughout the day. Now all of that was gone.

She still spoke to him. That was almost the problem. Because she wasn't angry anymore. Anger almost would have been easier because anger still meant he had access. This was something else. She was polite. Professional. Competent. Careful. Pleasantly unreachable. Every interaction was reduced to exactly what was required.

"Your car leaves at eight."

"The venue moved soundcheck forward."

"You've got an interview in twenty."

"Jeff needs your approval on the visuals."

Never rude. Never cold. Never anything he could reasonably complain about. And yet Harry found himself standing in rooms after she'd left them feeling strangely abandoned. Like he'd arrived somewhere two minutes too late. Like he'd missed a conversation he desperately wanted to be part of.

Sometimes he'd deliberately try extending interactions. Nothing obvious. Just stupid little things.

"How was dinner?"

"Did you ever call your sister back?"

"How'd the interview go?"

And every time she'd answer politely. Every time she'd smile. Every time she'd somehow end the conversation within thirty seconds and move on. It was like trying to hold water in his hands. And the worst part? She wasn't doing it to punish him. If she had been, maybe he could've argued. Maybe he could've fought. Instead, he had the horrible suspicion that this was simply what happened when somebody stopped trusting you with themselves.

The assistant interviews had become their own version of hell. Mostly because Jeff hated everyone. Every candidate was somehow wrong. Too inexperienced. Too nervous. Too corporate. Too eager. Too passive. Too disorganised. Too organised. At one point she'd genuinely started wondering whether Jeff was inventing reasons. The latest rejection had happened in a hotel conference room overlooking one of Amsterdam's canals.

The candidate had actually seemed good. Calm. Professional. Experienced. Exactly the sort of person she'd hire herself. The second they'd left, Jeff had rubbed both hands down his face. "No."

She stared. "What do you mean no?"

Jeff pointed toward the closed door. "No."

"That's not feedback."

"It's enough feedback."

"Jeff."

"He doesn't fit."

"What?"

"Whatever."

"Why?"

Jeff groaned. "I don't know."

"You absolutely know."

"I just know."

She leaned back in her chair. "Are you trying to keep me?"

Jeff immediately looked offended. "No."

The speed of the answer made her suspicious. "Jeff."

"I'm serious."

"Then what is it?"

He sighed heavily. Then looked out the window. Finally he said quietly, "You're making me realise how hard your job actually is. Or how much better you are than everyone else."

That caught her off guard because Jeff wasn't usually sentimental.

"You know Harry better than anyone." She looked away. Immediately. "You anticipate problems before they happen."

"That's called experience."

"No," Jeff said. "That's called you."

Silence settled between them. And she hated how much those words affected her. Because they touched something she hadn't been letting herself think about. The awful and humiliating truth. The truth she'd buried underneath all the heartbreak.

She didn't actually want to leave. Not really. That was the worst part. Because everyone kept acting like her resignation was some brave decision. Some empowered choice. As though she'd dramatically stood up for herself and walked away. When really? She'd been cornered. What exactly were her alternatives? Stay? Watch him build a future with someone else? Plan his engagement dinners? Schedule his holidays? Listen to him talk about wedding venues? Smile through it? Pretend she was okay? She couldn't do it. But that didn't mean she wanted to leave.

This had been her favourite job. These people had become her family. She was good at it, really fucking good at it. And some nights, lying awake in an unfamiliar hotel room, she found herself getting angry all over again. Because why was she the one losing everything? Harry still had the career. The friends. The team. The future. And she was the one quietly packing up her life. It felt profoundly unfair.

The day before opening night arrived far too quickly. Amsterdam buzzed outside the arena. Some fans camping out early. Inside, everyone was operating at maximum stress, which suited her perfectly.

Busy meant distracted. Distracted meant less thinking. Less thinking meant fewer opportunities to remember that Jade Monroe existed somewhere in the building.

Because yes. She'd been avoiding her, okay? Shamelessly. Professionally. Masterfully. Not enough to raise suspicion but just enough to keep distance. If Jade was expected at catering, she'd suddenly need to check lighting. If Jade was backstage, she'd mysteriously have production notes to review elsewhere. It was ridiculous. Juvenile. She knew it was completely beneath her and yet she'd managed three entire days without a proper interaction.

Unfortunately, she wasn't nearly as successful at avoiding thoughts. Those showed up whenever they wanted. She was halfway through reviewing transport schedules when Jeff appeared out of nowhere.

"Problem."

She didn't even look up. "What kind?"

"The bad kind."

That got her attention. He handed her his phone. She scanned the screen. Then closed her eyes. A major credentialing error. Two trucks. Three countries. Missing paperwork. The sort of logistical nightmare capable of derailing half a production day.

Jeff looked grim. "What do we do?"

She stared for exactly three seconds. Then reached for her phone. "Give me twenty minutes."

Nineteen minutes later it was solved. Three calls. Two emails. One favour from someone she'd worked with three tours ago. Done.

Jeff watched the final confirmation arrive and then looked at her. "I hate how good you are at this."

She smiled slightly. "That's because you usually only see the disasters."

For the first time all day, she found herself with nothing immediately demanding her attention. A rare occurrence. The arena was mostly empty except for crew and rehearsal staff. Music echoed through the cavernous space. And without really thinking about it, she wandered down toward the front of the stage.

Harry was rehearsing. The full lighting rig was running. Screens and stage illuminated. The scale of it all still managed to impress her. He moved through the space like he'd been built for it. Like every nerve in his body suddenly knew exactly where it belonged. And despite everything. Despite all of it. She still felt proud, that was the infuriating thing. She still wanted him to succeed and wanted the shows to be incredible. Still wanted fans to walk out talking about how amazing he was. That made everything harder. Because it would've been so much easier if she hated him.

The song ended. Harry laughed at something one of the band members said. Then hopped down from the stage. Sweaty. Slightly breathless and happy. And before she could talk herself out of it, she walked over.

Professional. Simple. Nothing more.

"How are you feeling?"

He looked surprised she'd initiated the conversation. "Uh. Good, I think."

She nodded. "Everything feeling alright?"

"Yeah." Another pause. Already awkward. Mostly from him. Never from her anymore.

"We'll probably wrap in about an hour," she said. "Then head back to the hotel."

He nodded. "Right."

A few months ago they would've filled ten minutes without trying. Now they stood there like strangers.

"So..." Harry said. Then stopped because he clearly didn't know where he was going.

She waited. Patiently. Professional. "Do you need anything before I head back?" she asked.

And there it was again. That distance. Like she'd already begun removing herself from his life piece by piece. Harry looked at her for a long moment. Long enough that she started wondering whether he'd heard the question.

Finally he said, "No."

His voice came out quieter than he'd intended.

She nodded once. "Okay." Then she smiled. Small. Polite. The same smile she'd been giving him for weeks. And somehow it hurt more than the screaming ever had. "Good rehearsal," she said.

Then turned and started walking away. Leaving Harry standing beside the stage. Watching her disappear back into the machinery of the tour. And realising, with a sinking feeling he still hadn't fully learned how to name, that he missed her most when she was standing right in front of him.

──────────────

The strange thing was that Amsterdam was exactly the sort of city Harry should have been enjoying. That thought kept occurring to him throughout the afternoon. The canals. The narrow streets. The late summer light reflecting off the water. The fact that, for the first time in weeks, there wasn't an immediate rehearsal to run to or a production meeting waiting around the corner. The day before opening night was always strange. Months of preparation suddenly gave way to a few hours of stillness, and nobody quite knew what to do with themselves.

Especially Harry because stillness had never really been his friend. He and Jade had spent most of the afternoon wandering without much of a plan. Stopping in little shops. Grabbing coffee. Taking pictures of things neither of them would probably look at again. It should have felt nice. And it did, mostly. That was the problem. Mostly.

Jade was funny. Easy to be around. Smart in a way that constantly surprised him. She had a habit of making observations about people that were so accurate they bordered on frightening. She challenged him. Made him think. Made him feel grounded in ways he hadn't always felt before. So why did he feel like there was a stone sitting in the middle of his chest?

The answer annoyed him because he already knew it. Or at least he was starting to. The realisation had been arriving slowly over the past few weeks, like water wearing away rock. Not all at once. Just little moments. Little absences. Little losses.

The thing was, he missed her. And the more he thought about it, the more complicated that statement became. Because he didn't miss her in the way everyone would assume, or maybe he did. He wasn't entirely sure anymore.

He missed talking to her. Missed the ease. Missed the fact that she used to fill every spare corner of his life without him ever consciously noticing. Now every interaction felt measured. Professional. Like she was talking through glass. And for the first time in years, Harry was realising just how much he'd relied on her. Not because she was his assistant. Because she was her.

"Harry." He blinked. Looked up. Jade was staring at him, amused. "You didn't hear a word I just said."

"What?"

She laughed. A proper laugh. "Oh my God, you actually didn't."

"No, I did."

"You didn't."

"I did."

"What did I say?"

Harry opened his mouth. Then immediately closed it again.

Jade pointed accusingly. "See?"

He rubbed a hand across his face. "Sorry."

"What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing."

"That's a lie."

They continued walking along the canal. For a moment neither of them spoke. Then Jade bumped her shoulder lightly against his. "You nervous about tomorrow?"

That was probably the easiest answer. And maybe part of the truth. "Yeah."

She nodded. "I figured. First show."

"First show."

He looked out across the water. People drifted past on bicycles. Tourists sat outside cafes. The city felt entirely unconcerned with his personal crises. Lucky fucking city.

"You'll be amazing tomorrow."

Harry smiled faintly. "Thanks."

"You always are."

He looked over at her. She smiled back. And for a second he felt guilty because she was standing right here. And his mind was somewhere else. With someone else.

Jade studied him for another second. Then asked quietly, "Everything okay?"

The question landed differently because it wasn't really about the show anymore. Harry hesitated just long enough for Had to notice.

"Harry."

"I'm fine."

Another lie. A softer one. But a lie all the same.

Jade slipped her hand into his. "You're allowed to be stressed."

"I'm aware."

"Just making sure." A small smile, then she squeezed his hand. And they kept walking.

Dinner was scheduled for seven. Nothing formal. Just a pre-show gathering. The crew crew of the band and management. A few production people. The kind of dinner that happened before every major tour leg. A little celebration to get out that nervous energy. A reminder that they'd all somehow survived another impossible production schedule.

By the time Harry and Jade arrived, most people were already there. The restaurant buzzed with conversation. Laughter. The clink of glasses. The familiar chaos of tour people finally sitting still for five minutes. Harry greeted people automatically with hugs, handshakes, jokes. The usual. But his eyes were already searching before he'd even consciously realised it. Scanning the room. Looking for... her. And then he saw the empty seat near the end of the table.

His stomach did something strange. Because obviously she should be here. Why wouldn't she be here? This was her crew too. Her people.

Harry found himself glancing toward the restaurant entrance. Once. Then twice. Then a third time.

Nobody else seemed concerned. Drinks arrived and menus appeared, and there was still no sign of her. Eventually Jeff slid into the seat beside him already looking tired. Harry barely waited ten seconds. "Where is she?"

Jeff immediately looked amused. "Took you less than a minute."

Harry ignored that. "Seriously."

Jeff reached for a glass of water. "There was a problem."

Of course there was. There was always a problem.

"What kind?"

Jeff laughed. "The kind that makes me grateful she exists."

"She'll be here?"

"Maybe."

Harry looked over. Jeff was still drinking his water. He seemed completely casual. Too casual.

"You don't think she will."

Jeff set the glass down. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly. "Honestly? No." Jeff sighed. "There was some transport issue with one of the support teams."

"Is it fixed?"

"Probably."

"Then why isn't she here?"

Jeff gave him a look. The kind of look that made Harry instantly regret asking. Because he already knew. The transport issue wasn't the reason, it was simply the excuse. The acceptable answer. The convenient answer. The professional answer. The real answer sat underneath it.

She didn't want to be here. Not really. Not if she didn't have to be. Not if she had a choice.

There had once been a time when she would've been the first person through the door. The loudest laugh at the table. The one teasing the band or stealing food off people's plates. The one rolling her eyes whenever Harry got too much attention.

Now? Given the choice... She'd rather stay somewhere else. Away from him. Away from whatever seeing him and Jade together might feel like. And suddenly the empty chair became impossible not to look at.

People kept talking around him. Someone told a story about rehearsal and then the band started arguing about a setlist change.

The evening carried on exactly as it was supposed to and yet Harry found himself glancing toward the door anyway, every few minutes without meaning to, without thinking. The seat remained empty and somewhere deep down, beneath the frustration and confusion and guilt he'd been carrying for weeks, another feeling finally started taking shape. It wasn't jealousy or regret. It wasn't even heartbreak. It was something worse, consequence. Because for the first time since all of this started, he wasn't looking at what he'd lost, he was looking at a choice she was actively making. A choice to be somewhere else, a choice to stop showing up for him unless she absolutely had to.

And sitting there surrounded by people, with Jade beside him and opening night less than twenty-four hours away, Harry found himself staring at an empty chair and understanding something he'd been avoiding for weeks. She wasn't pulling away, she was already gone and he just hadn't caught up to it yet.

──────────────

The knock came at half past eleven. It wasn't loud but persistent, three knocks followed by three more. She stared at the hotel room door from where she was sitting on the edge of the bed, creaming her legs. For a moment she genuinely considered pretending she wasn't there because she already knew who it was. Nobody else knocked like they expected to be let in, nobody else would be standing outside her room this late.

She closed her eyes briefly, sighed and then stood. Immediately hating herself for standing. The walk to the door felt longer than it should have and when she opened it, there he was. Hands shoved into the pockets of a hoodie, hair a mess, looking strangely uncertain.

For a split second neither of them spoke and then Harry finally cleared his throat. "Sorry."

Her stomach dropped. Not because of the apology but because he knew this wasn't going to be good.

"What do you need?"

He glanced down the corridor and then back at her. "I need help with tomorrow."

Her brain immediately switched gears from personal to professional. "What happened?"

"The schedule."

"The schedule?"

"Yeah."

She frowned. "What about it?"

"I just wanted to run through—"

"Harry."

His mouth closed because she knew him, and she knew that wasn't why he was here. Not even remotely.

She folded her arms. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened."

"Then why are you here?"

Another long silence as Harry looked away toward the carpet, toward the wall. Anywhere but her.

She knew and the exhaustion that followed was almost physical. "Harry..."

He looked back up. "I don't need help with the schedule."

"No shit." The words came out sharper than she'd intended but she was tired, so fucking tired.

Harry rubbed a hand across his face and then quietly said, "I need you to talk to me."

She actually laughed because it wasn't funny, it was unbelievable. "What?"

"I need—"

"No, I heard you. Harry," she said carefully, "what is going on?"

His jaw tightened. "You weren't there."

Ah, the dinner. She looked away briefly and then back at him. "Harry."

"You weren't there." His voice cracked slightly. "We always do a tour dinner."

She closed her eyes. "Harry, please."

"We always do one."

"I know."

"And your chair was empty." The words landed strangely because they sounded so absurd compared to everything else. "Your chair was empty," he repeated. "And I kept looking at it."

She stared at him and then shook her head. "No." Her voice dropped low, more exhausted than angry. "We are not doing this."

"We are."

"Harry."

"We are!"

The force behind it surprised both of them. For a moment silence filled the hallway and then she straightened, like she suddenly remembered who she was, who she had been before all of this. And when she spoke again her voice was cold and controlled. "You better fix your fucking tone."

Harry blinked. "What?"

"You heard me."

"No, I—"

"You better check who you're speaking to because you will not be standing outside my hotel room yelling at me."

"I'm not yelling—"

"You are."

"I just want to talk."

"And I don't."

The silence that followed was brutal because neither of them moved and neither of them backed down. She pointed toward the elevator. "Go."

Harry laughed once, disbelieving. "No."

Her eyes narrowed. "No?"

"That's right. No." He stepped forward slightly. "I want to talk."

Her jaw clenched. "I don't care."

"You can't keep doing this."

Something dangerous flickered across her face. "What?"

"You can't leave."

And immediately Harry knew he'd said the wrong thing. The very second the words left his mouth her entire expression changed.

"Oh." The single syllable was devastating. "That's what this is?"

"No."

"'You can't leave'?"

"That's not what I meant."

"No, go on." Her voice was getting quieter now which made everything feel worse. "Explain."

"I meant... you're my assistant."

There it was. The mistake. And it was like the final thread holding something together had finally given way.

"Oh." She laughed, a tiny laugh. "So that's what we're doing."

"That's not what I meant! You know what I meant."

"No, Harry." Now her voice was shaking. "Actually I don't."

She stepped back into the room, running both hands through her hair and laughing again. The sound was horrible because it was completely humourless. "First you push me into talking about your engagement when I specifically told you I didn't want to."

"Because—"

"No." She pointed at him. "No. You're going to listen."

And for the first time since he'd arrived, Harry shut up. Because something was happening, the dam was finally breaking. Everything she'd swallowed and buried. Everything she's tried to survive quietly... it was all coming up now. And neither of them could stop it.

"You pushed me." Her voice shook violently. "I told you I didn't want to talk about it and then you pushed and pushed and pushed because you need something from me." Tears were gathering in her eyes. "You wanted reassurance and understanding. You wanted me to tell you it was okay."

"I didn't—"

"You did!" The words cracked through the room. "You absolutely fucking did." She took a breath and then another but none of them seemed to help. "And then I gave it to you. I gave you everything."

The tears finally started falling and Harry felt sick. She was right.

"I poured my fucking heart out." The words were spilling now, faster, harder. "I stood there and told you exactly how much you'd hurt me and somehow nothing happened. Nothing blew up. The earth didn't split open. The sky didn't fall. You got stay engaged and everybody moved on. Tour kept happening." She wiped furiously at her face but it didn't make a difference as more tears replaced them.

"And now you're standing here." Her voice cracked. "And now somehow this is about you."

The silence afterward was awful. Harry felt every word like a punch, but some selfish, broken part of him was still thinking, at least she's talking to me.

At least that was something. And that realisation alone made him feel disgusting.

"That's not fair."

The second he said it he regretted it because her expression changed completely and she laughed, a full laugh this time. Completely incredulous.

"Oh my God! Not fair?"

Harry immediately knew he should stop talking but he didn't, he couldn't. "You're leaving." And that was the selfish thing he'd been circling for weeks.

Her face twisted with disbelief. The words came out almost as a whisper, "oh my God." Then louder. "OH MY GOD! What is wrong with you?"

Harry froze. "What?"

"No seriously." She pointed at him, her voice breaking apart. "What is wrong with you? You've turned this into some forbidden romance and it's not."

She was crying openly now. There was no restraint, no dignity left. There was just pure devastation.

"It's not some tragic fucking love story. It's a betrayal. You're a fucking coward."

Harry physically flinched. She saw it but she didn't stop. "Do you know what the worst part is?" Her voice dropped lower and she mocked the exact cadence and tone of how he'd said it. "'When you know, you know.'"

Weeks ago.

And suddenly Harry heard himself. Really heard himself.

"'When you know, you know,'" she repeated, laughing through tears. "'When you know, you know.' Fuck you."

The room went completely silent. She shook her head, over and over, like she couldn't believe he was real. "You completely minimised everything we ever had."

Harry couldn't speak, couldn't move, couldn't breathe.

"It wasn't casual for me." The words came out broken and raw. "I know that's humiliating to admit." A laugh, a sob, something in between. "But it wasn't. You had to know that."

Harry looked away because he had known. Somewhere deep down, he'd known.

"You can't be that delusional." The tears were streaming now while she shook her head. "I don't know what you want from me anymore. You took everything."

And suddenly the room felt impossibly still because she wasn't yelling anymore.

"You got the beautiful fiancée. You got the career. You got everyone's support and love and congratulations." She took in a shaky breath and exhaled. "You even still got me, who keeps your entire life running."

She laughed weakly, standing there completely shattered. The tears wouldn't stop, nothing would stop. "And what did I get? What did I get, Harry?" Her voice finally broke completely, sobbing. "I got humiliation. I got... displacement. I got this fucking pit in my stomach that won't go away." She pressed a hand against her chest like it physically hurt.

"I feel like somebody ripped my heart out." Harry closed his eyes. "Then put it back just so they could rip it out again every fucking morning when I wake up. And then I get unemployment." The laugh that followed was horrific. It wasn't even remotely funny. "And I lose you. I lose the person I thought was my friend." Her shoulders shook. "My best friend."

Harry couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this ashamed. And then the feeling got worse.

"I'm paying for your consequences."

The words settled over the room, over both of them. Harry understood enough. Enough to see it, the scale and destruction. The selfishness, the cowardice, the way he'd kept taking and taking and taking because it was easier than making a choice. And how she'd been left carrying every consequence. Alone.

She wiped her face. Once, twice, three times, desperately trying to pull herself back together. She looked at him, completely exhausted, and quietly said, "I'd like you to leave."

Harry didn't move. She swallowed and then whispered, "Please."

The word nearly destroyed him because she'd spent weeks angry. Weeks hurt, weeks fighting. And now she was just... begging.

"Please, Harry." Her voice cracked again. "I am begging you. Just give me one thing." Another tear. "I need you to leave."

And for the first time since he'd arrived, he listened. He nodded once, turned and walked out. The hotel room door closed behind him with a soft click, and he was left freezing in the corridor. He stood there for a second, or maybe ten and then started walking toward the elevator.

When he finally reached his room he stopped outside his door, hand hovered over the handle. Inside, Jade was waiting. His fiancée, his future. Everything he'd convinced himself he wanted. And for the first time since all of this started, Harry truly understood the magnitude of what he'd destroyed to get there.

Not because he'd chosen Jade or because he's fallen in love, but because somewhere along the way he'd convinced himself that the things he didn't choose would simply stay where he'd left them.

Waiting. Available. Unchanged.

And now they weren't and she was gone. Not physically, not yet, but emotionally. And standing alone in the hotel hallway, hand resting uselessly against the door, Harry finally understood that some losses don't happen all at once. Sometimes they happen slowly, one choice at time until eventually you're standing in front of the life you built and all you can think about is the person who isn't in it anymore.

──────────────

Harry slept for maybe two hours. They weren't consecutive hours, instead, two scattered, useless hours spent drifting in and out of consciousness while staring at the hotel ceiling and replaying every single thing she'd said to him.

The show was tonight. The first show. Amsterdam.

The thing he'd spent months building toward, the thing he'd spent weeks rehearsing, the thing he should have been thinking about. Instead all he could hear were the words I'm paying for your consequences. Over and over, like a song stuck in his head. It was like a sentence his brain had decided he deserved to listen to on repeat.

By five in the morning he'd given up entirely and carefully left the bed, pulling on running clothes. He ignored the fact that his body felt exhausted and the fact that his chest felt tight in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with his fitness level. And then he was running.

At first he told himself it was about clearing his head but by the ninth kilometre he realise that was bullshit, and by the fourteenth he realised he was actively trying to punish himself.

Every time his lungs started burning and his legs got heavier and his body started protesting, it felt deserved. Good. A consequence.

Amsterdam was quiet at this hour. The canals reflected the pale morning sky, shop owners were beginning to unlock doors. They were normal people living normal lives, and Harry felt like he'd accidentally become somebody he didn't recognise. Thoughts started arriving suddenly and refused to leave.

Who the fuck am I?

Because seriously... who was he? What kind of man got engaged while sleeping with someone else? What kind of man expected the woman he'd hurt to congratulate him? What kind of man heard somebody say you've broken me and somehow still spent weeks wondering why she was pulling away?

His feet pounded against pavement. Harder, faster. His breathing becoming ragged. Harder, faster.

He thought about her standing in that hotel room and about the way she'd been crying so hard she could barely get words out. She'd physically struggled to breathe, and he had to just stand there and take it. She stood there looking completely destroyed while he stood in front of her somehow still thinking they could have a conversation that would make him feel better.

The shame hit so hard he almost stopped running entirely.

The awful thing was she was right. Not about some of it, about all of it. Every single thing, every single fucking word. The realisation presented itself, bright and ugly and impossible to ignore. He'd spent weeks thinking the problem was that she'd misunderstood him, thinking the problem was just a little communication. That the timing was the problem. And now he was beginning to understand that the problem was actually him. Entirely him.

Dickhead.

Because somewhere along the line he'd convinced himself that because he cared about people, he couldn't possibly be hurting them. As if good intentions erased consequences and the affection he gave her erased the dishonesty. That saying I didn't mean to somehow changed what he'd done.

He slowed slightly as his stomach twisted, just to speed up again, because slowing down meant thinking and thinking meant hearing her voice.

You got the beautiful fiancée. You got the career. You got everyone's support. You even still got me.

How had he heard that and not immediately fallen through the floor? How had he stood there while she listed everything she'd lost? Because she was right, again. She lost him, not just romantically, but as a best friend. That's two losses in one and somehow he'd spent weeks focusing on the fact that she was leaving instead of the reason she was leaving.

The reason being:

Him.

It wasn't because of financial or geographical circumstances. It wasn't because she found a new job or had a family emergency. It was him. His choices and cowardice. His inability to decide what he wanted before dragging two people through it.

He stopped running and slammed his hands on his knees, breathing hard while sweat dripped onto the pavement. And for one genuinely terrifying second he wondered whether he was having some kind of breakdown, panic attack or an identity crisis. Maybe all three.

Every version of himself he'd carried around in his head suddenly felt incompatible with reality. The Harry who cared about people, who valued honesty, who always tried to do the right thing. Those things couldn't possibly coexist with the reality of what he'd done, not without some serious mental gymnastics. And he was suddenly too tired to keep performing them.

"Fucking idiot."

The words came out loud, to nobody but himself. To whatever higher power was apparently watching this disaster unfold. "Need a fucking lobotomy."

By the time he got back to the hotel he looked awful. After a twenty kilometre run he was sweaty and exhausted, but this was different, he was emotionally hollowed out.

He bypassed the elevator entirely, taking the stairs and walking straight toward Mitch's floor. He didn't text or call, just showed up, because if he went back to his room he'd have to think and if he thought any more he was genuinely worried he might lose his mind.

The door opened after the second knock. For a moment neither say sad anything and then Mitch's eyebrows slowly climbed upward. "...you look terrible."

"Yeah."

"Morning to you too."

Harry looked past him to see Sarah gathering things near the door. The kids were putting shoes on, breakfast plans... normal life. Something about it made his chest hurt.

Their oldest spotted him immediately. "Uncle Harry!"

Harry managed a smile. "Hey, mate."

The younger one waved enthusiastically and for a moment everything felt absurdly normal and then Mitch looked at him properly, and whatever he saw immediately wiped the amusement from his face.

"Hey. What's going on?"

Harry swallowed. "I need to talk to you."

Mitch nodded instantly. Didn't ask questions or joke, just nodded. Sarah looked between them once and reached the same conclusion just by looking at him. "Alright." She kissed Mitch's cheek and then squeezed Harry's shoulder as she passed. "Hi, H."

"Hi."

"Text me when you're done."

"Will do."

And then she ushered the kids out and the door clicked shut behind them. Mitch sat down on the edge of the bed while Harry remained standing, pacing back and forth. He was breathing unevenly and Match just watched patiently, waiting. After enough silence had passed, he eventually said, "This usually works better when you tell me what's wrong."

Harry laughed once but the sound was horrible, dragging both hands down his face until he finally looked at his friend. "I need you not to talk until I'm finished."

Mitch nodded. "Alright."

"And this can't leave this room."

Another nod. "You got it."

"I cheated on Jade."

The silence immediately felt heavy and it didn't help Harry that he told Mitch to not talk. Although he felt that might have been a better option then having to watch every emotion flash across his face anyway.

Confusion. Shock. Disbelief. Concern. Then nothing.

Harry kept talking and once he started he couldn't stop. Everything came out. Everything.

How it started. The hooking up. The late nights. The feelings. The blurred lines. The engagement. The finding out. The fight. The resignation. The hotel room. The crying. The breakdown.

Every ugly detail and selfish decision got brought into the room. Every justification he'd told himself at the time and the excuse that now sounded pathetic the second it left his mouth. The words all poured out, messy and unorganised. Desperate. And Mitch sat there listening, not interrupting once until eventually Harry reached the ending the room finally fell silent. A silence so complete Harry could hear his own pulse.

Mitch stared at him for a long time, taking his hat off to run through his hair, placing it back on his head. Then finally, "Harry."

His stomach dropped because Mitch almost never used his full name, not even when he was serious. "Harry. You didn't." It wasn't even a question, just disbelief. "You actually didn't."

Harry closed his eyes. "Yeah."

Mitch leaned back slowly like he needed physical distance from what he'd just heard. "Fuck." Neither spoke and then again, "Fuck."

Mitch rubbed both hands over his face and looked at the ceiling before looking back at Harry, like maybe he'd somehow become a different person overnight. "What were you thinking?"

Harry's laugh came out broken and humourless. "That's the problem."

"No seriously." Mitch leaned forward. "What were you thinking?"

"I don't know."

"No." Mitch shook his head. "You had to be thinking something."

"I wasn't."

Mitch stared at him, completely baffled. "My friend... my friend who I've known nearly ten years. Did this?"

Harry looked away, he couldn't meet his eyes. Mitch sat back, still processing, still trying to reconcile the person he knew with the story he'd just heard.

Eventually Harry spoke again, quietly. "What do I do?"

Mitch immediately laughed in disbelief. "What do you do?"

"Yeah."

Mitch looked at him like he'd grown another head. "What do you mean what do you do?"

"I need advice."

"Advice?"

Harry's jaw clenched. "Mitch."

"No." Now Mitch was shaking his head. "You seriously fucked up."

The bluntness hurt because Harry knew he'd earned it.

"I know."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"Do you really?"

The room went silent. Because honestly? Until yesterday maybe he hadn't, not fully. Mitch saw the hesitation immediately and let out a deep sigh. The sigh of a man discovering his friend is somehow far dumber than previously believed.

"I think you leave it alone."

Harry blinked. "What?"

"I think you leave her alone. I think you screwed up... and I don't think you can fix it."

Harry didn't want to hear it, in fact he hated hearing it because some part of him had still been looking for a solution. A conversation, a grand gesture, something, anything. Mitch wasn't offering one.

"It might just be done."

The room felt very small, very quiet and very real.

"I get that you care about her." Mitch paused before adding, "Actually. I'm not sure..."

Harry looked up sharply. "What?"

Mitch shrugged. "I don't know what you feel. Because honestly, mate?" Even I'm disappointed."

Mitch wasn't dramatic. He could let things go really easy and never seemed affected by anything. He wasn't judgemental or prone to speeches. So if Mitch was disappointed... fuck, that one hurt.

"Have you told Jade?"

The question hit like a truck and Harry immediately answered.

"What? No. Of course not."

Mitch stared and then frowned. "Why'd you say that like that?"

"What?"

"'Of course not.'" Mitch leaned forward. "That doesn't sound like you. You've always been honest." The irony was brutal. "You've always hated lying and now I'm sitting here finding out you've played two incredible women."

Harry felt physically sick. Mitch shook his head slowly, almost sadly.

"You don't deserve either of them right now. I don't know what to say."

Harry swallowed hard. Mitch stood and walked toward the door, stopping to turn back and look at him. "I don't think you're a bad person."

The relief lasted maybe half a second before Mitch kept speaking. "But right now? I don't know, man. I don't know who the fuck you've been these last few months. You can't fix this." He paused for a second before continuing. "I don't blame her for tearing you apart last night. Wish I was dramatic enough to do the same." He smiled weakly before the situation wiped it immediately.

"Bro. That's not you. and I hope you've learned something because this version of you?" Mitch gestured vaguely. "This man?" He shook his head. "Not a fan."

And then he left, just like that. Breakfast with his family, real life, normal life. Leaving Harry alone in his hotel room, standing in silence.

The first show of the tour only hours away and all he could think about was how the worst thing about hurting somebody isn't the moment you do it, it's when you finally understand exactly what you've done and that you're never going to look at you the same way again.

──────────────

The thing about tour was that there was never really a place to be alone. There were places that were quieter than others, certainly. Places where people were less likely to bother you. Places where the noise of hundreds of moving parts became a dull hum instead of a deafening roar. But true solitude was almost impossible when you were travelling with a production that could fill an arena.

Which was precisely why she had claimed the abandoned dressing room three corridors away from the main backstage area the second she'd found it that morning. Nobody wanted it or needed it. The lighting was terrible, one of the mirrors didn't work, and there was a persistent buzzing noise coming from somewhere inside the wall. Perfect.

It had become her office for the day. Her sanctuary and her hiding place. She sat cross-legged in a chair that was slightly too low for the table, laptop open, phone balanced precariously beside a stack of schedules, transport manifests, flight confirmations and venue notes spread around her like evidence from a criminal investigation.

Outside, the arena pulsed with energy. Inside, she felt absolutely nothing. Or maybe that wasn't true, maybe she felt too much. The problem was that everything inside her seemed to be fighting for space at once.

She hadn't slept. After Harry left her hotel room she'd spent hours staring at the ceiling, replaying every second of the conversation and immediately hating herself for every word she'd said despite knowing every word had been true. There was something uniquely humiliating about grief once it had been witnessed. The crying was one thing, the begging was another, but the worst part was knowing Harry had finally seen it. Seen the extent of the damage and what she'd become. And somehow that made her feel exposed in a way she couldn't quite explain.

So she'd worked instead because work was predictable and made sense. People missed flights, equipment got delayed, schedules changed, problems appeared and problems got solved. Much different to emotions, people and Harry.

A burst of laughter echoed from somewhere down the corridor, then cheering, someone shouting something she couldn't make out. The sound travelled through the walls.

Family. Friends. Crew. Everyone gathering before the first show, excited and celebrating about the coming months of tour. And sitting alone in the dressing room, staring at a spreadsheet she'd already checked three times, she found herself feeling strangely disconnected from all of it.

Usually she loved this part, opening night always felt electric. Usually she'd be running around backstage with a ridiculous amount of adrenaline in her system, laughing with crew members, checking things that didn't need checking simply because she was too excited to sit still. Today it felt different. Today it felt like she was watching somebody else's life.

A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. She didn't bother looking up. "Come in."

The door opened and Jeff appeared. One glance at his face told her exactly why he was there. "No."

Jeff sighed immediately. "I haven't even said anything."

"You don't need to."

"You should come."

She kept typing. "Can't."

"Can."

"Won't."

Jeff folded his arms. "Everyone's there."

"That's lovely."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

Silence settled between them for a moment. Eventually she looked up and Jeff's expression softened slightly, because despite her best efforts she knew she looked rough. Dark circles, no makeup, hair hastily tied back. The general appearance of somebody who'd lost a fight against sleep and lost badly.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

The question lingered. She considered lying for a second but then she finally settled for, "I'm tired."

Jeff looked unconvinced but didn't push. "Come by for ten minutes."

"I have work."

"You always have work."

"Exactly."

He sighed again and then rubbed a hand across his face.

"Promise me you'll actually come watch the show."

That finally earned a small smile. "I'll be in the suite."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

Jeff pointed at her. "I'm holding you to that." Then he left her alone.

Eventually the sounds outside began changing as the hours passed, the pre-show chaos started settling into something more focused. People stopped wandering, conversations shortened and the nervous energy sharped because show time was getting close.

She packed up reluctantly, stacking papers into neat piles, shutting down her laptop, gathering cables and chargers and notes with the muscle memory of someone who'd done this hundreds of times before.

For a brief moment she allowed herself to imagine the next few hours. The show, the crowd, the lights, and Harry stepping onto that stage. Despite everything that had happened between them, despite how angry she still was and how hurt she still felt and how badly she wished none of this had ever happened, she found herself hoping the same thing she'd always hoped. That he'd be brilliant.

That he would remember why he loved it, that the fans would lose their minds and that he'd walk offstage smiling because some things apparently survived heartbreak. Hope.

She swung her bag over her shoulder and stepped into the corridor. Most people had already headed toward the audience so the backstage area felt oddly quiet now, like the calm before a storm.

She was halfway down the hall when she spotted Jeff standing outside Harry's dressing room. Knocking firmly and looking concerned. "H?" Nothing. Then he knocked again. "Harry?"

She slowed automatically and Jeff glanced over. "Oh thank God."

Something in his voice immediately set off alarm bells. Her stomach naturally tightened. "What's happened?"

Jeff looked back at the closed door. "I don't know. He seemed anxious earlier."

"Pre-show nerves?"

"That's what I thought." Jeff knocked again. "H. We've got ten minutes, mate." Nothing. The silence behind the door suddenly felt wrong. Jeff ran a hand through his hair. "He locked it."

For a second she considered continuing down the corridor and letting somebody else deal with this, anybody else. Then she thought about Harry and the conversation last night. Thought about the way he'd looked when he'd left. Thought about what today meant to him.

And before she could stop herself she sighed deeply, stepping forward. "Move."

As Jeff immediately got out of the way she knocked softly, once. "Harry." Nothing. "Harry, it's me."

There was nothing but silence while she closed her eyes. "Can you unlock the door so I can come in? Please?"

The pause felt endless and then, a click. She looked over her shoulder to Jeff, "I've got it."

Jeff hesitated. "You sure?"

No. But she nodded anyway. "Get everyone where they need to be."

The concern remained on his face for another second and then he finally walked away, leaving her alone with Harry. The second she stepped inside she knew something was wrong. It wasn't nerves, or normal nerves, the room looked like a tornado has passed through. Clothes everywhere, water bottles tipped over, a chair was knocked sideways, and Harry...

Harry looked awful. He was pacing back and forth across the room, hands in his hair, breathing too fast, with his eyes wide and unfocused. The second he saw her he started talking. Nothing was coherent.

"The show's going to be shit."

"What?"

"The dancing." He pointed vaguely. "The transitions. The stage. You."

That one caught her off guard. "What?"

"I don't know." He laughed, the sound cracked in the middle. "Everything's wrong." His breathing hitched. "I don't know what's wrong with me. They're going to hate it."

"No they aren't."

"The show's a mess. The lighting cue in act two—"

"Works."

"The stage lift—"

"Works."

"The band—"

"Works."

He dragged both hands down his face. "I am losing my fucking mind."

And there was the real reason. It wasn't the show or production and stage, it was him.

She stepped forward carefully. "Harry."

His breathing was getting worse. Faster, shallower. "I can't— I can't think."

"Look at me. Harry." Louder now. "Look at me."

Finally his eyes found hers and immediately she saw the panic. Raw, unfiltered. The kind that makes no sense while it's happening and perfect sense afterwards.

"Okay." Her voice softened, instinct taking over. "Just breathe."

His chest was rising too quickly and so she stepped closer, ignoring every instinct telling her not to.

"Come on." She took a slow breath, deliberately, to show him. "With me."

He tried, failed, and tried again. She stayed exactly where she was, patient and steady.

Again. And again. And again. Until eventually the panic began loosening its grip, his shoulders started to drop slightly and the room felt less like it was spinning. His breathing finally slowed and for a few moments neither of them spoke, the silence feeling fragile.

Then unexpectedly he started crying. It was filled with exhaustion, relief, and like everything was finally catching up with him. And before she could think better of it, before she could remember all the reasons this was a terrible idea, before she could stop herself—

She hugged him.

The second she did it she regretted it. Not because it felt wrong but because it felt right, and that was infinitely worse. For one horrible moment it felt like coming home, like muscle memory. Like every version of their relationship before everything exploded. His forehead dropped onto her shoulder and her eyes squeezed shut immediately.

This was a mistake, a massive mistake, but she couldn't bring herself to move. Not when he was shaking and looked this lost. Eventually she pulled back slightly and quietly said, "H."

He looked at her. Eyes red, face blotchy and completely wrecked. And somehow she still smiled. "You're going to do so well out there."

He laughed weakly. "I don't know."

"Yes you do." She tilted her head. "The stage is your home. You know that." He looked away while she continued. "Those people out there?" They showed up for you. Not just your family, your fans. They've been waiting for you. And if we're being honest, you've been waiting for them too."

Something softened in his expression.

"You love this." The words were quiet and certain. "You always have and you're going to be great. Which is really annoying, actually."

A weak laugh unexpectantly escaped him. Wet and broken and accompanied by a very unfortunate amount of snot.

"There we go."

He rolled his eyes. "Fuck off."

"See?" She pointed. "Better already." She stepped back fully this time, her professional armour sliding carefully back into place. "Right."

She grabbed a tissue box and threw it at him. "Let's get you looking presentable. Then we'll walk you to stage."

He nodded slowly. "Yeah. I'm going to freshen up."

"Please do."

He disappeared into the bathroom, the door clicking shut. And only then did she allow herself a long breath, one hand pressed briefly against her chest, steadying herself, because that hug had cost her more than she'd ever admit.

A few minutes later she opened the dressing room door, Jeff waiting nearby, pacing now. The second he saw her, he stopped. "Well?"

She nodded. "We're good."

Relief washed across his face instantly. "He alright?"

She glanced back toward the closed bathroom door and then back at Jeff. Something in her expression must have said more than words ever could because Jeff's face softened immediately. Understanding as if he suddenly saw the cost of it, the emotional labour and the exhaustion.

The fact that no matter what had happened between them, she'd still walked into that room and put him back together because that was who she was. And because somewhere along the line she'd loved him enough that she probably always would, even when she wish she didn't.

"Ten minutes?" Jeff asked quietly.

She nodded. "Ten minutes."

And together they waited for Harry to come out and become himself again.

──────────────

The suite was already half-full by the time she slipped inside. Not crowded exactly, but busy enough that nobody paid much attention to her arrival, which was precisely how she preferred it. The entire arena was vibrating with anticipation now, the sort of energy that only existed a few minutes before a show began, when thousands of people were collectively waiting for the same thing and the air itself seemed to hum with it.

She paused briefly near the entrance and immediately spotted Jade. It felt like her eyes were drawn there against her will.

Jade was sitting beside Anne, leaning toward her as they spoke, both of them smiling at something that had clearly happened before she'd arrived. Anne's hand was resting lightly on Jade's arm, comfortable and affectionate in that way Anne was with people she liked, and something deep in her chest gave a sharp, unpleasant twist before she could stop it. Jealousy.

How embarrassing after everything. After all the anger and devastation and heartbreak and humiliation, after the screaming and crying and dramatic declarations and hotel room breakdowns, apparently she'd graduated into an entirely new phase of grief. Wonderful.

She smiled politely in Jade's direction when their eyes briefly met, with a quick nod of professional acknowledgment, then immediately crossed the suite and selected what was quite possibly the furthest available seat from where Jade and Anne were sitting. It wasn't childish, at least that's what she told herself.

As she settled into the chair, she found herself watching Anne out of the corner of her eye. That woman. Honestly, it was difficult not to love Anne. She was warm and kind and endlessly welcoming in a way that never felt performative. She remembered birthdays and checked in when people were struggling. Treated crew members exactly the same way she treated celebrities and somehow managed to make everyone feel seen. Which was why the jealousy felt particularly ridiculous. Because she wasn't jealous of Jade having Harry, not entirely. Right now she was mostly jealous that Jade had somehow inherited Anne too.

The most wonderful woman on the planet had apparently crossed enemy lines. Traitor. Though to be fair, there was one very strict rule she maintained at all times. Never be mean about Anne, ever. She was exempt from all resentment.

The lights dropped and the crow erupted. And suddenly all thoughts disappeared beneath a wall of screaming. The show had begun and for the first few songs she genuinely managed to lose herself in it.

The giant screens illuminated the arena in flashes of colour and movement. Fans screamed every lyric. The opening run of songs landed perfectly. Every transition worked. Every cue hit exactly when it was supposed to. And Harry...

Harry was annoyingly, infuriatingly good.She hated how much comfort she found in that. Because after everything that had happened, after all the crying and confusion and emotional destruction, she would've loved for there to be some cosmic balancing of scales. Some evidence that actions had consequences. Instead, he walked onto that stage looking like he'd been born there. His voice was clear, his timing was perfect, his confidence seemed effortless and the audience hung on every word. The bastard, of course he was incredible, because apparently life wasn't content with breaking her heart. It also needed to remind her exactly why she'd fallen for him in the first place.

Still, even while she watched, even while she sang along quietly beneath her breath without meaning to, her attention kept drifting elsewhere. Specifically to Anne and Jade. They were dancing happily, the way people dance when they're genuinely enjoying themselves and not worried about looking cool. Anne grabbed Jade's hand during one song and spun her around, Jade bursting out laughing. A few songs later they were swaying together, then hugging, then laughing again.

And every time she caught sight of it, something sharp twisted inside her chest. Not because they were doing anything wrong, that was the annoying part. Nobody was doing anything wrong. Jade wasn't cruel and Anne wasn't choosing sides. There was nowhere to put the resentment because nobody was trying to hurt her. So it just sat there, festering, like an itch she couldn't scratch.

At one point Jade picked up a glass of wine from the side table and for a brief, deeply immature second she found herself imagining knocking it straight out of her hand. Not violently, of course, just enough to make a point and cause a scene. Enough to make herself feel something other than this.

The thought lasted all of two seconds before she rolled her eyes at herself. She couldn't even be bothered anymore. The anger had been easier because at least the anger gave you somewhere to stand. Jealousy just made you feel pathetic.

She was watching Harry move across the stage during one of the slower songs when she became aware of somebody standing behind her. She turned and immediately found herself face-to-face with Anne, who was smiling.

"Oh no."

Anne laughed. "What?"

"That look."

"What look?"

"The one where you've already decided something."

Anne placed a hand dramatically against her chest. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Liar."

That only made Anne grin wider. "You've been avoiding me."

The accusation was delivered so casually that it almost caught her off guard. "I have not. I've been busy."

"You've been avoiding me."

She pointed toward the stage. "There's a show happening."

Anne folded her arms. "And?"

"And I am watching it."

Anne narrowed her eyes slightly and then leaned closer. "Is it because of my dance moves?"

The absurdity of the question hit her immediately and a laugh escaped before she could stop it. A real one. The first one all week.

"So it is my dancing."

"No, honestly," she said, still laughing. "You just looked like you were enjoying yourself."

Anne's expression softened slightly. "And you weren't?"

That landed a little closer to the truth than she'd expected and she looked back toward the stage. "I'm watching. And working."

Anne immediately gave her a look. The maternal one, the one that said she wasn't buying a word of this. Unfortunately, Anne had known her long enough to recognise deflection when she heard it. Still, mercifully, she didn't push and instead she simple opened her arms. And before she could protest, she was being pulled into a hug, an Anne hug. The kind that made everything hurt a little bit more because it reminded you what being cared for felt like.

"Oh, come here."

"I'm fine."

"Liar. You're terrible at lying."

She laughed weakly and Anne simply held her tighter, swaying them slightly to the music. Forcing her to sway.

"Anne."

"No."

"People can see us."

"I don't care."

The music continued around them. Fans screaming, Harry singing, the entire arena glowing, and for a brief moment she let herself just exist there. Then she gently extracted herself before she accidentally started crying in front of one of the nicest women alive.

A few songs later she slipped back into the suite itself to grab water. She crossed toward the refreshments table and reached for a bottle, freezing, because another hand reached for it at exactly the same moment. She immediately pulled back.

"Sorry."

"Oh!" She looked up and found herself staring directly at Jade, up close for the first time. Really up close. And that was unfortunate because Jade was beautiful. The kind of beauty that became more noticeable the longer you looked at someone. Warm eyes, easy smile. The sort of presence that made people feel comfortable which honestly felt rude at this point.

Could she not have been at least slightly awful? Just a little? As a treat?

"Sorry," Jade repeated.

"No, you're okay."

A brief silence settled between them and then Jade smiled brightly, saying, "Hi."

"Hi."

For a second neither moved and Jade laughed softly. "I've actually been looking forward to meeting you."

The words caught her completely off guard. "What?"

"Harry talks about you all the time."

Ah, the sentence she'd been dreading. Somehow it still hurt because all she could think was not enough, apparently. But instead she smiled politely, the professional smile she'd perfected over the years. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I feel like I already know you." Jade laughed again.

A strange ache settled somewhere beneath her ribs. She reached for a bottle of water, twisting the cap slowly to buy herself a second.

"It's funny."

"What?"

"It feels like Harry's been hiding you."

The comment landed exactly where she intended it to. Playful enough, harmless enough, true enough.

Jade laughed. "Oh, he's terrible for that."

You have no idea.

The thought appeared instantly. Uninvited and mean. She pushed it away.

Jade glanced back toward the stage. "It's an amazing show."

"Yeah."

"He worked really hard on it."

"We should probably get back out there."

"It was nice meeting you." God, Jade was so genuine, which somehow made it worse.

She forced herself to smile. "You too. Jade." Then she turned before the conversation could become anything else. Before she had to spend another second thinking about the fact that this woman had done absolutely nothing wrong.

Back in her seat she focused on the stage or at least she tried to. Harry was halfway through another song. The audience was losing their minds, everything was working exactly as it should have been, the show was brilliant, and all she could think about was Jade.

She was lovely. Kind. Beautiful. Normal. And suddenly jealousy felt far more dangerous than anger had ever been. Jealousy just sat there quietly and whispered ugly things.

Like how she knew every lyric without thinking or which songs Harry secretly worried about. She knew which bridge he'd rewritten five times in a hotel room because he hated the original version. she'd lived inside this music long before anyone else heard it. Not Jade.

Beside Anne, Jade smiled and swayed and clapped along and clearly enjoyed herself but every now and then she missed a lyric, or looked around to see what everyone else was doing. Or smiled through a moment she didn't fully understand.

And the jealousy loved that because it whispered, I know him better than you.

It was a horrible and unfair thought. She sank lower into her seat, annoyed with herself. Annoyed with Harry and the entire situation, because she'd thought she was still in her anger phase. And honestly that would've been preferable.

──────────────

A few days after opening night, she had found another hiding place. Tour had a funny way of creating temporary homes out of forgotten spaces. Every arena had them if you looked hard enough; abandoned production offices, unused dressing rooms, storage areas that had somehow escaped being claimed by lighting or wardrobe. Places where the noise softened enough for you to hear yourself think.

This one sat above the loading dock, tucked behind a maze of corridors and stairwells that nobody used unless they were actively trying to disappear. Which, admittedly, she was.

The room itself wasn't much to look at. A folding table. Three mismatched chairs. A vending machine that hummed loudly enough to be irritating but not loudly enough to force her elsewhere. Through a narrow window she could see trucks being loaded and unloaded below, crew members moving in practiced patterns as another show slowly assembled itself.

Her laptop was open, three different spreadsheets stared back at her. A coffee sat beside her, long abandoned and mostly cold, and despite appearances, she hadn't actually done any work for nearly twenty minutes. Instead she'd been staring at the same flight manifest while thinking about everything except flight manifests.

The knock at the half-open door was so light she almost missed it. She looked up automatically to see Mitch, and she immediately knew based on the look on his face. It was the same look people got when they accidentally learned something they wished they hadn't. A mixture of sympathy and discomfort.

For a second neither of them spoke, then she sighed softly and leaned back in her chair. "He told you."

Mitch shoved his hands into his pockets. "Yeah. And I want to be very clear that I'm not getting involved."

Despite everything, despite the exhaustion and the lingering sadness that seemed to follow her around these days like a second shadow, a small laugh escaped her. She didn't believe him, one bit.

"Right."

"I'm serious."

She raised an eyebrow and he raised one back, the standoff lasted approximately three second before both of them cracked.

"You're terrible at staying out of things."

"I'm actually excellent at it."

"No. You're not."

He pointed at her accusingly. "I haven't done anything."

"You came looking for me."

"That doesn't count."

"Fine," he said quickly, finding a seat opposite her and leaning forward slightly, "I genuinely mean it. Listen, he's my mate. You're my mate. He's made a complete mess of this and, to be completely honest with you, I don't want any part of it."

She smiled faintly. He continued.

"I'm not joking either. Sarah told me if I got involved she'd kill me."

That earned a bigger laugh. "Did she really?"

"Word for word."

"Poor you."

"I've got two children and a mortgage. I pick my battles."

The smile lingered for a second before fading. And just like that, the room settled back into something quieter. Mitch watched her carefully, just waiting.

It occurred to her suddenly that this might be the first conversation she'd had in weeks that wasn't about logistics. Or Harry. Or the engagement. Or replacing her. Because everyone seemed so focused on the event itself that nobody had really stopped to ask about the aftermath. Nobody had asked how she was carrying it because nobody knew.

Eventually Mitch spoke. "How are you actually doing?"

The question was so simple that it almost caught her off guard and for a moment she considered giving the usual answer, the greatest hits. Instead she found herself staring down at the coffee cup in front of her.

"I don't know." The words came out quietly and Mitch nodded, allowing her to continue. "I think the weirdest part is that everyone keeps acting like I'm doing this amazing brave thing."

She laughed softly. "They keep saying congratulations."

Mitch frowned. "Congratulations?"

"On leaving."

Another laugh, short and disbelieving. "They think I'm taking some incredible career opportunity." She picked at the cardboard sleeve around her coffee. "They think I'm taking a break or that I've decided to move on."

The smile she gave him this time was heartbreaking because it wasn't really a smile. "I'm not. I don't want to leave."

For the first time since she'd spoken, her voice cracked. Mitch didn't interrupt or rush to fill the silence, so she kept going, because once she started, it was surprisingly difficult to stop.

"I have a life here." Her eyes drifted toward the window, the trucks. "These people are my family and... I'm good at this. I love this job." The words came out stronger now, more certain but more frustrated. "And that's the part that nobody seems to understand."

She looked back at him, eyes bright, not quite crying. Not yet.

"Everyone keeps talking about it like I'm making this empowering choice."

The word itself sounded ridiculous, like something pulled from a self-help book.

"It's not empowering." The tears finally arrived then. The sort that appeared when you'd been holding yourself together for far too long. "It sucks."

Mitch's expression softened immediately after seeing the tears, but he still didn't interrupt, and she was grateful for that.

"I didn't win some self-respect award." A tear slipped down her cheek and she wiped it away, almost annoyed by it. "I felt like my life exploded. So now everybody's acting like I'm brave because I'm leaving. I'm not brave." Her voice grew quieter. "I just didn't know how to stay."

The room fell silent and for a long moment Mitch simply sat there, giving her the dignity of being heard. Eventually he leaned back in his chair and let out a slow breath. He nodded once, as though he'd reached a decision. "Okay."

She blinked. "Okay?"

"Tomorrow. You, me, Sarah, and my annoying children."

"Mitch."

"A park."

"No."

"Some bikes."

"Mitch."

"A completely unreasonable amount of snacks."

She laughed despite herself and he pointed triumphantly. "What was it? Did I reel you in with snacks? Or was it the bikes?"

"I'm not riding a bike."

"You absolutely are."

"I haven't ridden a bike in years."

"Perfect. You'll fit right in with my children then."

"Mitch."

"And before you say no, let me remind you that my children once spent forty-five minutes arguing over whether ducks have jobs."

She snorted, actually snorted, and Mitch looked delighted.

"You need this."

"I don't know if this is the 'this' I need."

"You need it." Mitch stood and smoothed down his jeans, pointed at her. "Ten o'clock."

"I'm not agreeing."

"Ten o'clock."

"I haven't said yes or no yet."

"You'll be there."

She rolled her eyes but she was smiling now. A real one. And as Mitch walked toward the door, she found herself wiping away the last of the tears that had escaped without permission, because for the first time in weeks, somebody had asked how she was doing and actually waited for the answer.

──────────────

The following morning, she seriously considered not going. Not in a locking-herself-in-her-room, turning-off-her-phone sort of way. Just in the quiet, exhausted way that heartbreak seemed to infect every decision these days, turning even the simplest plans into something that required effort.

By nine-thirty she was sitting on the edge of her hotel bed staring at a pair of trainers she'd already put on and taken off twice. By nine-forty she was trying to convince herself that Mitch would understand if she cancelled. By nine-fifty she was in the hotel elevator. And by ten o'clock sharp she was stepping into the lobby.

The second she appeared, a small voice shrieked. "YOU CAME!"

Before she could react, a tiny body launched itself at her legs. She looked down to find Mitch's eldest wrapped around her knees like an enthusiastic octopus.

"Oh."

The child looked genuinely relieved. "I thought you weren't gonna come."

Something inside her chest softened immediately. "And who told you that?."

The little girl gasped dramatically. "Daddy. He said you can be flakey but I don't know what that means."

"Well, that's rude."

"We can ride bikes together!" the little girl announced. "Daddy says you're not very good."

Across the lobby, Mitch nearly choked on his coffee. "Stop calling me out."

Sarah appeared beside them carrying the younger child, who immediately waved. "Hi."

"Hi."

"You're tall."

"Thank you?"

The little boy seemed satisfied by that answer and Sarah shook her head fondly. "Okay. Before anyone rides a bike or starts insulting anybody's athletic ability, we're getting pastries."

The eldest pumped a fist into the air. "PASTRIES."

"Inside voice."

"pastries...", she whispered slowly.

"That's somehow worse."

The little girl grinned. And just like that, they were off.

The morning unfolded with the sort of gentle chaos that only seemed possible when young children were involved.

Pastries were selected. One chocolate croissant was rejected because it looked "too chocolatey," which she hadn't previously realised was possible. The younger child became briefly convinced that orange juice was spicy. At one point both children spent nearly ten minutes debating whether birds had birthdays. Not whether they celebrated birthdays, whether they had them at all.

"Of course they have birthdays," she said eventually.

The eldest frowned. "How do you know?"

"Because everyone has birthdays."

The child considered this seriously. "What about worms?"

And just like that she found herself involved in a conversation about worm birthdays while Sarah tried desperately not to laugh into her coffee.

By the time they eventually reached the park, she realised something strange had happened. She hadn't thought about Harry for almost an hour. An entire hour. Surprising.Because for weeks every thought had somehow circled back to him eventually. Every conversation. Every decision. Every moment alone. And now she'd spent an hour discussing pastries and worms, which honestly felt healthier.

The bikes came next and unfortunately Mitch had been right. She was terrible, not disastrously, just a bit rusty. The sort of rusty that made children look at you with mild concern.

The eldest watched her wobble slightly before offering, "It's okay."

"Oh good."

"My grandad falls off his bike too."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

She looked over at Sarah and she immediately turned away to hide her laughter.

The morning sun reflected off the water as they rode slowly through the park paths, the children zig-zagging unpredictably in front of them while Mitch repeatedly shouted things like "WE STAY ON THE PATH" and "THAT ISN'T EVEN A BIKE LANE."

Nobody listened. Least of all the children. The younger one became fascinated by ducks which led to another conversation, this time concerning employment.

"Ducks don't have jobs."

"Why not?"

"Because they're ducks."

"But what if they want jobs?"

"Mate, I don't know."

The little boy frowned. "I think ducks would like jobs."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"What jobs?" A very long pause. Then, "Police."

She nearly rode into a hedge laughing.

At lunch they sat on a blanket beneath a tree while the children demolished sandwiches with great enthusiasm. Sarah hander her a drink. "You look better."

The comment caught her off guard. She looked up. "What?"

"You do." Sarah smiled softly. "Less haunted."

"Wow."

"I'm serious."

"I wasn't aware I looked haunted. Or that one could look haunted."

"You did."

The honesty made her laugh. But later, when nobody was looking, she found herself thinking about it. Less haunted... maybe. Because sitting here, surrounded by people who cared about her without expecting anything from her, she was beginning to remember something she'd forgotten. The world was bigger than this heartbreak. The grief had become so consuming that she'd accidentally started measuring her entire future against one person. Against one mistake. Against one relationship.

And sitting beneath a tree while a three-year-old proudly showed her a leaf that looked absolutely identical to every other leaf in existence, she found herself realising something that felt both obvious and revolutionary. Her life wasn't over. It was different, sure. Painful. But not over.

Later that afternoon, after ice creams and scraped knees and another argument about whether ducks could become police officers if they worked hard enough, they sat near the canal watching the children chase pigeons. The younger one had somehow acquired a flower. Nobody knew where from, or why, but he handed it to her fror no reason whatsoever. Just because.

She looked down at the tiny crushed flower resting in her hand. Then over at Sarah, then Mitch, and then the children. The sunlight reflected off the water while people laughed somewhere nearby. A bicycle bell rang in the distance.

And for the first time in weeks, she felt something that wasn't anger, jealousy or heartbreak. It was hope. It was small, fragile and still finding its feet, but it was hope all the same.

Not hope that Harry would choose her or that everything would somehow go back to normal. Just hope that one day she might wake up and this wouldn't hurt quite so much. That one day she'd stop measuring every future version of herself against a past version of them. That one day she'd become somebody who talked about this period of her life instead of somebody still trapped inside it.

And somehow, sitting beside a family she adored while two children attempted to negotiate a peace treaty between pigeons and ducks, it felt like enough.

──────────────

The following afternoon, the stadium was still waking up around her. That was always her favourite time of day in a venue. Before the crowds arrived. Before the noise. Before thousands of people turned an empty building into something alive.

There was a strange calm to those hours, when crew members moved quietly through corridors carrying coffees and clipboards, when production notes were still being adjusted and catering was only just beginning to fill with people.

The arena felt less like a machine then.

She sat in her usual spot, tucked away inside the abandoned dressing room she'd unofficially claimed over the last week. Her laptop was open in front of her, though she wasn't really working. A schedule sat on the screen, a spreadsheet beneath it and a half-finished coffee beside her.

Mostly she was just enjoying the quiet. Or trying to.

The day with Mitch, Sarah, and the children lingered pleasantly in the back of her mind. Every now and then she found herself remembering one of the bizarre conversations she'd had with them and smiling despite herself. The younger one had become convinced ducks should be allowed jobs. The older one had spent twenty minutes interrogating her about whether astronauts celebrated birthdays in space.

It had been ridiculous, but wonderful and normal. And for the first time in a long time she'd caught a glimpse of something she'd almost forgotten existed. A future. Not some grand reinvention of herself, just a future that didn't begin and end with Harry. The thought settled warmly somewhere in her chest.

Then came a knock at the door. "Come in."

The door opened, she looked up, and found Harry standing there. For a moment neither of them spoke, his eyes moving around the room slowly, taking in the scene. Finally he spoke.

"So this is the famous hiding spot."

The corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. "What famous hiding spot?"

"The one nobody could find you in."

A small smile appeared briefly. Gone almost immediately. "Well... you're here."

"I am."

The words settled between them. Neither uncomfortable nor easy. Harry stepped further into the room. Not enough to feel intrusive, but enough that she knew he wasn't planning on leaving immediately.

Which would have worried her a few weeks ago, back when every conversation between them felt like stepping onto a minefield.

Today felt different.

She closed her laptop slowly. "What can I do for you?"

The question was professional and automatic. A question she'd asked him a thousand times before.

Something shifted across his face at that. He seemed to realise something. The entire time... every conversation, every argument, every confrontation. He had been asking her for things. Understanding. Reassurance. Comfort. Forgiveness. Conversation. Permission to feel better. Permission to move forward.

And standing here now, looking at her sitting behind that folding table with a coffee growing cold beside her and a life she was still trying to piece back together, he understood with startling clarity that he had spent months taking and taking and taking from someone who had already given him more than she should have.

He swallowed and then said quietly, "I told Jade."

Everything inside her stopped. The room seemed to shrink, the sounds outside faded and even the humming vending machine disappeared. For a second she wasn't entirely sure she'd heard him correctly.

Harry looked down briefly before continuing. "I told her." His voice remained steady because he'd rehearsed this. Not the speech, but the honesty of his decision. The consequences. "I should've done it sooner."

The words came without hesitation and without excuses.

"I don't know what's going to happen." A small breath escaped him. "And honestly, I don't think that's really the point anymore."

She remained perfectly still, listening. Harry nodded slightly to himself.

"She deserved to know."

The simplicity of it made her chest ache because it was such an obvious truth. Such an infuriatingly obvious truth and yet it had taken all of this to get there.

"And..." he paused briefly. "You deserved for me to tell her."

For the first time since entering the room, he looked directly at her. Not as his assistant, or someone he needed something from, just as her.

"And it should've happened long before I asked her to marry me."

Neither of them looked away. Eventually Harry let out a breath, the kind that sounded as though he'd been carrying it around for weeks. Maybe months.

"You were right."

Something flickered across her expression. Harry continued before she could respond. He wanted to finish, to do this properly. The way he should've done so many things properly.

"You were right the whole time." His gaze drifted briefly toward the floor and then back to her. "About all of it." A small laugh escaped him btu it was humourless. "I think I spent so much time convincing myself I wasn't a bad person that I never stopped to think whether I was doing bad things."

There was no self-pity in his honesty, no request for reassurance. It was just the truth. The kind she'd been begging him to face from the very beginning. And somehow that mattered more than an apology ever could Because apologies were easy, recognition wasn't. Recognition required looking directly at the damage and accepting ownership of it.

Harry shifted slightly, almost awkwardly and then gave a small nod. "I just wanted you to know." His voice softened. "You don't need to say anything."

He wasn't waiting for forgiveness or absolution. Wasn't waiting for her to make him feel better. He'd come here to tell the truth. Nothing more, nothing less. It was like a knot finally loosening after being pulled impossibly tight. Harry glanced toward the door and then back at her one last time.

"Anyway."

The word sounded inadequate but maybe there weren't better words. He offered a small nod and then turned and walked toward the door.

He turned the handle and opened the door, and for a brief second she thought that would be it. That this would be the final version of them. Not together but not enemies. Just two people standing in the aftermath of something neither of them could change.

Then, just before the door closed, she heard herself speak. The words leaving her before she'd fully thought them through, almost lost beneath the noise of the corridor.

"Thank you."

Harry froze, one hand still resting on the door. His shoulders tightened briefly and for a second she thought he might turn around, thought he might say something. Anything. But he didn't.

Instead he stood there motionless, letting out a slow breath that sounded suspiciously like relief. Then he nodded once and stepped out into the corridor, the door closed softly behind him. Leaving her alone in the room once more.

The silence that followed felt different somehow. Not because everything was fixed and because she wasn't still hurt. There was just a sense that for the first time since all of this began, nobody was pretending anymore. The truth was finally sitting where it belonged, out in the open.

CHAPTER 1 > 11.7K wc

The pilot episode feat. a gangbang

When Harry was twenty two, if a dangerously overconfident, time-hopping doppelgänger had pulled up in a freaky, rubber balaclava ('listen, mate' — hand on the shoulder and everything, like the reenactment of a cliché, time-honored rite of passage), and told him that in the very near future, his Friday nights would be indefinitely spent wearing a Greek moniker in the form of a fetishized allusion, that he’d be garbed by a latex mask to protect the sacred, fragile veil of secrecy— Well. He'd probably get a head start for padded walls and a straight jacket. Consider he was doing himself a favor with that one. But if he were told the same thing at twenty three, he'd probably choose to overlook the minor detail of reality imploding and sit back in his armchair, swirling his whiskey with excitement. Twenty three was an eventful year. He’d started casually enjoying whiskey after a long workday (honestly, a palate milestone in and of itself) and became enlightened on the fine art of tactically-applied suffering (and with it, gained a whole new appreciation for high-quality restraints). Because sometimes, a well-placed bruise and bliss just happened to go hand-in-hand.

CHAPTER 2 > 17.3K wc

The one with a negotiation, boundary explorations, and banana flavored condoms

"I don't like inflicting pain to inflict pain," he tells her, then, smiling like they're talking about their favorite movies, "the same way you don't enjoy the pain of pain. It has to be backed by something, right? And for a masochist, that's pleasure, whether it's derived from a combination of the pain and physical pleasure, or arousal from dirty talk, or, I dunno, endorphins. S'all stuff I'm sure you're very self aware of." "Right," the young woman tells him, nodding. He's right— the pain, the pleasure derived from pain, it's all a sort of graceful balance on a wire spindled from a concoction. "And for you?" "For me?" "What makes you enjoy inflicting the pain?" "Your pleasure."

CHAPTER 3 > 14.9K wc

The one with the grape shoplifting, the commandments, Choose Your Own Adventure! (feat. CLANG and mysterious door no. 2), flogger versus tickling (the final showdown), and three(!) more orgasms than usual

"That's a lot of cherries." Isla turns. The man behind her is tall, attractive. She blinks. If his sculpted features, lightly moussed, coiled hair, and striking gaze hadn't already bewitched her into a wordless stare, the way he plucks and eats grapes, straight off the vine, straight from the bag, in the self checkout lane like an absolute maniac, would. She casts her gaze to her basket. There's a variety of items on her buy-list, like a lone jar of salsa and ...some unsightly, extra absorbent tampons— anyways, why is this stranger ogling the contents of her basket? There are, in fact, three plastic carts of cherries, stacked, which take up the majority of the space. She clears her throat, "Yeah there was, a, uh. Discount." "Was there?" She's still staring obnoxiously, and the man seems to catch on. He swallows the grape his strawberry mouth had closed around, lips curling softly as he expends a vague explanation, "I missed my lunch." She purses her lips slightly, head tipping forwards in an understanding nod, and attempts to ease her way into politely disengaging back into that aimless stare ahead. She can't do it. She just can't force herself to manually avoid scrutinizing Baldo's crack in the impending foreground. Anyways, the intrusive stranger is certainly easier on the eyes. "That's a— uh. A lot of grapes," Isla tells him after a beat. "Is it, really? D'you think?" The attractive stranger moves the back in his obnoxiously large palm as if weighing it contemplatively, "I'd say, 32 ounces, maybe. Well." The corners of her mouth buckle as he shoots it a sheepish glance and his pillowy mouth quirks in an obvious attempt to bridle a grin, "Less. Now."

CHAPTER 4 >13.1K wc

The one with the bracelet, the really bad day, Mr. Eros doesn't like hearing his own name, Harry: Bark like you want it (mention), and a mysterious set of knots

"Yeah. It's really pretty. So, I just use that little pin thing to take it off? Like, to shower?" The male peers up at her, pausing his handiwork, bemusement morphing the features she can see, "S'gold. You don't have to." "Right, but. Just to take it off," she clarifies, fully intent on giving him the benefit of the doubt despite the blatancy of the flags marking up the territory of the conversation, "For work, and stuff. You'll show me how to use the little key?" For a moment Eros just looks up at her, and then the corners of his mouth, a muted berry, buckle smugly, "No." No? Isla feels the shudder rolling down the knobs of her spine as the dominant licks out and leaves his bottom lip shimmery in the wake of his tongue, before clarifying, no jesting to his cadence, "It doesn't come off. Not for you. I'll have the key."

CHAPTER 5 > 11.4K wc

The one with the mysterious set of knots pt. 2, a house tour, regularly scheduled rope-swing shenanigans, and a very familiar pair of dress shoes

Isla thinks she's going to fall and crack her head open. So she tells him, brutally candid, "I'm going to fall and crack my head open," in an impressively even voice— it's beyond ludicrously impressive, honestly, given the way the cord vibrations are sending her nervous system through an earthquake. She should earn an award just for that. Harry's eyes slowly trail over her silhouette, more in a way to absorb the image than anything else. The concern, although valid considering her predicament, is a moot point— there are safety guidelines, of course, in place; one of which being safety distance. And, in accordance with the way her limbs are currently occupied (particularly with the way her hands aren't free to catch herself if she were to slip), by his calculation, the safety distance is at zero. Given that Harry has never been one to ditch precautions or any general rules involving the safety of a scene— that his hypervigilance is on max caliber and he's close enough to feel the warmth of her body heat radiating against him— the likeliness of her concern is quite literally the equivalent of the safety distance. Zero.  The dominant's amusement suffuses through the form of a head tilt, a soft curl to his mouth, a scoff. His counterclaim offers no comfort, "No you won't. You'll just get rope burn."

CHAPTER 6 > 19.4K wc

The one with the birth of the infamous yada yada, Isla "what happens at three?" Cleery, the glove (singular!) comes off, a very jittery ottoman, a cane, and some (unwholesome) late night talking

"Okay, okay, okay, I'll count right!" she smacks the back of the armchair with the heel of her palm softly in resolve. Her toes curl. Harry's tongue peeks out from his mouth to swipe, "Will you?" "Yes." "Yes, what?" Isla's head twists over her shoulder, "...Yes, Sir." He lifts the strap and gestures at her threateningly, "Yada yada me one more time. I dare you. Eyes ahead." She doesn't say anything, for once, and her head pivots back towards the wall obediently. Harry steps back, pleased. And then he hits her with the strap just as she starts to say, "yada, yada," so her insubordination morphs into a squeal, and that's just divine timing, Harry thinks. Isla blows out a breath, starting over, "One—" and grunts when he smacks her again. "Just couldn't help yourself, could you? That doesn't count," he tells her, tone firm, and if Isla wasn't in her current predicament, she'd laugh at how sober and dark he sounds when he tells her, "You yada yada'd me."

CHAPTER 7 > 18.5K

The one with another house tour, a ...vivid imagination, the rise of the green-eyed monster, Harry "your actions have consequences" Styles, the importance of taking breaks, now kiss Barbies, and "what the fuck?" honorable mention

"But between you and me," Faunus leans forward a smidge, elbow braced over the marbled bar countertop, "This one's a bit of a handful." Harry grins politely. Yeah, the reminder that this man has manhandled his submissive in the same manner he has makes him go a bit neon green. What the fuck. And Isla— she just squirms against him. Harry's well aware that the nonchalant small talk regarding her, with no acknowledgement, like she's not stood in the midst of the conversation, riles her in a filthy way. And Faunus seems to know this tidbit of information, too— his irises, glinty under the lights overhead, slink from Harry to Isla and back again. It's a subtle motion, but it shows Harry enough. The dominant's mouth quirks, gaze subtly steely in the narrowing of his half-mast lashes. "Mm. Well, between you and me," the hand that'd previously settled on her waist slips up to her hair, cards through past the nape of her neck, digits entangling in the roots, "she knows her place with me," Harry shoots her a look, and tugs firmly by slowly tightening his fist. It's a subtle motion— but the pinpricks of pain that burst over her scalp, as a result, have her pulse quickening. And Harry knows. He knows and his lips nearly crook up, but he curbs his smirk. And Faunus can ogle all he wants— but he can't touch. Can't draw the same reaction from her. That thought has satisfaction blooming in his chest. "Don't you, darling?"

CHAPTER 8 > 17.6K

The one with (more) brewing emotions, a ham and cheese croissant, an oatmilk latte, a book about pain-slut-ism, the discovery of villain origins, and another exploration of boundaries

"You," his tone becomes more ...suggestive, growing lower as the conversation dips into more lighthearted territory, "always treat me like an evil, little ...demon for getting off on the marks. But it looks like you and I are one and the same, after all." Isla's unable to stifle the bark of nervous laughter that leaves her cheeks teeming with warmth at the insinuation. She leans back from him a bit, because— no, "Oh— we are not the same. And you are like an evil, little demon." "Well, that's just impolite.""You are— it's like," she pauses, unable to come up with a credible argument, and she scoffs, motioning with the hand that'd so fondly brushed over the bridge of his nose only moments prior as the corners of the man's mouth buckle in dirty knowing. "It's like...?" "Well, it's different!" the young woman exclaims, but she's not the least bit convinced by her own statement, even when she tags on, "It's different because I don't get off on leaving them on other people— therefore, I am not an evil, little demon." "Now you're just kink shaming— that's quite rude, you know," the dominant tells her, raising his eyebrows and feigning seriousness despite the obvious nature of their banter. She knows him far too well to fall for it, anyhow. "Why does either of us have to be the evil, little demon?" "I guess—" again, the young woman's shoulders rise in a shrug, "Neither of us has to be. But those were your words," she points with her index at his chest, the pad of her finger digging into the linen a bit, "not mine." "Exactly," Harry lifts the palm that isn't gripping and manhandling over her thigh to motion and cocks his head, eyes rolling in with exaggerated mirth, "Neither of us has to be. So you agree?" "Agree...?" He ducks his chin, a crease between his eyebrows behind the rubbery hood, "That we're just two sides of the same coin?"

CHAPTER 9 > 19.7K

The one with a sprinkle of consensual violence, the cane, feelings-ish (that Harry buries in pussy), and the D word

It's not a premeditated notion; what happens next. It's actually got a sort of a ...chaotic energy to it, considering they haven't discussed that. And it feels out of the blue, even for her, because she hasn't called anyone that, since Dan Sever— who had a kind of preference. It's sort of expected, when he says things like want my mouth between those pretty thighs and fill you up, get you all messy again after. It's a no brainer. It grows and looms over her— the give— consuming, and it creeps up her throat before she has half a mind to bridle it. And when she says it, she sounds absolutely wrecked. "Daddy..." For a moment, Harry is quiet. He's warm and firm against her, and his fingertips twitch over her chest. But he's quiet, is the thing, as if letting the title sink in and process. Because that's— yeah. That one sounds nice. He hasn't heard that one in a while, and never from Isla. But it sounds so pretty falling from her mouth. It wakes something in him, something hungry and desperate and sharp. Daddy.

CHAPTER 10 > 15.9K

The (wholesome) one with the date, Harry's Twilight theory, a one-on-one lesson on chopstick use, and secrets not being secrets

"Don't look at me," he chastises playfully, bridling soft laughter. Flirtatiously. He's cocky— it's all meant to make a dig at the fact that she's been caught ogling. Her hand twitches in his grasp, a tad flustered. Harry notices. He wears a knowing, little grin when he nudges with his chin, returns his gaze to his handiwork, and tacks on, softly, "Look at the chopsticks. M'teaching a very important lesson, here."  It comes out before she can stifle it. It's meant to be a joke— a joke. But when the "Yes, Sir," soft and exaggerated in its tone, slips from her mouth, the sentiment that registers with Harry isn't humorous, at all. Well. It's a little humorous— the way the press of his fingers tightens, momentarily, over her own hand, the way his sight flickers to her face as he blinks, only to find her mouth sealed and her cheeks painted in pink. The way he diverts his sight back to the tabletop. Isla's own eyes skid away. Fuck. Fuck. Harry clears his throat.

The thing no one tells you about grief is that eventually, quietly, almost offensively, life starts asking things of you again. Emails still arrive. People still expect replies. Coffee still goes cold if you leave it untouched too long. The world does not pause long enough for you to become ready.

At first, Wren had hated that. The normality of everything had felt cruel after Cliff died, like the universe had missed something monumental. But now, sitting by the window of a crowded café three weeks after her birthday with two open emails on her laptop and her tablet next to her, she realised she didn’t hate it anymore. In fact, she was beginning to need it.

The café buzzed softly around her, full of half conversations and clinking cups and the hiss of steaming milk behind the counter. Rain tapped lightly against the windows, turning the city outside grey and blurred, but inside everything felt warm enough to settle into. Wren had been there for almost three hours already, though she hadn’t noticed until the barista with the silver nose ring smiled at her and said, “Third coffee?” in a tone that suggested concern. She’d laughed and ordered tea instead.

Now she sat cross-legged in the corner booth she’d unofficially claimed for herself over the last week, staring at the email on her screen with a kind of cautious disbelief she still hadn’t fully grown out of.

We’d love to discuss a potential freelance collaboration…

The first one had arrived four days ago through Chiara, a boutique fashion brand in Rome looking for help with a campaign refresh. The second had come this morning from a small hospitality group in London that had somehow seen the restaurant rebrand she’d done in Italy.

Seen it. Liked it. Wanted her.

Not the company she used to work for. Not her old boss (stupid, fucking Sally). Her.

Wren still wasn’t entirely sure what to do with that.

She leaned back slightly in her seat, chewing absently on the inside of her cheek as she reread the message again. Across from her lay pages of scattered sketches and branding concepts, little half-formed ideas she’d been building out all morning. Logos. Typography pairings. Colour palettes. A rough packaging concept for a wine label she wasn’t even being paid to make yet. For the first time in years, work didn’t feel like something clawing pieces out of her. It felt… creative again. Fun, even. That still startled her sometimes.

Her phone buzzed beside the laptop.

Harry Have you eaten anything today besides caffeine?

Wren smiled before she could stop herself.

Wren Tea counts as nutrients.

The typing bubble appeared immediately.

Harry I don't know if that is medically untrue.

Wren Source?

Harry I’m famous. Trust me.

She snorted softly under her breath, shaking her head.

There had been a carefulness between them since her birthday. Not distance exactly, just… awareness. A mutual understanding that whatever this was becoming needed room to breathe properly. No rushing. No giant declarations. No pretending the complicated parts didn’t exist. But also, no pretending the feelings didn’t exist anymore either. And somehow that had made everything easier.

She glanced back down at her work, fingers tapping lightly against the edge of her laptop. There was still grief inside her. Constantly. Sometimes loud, sometimes barely visible. It caught her unexpectedly still — in supermarkets, hearing songs her dad used to sing badly, walking past the cereal aisle because Cliff had always insisted on buying the disgusting sugary ones “for happiness.”

But she wasn’t drowning in it anymore. She was beginning to live alongside it. Which felt different. Her phone buzzed again.

Harry You disappeared after your last message. Dead?

Wren smiled faintly.

Wren Working actually.

Harry Wow. Proud of you.

Wren Don’t patronise me.

Harry Never. You’re a businesswoman now.

Businesswoman.

The word made her laugh quietly because it felt ridiculous and oddly possible at the same time. She closed her laptop about twenty minutes later after replying to both emails with what she hoped sounded professional and not like someone still figuring out how to believe in herself again. Outside, the rain had softened into drizzle. Wren shoved her laptop carefully into her bag, and headed back into the city.

By the time she got to Gigi and Gabe’s flat, her tote bag was cutting into her shoulder and she could feel exhaustion beginning to creep into the edges of her body in that satisfying way that came from actually doing something all day.

“Please tell me you brought snacks,” Gigi called immediately from somewhere inside.

Wren smiled as she shut the door behind her. “Hello to you too.”

“In the kitchen!”

Wren followed the sound of her voice and found Gigi perched dramatically on a stool near the counter, her cast bright pink now because apparently the original white one had been “depressing her creatively.”

“You changed the cast?” Wren asked immediately.

Gigi lifted her arm proudly. “Custom upgrade.”

“You look like a highlighter.”

“Thank you.”

Wren laughed softly, setting her bag down. “I brought pastries.”

“Oh thank God.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m injured,” Gigi replied seriously. “I deserve joy.”

Wren shook her head fondly, unpacking the paper bag while Gigi eyed her suspiciously.

“You’re in a good mood.”

Wren glanced over. “Am I?”

“Yes. It’s weird. Slightly concerning.”

“I had a productive day.”

Gigi narrowed her eyes. “Productive how?”

Wren tried and failed to suppress the small smile pulling at her mouth. “I got another freelance email.”

Gigi gasped so loudly it sounded theatrical. “Another one?”

“Don’t make it a thing.”

“It is a thing! Wren Calloway, independent creative director.”

“That’s not what I am.”

“It’s what you’re becoming.”

The words landed somewhere deeper than Wren expected. She looked down briefly, focusing on unpacking coffees. “Maybe.”

Gigi watched her carefully for a second before her expression softened. “That’s good, Wreny.”

Wren nodded once. “Yeah. I think it is.”

There was a brief quiet before Gigi ruined it immediately by saying, “Now help me wash my hair.”

Wren barked out a laugh.

“I’m serious. I can’t do it properly one-handed and Gabe’s gone and if I have to wear another plastic bag over my arm in the shower I’m going to lose my mind.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“It’s ruining my aesthetic, Wren.”

“You’re in track pants.”

“And I am clearly suffering over it.”

Wren rolled her eyes affectionately. “Fine. Come on then.”

The process was significantly messier than either of them expected.

“Stop moving.”

“I’m trying not to drown.”

“You’re leaning directly away from the sink!”

“Because you’re splashing me!”

Wren laughed helplessly as Gigi glared at her from her awkward position bent over the bath. “You know, people usually pay good money for this experience.”

“Then I want a refund.”

“You haven’t paid me.”

“Exactly.”

Wren worked shampoo carefully through Gigi’s hair anyway, gentler now as the joking settled into something softer. Steam curled around the room from the hot water and Gigi sighed slightly as Wren massaged her scalp.

“Oh,” Gigi murmured. “That’s actually really nice.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. Don’t get emotional about it.”

Wren smiled to herself. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

There was a comfortable quiet for a moment before Gigi spoke again, softer this time.

“You’re doing better.”

Wren paused briefly before continuing to rinse the shampoo carefully. “I think I am.”

“No, like…” Gigi tilted her head slightly to look at her. “You actually are.”

Wren leaned against the sink a little once she’d finished, wrapping a towel carefully around Gigi’s hair. “I still have bad moments.”

“I know.”

“I still cry randomly.”

“That's ok.”

“I still feel weird about the house sometimes and the letters and work and Harry and literally everything.”

Gigi smiled slightly. “I know.”

Wren huffed a quiet laugh. “Okay, therapist.”

“I’m serious,” Gigi said gently. “You’re sad, Wren. You’re grieving. But you’re not gone anymore.”

Wren looked away briefly, blinking once. “Fuck,” she muttered. “That was annoyingly insightful.”

“I’m a master of many things..”

“You’re concussed.”

“I didn’t hit my head when I .”

“You should have.”

Gigi laughed loudly at that, then immediately winced and clutched her ribs. “Ow. Fuck you.”

Wren grinned. “Serves you right.”

After helping her dry her hair and settle on the sofa properly, Wren moved around the kitchen automatically, tidying small things, putting the kettle on again.

“You know,” Gigi called from the other room, “you don’t actually have to stay here tonight.”

Wren glanced over her shoulder. “I know, I want to.”

“I can survive alone for two days.”

“You fell off a chair hanging decorations.”

“The chair was unstable.”

“The chair was from Ikea.”

“Exactly. Have you ever had to read Ikea instructions?”

Wren snorted softly. Gigi watched her for a second before speaking again, quieter this time. “You don’t always have to take care of everyone now just because you can again.”

Wren stilled slightly at the kettle. Then she looked back at her best friend. “I know,” she said softly. “But I want to.”

Gigi’s expression shifted then, gentler, emotional in that subtle way she tried to hide under humour.

──────────────

By the time Wren got home two days later, her own house felt strangely unfamiliar again. Not in the devastating way it had right after Cliff died. Not sharp. Not unbearable. Like she was still learning how to exist inside it as one person instead of two.

The silence greeted her first when she unlocked the front door. Not oppressive anymore, but present. The kind that settled into corners and waited patiently for her to acknowledge it. She dropped her overnight bag by the stairs and stood still for a second, listening instinctively anyway. Nothing.

Then she exhaled softly and moved through the house, opening windows despite the cold, letting fresh air move through the rooms. She tidied automatically as she went, moving a mug from the coffee table, folding a blanket over the arm of the sofa, grounding herself in small practical things.

By eleven-thirty, she had chopped vegetables, over-seasoned a pasta salad because her dad always said bland food was “an insult to being alive,” and texted her mum the words:

Lunch at mine if you still want to.

Ellie’s reply had come four minutes later.

I'll be there soon. Don’t poison me.

Which, honestly, counted as enthusiasm.

Now, just after one, Wren stood at the kitchen counter pouring wine into two mismatched glasses when she heard the front door open without knocking.

“You know,” she called out, “normal people wait to be invited in.”

Ellie appeared in the doorway a second later wearing oversized sunglasses despite the aggressively grey London weather and carrying a tote bag that looked expensive enough to pay Wren’s mortgage twice over.

“You said lunch at yours,” Ellie replied casually.

Wren snorted softly despite herself. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet you invited me.”

Ellie slipped the sunglasses onto her head and looked around the kitchen briefly before her eyes landed on the food. “Oh. You cooked.”

“Don’t sound so shocked.”

“I am shocked,” Ellie admitted, setting her bag down. “You used to survive exclusively on cereal and emotional repression.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

“True.”

Wren laughed quietly under her breath and handed her a glass of wine. Ellie accepted it with a soft hum of approval before immediately taking a sip.

“Right,” she said after a second. “This is decent wine. You’re healing.”

Wren rolled her eyes, but warmth flickered quietly in her chest anyway. This was how it had been with Ellie lately. Not fixed. Not easy. But… trying.

Very slowly. Painfully slowly, sometimes. Like neither of them fully trusted the ground underneath them yet.

They moved around each other awkwardly as Wren plated up lunch, Ellie offering unhelpful commentary from the counter stool the entire time.

“You cut cucumbers too thick.”

“Mum.”

“I’m serious. They're so chunky.”

“You cheated on my father, Mum. I don’t think you’re in a position to critique cucumbers.”

Ellie blinked once before pointing her wine glass toward her. “See? This is growth. A year ago you’d have just thought that internally.”

Wren laughed despite herself, shaking her head as she carried the bowls over to the table.

They ate slowly, conversation moving in strange little waves the way it always did with them. Ellie spoke about New York for a while — a gallery opening she hated, a man she’d gone on two dates with who “used the word cryptocurrency without irony,” which Wren agreed was grounds for immediate imprisonment. Then eventually, naturally, the conversation drifted toward Wren.

“So,” Ellie said casually between bites of pasta. “What exactly are you doing with your life now?”

Wren narrowed her eyes. “That sounded loaded.”

“It wasn’t.”

“It was a little loaded.”

Ellie shrugged lightly. “I’m asking.”

Wren hesitated for a second before answering honestly. “I’ve been doing some freelance work.”

Ellie’s brows lifted slightly. “Really?”

“Don’t sound surprised.”

“I’m not surprised,” Ellie corrected smoothly. “I’m trying not to look smug because I’ve been telling you for years your old job was sucking the life out of you.”

Wren sighed. “Okay, yes, fine. You were right.”

Ellie gasped dramatically. “God, I wish Cliff were here to hear this.”

The sentence landed awkwardly between them immediately. Wren looked down briefly at her plate.

Ellie’s expression shifted almost instantly. Softer now. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay.”

A quiet settled over them for a moment before Wren spoke again.

“There’s this woman in Rome,” she said carefully. “Chiara. She runs marketing for this hospitality group. She liked the work I did for her uncle’s restaurant and she’s been connecting me with people.”

Ellie leaned back slightly, listening properly now.

“And it’s been…” Wren searched for the word. “Good. Scary. But good.”

Ellie nodded slowly. “You sound different talking about it.”

Wren glanced up. “Different good?”

“Different... alive.”

That one caught her off guard slightly. She looked down again, fiddling absently with the stem of her wine glass. “Yeah,” she admitted quietly. “I think I feel a bit more alive lately.”

Ellie studied her for a moment, then nodded once like she was quietly relieved by that.

“And Harry?” she asked after a beat.

Wren nearly inhaled wine.

“Oh,” she coughed lightly.

Ellie raised a brow. “Subtle.”

“I wasn’t expecting that transition.”

“Well, life rarely prepares us properly for emotional devastation.”

“Mum.”

“What?” Ellie shrugged.

Wren groaned softly, leaning back in her chair. “It’s… complicated.”

Ellie took another sip of wine. “I assumed so.”

And somehow that response made Wren laugh quietly. There was no judgment in it. Just acceptance. So she told her. Not every tiny detail, but enough.

The funeral. Harry finding out about her feelings from Cliff. The kiss. Lauren. Italy. The confession. The weird in-between space they occupied now where everything felt both terrifying and strangely gentle at the same time.

Ellie stayed quieter than usual while she spoke, which honestly unsettled Wren more than interruptions would have.

“And now?” Ellie asked softly once Wren finished.

Wren exhaled slowly. “Now we’re just… taking it really slowly.”

Ellie hummed faintly. “That’s probably wise.”

“We’re trying to be adults about it.”

“God. Horrible.”

Wren smiled despite herself. Then Ellie looked at her for a long moment before speaking again, slower this time.

“You know I knew you loved him, right?”

Wren blinked. “What?”

“Oh, Wren.” Ellie’s expression softened slightly. “You’ve looked at that boy like he personally hung the moon since you were about twenty-two.”

Wren immediately covered part of her face with one hand. “Please don’t say things like that.”

“I’m serious.”

“That’s humiliating.”

“It’s observant.”

Wren groaned quietly but Ellie didn’t tease her further this time. Instead, she turned the wine glass slowly between her fingers and said carefully, “You know what worries me?”

Wren looked up immediately, defensive instinct flaring before Ellie had even finished the sentence.

“Mum—”

“No, just listen to me for a second.”

Wren crossed her arms slightly but nodded once.

Ellie’s voice stayed calm when she continued. “It’s not that I think Harry will hurt you intentionally.”

Wren’s shoulders loosened just slightly.

“It’s that,” Ellie said quietly, “he already did. Before either of you realised what this was.”

The words landed hard because they weren’t cruel. They were honest. Wren looked away first. “Mum—”

“I’m not saying he’s a bad person,” Ellie continued gently. “I’m saying emotional overlap is complicated. Dangerous, sometimes.”

Wren swallowed tightly.

“He was with someone else,” Ellie said carefully. “And somewhere inside that relationship, whether either of you meant for it to happen or not, things blurred emotionally before they blurred physically.”

Wren’s chest tightened immediately. “It was one kiss.”

“It still blurred.”

“But—”

“I’m saying,” Ellie interrupted softly, “that feelings don’t suddenly appear overnight because somebody kisses somebody else at a funeral.”

That one hit too close. Wren looked down at the table, jaw tightening slightly. Ellie sighed quietly then, less guarded now than usual. “Look, I know I’m not exactly the poster child for healthy relationships.”

Wren huffed faintly through her nose. “That’s one way of putting it.”

A tiny smile flickered across Ellie’s mouth before fading again.

“But I do know what emotional entanglement looks like,” she admitted quietly. “I know what happens when feelings start living somewhere before people admit them out loud.”

The kitchen suddenly felt very still.

“And what worries me,” Ellie continued, gentler now, “isn’t whether Harry loves you. I think he does.”

Wren’s eyes flicked upward immediately.

“What worries me,” Ellie said carefully, “is whether he’s actually finished grieving the life he thought he was going to have.”

Silence.

Wren’s throat tightened. Because underneath the defensiveness, underneath the immediate instinct to protect Harry, she knew. She knew Ellie wasn’t entirely wrong.

Harry still spoke about Lauren carefully sometimes. Tenderly. Guiltily. And Wren understood why. Five years didn’t just disappear because feelings changed.

“I don’t want to hear this from you,” Wren admitted quietly after a long pause.

Ellie nodded immediately. “I know.”

“Because every time you talk about emotional overlap I just think about Dad.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t want Harry to become tangled up in those feelings or those memories.”

Ellie’s expression softened fully then, something painfully human breaking through her usual sharpness. “He isn’t your father.”

Wren looked away quickly.

“But,” Ellie added gently, “that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be careful.”

The room settled heavily around them. Wren rubbed tiredly at her forehead. “We are being careful.”

“I know you are.”

“We haven’t rushed anything.”

“That’s good.”

Wren let out a quiet breath. “I just…” She stopped, searching for words. “I don’t think I can survive another thing falling apart right now.”

That one came out smaller than she intended. Ellie looked at her for a long moment.

“That’s the real thing you’re afraid of.”

Wren blinked rapidly once and looked down. Ellie stood slowly from the table then, walking around to her side before Wren could fully process what was happening. And awkwardly, because Ellie was still Ellie, she rested a hand lightly against the back of Wren’s head.

“You don’t have to decide everything right now,” Ellie said softly. “Just don’t confuse loving someone with being ready for them.”

Wren closed her eyes briefly. Because unfortunately, that sounded true too.

──────────────

Harry had cleaned the kitchen twice already. Not because it needed it. Because his brain had decided that reorganising the spice rack was somehow preferable to sitting still with his own thoughts. Again.

He stood at the counter now, staring at the bowl of lemons he’d moved three separate times in the last hour, before finally exhaling sharply through his nose and muttering, “You’ve lost your mind.”

The house was already clean. Extremely clean, actually.

Music played quietly from the speaker in the living room, something soft and old and mostly ignored. The dishwasher hummed in the background. Garlic and rosemary lingered faintly in the air from where he’d started dinner too early and then immediately run out of things to do.

Wren was coming over in an hour. An hour. And apparently that was enough time for him to spiral into seventeen separate emotional crises.

He dragged a hand through his hair and moved toward the living room, adjusting a cushion absently before immediately realising he was adjusting a cushion and stopping himself.

Fuck. This was ridiculous. Except it wasn’t. That was the problem. Nothing about this felt casual to him anymore.

Not Wren curled up on his sofa laughing at something stupid on television. Not her texting him photos of terrible font choices from cafés. Not her standing in his kitchen making tea like she belonged there because she did belong there. She always had. That was the thing he kept getting stuck on.

There had never really been a beginning with Wren. No awkward introductions. No trying to impress each other. No carefully curated versions of themselves. She had simply… entered his life years ago and stayed. And now suddenly he was looking at her differently while also somehow feeling exactly the same about her as he always had. That contradiction was making him feel quietly insane.

He wandered back toward the kitchen and checked the oven despite nothing being inside it yet. His therapist would probably have a field day with this. Actually, Anne would have a field day with this. He could practically hear her voice already.

Harry, love, stop pacing around your own house like you’re awaiting a medical diagnosis.

He huffed softly at the thought and leaned both hands against the counter for a second, staring out through the window into the darkening evening. The thing was, he was happier lately. Or maybe happier wasn’t the word. Lighter, maybe.

The constant panic that had lived in his chest for months had softened around the edges recently. Not disappeared, but loosened enough that he could breathe properly again. He was sleeping more. Writing again, a little. Eating actual meals instead of coffee and anxiety.

And most of that was because Wren was back in his life properly again. Not orbiting him carefully. Not avoiding him. There was relief in that he still didn’t fully know what to do with. But relief wasn’t simple when guilt sat beside it all the time. Because Lauren still existed inside his head too.

Not as some obstacle. Not as guilt he wanted to erase. Just someone he had genuinely loved. Still loved, maybe, in a different shape now.

That was the part he thought people misunderstood about breakups sometimes. Love didn’t always vanish cleanly just because relationships ended. Sometimes it just changed form and sat somewhere quieter inside you.

He missed her. That was still true. He missed the life they’d built together. The routines. The familiarity. The certainty of it all. He missed waking up beside someone who knew exactly how he took his coffee and which side of the bed he preferred and when to leave him alone after a long day.

He missed Lauren specifically too. Her steadiness. Her intelligence. The way she always looked composed even when she was furious with him. The way she’d tuck her feet underneath his legs on the sofa without thinking. The way she used to read drafts of lyrics and underline the ones she liked best. And maybe the worst part was knowing she had been right. Not completely, but partly.

I think I’ve been behaving like your partner while you’ve been behaving like you’re hers.

That sentence still lived under his skin. Because when he really forced himself to look honestly at the last year of his relationship with Lauren. There were moments. Small ones. Tiny emotional shifts he’d ignored at the time because they didn’t seem dangerous enough to examine.

The instinct to text Wren first when something funny happened. The way he relaxed differently around her. The fact he had always needed her opinion in a way he’d never fully admitted out loud. And none of it had been intentional. That somehow made it worse. Because it meant he hadn’t noticed when the emotional lines started blurring either.

He rubbed tiredly at his jaw and glanced toward his phone sitting on the counter. No new messages yet. Wren had texted him earlier saying she might be five or ten minutes late because she was finishing up some work for one of the freelance projects.

Work.

Every time she talked about it lately, something in him softened. She sounded alive again. Not surviving. Not dragging herself through days.

Alive.

He thought about the first time she’d shown him one of the restaurant branding concepts from Rome, how she’d immediately started downplaying it halfway through explaining because she got nervous whenever she cared about something too much.

And he remembered interrupting her with, “Wren, this is really good!”

The way she’d looked at him after that had nearly wrecked him. Not because she was in love with him. Because she looked surprised that someone believed in her. That had made him want to drive to her old office and physically fight every person there.

He smiled faintly to himself at the thought before the smile faded again just as quickly. Because underneath all the warmth and ease and relief he felt around her now, there was fear. Massive, consuming fear.

Not fear of loving her. That wasn’t the problem anymore. The problem was that he cared enough now to understand exactly what was at stake.

Wren wasn’t some new relationship he could walk away from if things got complicated. She was woven into the structure of his life. Birthdays. Christmases. Phone calls at midnight. Gigi and Gabe. Anne. Shared history. Shared grief. Shared versions of each other stretching back nearly a decade.

If this went badly he wouldn’t just lose a relationship. He’d lose her. And somehow that possibility terrified him more than never trying at all.

He moved around the kitchen again restlessly, grabbing two wine glasses from the cupboard before realising he’d already done that twenty minutes ago.

“Get a grip,” he muttered to himself.

But then his brain did the thing it kept doing lately. It imagined her here. Not abstractly. Specifically. Wren walking in with flushed cheeks from the cold outside. Wren dropping her bag by the door automatically. Wren opening the fridge without asking because she knew where everything was already. Wren laughing at him for overcooking pasta again. And every single one of those thoughts felt so natural that it almost scared him more than the romantic ones.

Because this wasn’t infatuation. It wasn’t a dream. It was frighteningly easy to picture her fitting into his life permanently. And maybe that was why he kept spiralling. Because once you saw a future properly, you also saw everything you could lose.

His phone buzzed suddenly against the counter.

Wren Leaving now. I wouldn't be opposed to you having a glass of wine ready for me.

Harry stared at the message for a second before smiling despite himself.

Harry Already opened the bottle.

The typing bubble appeared immediately.

Wren This is why I like you.

He laughed quietly under his breath, tension easing from his shoulders almost involuntarily.

That. That right there. The ease of her. The way she could pull him out of his own head in under ten seconds without even trying. And God, that felt dangerous too. Because joy was dangerous when you were terrified of losing it. He set the phone down slowly and looked around the house again.

Everything neat. Everything ready.

And somewhere underneath all the fear and guilt and confusion and tenderness sitting tangled together inside him was one simple truth he still wasn’t fully brave enough to say out loud yet.

He wanted her here. Not just tonight. Not just temporarily. Here. And maybe that was the most terrifying part of all.

The knock at the door came exactly seven minutes after her last text. Not that Harry had been checking. He opened it almost immediately anyway. And there she was.

Cold cheeks from outside, hair slightly windswept from the evening air, oversized coat swallowing half her frame while she balanced her tote bag awkwardly against her hip.

“Hi,” she said softly.

And there it was again. That immediate feeling of relief.

Harry smiled before he could stop himself. “Hi.”

Wren stepped inside, brushing past him with the familiarity of someone who knew the house well enough not to hesitate anymore. “It smells really good in here.”

He shut the door behind her. “That’s because I panicked and started cooking two hours ago.”

She glanced back at him immediately, smiling. “Cute.”

Harry rolled his eyes lightly. “Don’t encourage me.”

“I absolutely will.”

She slipped her coat off and handed it to him automatically, both of them pausing for the briefest second at how domestic the motion felt. Neither commented on it. Harry hung it up carefully while Wren wandered toward the kitchen already peering into pots.

“You cooked?”

“That surprised?”

“A little, maybe.”

“That’s offensive.”

“I just get flashbacks of when you boiled an egg for 20 minutes.”

He laughed quietly, moving beside her. Close enough that he caught the faint scent of her perfume underneath the cold air she’d brought in with her. Dangerous.

Everything with her felt slightly dangerous lately. Not because she pushed. Because she didn’t. That was somehow worse.

Wren leaned against the counter, looking around the kitchen. “Your house looks suspiciously clean.”

Harry immediately looked away. “I cleaned.”

“I can tell.”

“I always clean.”

“You reorganised something, didn’t you?”

His laugh came out startled. “What do you mean?”

“It means,” she said calmly, reaching for the wine bottle beside her, “you only alphabetise things when you’re stressed.”

Harry blinked. “How do you know that?”

“You alphabetised your vinyl collection after you broke up with Delilah.”

“…Right.”

“And your bookshelves after your first solo tour.”

He pointed at her accusingly. “You remember too much.”

“You’re easy to study.”

The sentence landed strangely between them. Wren seemed to notice it too because she looked down quickly as she poured wine into both glasses. “Anyway,” she said lightly, “I brought dessert.”

Harry leaned slightly to look into her bag. “Is it good dessert or healthy dessert?”

She looked offended. “I’m thirty now, Harry. I respect myself too much for healthy dessert.”

“That’s my girl.”

The words slipped out casually. Naturally. But the second they did, both of them paused. Wren’s eyes flicked up to his immediately. Harry felt warmth crawl slowly up the back of his neck. And then Wren smiled. Small. Soft. Fond enough to nearly kill him.

“Well,” she said quietly, handing him his wine glass. “That was smooth.”

Harry huffed a laugh, looking down into the wine. “Yeah, alright.”

Dinner stretched longer than either of them intended. Partly because they kept talking instead of eating. Partly because wine kept disappearing from their glasses and reappearing again.

The conversation drifted everywhere naturally — work, Gigi’s dramatic suffering over her cast, Gabe’s inability to sit still for more than twenty minutes, Brooke texting Wren at two in the morning with terrible dating updates. Harry listened to her talk about the freelance work properly this time, elbows resting against the kitchen island while she explained branding concepts with growing animation in her voice.

“And then Chiara basically told me my typography choices were cowardly.”

Harry blinked. “Fuck.”

“I know.”

“That’s brutal.”

“She was right though.”

“She sounds terrifying.”

“She’s incredible.”

Harry smiled quietly to himself as Wren continued talking, hands moving absentmindedly as she explained colour palettes and restaurant identities and visual storytelling.

God. There she was. That version of her. The one that cared deeply about things. The one that lit up when she forgot to protect herself.

“You know you do this thing,” Harry said suddenly.

Wren stopped mid-sentence. “What thing?”

“You stop apologising for yourself when you talk about work now.”

Her expression shifted slightly. “Oh.”

“It’s nice.”

Wren looked down at her wine glass briefly, visibly affected by that in a way she tried to hide.

“I think I just stopped caring if people think I’m too much,” she admitted quietly.

Harry looked at her for a long moment. “Good.”

The room settled around them softly after that. Warm lighting. Half-empty wine bottle. Music low somewhere in the background.

Wren eventually kicked her shoes off entirely and tucked one leg underneath herself on the sofa while Harry stretched out opposite her, both of them comfortably tipsy now. Not drunk, just softer around the edges.

Wren laughed suddenly at something he said — properly laughed, head tipping back slightly — and Harry felt the sound of it somewhere directly underneath his ribs. He smiled without thinking.

“What?” she asked immediately.

“Nothing.”

“You’re doing a face.”

“What face?”

“The fond one.”

Harry barked out a startled laugh. “The fond one?”

“Yes.”

“That’s humiliating for me.”

“I think it’s nice.”

He looked at her then. Really looked at her. And something shifted. Not suddenly or dramatically. Just... inevitably. Wren noticed the change in his expression almost immediately because her own smile faded slightly around the edges. Neither of them moved for a second.

Then she said quietly, “Harry.”

And the way she said his name. Fucking hell. He leaned toward her before he could overthink it. Slow enough that she could stop him. She didn’t.

The kiss started softly. Carefully. Nothing like the funeral. That kiss had been grief and desperation and years of buried feelings exploding at the wrong time. This was intentional.

Warm. Slow.

Wren’s hand slid gently against the side of his neck and Harry felt himself exhale against her mouth like he’d been holding his breath for weeks. Or years.

He kissed her again immediately. Deeper this time. And Wren made the smallest sound in the back of her throat that nearly unravelled him on the spot.

God.

He understood instantly why this had been such a dangerous line to cross. Because once it started it was almost impossible to stop.

Wren shifted closer automatically until her knee pressed against his thigh, wine forgotten entirely now on the coffee table beside them. Harry’s hand slid carefully to her waist and the contact alone made his head spin slightly. Not just attraction. Though Christ, there was that too.

It was the familiarity of her mixed with something entirely new. Like discovering another room inside a house you thought you already knew completely. When she kissed him back harder suddenly, years of tension buried underneath friendship and restraint and timing cracked open all at once.

Harry pulled back just enough to look at her. Her lips slightly swollen now. Eyes wide. Breathing uneven. Beautiful and looking at him like she still couldn’t fully believe this was happening.

“Wren,” he said softly, almost warningly.

She shook her head immediately, like she already knew what he was trying to say.

“Don’t stop talking yourself out of things for one second,” she murmured.

That landed directly in his chest. And maybe it should’ve been the moment he slowed everything down. Maybe it should’ve been enough clarity. Instead he kissed her again. Because she kissed him first. Because she was warm beneath his hands. Because the wine softened the sharpest edges of his overthinking. Because they were laughing between kisses at one point, forehead pressed against forehead, and it felt so natural and intimate and overwhelming that stopping suddenly felt impossible.

Clothes ended up discarded carelessly somewhere between the sofa and the hallway. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just... inevitable.

Hands learning each other. Soft laughter turning into quieter sounds. Harry pressing his forehead against hers at one point while she smiled breathlessly and whispered, “You’re staring.”

“I know.”

“You’re being weird.”

“You’re beautiful.”

Wren immediately laughed in embarrassment and kissed him to shut him up. And the chemistry between them was terrifying. Not awkward. Not uncertain. Like something that had existed underneath them for years waiting patiently to happen. Which honestly made it more emotional somehow. Because Harry kept having these flashes of thought through it all:

How have we never done this before?

How did I not know?

How did I go this long without this?

And underneath all of it, fear. Even then. Especially then. Because this mattered too much.

Afterward, the room felt too quiet. Not bad quiet. Not regret. Wren lay curled partly against his chest, skin warm against his, both of them breathing slower now while the city hummed faintly outside somewhere beyond the windows.

Harry stared up at the ceiling. His heart still hadn’t fully slowed down yet.

Wren traced absent patterns lightly against his arm. “You’re thinking too loudly.”

He let out a quiet breath through his nose. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise.”

He turned his head slightly to look at her. She looked soft like this. Sleepy. Content. Happy, maybe. And suddenly panic bloomed sharply in his chest. Not because of what happened. Because of what it meant. Because this wasn’t some thing he thought of in his head anymore. This wasn’t years of tension sitting safely underneath friendship. This was real now. And if this went wrong—

If he hurt her. If they lost this. Harry genuinely didn’t know how he’d survive it.

Wren seemed to sense the shift in him because she pushed herself up slightly onto one elbow. “Hey.”

He looked at her.

“You okay?”

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? He didn’t know. Because physically he felt incredible. Emotionally he felt like someone had cracked his ribcage open and left everything exposed.

“I think so,” he admitted honestly.

Wren watched him carefully then, something changing subtly in her expression too. For years she had loved him from a distance. Safely, in a way. Built him into something untouchable. Certain. But now he was here beside her looking frightened and conflicted and human. Not a fantasy. Just Harry.

A man trying very hard to do the right thing while not fully understanding what the right thing even was anymore. And somehow that reality hurt a little. Not because it was bad but because it was real.

Wren settled back down beside him quietly after that, but the air between them had changed slightly. Heavier. Neither of them slept particularly well.

The next morning arrived too quickly. Wren woke first, blinking slowly at unfamiliar light spilling through Harry’s curtains before memory caught up with her body all at once.

Oh.

Her stomach flipped immediately. Not in regret. Just awareness. She turned her head slightly.

Harry was still asleep beside her, hair a mess, one arm flung across her body loosely. Beautiful. And suddenly painfully complicated.

Wren sat up slowly, wincing slightly at the state of her clothes scattered across the room. Right. There it was.

Reality.

Her phone buzzed on the bedside table and she grabbed it quickly. A reminder notification. Zoom meeting. Thirty minutes.

“Oh shit.”

Harry stirred immediately beside her. “What?”

“I have a meeting.”

He blinked awake slowly. “Now?”

“In thirty minutes.”

“Shit.”

“I know.”

Suddenly they were both moving at once in that awkward chaotic way that somehow only made everything feel more intimate. Wren trying to find her bra while Harry searched for his trousers.

“Why are your clothes everywhere?”

“Because of you.”

“That feels accusatory.”

“You seemed very enthusiastic at the time.”

Harry snorted despite himself and Wren laughed before immediately stopping because laughing somehow made this feel weirder. Or maybe more real.

“I should go home,” she said quickly.

Harry nodded too fast. “Right. Yeah. Okay.”

The silence after that stretched awkwardly. It felt over aware.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Do you want coffee before—”

“I don’t have time.”

“Right.”

Another silence. Wren shoved her hair back quickly, avoiding his eyes for a second. “Last night was…”

Harry looked at her immediately. And neither of them knew how to finish that sentence.

Good? Important? Complicated? Fucking amazing?Too much?

He swallowed once. “Yeah.”

Very eloquent.

Wren laughed softly despite herself. “Wow. Incredible communication from us.”

“Sorry.”

“Don't apologise.”

“Sorry.”

That made her smile properly again. Fuck, that smile was going to ruin his life.

She grabbed her bag quickly then moved toward him almost instinctively, stopping close enough that his body immediately reacted to her presence again in a way that felt deeply unhelpful considering the emotional state of literally everything.

Wren looked up at him carefully. Then leaned up and kissed him softly once. Gentle. Brief.

“Bye,” she murmured.

Harry’s chest physically hurt.

“Bye.”

She lingered for half a second longer like she almost wanted to say something else. Then she left. And Harry stood there in the middle of his bedroom listening to the front door close downstairs while something very close to panic settled slowly into his stomach. Because now it was real. And he had absolutely no idea what happened next.

──────────────

Wren lasted approximately four hours before she showed up at Gigi’s flat. Not because something had gone catastrophically wrong. Which honestly almost made it worse. Nothing had gone wrong. That was the problem.

She stood outside the door for a second before letting herself in, still slightly windblown from hurrying there after her Zoom meeting ended.

“G?” she called out.

“In the kitchen,” Gigi shouted back immediately, followed by, “did you bring the can of tomatoes?”

Wren walked into the kitchen to find Gigi standing one-handed at the counter attempting to aggressively open a packet of pasta while balancing her cast awkwardly against her hip.

“You know there are inventions called scissors,” Wren said dryly, placing the can next to the stove.

Gigi looked up. “You’re early.”

“You said come whenever.”

“Yes, but your face says something happened.”

Wren opened her mouth. Then immediately closed it again. Gigi froze mid-pasta assault.

“Oh. My. God.”

Wren covered part of her face with one hand.

“Oh my God,” Gigi repeated louder, eyes widening dramatically. “You had sex.”

Wren groaned instantly. “Please don’t yell it.”

“You had SEX!”

“Gigi.”

“With Harry.”

“Yes, obviously with Harry.”

Gigi dropped the pasta packet entirely. “Oh my God.”

Wren burst into nervous laughter despite herself, pacing immediately toward the kitchen island. “Okay, stop making it sound illegal.”

“It is illegal,” Gigi said, clutching her chest with her good hand. “To me personally. Emotionally.”

Wren dropped onto one of the stools and immediately hid her face in both hands. Gigi stared at her for a second. Then—

“Well?”

Wren peeked through her fingers. “Well what?”

“How was it?”

Wren made a strangled sound.

“Wren...”

“Can we not.”

“Wren.”

She looked up finally, face flushed bright red. “It was…”

Gigi leaned forward dramatically.

Wren blinked once. “…really good.”

Gigi gasped so loudly it echoed through the flat. “I KNEW IT!”

“Please lower your voice.”

“No. Absolutely not. I have waited years for this conversation.”

Wren immediately pointed at her. “See, that’s weird. That’s a weird thing to say.”

“No, what’s weird is that you two apparently had unresolved sexual tension for nearly a decade and no one did anything about it.”

“We did not have unresolved sexual tension.”

Gigi stared at her blankly. “You’re genuinely insane.”

Wren laughed helplessly and dropped her forehead briefly against the counter. “I don’t even know what happened.”

“You had sex, babe.”

“I know that.”

“And?”

Wren lifted her head again slowly, cheeks still pink. “And…” She let out a breath. “It was kind of mind-blowing.”

Gigi slapped the counter triumphantly. “YES.”

“Stop reacting like you personally won something.”

“I did.”

Wren snorted despite herself, but the smile faded slightly around the edges after a second. Gigi noticed immediately.

“What?”

Wren looked down at her hands. “I don’t think it was…” She stopped, searching for the word. “Wrong.”

“Okay…”

“But I also don’t know if it was…” Another pause. “Too soon maybe.”

Gigi’s expression softened immediately then, all the teasing easing slightly. “Ah.”

Wren exhaled shakily. “And I know that sounds ridiculous because I’ve literally loved him forever and obviously I wanted it and Gigi—” she covered her face again briefly. “The sex.”

Gigi snorted loudly. “Still processing that sentence.”

“But now I feel weird.”

“Not bad weird?”

“No,” Wren said quickly. “No, not bad. That’s the problem.”

Gigi leaned against the counter quietly, listening now. Wren rubbed tiredly at her forehead. “It was amazing. Like genuinely…” She laughed softly in disbelief. “Annoyingly amazing.”

“Good for you.”

“But it’s not fantasy anymore.”

The room quieted slightly at that. Wren looked down at the marble counter as she spoke again, slower now.

“For years,” she admitted quietly, “Harry has been this… thing in my head. This impossible person I loved from a distance. And then last night happened and suddenly he’s not this impossible dream anymore.” She swallowed once. “He’s just… him.”

“And how’s that feel?”

Wren thought about it honestly, “Scary.”

Gigi nodded gently.

“Because now I can see him properly,” Wren continued. “Like really properly. He’s confused and guilty and trying really hard and I think he’s still grieving his relationship too, and…” She let out a quiet breath. “I think before this I just wanted him so badly that I didn’t really think about the reality of getting him.”

Gigi stayed quiet.

“And now I have.”

A long pause settled between them. Then Gigi spoke carefully. “Do you regret it?”

Wren’s answer came immediately. “No.” Not even slightly. And somehow that certainty only complicated things more. She leaned back in the stool and laughed softly at herself. “God. This is such a mess.”

“No,” Gigi corrected gently. “This is adulthood.”

“That’s somehow worse.”

“It is worse.”

Wren smiled faintly. “I think he panicked after.”

Gigi tilted her head slightly. “How so?”

“He didn’t say anything bad,” Wren clarified quickly. “He was sweet. Gentle. It’s not like he freaked out and ran away or anything.” She paused. “But I could feel him thinking.”

“Oh, Harry.”

“Exactly.”

Wren let out another breath. “And this morning was just… awkward. We were both trying to act normal but not normal and I had a meeting and we were talking around everything.”

Gigi nodded knowingly. “Right.”

“And now I don’t know if I should text him or leave it or pretend we’re cool or—”

“You should breathe first.”

Wren blinked at her.

“Seriously,” Gigi said. “You two do this thing where you immediately jump to the emotional ending of every situation.”

“That’s not true.”

“You literally confessed your love to him internationally.”

“…Fair.”

Gigi smiled slightly. “Wren, this is probably the first time in Harry’s life something has mattered enough to genuinely scare him.”

That hit Wren and she looked down at her hands.

“And unfortunately,” Gigi continued, “you are the thing.”

Harry showed up at six-thirty with takeaway and the expression of a man being psychologically haunted by his own emotions.

Gigi took one look at him as he walked into the kitchen and burst out laughing.

“Here we go.”

Harry frowned immediately. “What?”

“I appreciate the takeaway, but I already had an early dinner.”

“I feel unwell.”

“Okay.”

He dropped the takeaway bags onto the counter and dragged both hands through his hair before immediately pacing once across the kitchen. Gigi watched him silently for exactly three seconds before saying, “You also had sex.”

Harry stopped dead.

“…Did Wren tell you?”

“She was here four hours ago looking... overwhelmed.”

Harry groaned and dropped his forehead briefly against the fridge. “Fuck.”

Gigi was openly delighted now. “You’re both handling this beautifully.”

Harry looked up slowly. “Can I say something horrible?”

“Always.”

He pointed vaguely at her. “She is so—”

He stopped. Then started again.

“She’s just…” He laughed once in disbelief at himself. “Fuck.”

Gigi immediately leaned forward. “No, continue.”

Harry rubbed at his jaw, pacing again. “She’s so beautiful and warm and funny and smart and then last night she was sitting there talking about typography while half-drunk and I genuinely thought I might lose my mind.”

Gigi covered her mouth with her hand.

“And then this morning,” Harry continued helplessly, “she was rushing around my room trying to find her clothes and laughing at me and she kissed me goodbye like it was the easiest thing in the world and all I could think was—”

He stopped again. Gigi’s eyes softened slightly. Harry looked down at the floor. “It’s real now.”

There it was. The actual fear.

“She’s not this safe hypothetical thing anymore,” he admitted quietly. “This isn’t just feelings sitting quietly in the background of my life. I’m actually…” He exhaled sharply. “I’m actually doing this now.”

“And?”

Harry laughed weakly. “And I’m terrified.”

“Because?”

His answer came instantly. “Because if I lose her, it’ll destroy me.”

Silence settled softly around the kitchen. Harry leaned heavily against the counter now, exhaustion sitting visibly in his shoulders.

“And the worst part,” he admitted more quietly, “is I don’t even think I realised how far gone I was until last night.”

Gigi blinked. “Harry.”

“No, seriously.” He laughed once, almost painfully. “I knew there was something there obviously but—” He rubbed both hands over his face briefly. “I don’t know how to explain this without sounding insane.”

“Try.”

He looked up at her then, expression completely open in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.

“I think I’m really, really falling for her.”

Gigi’s face immediately crumpled emotionally. “Oh no.”

Harry frowned. “What does that mean?”

“You said it with your whole chest.”

“That’s bad?”

“It’s terrifying.”

Harry snorted despite himself, shaking his head. “And I still feel guilty about Lauren sometimes.”

Gigi nodded slowly. “I know.”

“I loved her. I do love her. Just not love love.”

“I know.”

“And I hate thinking about whether I emotionally checked out before I realised I was checking out.”

Gigi stayed quiet. Harry looked exhausted now. “I never wanted to hurt anyone.”

“I know.”

“But I did.”

“Yes,” Gigi said gently. “You did.”

The honesty of it sat between them without cruelty. Harry swallowed once. Then Gigi sighed dramatically and pushed herself upright slightly in her chair.

“Okay,” she announced.

Harry looked up warily. “What?”

“Can I really say something now?”

“…That wasn’t real before?”

Gigi pointed aggressively with her good hand. “I have a pink cast, Harry. I’ve been wearing sweatpants since four in the afternoon. Have you ever seen me wear sweatpants at four in the afternoon?”

Harry blinked once. “Honestly no.”

“Exactly!” She gestured wildly now. “I have work to deal with. I have a wedding to plan with the most amazing man alive who I have a healthy relationship with. Do you know why we have a healthy relationship?”

Harry already looked afraid.

“Because,” Gigi continued loudly, “we TALK TO EACH OTHER!”

From Gabe’s office down the hall came his immediate, “Love you!”

Gigi pointed toward the office triumphantly. “SEE?”

Harry laughed helplessly despite himself.

“No,” Gigi continued, fully on a roll now. “I adore both of you. I really do. But I cannot continue being the emotional middleman in this extremely attractive but deeply exhausting love story.”

Harry covered part of his face with his hand, laughing quietly now.

“I mean honestly,” Gigi went on, “Wren came in here this afternoon basically glowing and traumatised at the same time. And now you’re here looking like a Victorian man who’s just discovered yearning.”

Harry barked out a shocked laugh.

“And all of this,” Gigi gestured between them wildly, “could be solved if you two just spoke to each other.”

Harry sighed. “We’re trying.”

“I know you’re trying,” Gigi softened slightly. “But stop trying through me.”

She pointed at him again. “I’m serious. I would like one peaceful evening with my fiancé where I’m not discussing your breakdowns and surprisingly satisfying sex life.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“And for the record,” she added calmly, “I didn’t need confirmation that the sex was good. Have you both seen yourselves?”

Harry nearly choked laughing. Gigi leaned back smugly. “Exactly. Now tell me what is in that takeaway bag.”

The room settled after that into softer laughter, lighter now somehow after all the honesty. And underneath it all, despite the fear and confusion and complicated timing, there was something else too.

Hope. Messy. Terrifying. But real.

──────────────

Taglist:

You can see it in the way he hasn’t stirred, in how deeply he’s sleeping.

So you don’t wake him.

Instead, you slip out of bed carefully, moving as quietly as possible, and pull on your cloak before stepping outside.

The air is fresh, cool against your skin, carrying that early morning stillness that makes everything feel slower. For a moment, you just stand there, breathing it in, letting the quiet settle over you.

And then. You smile.

It’s small at first.

Then it grows.

Because despite everything…despite the soldiers, the posters, the risk, you feel… happy.

Giddy, almost.

There’s a lightness in your chest that doesn’t quite make sense given the circumstances, but it’s there anyway, impossible to ignore. You shake your head slightly at yourself, like you can’t quite believe it either.

Still smiling, you make your way down toward the lower part of the garden, near the bushes. Your hands move easily through the routine, c hecking leaves, adjusting stems, pulling away anything that shouldn’t be there.

At some point, you glance toward the berry bushes.

And the thought comes naturally.

Breakfast.

Something good. Something he doesn’t expect…

You move closer, brushing your fingers lightly over the ripe berries, selecting a few carefully, already thinking about what you can make.

For a few minutes, everything feels normal again.

Simple.

Quiet.

Safe.

Then.

You hear it.

At first, it’s distant.

A low, rhythmic sound that doesn’t belong to the morning.

Hooves.

Your head lifts slowly, your body going still as you listen.

More than one. A lot more. Your stomach drops. The sound grows louder, faster, unmistakable now as it climbs the hill toward you.

You turn.

And everything inside you goes cold.

Horses. Too many. Armor glinting under the morning light.

And the emblem…

You recognize it immediately.

Harry’s kingdom.

Everywhere.

Your breath catches.

For a split second, your mind scrambles, run, hide, scream, warn him, but before you can act, they’re already surrounding the lower part of the hill, cutting off every path.

You step back instinctively, your heart slamming against your ribs.

Think.

Think.

But there’s no time.

No space.

No escape.

A carriage rolls forward through the line of soldiers, wheels crunching softly against the dirt as it comes to a stop and the door opens.

And at first, you don’t understand what you’re seeing.

Because the figure that steps out…. It doesn’t make sense.

Not here. Not now.

Your breath leaves you in a sharp, broken inhale.

No….that’s….It can’t be.

But it is. Your sister.

Standing there, exactly as you remember and nothing like you expected, her presence hitting you harder than the soldiers, harder than the fear, harder than anything else.

Alive.

Here.

And before you can even process that, another figure steps out behind her.

The king.

Harry’s father.

The world tilts slightly.

Your thoughts scatter completely, replaced by something sharper, heavier, impossible to ignore.

Shock….pure, disorienting shock.

You don’t move. You can’t.

Your body feels rooted to the ground, your mind still trying to catch up to what your eyes are seeing. Your sister…your sister! She is suddenly right in front of you, closing the distance before you can even process it.

She rushes toward you and wraps her arms around you tightly.

“Oh my god… I’ve been so worried about you…” she breathes out, her voice rushed, almost trembling. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been looking for you?”

Her grip is tight. Too tight.

And you don’t hug her back.

Your arms stay at your sides, stiff, your body not responding the way it should. This isn’t how you imagined it…not once, not ever. Not in the quiet nights when you wondered if she was alive, not in the moments you let yourself hope.

You thought it would feel… warm.

Relieving.

Instead, it feels wrong….

You slowly pull back, your eyes searching her face, trying to match this version of her with the one you’ve held onto all this time.

“You…” your voice falters slightly “How…?”

She’s still holding onto your arms, looking at you like she’s been reunited with something she lost.

“I saw you…” she says quickly. “In the flyers… they’ve been everywhere. I recognized you immediately and I… I had to come!”

The flyers.

Of course.

Your stomach twists.

You glance past her for a second, at the soldiers, at the carriage, at the king standing just behind them, watching everything unfold with a quiet, unreadable expression.

Then back at her.

Your brows knit together, confusion sharpening into something else.

“Why are you here?” you ask, more firmly now. “With them?”

She hesitates.

Just for a second.

But it’s enough.

“How did you even know where I was?” you continue, your voice tightening. “This place isn’t on any map, no one from the village would….”

You stop.

Because something clicks.

Not all at once.

But fast enough that it steals the air from your lungs.

Your eyes flicker back to her.

Then to the soldiers.

Then to the king.

Then back to her again.

And suddenly…It all makes sense.

A slow, sinking realization settles in your chest, heavy and cold.

“You knew,” you whisper.

She doesn’t answer.

Not immediately.

And that silence…. says everything.

Your expression changes.

The confusion fades, replaced by something sharper, something that hurts more than you expected. “You knew where I was this whole time,” you say, your voice steadier now, but colder. “All this time… you knew!!”

“Y/N, I…”

“And you only came now,” you cut in, your eyes not leaving hers. “When there’s a reward!”

Her face shifts, something defensive flickering across it.

“It’s not like that…”

“It is exactly like that!”

The words come out harsher than you intended, but you don’t take them back.

Because now you see it.

All of it.

The timing.The soldiers.The king. The flyers.

You take a step back.

“No” you shake your head, the realization settling deeper. “You didn’t find me.” Your voice drops. “You sold me”

Her expression tightens. “That’s not fair Y/n! ”

You don’t wait.

Instinct takes over.

You turn

Ready to run.

“Harry!”

But you don’t get the name out.

Hands grab you from behind, strong and immediate, yanking you back before you can take more than a step. Another hand clamps over your mouth, cutting off the sound before it can carry up the hill.

Your body thrashes instinctively, panic surging through you as you try to break free.

“No! mmph!!” Your voice is muffled, useless.

“Hold her,” one of the soldiers mutters.

You fight harder, your heart racing, your eyes darting toward the house…Toward him. But you’re already surrounded, already trapped.

Your sister stands there, watching, her expression unreadable now, caught somewhere between guilt and something you can’t quite place.

Your eyes burn as you look at her.

Waiting.

Hoping, still, somehow, that this isn’t what it looks like.

That she’ll say something. Do something.

Anything.

But instead…she exhales and smiles.

Not the shaky, worried smile from before.

Something else.

Something colder.

It’s subtle at first, just the way her lips curve slightly, the tension leaving her face as if she’s no longer pretending.

Then it settles fully.

A smirk.

Your chest tightens.

No.

Behind her, the king steps forward into clearer view, his presence commanding in a way that makes the soldiers around you straighten instinctively.

“Well done” he says, his voice smooth, measured. “I expected it might take longer….”

Your sister dips her head slightly, not out of respect, but acknowledgment.

“She wasn’t exactly hiding well…” she replies lightly.

The words hit harder than they should.

Like everything you built, your garden, your home, your small sense of safety, was nothing more than something temporary, something easy to break.

Your grip tightens uselessly against the soldier’s arm as you try to push free again, a muffled protest forcing its way past the hand over your mouth.

“Mmmph!”

Your sister finally looks at you again.

Really looks this time.

And whatever softness you once knew in her…It’s gone.

“You left me” she says.

The words cut through everything. Her expression hardens, something darker surfacing underneath.

“You ran” she continues, her voice sharper now, edged with something that has been building for a long time. “You got out. And you left me there!”

Your head shakes instinctively, trying to speak, to explain, but the pressure on your mouth only tightens.

“You don’t get to look at me like that!” she snaps when you struggle again. “Like I’m the one who betrayed you”

Your brows knit together, your eyes wide, desperate.

You try to pull free again, your voice muffled, useless “Mmph!”

“I had to stay” she continues, stepping closer now, her voice lowering but growing more intense. “I had to deal with them. With everything you ran from!”

Her jaw tightens.

“And you never came back”

The words land heavy.

Not entirely fair.

Not entirely wrong either.

Your eyes shake slightly, your head moving again as if you can force the words out, as if you can make her understand.

But you don’t get the chance.

She exhales sharply, like she’s done carrying it.

“Now” she says, her tone flattening again, “I get something out of it.”

The king steps closer, reaching into a small pouch at his side. The sound of coins shifting is quiet, but deafening in the silence between you.

He hands her a small weighty bag.

Your stomach drops.

She takes it.

Without hesitation.

Without even looking at you.

The sound of coins settling inside echoes louder than anything else.

She smiles.

A real one this time.

“Efficient” the king remarks. “I appreciate that.”

She nods slightly, already stepping back, already done.

Already finished with you.

Then he glances toward the cottage.

“Go on” he says calmly. “He’s probably still in there.”

Your entire body tenses.

No.

“I’ll send a carriage later” he adds, almost casually. “We can continue discussing the marriage arrangement.”

Marriage.

The word hits like a blow.

Your eyes widen instantly, panic surging back tenfold.

No.

NO.

Your entire body thrashes violently now, your muffled cries turning sharper, more frantic as you try to break free.

“MMPH!!!”

Harry.

He doesn’t know.

He’s still inside…

You try to scream his name, to make any sound that might reach him, but the soldier’s grip tightens, cutting off even the smallest chance.

“Take her” one of them orders.

And they do.

You’re dragged backward, your feet barely keeping up as they pull you away from the hill, away from the cottage, away from everything you built.

Your eyes lock onto it as long as you can…the door, the window, any sign of movement. Anything. But there’s nothing.

Your chest tightens painfully as you fight harder, your body twisting, your muffled cries growing weaker as distance replaces desperation.

Your sister doesn’t follow.

She stays where she is…. Watching.

And as they drag you further away, the only thing you can think is: He doesn’t know.

And by the time he does, It might already be too late.

The cottage still holds the quiet of early morning.

Inside, nothing has changed, at least not yet.

.

Harry stretches as he steps out from the bedroom, rolling his shoulders slightly, the lingering weight of sleep still clinging to him. For a brief second, there’s a softness in his expression, something almost content as he glances toward the doorway, half-expecting to see you moving about, maybe already in the kitchen, maybe smiling at him the way you had the night before.

But the house is empty.

Too empty.

He pauses.

Frowns.

“Y/N?” he calls lightly, his voice still rough from sleep.

No answer.

He steps further into the main space, eyes scanning quickly now, the table, the small kitchen, the door slightly ajar. Something about it feels… off.

Then.

The door creaks.

Harry turns sharply.

And freezes.

A woman steps inside like she belongs there.

For a split second, he just stares.

Confusion flickers across his face, his brows pulling together as his body instinctively straightens, alert now.

“Who are you?” he asks, his tone firm, guarded.

The woman doesn’t answer immediately.

Instead, she looks at him.

And then she smiles.

“Oh,” she says lightly, almost amused. “You must be him.”

Harry doesn’t move.

His gaze sharpens.

“…Him?” he repeats.

She waves a hand dismissively, stepping further inside as if the question doesn’t matter.

“I’m y/n’s sister! Grace” she says, her tone softening just enough to sound believable. 

That. That makes him hesitate.

Because now that he looks closer, there’s resemblance.

Not identical, but enough. The shape of her features, the way her eyes hold a certain familiarity.

Still…Something doesn’t sit right.

Harry doesn’t relax.

He watches her carefully as she moves through the space, too comfortable, too casual for someone who just arrived.

“How did you get here?” he asks.

She sighs softly, like the question is expected.

“It wasn’t easy…” she says, glancing around the cottage. “I’ve been looking for her for a while now. Word travels, you know… especially with everything that’s been going on.”

His jaw tightens slightly.

“What do you mean?”

She pauses just enough to make it feel intentional, then looks back at him with something that resembles concern.

“The flyers” she says. “The kingdom’s been searching. It’s hard to miss.”

Harry’s chest tightens.

But he doesn’t show it.

Not fully.

Instead, he takes a small step forward.

“Where is she?”

The question is immediate.

Direct.

Her smile doesn’t falter, but something behind it shifts.

“She left” she says.

The words land flat.

Wrong.

Harry’s expression hardens instantly.

“…Left…” he repeats.

“Yes,” she continues, her tone almost casual now. “She does that.”

Something in his posture shifts.

Dangerously quiet.

“What does that mean?”

She tilts her head slightly, studying him now, like she’s trying to decide how much to say.

“She runs,” she replies simply. “That’s what she does when things get complicated...”

Harry’s brows furrow deeper.

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

She lets out a small, almost amused exhale.

“Doesn’t it?” she counters. “You don’t know her like I do.”

“I know her enough” he says, his voice sharper now.

“Do you?” she presses, stepping closer.

There’s something calculated in the way she moves, in the way her gaze lingers just a second too long.

“She left me once too…” she adds, softer now. “Didn’t even look back”

Harry doesn’t react immediately.

But his eyes don’t leave hers.

“She wouldn’t leave without saying anything…” he says finally.

There’s certainty in it.

Not doubt.

Not confusion.

Certainty.

And that

That irritates her.

She masks it quickly, though, letting out a quiet sigh as she crosses her arms.

“You’d be surprised what people are capable of…” she says.

Harry shakes his head once.

“No.” The answer is simple. Firm. “She wouldn’t.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then she shifts tactics.

Her expression softens again, her posture relaxing as she steps even closer, close enough now that the intention behind it is clearer.

“Welll…” she says lightly, “maybe she didn’t think she had a reason to stay….”

Harry doesn’t move.

Doesn’t respond.

His gaze flickers briefly to the open door.

Then back to her.

“You’re lying.” he says.

Her smile tightens slightly.

“I’m not—”

“You are” he cuts in, his voice steady, controlled. “You’re not worried. You’re not confused. You walked in here like you already knew she wouldn’t be here.”

That hits.

For a second, she doesn’t answer.

And that’s all he needs.

His chest tightens, something darker settling in.

“Where is she?” he asks again.

This time, there’s no softness in it.

No room for deflection.

She studies him for a moment longer.

Then.

She smiles again.

But this time, there’s nothing warm about it.

“You’re smarter than you look,” she says quietly.

Harry’s jaw clenches.

“What did you do?”

She doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, she lets her gaze travel over him slowly, deliberately, like she’s noticing him for the first time in a different way.

“I understand why she wanted to help…” she murmurs.

Harry’s expression hardens instantly.

“Don’t.”

She steps closer anyway.

“You’re not what I expected…” she continues, her voice softer now, almost coaxing. “But I suppose that makes things more interesting.”

“I said don’t” he repeats, sharper now.

She stops.

But she doesn’t back away.

“You don’t have to stay here,” she says, her tone shifting again, more deliberate now. “Not for someone who runs when things get difficult…”

Harry lets out a quiet, humorless breath.

“You don’t know anything” he says.

Her eyes narrow slightly.

“I know enough too”

“No” he replies, his voice low now. “You don’t.”

There’s a pause.

A shift.

Something in the air changes.

Because now

He’s sure…whatever she is, whatever she’s done. It has nothing to do with you leaving, and everything to do with something being taken.

His gaze flicks to the door again.

To the path outside.

Then back to her.

“If something happened to her….” he starts.

She interrupts him.

“Something did happen” she says simply.

His stomach drops.

But before he can move she adds, almost casually…

“You’re already too late.”

And that.

That’s the moment everything inside him shifts.

She doesn’t back away.

If anything, she leans into it.

That same smile, sharp, calculated, returns to her lips as she watches the realization settle over him, watches the shift in his expression from confusion to something far more dangerous.

“You don’t have to look at me like that Harry…” she says lightly, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from her sleeve. “I’m not your enemy here”

Harry lets out a quiet, humorless breath.

“You walked into her home” he says, voice low, controlled. “You lied. And now she’s gone.”

“Gone?” she repeats, tilting her head. “Or did she just do what she always does?”

His jaw tightens.

“She didn’t leave!”

“You don’t know that!” she presses. “You’ve known her, what…a few days??”

“Enough”

“For you” she says. “Not for reality.”

She turns away from him then, stepping toward the open door like the conversation bores her now, like she’s already decided how this ends.

Harry watches her every movement.

Tense.

Waiting.

She steps outside, the morning light catching on her expression as she looks out over the garden.

Your garden.

And something in her face shifts again, something colder, more dismissive.

“This is what she chose?” she says, almost to herself. “A hill, a few plants, a life no one sees?”

Harry follows her to the doorway, his gaze hard.

“She built this.”

“She settled for this…” your sister corrects, stepping further into the rows of vegetables. “There’s a difference”

Her foot comes down carelessly.

Crushing a line of delicate greens beneath her heel.

Harry freezes.

Then something snaps.

“Stop!”

The word is sharp.

Immediate.

She glances back at him, unbothered.

“It’s just a garden…relax” she says.

His eyes flick to the broken plants, then back to her.

“It’s not yours”

She exhales, almost amused, and takes another step, careless again, deliberate this time.

Another plant bends under her weight.

“That’s exactly my point!” she says. “None of this matters.”

Harry moves forward quickly now, his restraint thinning.

“Get out of it!”

Her brows lift slightly at his tone.

“There’s more out there!” she continues, ignoring him. “More than this small life she trapped herself in. And you!” she turns to face him fully now, stepping closer “you don’t belong here either”

“I’m not staying just for the garden!” he says, his voice tight.

“No” she agrees softly. “You’re staying for her…but honey she’s gone.”

Silence.

Heavy.

“You don’t know that” he repeats.

“I do” she says simply.

Harry studies her.

Every word.

Every movement.

And the more she talks

The clearer it becomes.

This isn’t concern.

This isn’t truth.

It’s manipulation.

“She didn’t run…” he says, quieter now, but certain.

Your sister’s smile falters.

Just slightly.

“She always runs.”

“Not from me.”

That irritates her.

You can see it now, the crack in the act, the way her patience thins just a little.

“You’re naive!” she says flatly.

“And you’re lying!”

The words land harder this time.

For a second, neither of them moves.

Then she exhales sharply, dropping the softness completely.

“Fine,” she says. “Believe what you want….”

Harry doesn’t wait.

He turns.

Fast.

Heading straight for the side of the cottage, toward where Daisy is tethered.

His movements are quick, purposeful, no hesitation left now, no doubt.

He’s going after you.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she calls after him.

He doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t slow down.

“Harry!” she tries again, her tone shifting, sharper now. “Think about this.”

He reaches Daisy, grabbing the reins, already moving to mount.

“I am!” he snaps. “And I’m done listening to you”

She steps forward, frustration flashing openly now.

“You don’t even know where to look”

“Oh I know exactly where….”

He swings himself onto the horse, gripping tightly, his focus already beyond her, beyond the cottage, beyond everything except one thing…Finding you.

And that’s when…the sound of wheels….another carriage. Harry’s head snaps toward the path and your sister’s expression changes instantly.

The frustration disappears.

Replaced by something far more satisfied.

The carriage rolls into view, larger, more ornate than the last. Guards flank it on either side, their presence unmistakable.

Harry’s grip tightens on the reins.

“No…”

He doesn’t say it loudly.

But it’s there.

Your sister steps closer again, slower this time, her smile returning, wider now, darker.

“You’re not going anywhere…not without me” she says.

Harry’s eyes flash.

“Move.”

She doesn’t.

Instead, she tilts her head, studying him like she already knows how this ends.

“We’re going back to the kingdom” she says calmly.

His stomach drops.

“And we’re getting married!”

The words hit like a strike.

Harry freezes.

Just for a second.

“No.”

It’s immediate.

She smiles wider.

“You don’t have a choice.”

He looks at her like she’s lost her mind. “I’m not marrying you!”

“You will” she replies simply. “Because that’s the agreement.”

“What agreement?” he demands.

She gestures lightly toward the carriage.

“The one your father made.”

Harry’s expression darkens completely now, every trace of softness gone.

“She’s with him, isn’t she?” he says.

Your sister doesn’t answer.

But she doesn’t need to.

That’s enough.

.

It happens fast…too fast.

One second, Daisy is surging beneath him, muscles coiled, ready to run. The next, a line of soldiers steps in from both sides of the path, cutting him off with practiced precision. More move in behind him, tightening the circle until there’s nowhere left to go.

Harry pulls hard on the reins, forcing Daisy to stop before she collides with them, her breath sharp and uneasy beneath him.

“Move” he snaps, his voice edged with something dangerous.

Your sister steps forward instead, completely unbothered by the tension tightening the air.

“This is pointless…” she says, almost bored. “You’re not fighting your way out of this.”

His eyes flash.

“Watch me”

He shifts slightly in the saddle, testing the space, calculating, looking for any gap, any weakness.

There isn’t one.

A soldier steps forward, grabbing the reins before Harry can react, another moving to his side, gripping his arm with firm, practiced force.

“Let go!” Harry growls, pulling against him.

The soldier doesn’t budge.

More hands reach in, steady, unyielding, forcing him down from the horse before he can make another move. His boots hit the ground hard, but he doesn’t stop, he twists, shoving one of them back, trying to break through

“Enough!” your sister says sharply.

The soldiers tighten their hold.

Harry’s chest rises and falls quickly, his gaze darting toward the road, toward the direction they took you…

Daisy is pulled away from him, her reins taken, her body guided back into the line as if she never belonged to him at all.

“No!” he starts, trying to move again, but two soldiers hold him firmly now.

“Get him in” one of them orders.

Harry struggles once more, anger flaring hotter now, sharper.

“Where is she?” he demands, his voice cutting through the movement around them.

No one answers.

They push him forward instead, toward the carriage.

Your sister watches the entire thing unfold without stepping in this time, her expression calm, almost satisfied.

“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” she says as he’s forced closer.

He stops just short of the carriage steps, planting his feet.

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

She sighs.

“You already are.”

The soldiers don’t give him another chance.

They push him up and inside.

.

The carriage doors shut with a heavy, final sound.

For a moment, the only thing Harry can hear is his own breathing.

Sharp.

Uneven.

Controlled only by force.

He sits across from her, shoulders tense, hands clenched tightly at his sides as the carriage lurches forward, beginning its steady path back toward the kingdom.

Back toward everything he ran from.

She watches him quietly for a few seconds, studying him like she has all the time in the world.

Then she smiles.

“You’ll calm down eventually…” she says.

He doesn’t look at her.

“Where is she?” he asks again.

Her smile doesn’t falter.

“Safe”

His head snaps toward her.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting right now.”

His jaw tightens, something dark settling behind his eyes.

“If he’s touched her…” he starts, his voice low, dangerous.

She lets out a soft laugh.

“You’re in no position to make threats.”

“I’m serious.” he cuts in, leaning forward slightly. “If my father lays a hand on her…if anything happens to her…”

“You’ll what?” she interrupts, amused.

He doesn’t hesitate.

“I’ll burn it down.”

The words land heavy in the small space.

Not dramatic.

Not exaggerated.

Certain.

For a second, she just looks at him.

Then she laughs again, louder this time.

“You really believe that, don’t you?” she says, shaking her head slightly. “That you have that kind of power.”

He doesn’t respond.

Doesn’t need to.

Because he does.

And something in his expression makes that very clear.

Her amusement fades just a little.

But not enough. “You’re not thinking clearly” she says, her tone shifting again, softer now, persuasive. “You’re emotional. Attached.”

He lets out a quiet, bitter breath.

“You should be grateful,” she continues. “I found you before someone else did. Before things got worse.”

His gaze hardens.

“You didn’t find me.”

She ignores that.

“You belong in the kingdom” she says. “Not in some forgotten corner of the world playing farmer.”

“I belong wherever I choose to be.”

“Not anymore.”

“You don’t see it yet, but I’m the better choice…” she says. “For you. For everything.”

He stares at her like she’s said something absurd.

“You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough” she replies. “Enough to know I can give you more than she ever could.”

That does it.

Harry’s expression turns cold.

“She gave me everything I needed,” he says.

Your sister’s smile tightens.

“Temporary things…” she dismisses. “A garden. A house. A quiet life no one remembers.”

“A real one,” he counters.

She exhales sharply, irritation breaking through again.

“You don’t get it.”

“No” he says. “I do.”

A beat.

Then, quieter “I just don’t want what you’re offering.”

The carriage continues moving, steady and unstoppable.

“You don’t have a choice,” she says.

Harry’s hands clench tighter.

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

She tilts her head slightly, watching him carefully.

“By the time we get there,” she continues, “you’ll understand.”

He doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t argue.

Because right now, there’s only one thing in his mind.

Not her.

Not the kingdom.

Not the marriage.

Just you.

Where you are.

If you’re safe.

If you’re scared.

If you think he’s not coming.

And finally, he speaks again.

“Where is she?”

Your sister sighs, like she’s tired of the question.

“Alive…” she says. “For now.”

.

The carriage hasn’t even fully stopped before Harry is moving.

The door swings open sharply, and he steps out first, boots hitting the palace grounds with force. He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t look back. Doesn’t acknowledge the guards or the servants already gathering at a distance, whispering at the sight of the prince who wasn’t supposed to return like this.

He’s already walking.

Fast.

Purposeful.

Furious.

The palace rises around him, just as grand, just as suffocating as he remembers. Marble floors, towering columns, polished surfaces that reflect everything except the truth.

Nothing has changed.

And that only makes it worse.

“Harry!” Grace, your sister, calls from behind him, hurrying to keep up as he storms through the entrance.

He doesn’t slow.

Servants scatter out of his path, startled by the intensity of his presence. Guards hesitate, unsure whether to intervene or step aside.

They step aside.

Because one look at him is enough to know, This is not a moment to get in his way.

His strides echo down the corridors, sharp and relentless, his jaw set, his hands clenched at his sides. He knows exactly where he’s going. Every turn is instinctive, every step fueled by something hotter than anger.

Fear.

He reaches the double doors of his father’s study and doesn’t knock.

He slams them open.

The sound cracks through the room.

Inside, the king sits behind his desk, completely at ease, a thin trail of smoke curling lazily from the pipe in his hand. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t startle.

If anything, He smiles.

“Well” he says calmly, as if this is nothing more than a planned reunion. “There he is.”

Harry steps inside, the doors still swinging slightly behind him, his chest rising and falling hard.

“Where is she?” he demands.

No greeting.

No acknowledgment.

Just that.

The king exhales slowly, setting the pipe aside with deliberate ease.

“Welcome back, son” he replies, ignoring the question entirely.

Harry doesn’t move further into the room.

His gaze is locked on him, sharp and unyielding.

“Where is she?”

Grace slips in behind him, closing the door this time, her presence quieter but no less intrusive.

The king leans back slightly in his chair, studying Harry like he’s assessing something.

“You look… different” he notes. “Less polished. But I suppose that’s to be expected, given your… excursion…”

“I’m not asking again” Harry says, his voice dropping lower now, more dangerous. “Where is she?”

The king sighs, as if mildly inconvenienced.

“You return after disappearing without a word” he says, folding his hands on the desk, “and the first thing you do is demand answers.”

“Yes.”

The answer is immediate.

Cold.

The king watches him for a moment longer, then smiles faintly.

“She’s safe.”

Harry’s jaw tightens.

“That’s not enough.”

“It will have to be for now.”

Harry takes a step forward.

“Bring her here.”

The king’s expression shifts slightly, not anger, not yet. Something closer to amusement.

“You’re in no position to make demands.”

“I’m not asking.”

The room stills.

Grace watches the exchange carefully, her gaze flicking between them.

The king tilts his head slightly, regarding Harry with something almost curious.

“You’ve grown bold…” he says. “That’s new.”

Harry doesn’t respond.

Because this isn’t about him.

Not right now.

“You should be focusing on more important matters…” the king continues, gesturing lightly toward Grace. “Like your future.”

Harry doesn’t even look at her.

“I don’t have a future with her.”

Grace’s smile tightens, but she doesn’t interrupt.

The king, however, chuckles softly.

“That’s not how this works.”

“It is for me.”

Another step forward.

Now they’re closer.

Tension thick in the air.

“I want to see her,” Harry says, each word measured. “Now!”

The king’s expression finally cools slightly, the amusement fading just enough to reveal something firmer underneath.

“You’ll see her when I decide you will.”

Harry’s hands clench.

“If you’ve hurt her...!”

The king raises a hand, cutting him off.

“She is unharmed” he says, his tone sharpening just a fraction. “And she will remain that way… as long as you cooperate.”

Harry’s eyes don’t leave his father’s.

“You’re using her…” he says.

“Of course I am.”

No denial.

No hesitation.

“Everything has value” the king continues calmly. “You of all people should understand that by now”

Harry shakes his head slightly, something dark settling deeper in his chest.

“I’m not marrying her….”

Grace exhales sharply behind him.

“You don’t get to decide that!” she says.

Harry finally turns his head slightly, just enough to acknowledge her presence.

“Watch me.”

The king stands slowly this time, placing both hands on the desk as he leans forward just slightly.

“This isn’t a negotiation!!” he says. “You will marry Grace. The arrangements are already in motion.”

“I won’t.”

“You will” the king repeats, his voice firmer now. “Because if you don’t…”

He pauses.

Just long enough.

Harry doesn’t blink.

“…then the girl becomes a complication.”

The words land exactly how they’re meant to.

Harry goes still.

Completely still.

The king straightens, satisfied.

“I would hate for that to happen….” he adds lightly.

Silence stretches between them.

Harry’s breathing slows.

Not because he’s calm.

Because he’s thinking.

Calculating.

Choosing.

His gaze hardens.

“You said she’s safe” he says quietly.

“She is.”

“I want to see her.”

The king studies him for a moment.

Then nods slightly.

“In time.”

That’s not enough.

Not even close.

.

The air down there feelsthe layer of dust and moisture beneath you.

Time moves differently here.

Slower. heavy.

Thick with damp and stone and something older, something that lingers in places where light doesn’t reach. The walls are cold, uneven, carved deep beneath the palace like a secret no one wants to acknowledge exists.

You sit on the narrow bench inside the cell, your back against the rough wall, your fingers tracing absent patterns into 

Or maybe it just feels that way because you have nothing else to measure it with.

The only constant is the sound of the guard.

Boots shifting.

A quiet sigh.

The faint clink of metal as he adjusts his grip on the spear he leans against.

He’s been there for hours.

And he’s tired.

You can see it in the way his shoulders slump slightly, in how his head tilts back against the wall every so often, like he’s fighting sleep.

Which is exactly why you haven’t stopped talking.

“You know…” you say, your voice light, almost casual, like you’re not sitting behind iron bars, “you could at least tell me how long I’ve been here….”

He exhales sharply.

“I told you…” he mutters without opening his eyes. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” you repeat, tilting your head slightly. “Or you’re not allowed to say?”

His jaw tightens.

“I don’t know.”

You hum softly, like you believe him.

You don’t.

“That’s interesting…” you continue, shifting slightly on the bench. “You’d think someone guarding a prisoner would be given at least a little information.”

His eyes open now, narrowing slightly as he looks at you.

“You talk too much.”

You smile faintly.

“I’m bored.”

“Good.”

You lean forward slightly, resting your elbows on your knees.

“So what do they usually do down here?” you ask. “Keep people until they cooperate? Or until they disappear?”

He looks away. That’s all you need.

You catch it.

That tiny shift.

“Ah” you say softly. “Disappear, then.”

“Stop talking.”

“You didn’t deny it.”

“I said stop.”

But there’s less force behind it now.

Less patience.

You tilt your head again, studying him.

He’s young. Too young to be this tired.

“How long have you been doing this?” you ask.

No answer.

You don’t stop. “Long enough to know this place isn’t right, I’m guessing.”

His grip tightens on the spear.

“Be quiet.”

“You don’t seem like you enjoy it,” you continue, softer now. Less teasing. More… curious. “Guarding cells. Watching people rot down here.”

He exhales again, longer this time, like your words are wearing him down even if he doesn’t want them to.

“It’s a job,” he mutters.

“Is it?”

You let the question sit.

Then add, quieter “Or is it something you tell yourself so you don’t think too much about it?”

His eyes flick back to you.

Sharp this time.

For a second, you think he’s going to snap.

Instead, he just… looks tired.

“You don’t know anything,” he says.

“Then tell me.”

Silence.

A long one.

You don’t push immediately this time.

You wait.

And eventually, He sighs. “They don’t keep people here long,” he says, almost under his breath.

Your attention sharpens instantly.

“No?”

“No.”

You lean forward slightly.

“What happens to them?”

He hesitates.

Then shrugs, like it doesn’t matter.

“They get moved. Or… dealt with.”

Dealt with.

You don’t react outwardly.

But your stomach tightens.

“And me?” you ask.

He glances at you.

“You’re different.”

“How?”

He huffs quietly.

“You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t important.”

That’s not comforting.

You sit back slightly, pretending to think about it, like the information doesn’t hit harder than it should.

“Important to who?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer.

You watch him for a second longer.

Then shift again.

“Is the prince back?” you ask casually.

That. That gets a reaction.

His eyes flick to you before he can stop himself.

Got it.

You smile faintly.

“He is” you say, more to yourself than to him.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to”

His jaw tightens.

“Stop trying to twist things.”

“I’m not twisting anything” you reply lightly. “You’re just tired.”

He looks away again.

You press just a little more.

“What’s he like?” you ask. “The prince.”

No answer.

“Do people like him?”

Silence.

“Or is he just like the rest of them?”

“That’s enough.”

His voice is sharper now.

But you can hear it…

The crack.

You lean forward again, lowering your voice slightly.

“They say this kingdom isn’t what it looks like” you murmur. “That people suffer more than they should. That things disappear quietly….”

He doesn’t move.

“You’ve seen it, haven’t you?” you continue.

His grip tightens again.

“Enough,” he snaps, pushing himself off the wall. “I’m done talking.”

You sigh softly, leaning back again.

“You were doing so well.”

“Be quiet!”

You smile faintly.

“Or what?”

He steps closer to the bars now, his eyes sharper again, whatever moment of openness he had completely gone.

“Or I make sure you regret it.”

You hold his gaze for a second longer.

Then shrug lightly.

“Worth a try.”

He exhales sharply, turning away again, muttering something under his breath.

And just like that.

The silence returns.

.

Hours stretch and fold into each other until they lose their shape.

The dim light never changes, the air never shifts, and the silence settles into something almost suffocating. You try to keep track of time, counting breaths, steps, the rhythm of the guard’s movements…but eventually even that slips through your fingers.

Then. Voices.

Not close.

But not distant either.

Your head lifts slightly, your attention sharpening as the sound of footsteps echoes through the corridor. More than one. Several, maybe. Their armor clinks softly as they pass, their voices low but careless in the way people speak when they assume no one important is listening.

“…the wedding…”

The word hits instantly.

Your chest tightens.

You don’t move.

Don’t make a sound.

“…by the end of the week…”

“…the prince….”

Your breath falters.

Harry.

Your fingers curl slightly against the bench, your mind racing now, trying to piece it togetherwhat they’ve done, what they’re planning, how fast things are moving.

“…Grace…”

That.

That makes something inside you drop completely.

Grace.

Your jaw tightens.

You stay still until the voices fade, until the corridor returns to its dull, empty quiet.

But your mind doesn’t.

It spins faster now.

A wedding.

Soon.

Which means…they don’t intend to keep you here long.

Not unless you’re part of the leverage.

Not unless…

You need a plan.

Now.

Your eyes flick to the guard.

He hasn’t moved much, but you can see it…the same exhaustion, the same thinning patience.

Good.

You stand slowly.

“I need to use the bathroom.”

He doesn’t even look at you.

“No.”

You blink once.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

You cross your arms.

“I’m not doing that here.”

He exhales sharply, already annoyed.

“Then that’s your problem.”

You stare at him.

Then glance deliberately toward the corner of the cell.

Then back at him.

“I’m not doing that there.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Everyone does.”

“I’m not everyone.”

“Congratulations.”

You don’t move.

Minutes pass.

You stay standing.

He notices.

“Sit down.”

“No.”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” you say, voice calm but firm. “I just need to use the bathroom.”

“You’ll survive.”

You tilt your head slightly.

“Maybe I won’t.”

He scoffs.

“Dramatic.”

You shrug lightly.

“Or maybe I just have dignity.”

“That won’t help you here.”

“Neither will a mess you’ll have to clean up later….” you counter.

That gets his attention.

He looks at you now.

Really looks.

Weighing.

Calculating how much of a problem you’re about to become.

You hold his gaze and then…

He groans.

“Fine,” he mutters, pushing himself off the wall. “But you try anything…anything!...I swear”

“I won’t” you say quickly, almost too quickly.

He narrows his eyes.

“I mean it.”

“I believe you.”

He doesn’t look convinced.

But he unlocks the cell anyway.

The sound of metal scraping echoes louder than it should.

Your heart picks up slightly.

Stay calm.

Stay normal.

He grabs your arm, not rough, but firm enough to remind you this isn’t freedom.

“Move.”

You step out, resisting the urge to look around too much, to take in every detail too obviously.

But you notice things anyway.

The turns.

The distance.

The guards at the far end of the corridor.

The direction of the stairs.

Everything.

He keeps a tight hold on you as he leads you down the hall, his grip never loosening.

“I’m serious,” he says again. “Don’t try anything.”

“I said I won’t.”

But your mind is already working.

Already shifting.

Already searching for something—anything—you can use.

You reach the small, dimly lit washroom at the end of the corridor. It’s barely more than a stone room with a basin and a crude setup, but it’s not the cell.

That’s enough.

He stops at the doorway, still holding your arm.

“You have a minute” he says. “Door stays open.”

You glance at him.

Then at the room.

Then back at him.

“Privacy?”

“No.”

You sigh.

“Charming.”

“Minute” he repeats.

You step inside.

Slowly.

Your mind racing now, sharper than it’s been all day.

Because this might be the only chance you get.

You take your time.

Not too much, just enough to make it believable.

You move around the small washroom, keeping your expression neutral, your breathing steady, as if this is exactly what you asked for and nothing more. You even splash a bit of water, let it drip from your fingers, buy yourself a few extra seconds to think.

The guard watches you the entire time.

Tired.

Impatient.

Expecting nothing.

Good.

You turn back toward him with a small, almost polite smile, brushing your hands together lightly.

“See?” you say. “That wasn’t so hard…”

He rolls his eyes, already shifting his grip on your arm to lead you back.

“Move.”

You take one step forward.

Then…

You move.

Fast.

Your knee drives upward with everything you have.

The impact hurts, sharp and immediate, pain shooting through your leg as it collides with the hard edge of his armor…but you aimed right.

Right where the metal doesn’t fully protect.

He chokes on the reaction, his grip faltering just enough.

That’s all you need.

You shove him hard, pushing him off balance as he doubles slightly, and you run.

You don’t look back.

You don’t think.

You just run.

The corridor stretches endlessly in front of you, your footsteps echoing against the stone as your breath comes fast and uneven. Doors blur past you, cells lined on both sides…and you catch glimpses as you go.

NEXT PART HERE!