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Alongside your band of childhood best friends, all wielding their own mediocre talent in singing, or the drums, or bass, the lot of you have managed to become an up and coming name in the music industry. Needless to say, your steady climb up the latter of success has been nothing but surreal. You can’t quite grasp how someone as basic and stereotypically boring as you has managed to come so far in such a short period of time.

When your manager gave you the call that your act had been requested for the festival, you hadn’t honestly believed that he was serious. Even now, backstage and mere minutes from performing in front of one of the biggest crowds of your life, you can’t seem to believe that you’re here.

In a way, you don’t think that you deserve it. Your friends all shine and shimmer, as magnificent as any group of girls from small town Minnesota could. You, on the other hand, aren’t particularly special.

Maybe you’re in a comatose state, and this whole world of success and dreams coming true has all been nothing more than a mirage of what you wish your life to be. Maybe none of it is actually happening.

“I can’t really breathe, guys,” you tell your friends, all gathered around the left side stage as the crowd cheers for the performer that’s on before you. “Like, I cannot breathe right now. Do you see how many people are out there?”

Sophie, the lead singer of your group, giggles beside you. She thrives under this type of stress and chaos, living for the attention that being on stage allows her, loving every moment of it. “It’s okay, Y/N. Don’t be nervous.”

You roll your eyes, filled to the brim with frustration and anxiety. “You’re such a help, Soph. Thanks so much.”

Mick reaches out to press her palm against your neck, running her fingers along the place where your shirt collar meets skin. It’s only slightly comforting.

“Why are you so worried, babe? We’ve performed about a hundred times before.”

“Not for this big of a crowd,” you tell her, shrugging away from her touch. You aren’t lying completely, because that really is one reason that you feel as though you’re going to vomit up last night’s dinner. It’s just… there may or may not be another reason for your worry and recent lack of self esteem.

Bella outs your secret. “Oh, be quiet Y/N. You know that you’re only nervous because of one person in that audience.”

You kick her in her shin on impulse, and everyone shouts.

“Woah, dude. You need to calm down.” Mick steps between you and Bella, and you can’t help the way that you start to huff and turn away from them, pacing back and forth a few steps.

“Can’t I just be nervous?” You ask, crossing your arms. “Last time we performed for a crowd even half this size my strings broke. Maybe I’m just suffering from minor PTSD.”

Sophie squints at you, and says, “Stop joking about mental disorders. And, stop lying. It’s okay if you’re nervous because your favorite singer slash model slash actor idol is out there, and is going to be watching as you make your debut appearance as a professional pop act.”

Why are they trying to embarrass you? Does this count as professional sabotage?

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” You ask with a bite.

Bella frowns at you as she rubs at the place where you kicked her, and you momentarily feel bad. Waving her an apology seems sufficient enough.

“Listen, babe,” Mick says, coming up to you. “We’re all extremely nervous. This is a big moment in our careers.” She rests a hand on your shoulder, and the sigh that you let out comes without prompting. “Don’t think about who’s in the crowd. Don’t think about anything. Just focus on playing your best, and making all of the hard work that we’ve put in pay off.”

You know that she’s making more sense than any nineteen year old girl should make. It’s just very hard for you to focus with everything that’s going on. Hundreds of thousands of people are going to be watching your every move, judging every chord that you play. Everyone is going to look at you, take in how you look and make an opinion of who you are based on how you look and sound.

And, yeah, it doesn’t help that he is in the crowd. The only celebrity that you have given the time of day. The one man that you adore and have grown up alongside, through a television screen, a radio broadcast, a playlist of videos dedicated to cute moments of him.

Logically, you know that he probably won’t be paying attention, even. That he’s probably with his friends, getting drunk, enjoying the festival before he has to get onstage tonight to perform.

It’s just that you have a tendency to romanticize situations, and to imagine what all could happen versus what might actually happen. The chances of him watching the performance are even slimmer than the ones of him noticing you first, over Bella or Mick or Sophie.  

Thinking over it all for a few moments, and letting yourself calm down over the “what if” ideas, you eventually come back down to reality and wipe any thought of a certain man from your mind. This isn’t his moment–it’s yours, and your three best friends.

“I’m sorry, guys,” you tell them, stepping back into the circle. “You’re right. This isn’t just about me, it’s about all of us. I’m being an asshole.”

Bella snorts, but she smiles nonetheless. “It’s okay. If Brad Pitt was out there, I’d be a little uptight. I can’t blame you.”

All of you laugh, and even though your cheeks burn a little brighter than the rest of theirs, you love them all. Your whole lives have been leading up to this.

Before any of you can speak again, the event producer interrupts and gives you all a thirty second notice.

“Oh, shit, guys,” Mick says, smile growing as big as the sun. “We’re really doing this.”

Sophie leans forward and wraps her arms around the two of you closest to her. “Group hug?”

You, Mick, and Bella look at one another before leaning in also. “Group hug.”

Your moment of peace and sisterhood doesn’t last long. Before you realize it, you’re being ushered onto the stage, and thousands of eyes are on you, thousands of cheering voices are welcoming you. It’s the best moment of your life, and you can’t hear much of anything except for the sound of your own heartbeat in your ears.

“Thank you for having us, Los Angeles!” Sophie shouts into her microphone.

The other girls begin to get into position, Mick finding her place behind the drum set and Bella sitting at the keyboard. Your body moves on autopilot, lifting your guitar strap over your head to rest on your shoulder.

It feels like only seconds pass before the beat of your first song begins, and everything that follows is so adrenaline packed that it’s over before it begins.

When you stumble off stage, drenched in sweat with ears ringing, the past twenty minutes feel like nothing more than a memory of a dream. You played harder than ever before, so consumed by the way that the crowd loved you all that everything got hazy, wrapped in an unbelievable glow.

The rhythm of your guitar is still coursing through your veins, making your fingertips vibrate and your heart beat to the pace of Sophie’s singing. The cheers follow even once you and the girls are lead out of the staging area and into an air conditioned tent, away from the crowd.

Everyone is talking, but you can’t hear anything. Feeling complete sensory overload, you just fall into the nearest seat and let your head fall back, staring up at the roof. You don’t know how to feel, or what to say. Nothing seems real.

Mick grabs you after a moment, so happy and full of joy that her voice slowly pulls you out of your trance.

“What?” You ask after a moment, shaking your head as to come back to real life.

She laughs, slapping your arm. “I said you were fucking amazing! We all were! That crowd loved us so much that they’re still shouting for an encore! Can’t you hear it?”

It takes another second, but you manage to zone in on the sounds from outside, the overwhelming chants and cheers that echo, calling out for you and your friends. Without any say in the fact, you begin to tear up.

“They love us,” you whisper, staring your friend in the eyes. She only nods, already crying herself, and you can’t help it when you stand up and pull her into a hug.

Things like this don’t happen for people like you. Your family has never been successful like this, nor has anyone from your town, really. This moment, with your best friends in front of the world, is too good to be true. You’re going to be big after this, no matter what your mind tells you otherwise.

Celebrations are in order, along with lots of crying, and hugging, and interviews with different companies, and channels, and stations.

You finish rounding each of your friends and hugging for dear life before you zone in on a table full of alcohol, and even though you’re not old enough and should know better, you grab as many beers as your hands can hold and make to pass them around between your band.

Except, when you pick them up turn back to everyone, there’s someone standing right in front of you. You don’t even have time to look at their face before they say, “You girls were amazing,” and a sickening, heart-stopping realization falls on you.

If you drop everything in your hands onto the ground and all of your bodily functions shut down in shock all at once, no one can blame you. This is Harry fucking Styles, the biggest superstar that has ever existed.

“Careful, careful!” He says on instinct, trying to catch the cans as they fall from your grasp but failing completely. He picks them up as quick as they fell, and you’re just frozen.

He’s so much more beautiful in person, looking like an actual, honest to God, Disney prince. With broad shoulders and a torso for days, he’s much taller than you could have ever predicted. And, still affected by the sensory overload from earlier, you can’t help but notice the way the he smells, like musk and cinnamon and sweat, and the way that his cheeks are just barely sunburned, eyes glimmering with the fever of it.

You open your mouth, then close it.

He watches you with amusement, and a smirk flitters across his lips, making your legs turn to jelly. This is the only think that you have thought about for the past ten years, and it’s happening all in the blink of an eye.

“Hi,” you manage to say after a few seconds, heart in your throat.

“Hi,” he says back on a small laugh, dropping his head so that he’s chuckling toward the ground. You try hard not to read into the body language.

“I, um.” You take a deep breath. You’re acting like such a tit. “Thank you, I mean. That means a lot coming from you.”

Harry looks back at you and sets the beers on the table. “I mean, I was so amazed by you all. Y/N, you play… spectacularly. I’ve tried for years, but I could never compare to how emotionally involved you are with your guitar playing.”

This has got to be a dream. He remembers your name from the band’s introduction. He thinks you’re talented. He thinks you’re better than him.

You’re waiting for the piano to fall, for the pigs to fly. They don’t.

“That’s so nice of you to say. Thank you, seriously.” Your face is on fire. “If you can’t tell I’m a bit of a fan, and hearing you say that is best thing that I could have ever heard from anyone today.”

He smiles, all kind eyes and soft, pink lips. “Yeah, it’s no problem. I just had to come back here to tell you that. I mean, it’s been a long time since someone left me as awestruck as you did back there. You and your girls, I mean.”

After a moment passes, you ready yourself to say something else, but he begins again, cheeks flushing. “Well, no. Just you. They were beyond amazing, but. You.”

In all honesty, stepping away from the situation, you have no idea how you haven’t fainted yet. This right here, meeting Harry Styles and having him flirt with you? It’s more than a dream come true. It is a literal Godsend. A gift from the universe. Completely unbelievable.

“I don’t know what to say.” You take a shaky breath. What the hell is happening. “Not to come on too strong, but. I’m kind of feeling the adrenaline and there are like no inhibitions in my body right now, so I have to let you know that you’re the most talented person I’ve ever had the pleasure I seeing. And handsome. And the whole reason I got into music.”

He stares at you for a second in thought, still looking so sweet.

“Did I mention handsome?”

For a moment, you think of how somehow God has granted you balls of steel. How in the hell are you flirting back? What spirit has taken over your body?

The two of you laugh for a second, and he nods before saying, “Yeah, you might have said that. I’m flattered.”

He grabs two of the beers and hands one to you. “Since you’re being honest, I’m going to do the same. I have a really strong urge to invite you to come with me right now to a secluded spot and to ask all about you and to get to know you.” He pauses right as your head starts to spin. “And I just realized how creepy that sounds. Shit, I am so sorry.”

You start to laugh, without any sort of ability to stop it, and you unconsciously place your hand on his shoulder. Which, by the way, feels so much nicer than a typical male shoulder.

“It’s fine, I promise. I’m on cloud nine right now, so keep going. Please.”

He cackles, open mouthed and crinkly eyed. It’s so much more endearing than it ought to be.

“Okay, then,” he says on a laugh, opening the top of his drink and taking a few sips. “Like I was saying, you seem real. Genuine, I guess.”

“Thank you,” you tell him, smiling uncontrollably. “You do too. Not to steal your compliment.”

Harry giggles. “So, I know you’re about to be extremely busy, but if you want to get together some time I would really like that. We could talk, or write some music, or just embarrass ourselves in front of one another some more.”

You seriously hope the girls are getting this on camera so that you know that it’s real. This cannot be real. Your entire life has been so dull in comparison to this exact moment. How are you suppose to react to your childhood crush flirting with you, asking you out?

Harry Styles is ethereal in your eyes, and you are hardly even attractive. It’s got to be a prank.

On the off chance that it’s real, though, you clear your throat and take a drink. “I think that sounds great.”

“Good. Thank you.” He stares at you for a moment, almost in awe, and just as silence starts to fall over the two of you, he shakes his head, like he’s snapping out of it, and pulls his phone from his pocket. “Here, put your number in. I can text you so that you have my number.”

Your entire body is on fire when he presses his phone into your palm and his skin touches yours for a moment. You sincerely hope that this is real, and as you type your number into the contact line, you say a silent prayer of thanks to whoever is listening.

“There you go, Mr. Harry Styles,” you tell him on a smile, passing his phone back. “Handle that number with confidence, alright?”He laughs and does a salute. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that he was blushing.

“I think your girls are hailing you over,” he says, pointing behind you. A quick glance over your shoulder proves true, and Sophie looks as though she’s completely frozen in shock at the sight of you actually talking to Harry. “I’ll let you go celebrate. Just, you did amazing. And you are amazing. And I’ll text you, okay?”

You thank him, and can’t help the flush that finds your skin for the hundredth time in the last few minutes. “Thank you. I’ll be waiting.”

And, if it couldn’t get any better, as he goes to walk away he leans forward and presses a kiss to your cheek.

The next few moments are wiped from your memory, entire body in such shock that you black out until Harry has left the tent and you feel as though you’re turned stone at the hands of Medusa.

The girls are at your side in no time, and all of them speak at once.

“I. What. I’m.”

Bella gets right in your face, knocking the beer from your hand. “What was that?!”

You look her dead in the eyes. “I have no fucking idea, but this is the best day of my entire life.”

As the girls begin to squeal in excitement, all talking at once and grabbing at your arms for a group embrace, your phone pings from your back pocket.

You’re on the opposite side of the wrap around booth that your group is sitting at, staring daggers across the table as the rest of you and Harry’s friends banter and drink, having the time of their lives. It’s getting late into the night, everyone already having been out for enough drinking to get them wasted and more, but the festivities seem to be still going strong.

Except, you aren’t nearly as drunk as everyone else, because the moment you heard that Ashley was coming there was no amount of booze that would make this night fun. She’s just one of Harry’s friends, according to him–someone from his grade school that’s been there for him like a sister.

When he told you that you’d snorted, because sisters don’t drool over their brother’s the way Ashley does Harry, they don’t leave lingering touches to forearms and duck in too close to whisper against ears. For as long as you’ve known her, Ashley has seemed to want Harry in all the ways she can’t have him.

He’s your boyfriend. He’s been with you for what feels like forever, and you want it to stretch out that long. You see yourself marrying this man, carrying his children and growing into old age together.

But Harry doesn’t have the decency to tell his friend that it’s not right for her to be half in his lap, that it’s inappropriate for her to smack a drunken kiss against his cheek, that she should stop practically throwing herself at him because he’s a kept man.

A series of thoughts run through your mind about what it means that Harry won’t push her off. Does he actually want her? Would he ever cheat on you? What does she have that you don’t? What if Harry doesn’t want to be with you anymore?

Suddenly wishing to forget the sight in front of you, to go back to the way things were before he starting bringing his friends around, you reach over to where Dominique has three pints sat in front of herself and grab one, chugging it back as soon as it’s in your hands. Only she seems to protest, everyone else chanting you on as you try to make up for lost drinking time.

In your peripheral vision you can see Harry smiling at you, raising his fist in mock victory as you slam the glass back on the table. Somehow, it only makes you want to drink more. 

So you do. Drinking nonstop for the next hour, not only can you feel your wallet deflating, but you slowly become more and more drunk, to the point that you can’t remember why you’ve never braved the topic with your man before, why you let him just act however he pleases with whomever he pleases.

It’s been a minute since you saw Harry, having gone to the dance floor with Jess and Stephen while the rest of the group ordered pints and waited. Deep down, you know that it’s a bad idea to have a confrontation about it here. Your moral judgement should be screaming at you as you stumble your way back to the booth, except you lost your moral judgement four drinks back. 

“Harry,” you announce, walking right up beside where he’s still sitting. Ashley isn’t in his lap very much now, but she’s got a hand on Harry’s shoulder. That belongs to you. 

“That belongs to me,” you tell her, reaching out to shove her hand off his body. 

The pair go stiff at that, Harry’s face fluttering with a look of confusion, then frustration. You don’t give Ashley the time of day and couldn’t care less about what she’s feeling right now. 

“What’s wrong, Y/N?” Harry asks, reaching out to grab your hand. That is not happening. You pull away before he can get close, and you cross your arms. Faintly it registers in your mind that the rest of your friends are watching you, that the conversation has gone silent, but you’re going to push on because this has been a long time coming. 

“What are you doing, Harry?” You practically shout, raising your hand to reference the girl beside him. “Why don’t you just fuck her right in front of everyone?”

Everything goes stiff then, drinks clacking loudly against the table as everyone sets their drinks down in discomfort. Harry’s entire person straightens up and his brows draw tight, clearly unsure about what’s going on.

“What are you accusing me of, Y/N?” he asks, voice very stern and analytic in the way he gets when he’s unhappy. 

Even though the look on his face makes you almost regret doing this, because he’s so clueless as to how badly he’s been hurting you, you push forward with everything in you, thanks to your liquid courage. “You know what, Harry. She’s been all over you all night, and you just let her.”

It’s silent for a moment, and when Ashley slowly pulls herself away from Harry’s body, obviously trying not to make any sudden movements, it takes everything in you not to scream at her. As much as Harry knew better, this girl has known you two were together for years. 

Harry speaks finally, once he’s stared a hole through you long enough to make your insides turn cold and your hands go clammy. “I don’t know what you mean.  Can we go somewhere private to talk about this?”

Your voice replies before your mind does, shouting, “I don’t want to go somewhere private. I want you to tell me, right now, why you’re always pretending that I don’t exist around her!” The teary crack that comes with it isn’t expected, and it isn’t until then that you realize your eyes are watering, threatening to send tears down your cheeks. 

Harry stands up slowly, motions very much mimicking those of Ashley’s earlier, and just watching it makes you sick at the stomach. You want to punch him, to tell him to go fuck himself. You want to break a glass and scream at the top of your lungs. Most of all, you want to cry yourself to sleep, far away from this moment. 

“God, Harry,” you whisper, feeling yourself unravel under the gaze of everyone around. You’ve never been a weepy drunk, but now that you’ve got a taste it’s all you can be. “Why do you do this to me?”

He takes your hand finally, stepping into your bubble and getting as close as he can without completely hugging you. For some reason you let him, and you duck your head down in regret and hurt, maybe a little bit of shame.

“Y/N,” he says coolly, so gentle that his breath dances across your skin and leaves goosebumps. “Can we go somewhere private, please.”

You nod without realizing it, and as he places a hand on your lower back and leads you away from your friends a sudden wave of dizziness washes over you. God, there’s so much happening in your head. 

Harry tucks the both of you away in some closet, where the outside music is muffled by the walls and there’s a mop standing against the wall beside your head. His hands stay on you the entire time, Harry, but he doesn’t do more than that. Instead, he stands back a bit, waiting for you to say something.

He looks so soft under the harsh yellow light of the room, like he couldn’t hurt a fly. There’s something so gentle about the curves of his face and how he’s watching you, making you feel like you’re slowly falling and waiting for him to catch you. 

“I’m sorry,” you say eventually, not really sure why. You know that you’re angry and that Harry hurt you, but saying sorry feels right. 

“Why did you say those things?” 

Curling your finger against his palm, just to feel the way his hand flexes, you bite your lip and inhale the dull scent of cleaning supplies. “She wants to be with you and you know it.”

“So?” Harry tilts his head, eyes dancing over every inch of your face. “I don’t want to be with her.”

“Yeah, but you let her climb all over you.” The words tumble out before you can stop them, and the tears start flowing as well, staining your cheeks as they begin to fall. “You always flaunt the fact that she wants you, knowing that I’m right there, and it makes me wonder if there’s a reason. Like, do you secretly, deep down, want to be with her instead? Am I not good enough for you?”

It gets messy quickly, snot and tears mixing together on your chin. You probably look the most unattractive you ever have in your life, body sweaty from the dancing and hair tangled at the base of your neck. Still, Harry wraps his big arms around you without question as he lets you sob into his shoulder, body slowly sobering as the minutes pass.

“I love you,” Harry whispers after a minute, pulling away so that he can look into your eyes. “You’re the only girl that I’ve ever loved like this–that I want to love like this. Since the day that I met you I haven’t imagined being with another person, and I guess that sense of security that I have in our relationship kind of blinded me to how being so close to another girl might come off.” 

He reaches up to wipe under your eyes, as if that’s the only thing that needs cleaning up right now. But, his words touch you somewhere, slowly making sense in your mind as you process them. 

“You don’t want to be with her?” you ask, sniffing helplessly. 

Harry smiles faintly, shaking his head like he’s never been more sure of anything in the world. “No, Y/N. I only want you.”

It’s hard not to kiss him. You’re a mess, looking as gross as ever, and you won’t put him through that, but you hug him again. “I love you. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, pressing a chaste kiss to your temple. “I love you, and I shouldn’t have made you doubt that. I’ll tell Ashley to back off, okay? I don’t want her. You’re the one I want to spend my life with, okay?”

The tears start up again. God, you hope you hope that you don’t become a weepy drunk now, because it’s starting to be very exhausting.

“Okay.” You try to compose yourself, but it only makes you cry more, pressing your wet face against Harry’s neck. “Okay. Okay.”

“How much have you had to drink, Y/N?” Harry asks on a laugh, petting gently at the back of your head. “Let’s get you home, love.”

The rest of the night is a blur, from Harry driving you home to him pulling off your shoes and pressing into your back as he lulls you to sleep. You don’t think about Ashley again, to caught up in how much you love your boy, and it isn’t until the morning that you really process the conversation from the night before. 

It’s unusual for someone so young and inexperienced to slithertheir way into such a notorious and well known business, but with a collegeprofessor that worships the ground that you walk on and an extremelywell-written reference letter from the dean of your college, it was only amatter of time before you got your foot in the door. The position isn’t anythingspectacular–just the personal assistant to an executive assistant–but thereisn’t anywhere for you to go but up, you suppose. 

No matter the seemingly insignificant status of your new job,when the Monday morning rolls around that you’re first scheduled to work,you’re shitting yourself as you make your way into the sleek, glass walledheadquarters of the company. Dressed to the nines and sweating at the collar ofyour freshly pressed blazer, you slowly toe your way to the front desk, heelsclacking obnoxiously loud across the marble floor. 

“Excuse me,” you say, approaching the receptionist. She looksrather annoyed by your presence, obviously very busy with the call log splayedout in front of herself, and she stares you down with her heavily coated lashesand cherry red lips pressed tight. “I’m supposed to start work today. Canyou tell me where I might find Winona Jones? She said she would add my name toa list…” 

Thinking back on last week’s emails, Winona Jones came throughthe screen as a very pert and enthusiastic woman, excited to have an extra pairof hands around the office. She’d made it very clear that while she would tryher hardest to make you feel at home in the office, her boss and men of hisstatus in the business were very serious about keeping the work environmentprofessional. It didn’t do much to soothe your nerves, that knowledge, but as abusiness major you’ve been trained on how to keep things as such.

The receptionist in front of you squints for a moment, glancingover your person as if she’s judging your honesty based on your outfit ofchoice. Trying not to act offended, although you’d like to give her a few wordsto the wise about trying not to overdraw her brows next time, you give her apatient smile as she finally lifts a list of names into her view. 

“Name, please?”

You clear your throat, reaching into your handbag to pull outyour I.D. “Here,” you say, handing it over. “I’m Y/F/N Y/L/N.”

She turns her nose up in dissatisfaction when she finds yourname on the list in front of her, something that brings you an oddly satisfyingamount of joy. “You’re on here.” She returns your license and begins todig through one of her desk drawers, bringing her hand back with a scannablebadge. 

Upon inspection you find that it has your name on it, along withyour job title and access level. The sight leaves you almost in awe. None of yourfriends can say that they have an official name badge with their name and thebiggest brokerage company in the state’s emblem on it in the same breath.Honestly, for all that you are petrified, you’re excited to brag. 

The receptionist instructs you to head to the elevators in thecenter of the room, where you’ll need to scan your badge in order to make it tothe sixth level of the building. Without giving her so much as a thank you, youturn on your heel and make for the sliding metal doors. Oddly, the satisfactionof proving the woman wrong fills you with a sense of importance, and althoughno one is giving you a second glance there’s still a pep in your step, almostas if you’re trying to impress. 

There’s a security guard upon entrance to the elevator, head totoe in suit and tie. Before the doors have closed he requests to see youridentification, which you hand over without argument. He’s probably twice yoursize, a whole head taller than you despite the fact that you’re the averageheight for a woman of your age, and he looks as intimidating as one of thosespecial agent’s on television.

“You’re the new intern?” he asks out of nowhere once the doorshave shut and the elevator has started heading up. 

Awkwardly, you nod. “Uhm, yeah. Is it that obvious?”

He laughs, shaking his head, and now that he knows you aren’tplaying any games he seems about a hundred times nicer. “No, no. You looklike you fit in fine. Just relax, though. You’re more tense than my wife whenthe whole family is over for Thanksgiving.”

His comment seems to lighten the mood a bit, and you can’t helpbut laugh as you come to a halt on the top floor. The doors slowly slide open,and the scene before you makes every muscle in your body go rigid and throat tightenshut.

As you make to put one foot in front of the other, the manoffers a gentle, “Good luck, Y/N.” 

Such simple words of kindness completely overshadow the awfulexperience you had downstairs. You glance back at the security guard, smilingthrough the nerves. “Thank you. I never got your name.”

“I’m John,” he tells you. 

Before either of you can speak again the doors shut completely,a barrier between your last chance to run and your future career. There’s noturning back now, and you take a few calming breaths before you begin walkingdown the hallway.

At the very end of the marble flooring stands a set of wide,glass doors that reveal an airy office, that of which you assume belongs toyour boss. Right before that entrance is two desks, opposite each other acrossthe room. One is empty, only a computer and landline phone sitting atop thesurface. The other is home to a variety of office supplies and a very softlooking fern. Behind that desk sits a middle aged woman, curvy in nature androcking a beehive hairdo that’s been long out of style. 

“Winona?” you ask, approaching the woman. She immediately looksup from where she was previously keying away at her computer, and the smilethat comes to rest upon her mouth seems to light up the room.

“Oh, goodness!” Her voice ishigh and pitchy, ringing across the walls. She stands as quick as you can blinkand rounds the desk, holding out her hand for you to grab. “You must be Y/N!”

She displays just as she hadover email, almost too nice. It’s better than the receptionist downstairs, buther perky nature only rattles your nerves further. You’ve never been one to berude though, so you follow her lead, smiling and shaking her hand.

“I am! Sorry if I’m a bitearly. I figured that it would be best if we got a head start on my training.”You adjust the strap of your purse on your shoulder. “I hope that’s alright.”

Winona nods heartily. “Oh,yes, honey. That’s more than alright. Harry isn’t in for the morning yet, so thisgives me a few minutes to give you a rundown of what all we didn’t fullydiscuss over the computer.”

Before she begins promptingyou, she leads you over to the empty desk and gives you a second to situateyour blazer and purse over the back of your chair. It’s all very sleek andclean, just as the rest of the building appears to be. God, you can’t believehow lucky your life is turning out to be.

“So,” Winona says, crossingher arms. “As you know, you’ll be my assistant, and I am the assistant to thebig man. It’s kind of like a chain of command—although I’ll obviously treat youlike an equal. For logistics though, I do whatever Harry asks, and you dowhatever I ask.”

“Sounds simple enough,” youtell her, nodding along at her words.

You know in passing who HarryStyles is, seeing as his name is across the company building, but you have noclue what to expect. A quick Google search might give you a small bit ofinformation, but you don’t think you’ll have much to worry about, what withthis mystery man employing such an abstract woman to be his executiveassistant.

Maybe he’s in his latesixties, going through a late mid-life crisis as he tries to hold onto hisyouth that’s long gone. He’s probably got greying hair and a loud, boomingvoice that’ll make you jump every time he enters a room. What if one day downthe line he gets a little too drunk at a company Christmas party and admitsthat he never loved his wife of twenty years and wishes he could turn back theclock?

As an array of differentscenarios race through your mind, Winona rattles on about the perks andhighlights of the job. Faintly you can hear her explaining how she was the onewho originally requested your assistant’s job be opened, what with how thecompany is taking off under it’s new management and it’s getting difficult forher to keep up all on her own. In an attempt to mock interest you nod along,smiling every once in a while.

Eventually the two of youmerge into your own seats, resorting to talking across the room.

“I’ve got a bad back, y’know,”Winona says. “I think that we should petition the H.R. board to get us thosebig, bouncy ball chairs. What do you think?”

You haven’t been listeningreally, something you feel the slightest bit bad about, but you want to playalong. Opening your mouth to reply, she cuts you off before you have the chance.

“Oh, I’ll be back in asecond, Y/N.” She stands from her seat, knees angled inward as she beginsrushing down the hallway you entered from. “All this talking gets my bladderexcited!”

The laugh you let out isinvoluntary. Is there any chance you’ve entered the Twilight Zone? In undertwenty minutes you’ve met someone from every end of the personality spectrum,it seems, and your nerves are still causing your hands to tremble in your lap.

As you wait for Winona’sreturn, the one thing to keep you sane is the thought of how your friend’s aregoing to beg you to spill every detail about your first day, and how you’ll beable to dramatize every single second of it.

Eventually you hear footstepsagain, and you mentally prepare yourself for another bombardment of your newdesk buddy’s chatter. Except, when the footsteps come closer and eventually theperpetrator comes into view, it is definitely not Winona. It’s a young man,probably edging toward his mid to late twenties, and he’s honestly one of themost gorgeous men you have ever seen in your life.

With a sharp, strong jaw thatlooks as though it could cut glass and shoulder’s so broad that it pulls hissuit jacket taut across his chest, the man comes to a curious halt in front ofyour desk. His deep, charming green eyes blink a few times, framed by the silkysmooth waves of brown hair of his head, and he pulls his brows tight.

He’s obviously meant to behere if he made it past the elevator clearance, but you have no idea how to addressone of the company’s clients yet. Winona still isn’t back, and you have nothingto do but fumble through your words.

“Uhm, hello, sir,” you say,wiping your clammy hands across your navy pants. “I’m sorry but Mr. Styles isn’tin yet. If you’d like to wait a second I can try to see what time he’ll bearriving this morning.” You cough out of nowhere, and even though it’scompletely uncalled for, your cheeks begin to burn bright red.

The handsome stranger juststares at you for a minute, a range of emotions dancing across his face beforehe settles for an oddly arousing smirk. He shoves the palms of his hands intohis pockets, cocking a hip as he glances down at you with teasing eyes. “He’snot here yet, you say?”

“Uhm, no, sir,” you reply.God, you have to be the most awkward person in the world with the way you beginto fidget under this man’s attention.

“Okay,” he says. “Are you hisassistant?”

“I’m his assistant’s assistant.But, he’s still my boss, so I guess that I’m his assistant, too.”

The man nods, chuckling underhis breath. Faintly, you wonder how inappropriate it would be if you crawledunderneath your desk and hid for the rest of your life.

He opens his mouth to speakagain, the playful glint in his eye still burning bright, but the sound ofWinona’s voice begins to echo down the hallway as he starts up. She enters theroom mid-sentence, still talking about appropriate office seating, but when shenotices the man her words come to a standstill.

She places her hands on herhips and squints at him, a disapproving look on her face. “Do you know whattime it is, young man? Do I need to call your father?”

The mystery man’s eyes gowide and he lets out a burst of laughter, copying Winona’s body language. Hesays, “Excuse me, Winona, but a queen is never late. Everyone else is simplyearly.”

Did this handsome man justquote The Princess Diaries? How do he and Winona know each other? What ishappening?

Involuntarily, you let out asmall noise of question. The both of them turn to face you, and Winona breakscharacter as she suddenly comes to life with excitement.

“Oh, Harry! This is Y/N, thenew hire I was telling you about!”

Hold on. Harry Styles?

A million thoughts race throughyour mind at once, from wondering how someone so young could be the CEO of amultimillion dollar brokerage company to how Winona mislead you to believe thisman would be some kind of hardass. You want to question everything that you’vebeen told up until now and as about a hundred questions, but everything happensso quickly that you’re left in the dirt.

“I figured that, Winona,” Harrysays, smirking at the older woman. He returns his attention to you after abeat, sending you a wink. “I don’t think Y/N has any idea of who I am, however?”

Winona laughs, slapping atHarry’s arm before making her way back to her seat. You remain where you’re at,stomach fluttering as you sit at a loss for words.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Styles,”you say, realizing that your behavior probably came across as unprofessionaland rude. Based off Winona’s description of Mr. Styles he doesn’t like to jokearound often—something that you assume he only makes exceptions for whenever heis very close to someone, as he is with Winona. “I’m mortified right now.Please excuse the last two minutes.”

Harry laughs then, shaking hishead as he waves a hand in the air. You honestly have no clue what’s going onand don’t know whether you’re going to lose your job as soon as you’ve got it.

“It’s alright, Y/N.” He stepscloser, holding out a hand for you to shake. “And, please. Call me Harry.”

What?

Despite the sheer confusionthat you feel at the moment, you shake his hand and try to come across as completelycalm. It’s probably failing, but thankfully Harry doesn’t make to embarrass youfurther. He turns toward his door, the feeling of his hand on yours lingeringeven after he’s out of reach, and he waves you and Winona goodbye.

“I would stay and chat but I’mafraid I’ve got more work on my plate right now than I have time.” He winks atWinona and send you an overly charming smile that causes your fingers to clenchin your fist. “Winona, I trust that you’ll be on your best behavior in trainingY/N today.”

Winona snorts, rolling hereyes. “Always, Harry.”

With a bit more laughter,Harry enters his office and heads to his desk. You watch him through the glasswalls, shock still sitting at the forefront of your brain, and when you finallyforce yourself to turn away Winona is smiling at you, much too knowing.

“I though you said that Mr.Styles was very… professional.” You unabashedly stare at her with an emotionother than something positive now, because you had spent the past few dayspreparing your poker face for no reason.

“He is,” Winona says. “Imeant the older Mr. Styles. Harry’s father, who owns the company.” She shrugs,turning her attention toward her computer. “Harry, however, is very charmingand fun. He hates a serious office environment. Says that it kills brain cells,or something.”

She begins droning on again,something about how she doesn’t believe half the things that Harry tells herand how she’s been here for too long, but you zone out again.

It’s an awful thought, butyou quickly weigh the pro’s and con’s of staying at this new job. It’ll be sogood for your resume and might lead to bigger and better things, but Harry Styles,as you have learned, is the most attractive human to ever bless the earth. He’slike an angel sent from heaven, here to fill you with want despite not knowinga single thing about him.

You’re going to have to see himfive days out of the week, following his every order and doing things like runninghis errands and learning his coffee order. Just the thought of spending so muchtime with someone so attractive, not able to touch and definitely not havingthose thoughts reciprocated…

Your earlier thoughts of havinga surprisingly lucky life quickly swirl down the drain. There’s no way you can walkaway from this opportunity.