“Oh Love, Everyone Was Crying.”

Stranger Things

Masterlist: Here

Eddie Munson:

Texting Husband Eddie

Texting Boyfriend Eddie

Friends with Benefits

Fake Dating

Stages of Heartbreak

Wrong Number, Right Time

It Was Just One Night

Bucket of Sunshine

Trouble Next Door

Fake Marriage

Secret Rendezvous

All other fics here

Steve Harrington:

Texting Boyfriend Steve

Double Trouble

Sugar Daddy Steve

All other fics here

One Direction

Narry:

Three’s Company: You live with your two boyfriends, Niall Horan and Harry Styles. You’ve known them since you were an intern for Julian Bunetta back in the later One Direction days right before Made in the A.M was released. Now you have your own business and they are working at their solo careers and this series shows all the ups and downs the three of you have while navigating your careers and relationship✨

Harry Styles:

Where we Started: Friends to lovers where Harry has to pick if telling you his feelings is worth risking the friendship. (Completed)

Texting Boyfriend Harry

Southern Comfort: Strangers to lovers, Harry is given the wrong number.

Fake Husband: You meet Harry at a house party and in an attempt to help you not look like a loser in front of your ex Harry has a great idea…just be his wife for the night. (One shot)

Tumbleweed Heart: Harry is your ex and you need him to stop calling so you can both move on (one shot)

Harry’s “I’m in love..” moment: The moment Harry realizes he’s in love with his bestfriend

Lonely: The one where Harry asks his bestfriend to marry him because why not?

Killer!Harry AU: You’re married to Harry who’s a killer but you have no clue, because to you he’s just your loving husband who sometimes comes home late with banged up knuckles.

Worth the Fight: You get pregnant after a one night stand so you have to navigate going from strangers to parents with Harry and maybe seeing if feelings develop along the way. (Completed)

Not in the same way: A friends to lovers 2 parter, Harry likes to act more like your boyfriend than your bestfriend but you don’t seem to mind. (Completed)

The Almost Bumble Fumble: You run across Harry on a dating app and you’re convinced it’s not actually him.

Worst Mob Boss Ever: Harry gets in the wrong car when your brother Mitch picks you up from work one day.

Tuesday Dinner: A Sopranos/Mafia Au where you’re making dinner for you and Harry and you keep getting uninvited guests.

Handle with Care: Frat Harry works for a moving company and breaks more than just a few of your boxes and has to learn the hard way that sometimes he has to handle things with care. (Completed)

Sunburnt & Smitten: Harry gets jealous of you reading while on vacation and does the unthinkable, tosses your book overboard and then has to figure out how to make it up to you. (Completed)

Glitch: This series shows how Harry’s life changes the moment he “accidentally” runs into you at a party and how he makes you feel things you don’t think you’re supposed to be feeling, maybe it’s a glitch or maybe it’s just you’ve found your match.

On the hook: a smutty blurb about tow truck driver Harry who forgets his lunch at home and is just trying to do his job.

Delicate: You unknowingly match with your bff Harry Styles on a sketchy website and now have to navigate how to be friends and let him be your sugar daddy. (Completed)

Fine Print: Arranged Marriage with a shy ceo!Harry and you, someone his mom picks to help break him out of his shell. (Completed)

Soulmate Smell: A soulmate AU that has you leaving the local Farmer’s Market with way more than a few trinkets and flowers.

Vampire!Harry: He’s your loving boyfriend who just so happens to be a vampire.

Mean!Ceo Harry: Grumpy x Sunshine trope of Harry being a ceo that’s mean to everyone but you.

Little Secret: Professorry that doesn’t tell anyone about his wife.

Sunday Softies: Blurbs that are just fluffy goodness posted on Sunday

Whispers on the Water: Harry is a swamp monster who becomes enamored by you when you visit the swamp after your boyfriend breaks up with you.

Knock Twice: You’re Niall’s sister, a twist on the brother’s bestfriend trope.

Spooky Fics: All my Halloween fics

Festive Fics: All my holiday fics

How to accidentally fall in love with a Criminal mastermind: Twist on a mob boss fic where you write to Harry while he’s in prison.

10/10 Would Recommend: Frat Harry and reader break up for 2 months and Harry has a weird way of trying to get her attention.

Glitter on the Floor: You work at the club across the street from Harry’s convenient store and he has a crush on you.

Older fics you can find here

Niall Horan:

Texting Boyfriend Niall

There’s No Rush

Older fics you can find here

Life with Narry: You’re besties with Niall and Harry, you’ve known them for years ever since One Direction and these are just little stories about what it’s like being friends with two superstars.

Masterlist: here

Blurbs

FAQ/Q&A

How you meet

Hurt Feelings

Spa Day

AMAs

Decorating the Tree

Bubble Baths

Golfing

Movie Night

New Year's Eve

Wedding Date

Jealous Harry

Leaving

Flicker of Hope meets Life with Narry

Sick Day

The Fight Part One

The Fight Part Two

Happy Birthday Harry Part One

Happy Birthday Harry Part Two

You Get Drunk

You Meet Nick

Other Celebs

Joseph Quinn:

Texting Boyfriend Joseph Quinn

Cheater Joe

Joe Keery:

Call me.

Such an ordinary request. People do it every day. They pick up a phone, dial someone they care about and hear their voice. They ask what the day’s been like. They argue about nothing. They say I’ll be home in twenty minutes. They say I miss you. They say goodnight.

Harry hasn't heard your voice before.

The realization, when it came sometime around three in the morning had actually made him sit up. As if the thought itself were a physical blow. Weeks and weeks of letters. Pages of conversations. Whole nights given to answering questions you hadn't asked out loud. He knows how your mind wanders when you’re tired, the way your sentences stretch and tangle, double back on themselves and the way you apologize for the mess. He knows what makes you laugh because you've given him hints, your own clumsiness, other people’s unintentional jokes and the way Niall looks at you when he catches you talking to yourself while working on a new craft.

He knows you draw tiny stars or hearts in the margins because you don't like a lot of blank spaces. He's counted them, those little ink constellations and bouquets, as if they might map some hidden path to how the deeper parts of your mind works.

But he has no idea what you sound like when you say his name.

That thought has followed him all morning, clinging stubbornly to each moment. When he lined up for breakfast, it sat there between him and the tray of rubber eggs. When some idiot shoved someone else on their way to the yard and voices rose, Harry didn’t even bother to look because he was too busy imagining the shape his name makes in your mouth. If it comes out sharp or soft. If you rush through it or take your time. Whether you’ve practiced saying it at all.

By eight, his allotted gym time had come and gone. By nine, the noise of the block had swelled to its usual relentless volume. By ten, he’d reread your page so many times the paper felt warm.

By eleven, Harry has made up his mind.

He's going to call you but he's not using the prison phone.

Absolutely not.

The thought of it, standing in that grimy hallway with its peeling paint and barred windows, the handset sticky from other people’s hands, the electronic beep as the call starts recording twists something in his chest. His calls are monitored and recorded. Every word catalogued somewhere, available to be listened to again by people who have no right to hear it.

Normally Harry considers that an inconvenience. Another obstacle on a list he has grown very good at navigating around. It’s simply part of the landscape of prison life, cameras, microphones, men with clipboards. Systems built to catch people like him and keep them.

Today it feels like a violation.Because if you want to speak to him for the first time, that moment belongs to you. Not the prison. Not his associates. Not some guard sitting behind a desk with headphones, bored and completely unaware of the way your voice might break something open in him he can never put back.

You.

It belongs to you. Harry owes you that much. Truthfully he knows he owes you considerably more.

Being twenty two is a weird age, you're old enough to drink but not old enough to rent a car. You can vote but aren't really taken seriously when you voice your opinions on things. Sure you have a mind numbingly catchy Taylor Swift song that sometimes accurately describes how you're feeling but other than that being twenty two is kind of boring. But that all changes when you take your bestfriend and current roommate Niall's advice and take your car to a shop his boyfriend James recommends when the "check engine" light comes on for the fifth time in the last two months. It's where you run into a man named Harry that looks far too put together to be sitting in the waiting area of a grimy dirty mechanic's shop with his briefcase and button up. You don't waste time in introducing yourself and that sets off a chain of events that will have you thinking that maybe being twenty two isn't that boring after all.

Harry is in his early forties, works long hours, and follows the same routine each day. He spends most evenings at home, avoids last-minute plans, and rarely seeks out excitement. Through a previous marriage that ended years ago, he has a twenty one year old son named James who lives with him. All in all Harry thinks he has everything he could possibly need out of life, he's got a handful of friends that he can count on to be there when he needs them, a son who is as far as Harry knows is in a new and healthy relationship and in Harry's eyes he can't really ask for much else. While he is happy with his life, Harry will also admit that sometimes it can be a bit boring. That all changes the day he meets you while waiting for his car to be ready after a routine oil change, having been going to the same mechanic for years he's become good friends with the owner Mitch. You're all smiles with an infectious personality and the moment you shake his hand and give him your name Harry gets a funny feeling that his life is about to get a lot less boring.

Harry’s still humming with leftover adrenaline when he comes off stage, body buzzing and skin tacky with sweat under the fabric of his shirt. The roar of the crowd follows him down the corridor the sound is slowly drowned out by the chatter of the crew and the clatter of cases being wheeled away. He can hear the distant calls of “good show H” being tossed around by various people. But under all of that there’s a quieter thread that’s running straight through him, tugging him forward.

You.

It’s ridiculous how quickly his mind pivots. One second, it’s the high of tens of thousands of people singing back his words and the next, it’s the memory of the way you looked hours earlier. With your eyes heavy, shoulders drooping while you tucked yourself into the hotel bed with the covers pulled up to your chin.

“I’m sorry…I don’t think I can sit in an arena tonight with all the shouting and chaos—I’m so drained.” You told him, your voice apologetic and hoarse with exhaustion.

He remembers the way you tried to smile but he could see it. He could see the faint look of guilt flicker across your face like you were worried you were letting him down in some way. It’s a look he’s seen countless times throughout the years of friendship, but it holds a different weight now that the two of you have been together as an official couple for almost two years. He remembers how he cupped your face and kissed your forehead and told you that you never had to apologize for needing a night in.

Now as he wipes his face with a towel and lets his stylist remove the tie from around his neck, you’re there at the forefront of his mind again. There’s a hollowness where you should have been tonight, every time he looked to the side of the stage his brain glitched for a moment, expecting to find your familiar shape in the wings. When he moved to his little corner to sip water between songs he felt the pang of your absence deep down in the spot in his chest that you tend to fill with your soft smile and over exaggerated thumbs up you give him when your eyes find his.

He still put on a great show. He always does, or he always tries to at least. But he won’t lie, the balance of his universe has felt a bit off-kilter without you being somewhere in the building.

He changes into a pair of soft gray sweatpants and tosses a faded t shirt on over his tank top before stepping out into the hallway so he can get into the car that’s waiting at the back entrance. He lets out a sigh as the door thuds shut behind him, muting the shouts outside. For a moment the silence is almost soothing, just the dull thump of his heartbeat in his ears and the low hum of the engine starting.

He pulls out his phone immediately. The screen lights up and your text thread is there at the top, like it always is.

Have a great show! Don’t fall while I’m not there to see it with my own eyes. I love you! See you when you get back!

He stares at the words “I love you” for a full second, the sentence settling warm and heavy in his chest, grounding him. He knows you mean it because he feels it in the way you look at him, in the sacrifices you make to be with him on the road and the way you somehow always know what he needs before he does. But sometimes he wonders if you really understand the way it echoes back from him. Like every heartbeat he has is just another syllable of I love you, I love you, I love you.

His thumb hovers, then he types.

Hey baby! Just finished! Crowd was insane! Didn’t fall or even stumble. Saving that for when you’re in the pit doing your lovely little interpretive dance moves to your favorite song. I love you too! Be there soon.

He hits send. Finding the little whoosh sound absurdly satisfying.

The car pulls away from the arena and the city lights begin smearing into long streaks on the windows. Harry shifts, spreading his knees and rolling his sore neck from side to side. He doesn’t look at his team’s messages or check socials. He just watches your chat, waiting for the three little dots he knows so well.

Nothing.

He lifts his eyes for a second, watching the dark windshield and the blur of the road ahead. Then he glances back down.

Still nothing.

He breathes out through his nose, a small huff that’s half amusement and half impatience.

“Always making me work for it.” He mutters softly, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he starts typing again, fingers flying faster than his thoughts.

You better be waiting for me in the middle of the bed in one of those ridiculously soft night sets I bought you a few weeks ago and by waiting I don’t mean asleep. I have plans for us.

He stares at the message, waiting. The nerves in his legs are still overfiring from the show making his knee bounce causing his heel to start tapping a restless beat on the car floor. It’s familiar post-show fidgeting but there’s a new edge to it now, something starting to pull tighter in his chest underneath it all.

He remembers the way you were extra slow getting out of the car this morning, a hand pressed to the small of your back. The way the circles under your eyes have deepened over the past week. The fact that you barely touched your lunch because flying, then driving and then walking through thick crowds had finally started to wear you down.

He swallows.

“She’s probably just reading—she never looks at her phone when she’s reading her little spicy books.” He tells himself. “She’s had a long few days…she’s fine.” He says with a small nod but still he types another text, unable to help himself.

I miss you. Saw a fan with an unimpressed look on her face while I was singing the last song and it reminded me of you.

He can practically hear your teasing voice replying with something about how they probably were only there for Mitch and you were blocking their view and the thought makes his mouth curve. He wants that. That normality. The teasing. You rolling your eyes as your hands still reach out for him because you like the warmth of him.

But his phone screen stays stubbornly blank.

The driver says something to him about the route and the traffic to which Harry gives a short, automatic answer but his attention never leaves your name on his phone. The crowd outside the arena had taken photos of him, called his name, screamed for his attention but none of that seems real compared to the grainy contact photo of you on his screen with your head thrown back while laughing uncontrollably at something he’d said one slow afternoon at home.

A muscle in his jaw flickers.

He scrolls up through your earlier messages. Your check-ins while he was in soundcheck. Your apology about missing the show. His reassurance that you’re allowed to miss shows it’s not as if you haven’t seen it a few times already. The heart emojis. The stupid inside jokes.

He knows objectively he’s getting ridiculous already. It hasn’t even been that long. There’s a rational part of his brain that knows you’re probably in the shower. Or you knocked out the second he left. Or your phone died because you always forgets to charge it on travel days.

But then there’s the other part. The one that doesn’t operate on logic, only on the raw instinct that he needs you safe and accounted for. That collecting you at the end of the night, either with your hand securely in his leaving the venue or a quick text from the hotel telling him how his shorts are half an inch away from being unprofessional is the only way his nervous system can neatly close the loop.

He swallows against the prickle at the back of his throat as he types a new message that mentions Niall because surely you’ll answer if it has something to do with your best friend.

Did you see that Irish friend of yours is in Hershey for the weekend? Remember the last time we were there? I was 13 years younger with 20 or so less tattoos.

He then sends another, almost immediately because he knows if Niall doesn’t get a response out of you then the chance to make fun of him for being a narcissist certainly will.

That was when I had to really act like I wasn’t smitten with you and be your annoyingly handsome best friend. Thank god we’re past that and I can be openly obsessed with you while also still being annoyingly handsome.

He watches the messages appear, small blue bubbles lined up under your last text. His chest tightens with each passing second of silence. He rubs his lips together as he flicks to his call log. His thumb hesitates for half a moment, then he taps your name.

The ringing starts and the sound is hollow in his ear, layered over the gentle rumble of the car and the distant whoosh of other vehicles passing. It rings. And rings. And rings. Then your voicemail clicks and your recorded voice starts chirping your greeting, warm and familiar. He imagines your phone buzzing on the bedside table, ignored.

He doesn’t leave a message. He hangs up, jaw clenching.

“She’s fine—she’s just messing with me.” He mutters to himself, but the words sound thin. Now it’s not that he doesn’t trust you to be okay. It’s that his mind, stretched taut by weeks of hotels and flights and the constant press of strangers, has become a breeding ground for worst case scenarios.

He remembers nights when he was younger all alone in some hotel room after shows, lying awake at four in the morning with his lungs feeling too small and the ceiling seemingly pressing down against him. Back then he’d ride it out, fingers digging into sheets, telling himself to breathe or if it got really bad he’d call his mom.

But now when those feelings creep up, they rarely have anything to do with him because they’re always in some way tied to you. What if something happens to you while he’s on stage? What if you need him and he’s not there? What if tour takes away the one thing that makes all of this feel like it’s worth it?

“Just once more—maybe she was in the shower and couldn’t get to it the first time.” He mumbles as his thumb hovers over the call button for half a second before pressing it.

This time it skips to voicemail faster. Either your phone is dying, it’s on Do Not Disturb or it’s completely off. Whatever it is the sound jolts his heartbeat into a higher gear. Sweat prickles at the back of his neck that has nothing to do with the show now.

The car slows as they reach the hotel. Paparazzi flashes pop from a distance like lightning but Harry barely registers them. Someone opens his door and he steps out automatically, head ducked and walking fast. There’s murmured greetings and a couple of staff members at the door saying welcome back, but it’s all background noise as he just gives them a small nod of acknowledgment as he passes them.

In the last half hour his world has been narrowed down to a corridor, an elevator, a room number and the growing time gap between his texts and your unanswered phone.

In the gleaming marble of the hotel lobby he tries once more. He sends a text with fingers that are almost clumsy now due to how unsteady he suddenly feels.

I’m on my way up. Not to be a pain in the ass but a sign of life would be greatly appreciated right now love. I’m kinda going a bit mental.

He hates that his brain is like this when it comes to you. But he’s always been this way with you, even before confessions of love happened in a closet at a charity event he’s always been a little over the top with his need to keep you safe and happy. On a good day he can usually tell himself he’s just attentive, loving and extremely invested in your wellbeing. But on a night like this, it feels like a compulsion like something deep and instinctive that borders on obsession.

But obsession is too tidy a word for what it is.

It isn’t just that he likes you. Or even just that he loves you. It’s that somehow during the years he’s gotten to spend with you in his life even as just a friend, his world has braided itself so tightly with yours that the idea of something happening to you while he’s not there physically hurts. When he used to picture his future before you, it was vague. There was music, maybe a house somewhere quiet and maybe kids someday. Now every version of his future has your face in it, your hand in his, your laughter echoing in rooms that make him feel like he’s finally found his home.

And the thought of that being taken away from him makes his chest ache.

The elevator doors slide open. He steps inside, pressing the button for the floor the room he shares with you is on with more force than necessary. The doors shut, and the boxy space seems too small for his thudding heart and over active mind. As the elevator starts to rise the floor numbers start blinking past making flashes of memories hit him like film stills.

One of you falling asleep on his shoulder on a flight back when his hair was long and his whole body locking into a careful type of stillness so he wouldn’t wake you up or be the reason you got a crick in your neck even though you were lightly pulling his hair every time you moved. A memory of you crying once about how hard it is to be away from friends and family and how he’d felt like his ribs were being peeled apart at the sound because he’s never handled your tears well and it’s only gotten worse over the last two years. Then there’s a memory of you dancing around in his kitchen in one of his t-shirts, singing terribly on purpose and him knowing in that moment with absolute clarity that he couldn’t imagine a life that didn’t have that exact image in it.

He grips the metal rail, knuckles whitening.

If anything happened to you, if you slipped in the shower and hit your head, if you fainted from exhaustion or if somewhere between the venue and the hotel the world decided to play some cruel trick he wouldn’t know what to do with himself. The thoughts make his chest twinge with a sharp stabbing type of pain. He knows rationally, that he would survive. People survive losses every day. They keep breathing. They go on. But he also knows it would be like trying to walk on a broken leg that never sets right. Like singing with only half a voice. Like living in a permanent winter with the knowledge that once, he had known what spring felt like.

The elevator dings and the doors slide open.

He moves fast down the hallway, his shoes hardly making a sound on the plush carpet. As the room, your shared bubble of privacy on a rotating map of cities looms closer. He fishes out the keycard with fingers that tremble more than he wants to acknowledge. The green light blinks and the lock clicks as he gives the door an almost frantic push.

“Sweetheart?” His voice comes out rougher than intended. “You here?”

The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Everything smells faintly of your perfume and of hotel sheets and the lotion you like. The bed is a mess, duvet half on the floor like you’d gotten tangled and then gave up trying to make it look tidy. Your cardigan is draped over the chair with a book facedown on the nightstand. A pair of your fuzzy socks peeks out from under the bed, one turned inside out.

His eyes zero in on your phone.

It’s sitting face down right by your book. His stomach swoops. He’s on it in three long strides, snatching it up and flipping it over. The screen bursts to life. A wall of notifications blooms across it.

Missed calls (3) – Harry 🍬

Messages (6) – Harry 🍬

Behind that is your lock screen picture where his arms are wrapped around you from behind, with his chin hooked over your shoulder, your faces pressed together and both of you are in the middle of laughing. He remembers that exact moment, Niall had told a bad joke that made you laugh so hard you’d accidentally elbowed him in the ribs, and oddly enough he didn’t feel a moment of discomfort he just felt happy, absurdly happy.

The memory makes his heart swell.

He swipes, but the phone asks for your code. He rolls his eyes as he types in your code that for reasons unknown to him is just a combination of your and Zayn’s birthdays and hits your messaging app and stares at it. He exhales shakily, the sound halfway to a laugh and halfway to a groan of frustration when he doesn’t find anything besides a few missed texts from Niall and one from his mom that he tucks away to ask you about later.

“Okay your phone is here so…where the hell are you?” He whispers to himself not really angry, more like his nerves are starting to fray at the edges.

Then before he can fully start to spiral any further he hears it.

From behind the closed bathroom door, a soft sound that’s not a thud or a cry and he feels his heart still for a split second before he registers the sound of muffled voices. Familiar voices. The voices of a group of over zealous women he knows from that horrible reality show you put on whenever you’re bored, or tired, or just want something entertaining to play in the background while you do random little tasks. He hears an insult land on the other side of the door followed by a few well timed gasps, the sounds are faint but unmistakable even through the wood and the running water.

The breath he’d been holding explodes out of him in something like a strangled laugh. Because oddly enough his sign of life is the sound of a group of well off housewives arguing over who throws the best dinner party. His knees feel weak suddenly. He plops down heavily on the edge of the bed, one hand pressed to his forehead where his hair is already damp with the sweat of the show and now with the sheen of leftover fear.

“Jesus.” He whispers to the empty room, eyes burning as if he hasn’t blinked properly since leaving the stage. “Okay Harry—get a grip.”

But underneath the self reprimand there’s that other current, fierce and unapologetically devoted to keeping his mind at ease as it repeats a steady flow of “she’s okay. She’s okay. She’s okay” over and over again. Suddenly all the terrible images his mind had conjured on the way up here like your body on the bathroom tiles, an ambulance and the headlines all evaporate so fast they leave a kind of emotional whiplash in their place.

Only now, with the immediate terror receding can he feel the full intensity of what it did to him.

How the idea of losing you had, in those few minutes, eclipsed everything else. The career he’d worked his entire life for, the crowds and the songs—none of it had mattered in those stretched out frantic heartbeats. The thought that he could be in a world where you didn’t exist had opened up beneath him like a pit and nearly swallowed him whole. He realizes with a clarity that steals his breath, that he doesn’t have anything left of himself that truly separates him from you. Not in a way that means anything to him at least.

His preferences are tied to you because if you have a new favorite restaurant so does he thanks to the amount of times you ask him to take you there, you hate a movie he will also refuse to watch it, his favorite smell is whatever perfume you’re wearing that day and his favorite sound is your laughter even if it’s directed towards him. His schedule orbits you when it can. Even his sense of safety is pegged to your presence, your voice and the warmth of your body under his hands.

The love he feels for you isn’t neat. It isn’t just affection and comfort and sex and shared jokes. It’s this too, the way his chest knotted up at the idea that your phone ringing unanswered might mean something was wrong. The vicious, protective urge that had him planning, without consciously being aware of it to tear apart the whole city if he had to.

He stands as the need to see you, to touch you, to reassure every skittish part of his brain starts taking over. He pads quietly to the bathroom door and tries the handle and his has to fight off the urge to roll his eyes at himself as it turns easily under his touch. He pushes it open slowly and warm scented steam spills out, instantly wrapping around him softening the sharp edges of his anxiety. The overhead lights are turned low, the small room a cocoon of golden haze. Your laptop sits on a little stool by the tub balanced precariously but expertly, the show casting flickering light on the tiled wall.

Then there’s you.

You’re sunk nearly to your chin in a mountain of bubbles, knees drawn up, skin flushed from the heat. Your hair is piled messily on top of your head, a few strands escaping to cling damply to your neck. One arm trails lazily along the edge of the tub holding what appears to be a bar of chocolate, your fingertips look wrinkled from soaking while the other hand is ducked under the water.

You’re completely engrossed in the show, brows furrowed as a woman says something obnoxious about someone else’s husband. He watches the corners of your mouth lift in anticipation just before another woman snaps back with an equally low dig, your quiet little huff of a laugh following right after.

Harry stops in the doorway and just stares.

It’s a disorienting shift from imagining the worst possible thing to seeing the softest, safest version of you. The contrast makes his chest squeeze so tightly he has to swallow around it. He leans his shoulder against the doorframe, eyes roaming over every inch of you visible above the water. The slope of your throat. The way your collarbone dips. The barest hint of the swell of your chest, blurred and made innocently tender by the bubbles.

You’re so alive. So warm. So vibrantly here.

He feels something in him unclench that he hadn’t even realized had been tight long before tonight. A long standing low-level dread that comes from the knowledge that people can leave, that good things can go wrong and that love is both the greatest gift and the greatest risk. He feels it begin to ease up just a little at the sight of you humming under your breath to the show’s soundtrack.

His fingers flex against the doorframe.

He doesn’t think of himself as “obsessed” in the trivial, pop-culture sense. He’s not just some guy scrolling your socials all day or silently stewing if you’re not available for every call. No. His fixation is more bone deep than that, rooted in a place that feels almost as if it’s been there the whole time and was just waiting to be awoken by you.

He knows that if somebody took a shovel to the foundations of his heart and dug past his childhood, career, old friendships and regrets, they’d find you there. Your laughter in the walls. Your smile in the floorboards. Your name carved into every support beam. You’re his home. His safe place and tonight proved to him that there’s no use in denying it.

“Having a nice little bath are we?” He says after a few more moments of staring at you, his voice is low and roughened by the emotional whiplash he just went through.

You jump making your chocolate bar go tumbling from your fingers and off the edgde of the bath with a soft plop.

“Holy shit.” You gasp, hand flying to your chest. “Harry Edward Styles what is wrong with you? You scared the hell out of me.” Despite everything a small smile breaks out across his face at your annoyance.

“You made me drop my chocolate…” You mumble sadly as you lean over to see your bar of chocolate sitting on the fluffy bath mat next to the tub.

“Oh I scared you?” He breathes out a short, shaky chuckle escaping along with the words. “That’s funny because I’m pretty sure I was the one about to have a heart attack on the ride over here.” You frown a little at his words, annoyed and confused but already melting with the sight of him.

“Yes you scared me you just barged in here like a mad man and—wait why…why would you be having a heart attack on the ride over here? Was the traffic that bad?”

He steps fully inside letting the door drift mostly shut behind him, and holds up your phone between two fingers. The screen lights with the motion illuminating the cluster of notifications all bearing his name.

The realization of what got him so worked up dawns on your face like a slow sunrise.

“No traffic just the love of my life leaving her phone in another room—on silent.”

“I put it on silent before I got in…I didn’t want it buzzing the whole time because Niall was in the middle of giving me a play by play of his golf game and I really just wanted to relax in the bath—I totally forgot it was on the nightstand.” You explain as you give him a small pout when you see him run a hand through his hair.

His breath punches out in a weak laugh. The edge of panic is gone now, but the aftermath lingers as a dull throb behind his ribs.

“Yeah that—that makes sense and is exactly the sort of thing you’d do on a night in.” He says softly. “Didn’t stop me from ringing you like some lovesick idiot on the way over here though.” He admits as you search his face properly. The too bright sheen in his eyes, the slight tremor in his fingers where they rest on the counter and the way his chest still rises and falls just a hair too fast.

Your mouth softens. “You thought something was wrong?” You say quietly, more statement than question.

He doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t hide behind a joke this time.

He nods once, jaw working. “I—yeah yeah I did… for a second there I was… I don’t know…it could’ve been you just fell asleep or were in the shower but—but my brain just—” He breaks off with a rough exhale, running a hand back through his damp hair. “Went fucking mental.”

You reach out without thinking, your wet hand emerging from the bubbles, dripping. He takes it instantly. His thumb finds your pulse on the inside of your wrist as he softly presses there reassurance blooms under his skin with each little beat against his fingers.

“I’m sorry I made you worry.” You whisper. “I meant to text you I was getting in the bath but then I found my stash of emergency chocolate and-”

“You mean you found my emergency bag of your favorite sweets and snacks that I keep tucked away in my carry on for when you’re snippy or need a bit of a pick me up.”He corrects making you send him a sad attempt at a glare.

“As I was saying—I got sidetracked and I’m sorry…I should’ve let you know I was up and waiting for you before trying to shut the world off for the evening.”

He shakes his head, squeezing your hand more firmly.

“Please don’t apologize.” His voice drops into a steady even tone. “You’re absolutely allowed to turn your brain off and sit in a bath and ignore the world okay? You don’t have to manage my—my issues when all you want to do is have a night in and recharge.”

The use of the word “issues” makes your mouth twitch, but you nod with your eyes searching his.

“I just…” He falters for a second then decides, consciously to let you see the thing that most people only get watered down versions of. “I can’t switch off the part of my head that… is always tracking you— it goes further than just needing to know where you are…I need to know if you’re okay and if you’ve eaten…if you’re being too quiet or if you… if you need me.”

Your fingers curl tighter around his.

“I think about you all the fucking time.” He continues, a shaky huff of half laughter leaving him at his own confession. “On stage—off stage…in the car…in hotel rooms…it’s not-" he scrubs his free hand over his mouth, searching for the right words. “It’s not some cute little crush…it’s like my brain’s rewired itself around you and I only notice when things like this happen—when I can’t reach you and my mind plays these tricks on me.”

“You sound like you’re in love.” You tell him as your eyes shine, your expression softening even as your chest pulls tight. He smiles then, it’s sweet but still a little sad around the edges.

“That’s because I am—like really head over fucking heels—properly gone in the my life is built a bit lopsided now because it leans your way kinda in love.”

You feel something in your own chest tilt at that, a warm, aching shift.

“I spent years learning how to be okay being alone,” he admits, voice low. “In hotel rooms like this—on planes and tour busses…convincing myself that… my career—the work and the songs—that was enough and that I could live with that being my main thing…but then you show up and suddenly…” He glances around the steamy bathroom like the answer might be written on the tiles. “Suddenly the idea of going back to that feels… I don’t know….like asking someone to forget how to breathe and—and the thing is I’ve always been this way when it comes to you…even before I got to know what it felt like to be truly loved by you I’ve—I’ve always been a little nutty about you—and everyone knows it.”

Tears sting your eyes, hot and immediate as he finally allows himself to look into your eyes longer than a few moments.

“Oh Harry.” You say his name with a smile as you feel his thumb rub the inside of your wrist. “You know I’m not going anywhere right? I was your friend before all of this and even if we one day decide this isn’t working-”

“That’s never going to happen.”

“I’m just saying—if it does that doesn’t mean I disappear from your life…you’re never going to be able to get rid of me…even if you really wanted to because we both know Niall will keep me around so let’s just face it—you’re stuck with me…either as a best friend or a girlfriend.” You say it gently with a little bit of teasing, but there’s an undercurrent of realness that he doesn’t miss.

He lets out a breathy laugh. “Stuck with you? No baby I think you’re the one who’s stuck with me.” He tips his head, considering. “But it doesn’t feel like it’s suffocating you does it? With how much I love you? I’m not… too much?”

You can hear the small vulnerable boy in the way Harry asks the question, the one who learned early that too much attention, too much availability or too much anything can scare people off. The one whose been taught by experience and headlines and betrayals to be careful about showing just how desperately he can love.

Your heart cracks a little around the edges at it.

“Harry.” You say his name gentle but firm. “I don’t mind how much you love me—I know you well enough to know it’s just how you are and I love you for it—no one makes me feel as cared for and appreciated as you do.” He swallows, eyes darkening as his lips part slightly. His shoulders drop by a fraction. You give him a warm smile as you tighten your grip, your thumb rubbing over his pulse point now.

“And I know that you worry.” You add, voice soft. “That your brain goes to some dark places sometimes and I know that because mine kinda does the same thing—like the idea of something happening to you when you’re out there sharing yourself with the world scares me—it’s always scared me so I try not to think about it but I just… usually have you texting me ridiculous things every ten minutes to keep me distracted.”

“So we’re both a bit gone for each other then?” He teases as his face crumples into something like a relieved smile.

“We’re both in deep.” You correct. “That’s what this is—this is what finding someone who matches your crazy looks like.” He lets out a small chuckle as he nods, chest rising on a deeper breath this time like he’s finally getting the proper amount of oxygen into his lungs.

Seeing the fear in him and how quickly it distills into this raw honesty, makes your own love for him swell to match. It’s not a one-sided obsession, it never has been. While Harry’s might at times overpower yours it’s still more so a mirror of your own.

“You think we’re crazy?” He asks fighting off a grin.

“Only about each other.” You answer smoothly making him laugh because of course you know exactly what to say to soothe the frayed edges of his mind.

“Come here.” You murmur. He shifts closer, knees brushing the side of the tub with your joined hands between you.

You reach your free hand up, wet and warm and he instantly leans down so you can cup his jaw, thumb tracing the edge of his cheekbone. His stubble rubs softly against your palm. He leans into it instinctively, eyes fluttering half closed in the way that tells you he feels safest when you’re touching him. You tug gently and he bends, meeting you halfway so your lips can meet. The kiss is slow, deep and he exhales into it like he’s been holding his breath for hours. You let go of his hand so he can place it on the edge of the tub while his other one comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers careful not to tug your damp hair.

There’s salt on his lips from the sweat of the show and the lingering anxieties he felt on the way back to you. There’s chocolate on yours and the combination is strangely perfect.

“I really am okay.” You whisper against his mouth when you pull back just enough to speak. “Just wanted to turn my brain and the world off and soak for a while.”

“Yeah.” He mumbles, his forehead pressing to yours, noses brushing. “I can see that now.”

He stays like that for a moment, just breathing with you, eyes closed, letting the warmth from the bath and the steadiness of your presence seep into his bones. The wild skittering panic that had gripped him in the car feels like it belongs to another lifetime now, but he doesn’t forget it. He knows it’s part of the truth too.

He straightens a bit, gaze flicking to the laptop still playing a rerun of your comfort show, a scene he’s seen at least fifteen times.

“What’s happening in Orange County? What have I missed?” He asks, voice lighter now as his teasing lilt returns.

“Vicky is trying to whoop it up and it’s not going well.” You reply. “But you know how it is with them—they’ll all be ordering shots and talking about their ex husbands by the end of the episode.” You explain and he smiles as he stands up and starts pulling off his t shirt over his head.

You blink. “What are you doing?”

He tosses the worn out fabric to the side, revealing a tank top beneath already damp with sweat. “What does it look like? I’m getting in.”

You stare at him with a quirked brow. “You—but this is my bath and it has those bath oils you hate because they make my skin too slippery and soft to grab on to and—you’re all sweaty and gross…really Harry you need to like….shower or something before getting in.” He just nods along to your little rant as he steps out of his shoes, then his pants moving with decisive efficiency.

“We’ve had this squabble before baby—m’not showering before I get in and I don’t care about the bath oils that are more of a slipping hazard than anything else because right now?” He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs and quirks you a faint crooked grin. “Right now I want—I need to be in the bath with you watching your annoyingly little comfort show that makes me question your taste in television because…I need to feel your heart beating and know you’re not lying on the floor unconscious because my dramatics got the better of me.” You snort out a laugh, even as your eyes go soft.

“You love my taste in television—you know all the housewives by name now.” You tell him with a knowing look. He just winks as he finishes removing the last of his clothes. “If you insist on joining me can you please hand me my chocolate?” He looks down at the bath mat and rolls his eyes as he leans down to grab your candy bar, handing it to you before stepping carefully into the tub behind you. The water overflows with a heavy slosh, a tiny bit of it splashing onto the floor.

“Oops.” He says mildly, easing down so his long legs are bracketing your hips and his chest is pressing to your back. “I’ll leave housekeeping a nice tip.”

You shift forward to make room, back curving into his chest as he settles. His arms come around you immediately as if pulled there by some magnetic force, one looping over your chest and the other around your waist. His hands splaying over your middle like he needs to cover as much of you as possible to fully convince himself you’re real. You sink back into him, your head finding the familiar notch at the base of his throat, just under his jaw.

He exhales long and slow, the sound rumbling against your spine. You can feel his heartbeat solid and strong, pressed to your back. Yours taps along with it, the two steady rhythms syncing.

“This okay?” He whispers into your ear.

“It’s more than okay.” You tell him as you reach down to lace your fingers with the hand he has resting just below your ribs. You thread your fingers between his, anchoring yourself there while your other hand lifts up so he can mindlessly take a small bite of your chocolate bar as his eyes glance over at your laptop screen.

He smiles when you move your hand back down to take a bite yourself before placing the half eaten candy on the edge of the tub, you feel him press a gentle kiss just beneath your ear, then another at the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. His lips linger, breathing you in.

“Please…try to text me next time okay?” He says, voice soft but not quite joking. “Just a quick little sign of life—don’t need to tell me all the details just that you’re putting your phone on silent or you’re getting in the bath…anything that’ll tell me why you’re not answering me when I text and call you like a mad man.” You chuckle, your head angling slightly to nuzzle his cheek.

“Okay I think I can manage that.” He hums, satisfied.

There’s a pause then, easy and full. The show plays on, familiar dialogue between the four disgruntled women wrapping around you both. You can feel the last of his tension easing, his muscles slowly relaxing against you, his hold shifting from desperate to simply possessive and affectionate.

“Do you ever get… scared?” He asks quietly after a while, surprising you. “At what this has turned into? How much you feel?”

You think about lying or making a joke, but he’s already shared so much of himself with you tonight. It only feels right that you attempt to match it.

“Terrified.” You admit. “Sometimes I look at you and it hits me all at once that you’re…real and that you’re mine and—I don’t know who I’d be afterward if this ended because honestly I don’t know how I’d go back to…the way it was before.”

His arms tighten their hold around you.

“That’s… exactly it.” He says. “It’s not just that I love you—of course I love you but…it’s more so that the version of me that exists now was built…with you—around you like there’s bits of you in everything I am—the songs I write….the way I feel when I wake up—even in the way I walk into rooms because I’m automatically looking for you in all of them.” He laughs softly. “It’s like… you moved into my head and redecorated.”

“Hope I picked good curtains and hideous wallpaper that makes your nose crinkle every time you see it.” You tease softly making him chuckle as he nudges his nose into your damp hair.

“You did—also lot of plants you swear you won’t kill and overly comfortable furniture and it smells like your shampoo.” You smile, throat thick. “And yeah,” he continues, more serious now. “It’s… it’s scary as fuck sometimes knowing how bad it would hurt if-” He breaks off, swallowing hard then forces himself to finish. “If I lost you—in any sort of way.”

His honesty lands with a dull resonant ache in your chest, echoing your own fears.

“But you know what?” He says after a moment, voice quieter like he’s confessing something to himself as well as to you. “I’d rather be scared like this than go back to how numb I was before…I thought I was okay…thought being a little detached was… safe but there’s no color in that—no life.”

You nod as your eyes start stinging again, grateful that he can’t see your face fully from this angle.

“I’m obsessed with you.” He says simply, the word no longer sounding funny at all. “Not in a… you’re my property kind of way but…in a you’re the axis my world spins on now kind of way—you’re the first person I think of when I wake up and last one I think of when I fall asleep and…about eighty percent of the thoughts in between.”

Your breath hitches, a quiet disbelieving laugh leaving you. “Eighty?”

“Fine.” He amends. “Ninety—happy now?” He says with a huff. You tip your head back slightly, catching his eyes from the corner of your vision. They’re soft and unguarded, pupils blown wide in the dim light.

“It doesn’t scare me…I hope you know that.” You tell him, with as much steady conviction as you can muster. “Not with you—It makes me feel… safe and wanted like… like I finally found my person.” His mouth curves at the edges, relief visible in the lines of his face.

“Good.” He whispers as he dips his head to kiss your temple, lips lingering there a second longer this time. “Because I don’t know how to dial it down—not sure I could even if I tried.”

“You don’t have to.” You say. “I don’t need you to dial it down for me.”

He nods against your skin. “Okay.”

You shift a bit as you resettle against him, the water sloshing gently. His hands slide to your stomach again, resting there, thumbs making slow absent-minded circles over your skin under the bubbles. The sensation is soothing, hypnotic.

On screen, one of your favorite argument scenes at a notorious beach house starts. Without needing to be prompted, Harry begins to quietly recite the lines along with the wives, his mouth close enough to your ear that you feel each word against your skin. You smile to yourself because you know deep down he hates the fact he’s seen this show so many times he can recite it so well.

You close your eyes. Between the warmth of the bath, the comfort of the trashy reality show, and the solid encompassing presence of him around you, it’s like being cradled in the safest place you’ve ever known. He’s still keyed up underneath it all, you can feel the occasional flutter in his heartbeat against your back and the way his fingers flex every so often as if checking you’re still there. That vigilance isn’t going away in one bath. It probably won’t ever leave entirely. It’s part of how he loves.

But instead of seeing it as a flaw, you understand it now as a feature. His love is not casual. It’s not polite. It’s not something he can turn on and off. It’s like a tide but once it rose for you, it never went back out.

As the show rolls on, he grows quieter and his breathing evens out as his body relaxes fully into yours. At some point, his lips find the top of your shoulder again and just rest there. You feel barely there kisses ghosting against your damp skin every now and then but it’s more out of habit than thought.

You realize as your fingers stay laced with his over your stomach that his obsession, this deep all-consuming attachment isn’t some wild, unstable thing threatening to burn you both up. It’s steady. It’s patient. It shows up in a man getting into a bath fully exhausted after a massive show just so he can keep your heartbeat close by. He can’t imagine being without you and you can’t imagine being without him. And as scary as that truth can be, in this moment with his arms around you and the ordinary, familiar sounds of his breathing and the television filling the bathroom, it doesn’t feel frightening.

It just feels like home.

He stays like that for a long moment, just breathing with you, eyes closed just letting the warmth from the bath and the steadiness of your presence seep into his bones. Then he feels you shift, an innocent movement that suddenly has his hands begin to move with a more clear intent as the warmth of your body against his spreads throughout his own. One slides lower through the bubbles, fingers parting your thighs under the water while the other slowly slides up your chest and cups your breast, thumb slowly circling your nipple until it tightens into a stiff peak. Two fingers find your clit and start to rub slow lazy circles that make your hips twitch and your breath catch. The water laps gently around his wrist as he works you.

“I really do mean it when I tell you I can’t stop thinking about you.” He murmurs against your ear, voice already rough. “Even on stage tonight…every time I looked to the side I wanted you there…wanted to know you were watching me the way I watch you—I’m obsessed with you baby—can’t imagine a single night without you—without feeling you like this.”

You make a soft sound, thighs falling open wider for him. He takes that as an invitation and sinks two fingers into your cunt under the water, finding you already slick and hot despite the cooling bath. He works you slowly with them, curling deep on every stroke so the pads of his fingers drag over that sensitive spot inside you. His cock is hard against your lower back, thick and insistent as the head nudges at the curve of your ass every time you shift.

“Daddy.” You whisper the word, the one that’s only ever uttered in moments when you know he needs to hear it, moments his neediness is on the same level as his obsession. He groans low and filthy in your ear and adds a third finger, stretching you wider. Working you open with steady, deliberate thrusts that make wet sounds under the surface.

“That’s it baby—let daddy feel how perfect you are.” He keeps his fingers moving, thumb pressing firm circles on your clit until the first orgasm rolls through you. It’s gentle making your walls flutter and clench around his fingers, he can feel a soft gush of slick coating his hand as your hips jerk. He doesn’t stop right away, he works you through it, drawing it out with slower strokes until your thighs relax.

“Need more room—can’t have you the way I want in here.” He mumbles before he removes his fingers from inside you and stands up pulling you with him. Water cascades off his body and his cock is flushed dark and heavy the tip already leaking.

“Don’t drop me.” You warn as he gently turns you around in his arms already knowing what’s about to happen.

“Never.” He tells you with a smile as he lifts you up and out of the tub like you weigh nothing and carries you to the bed. The second your back hits the sheets he’s between your thighs, mouth hot and hungry. His tongue drags through your folds in one long, messy lick tasting the mix of bathwater and your arousal before he sucks your clit between his lips.

“Oh—oh fuck.” You whimper at his two fingers sliding back inside you and curling hard against your front wall. The first orgasm on his tongue hits fast and hard, your thighs tremble around his head, slick coating his chin and wrist in glistening strands as you come with a shaky moan.

When the sensitivity starts to build, hips twitching he lifts his head, lips shiny and eyes dark and pleading.

“Please baby.” He whispers against your swollen cunt. “Just one more on my tongue. I need it—need to feel you come for me again—please let daddy taste you one more time.” You nod, and he dives back in with a grateful groan.

This time he’s more deliberate with it, giving you broad flat licks over your oversensitive clit while his fingers fuck you deep and steady, the wet sounds turn obscene. The pleasure builds faster and it’s almost too much, but your moans stay needy as the second orgasm hits. He moans against you as your cunt starts pulsing around his fingers, fresh slick dripping down his wrist as your legs shake.

“You’re so perfect—love you so much.” He says as he kisses his way up your body.

“I love you too.” You say breathlessly as he lines himself up, he teases your entrance with the leaky head of his cock before he sinks into you with a broken moan, bottoming out in one long thrust that stretches you around his thick shaft. He doesn’t let you adjust before his hips start rolling deep and steady, the wet slap of skin filling the room as he fucks you with long, deliberate strokes.

“God you feel so good.” He pants, grinding against your cervix with every thrust. “Fuck I can’t get enough…I’m obsessed with this pussy—can’t go a single day without feeling it clench around me.” He groans as he hooks your knees over his shoulders, folding you so the tops of your thighs almost touch your chest as he slams into you deeper, the head of his cock hitting that spot inside you with every thrust. The wet squelch of your cunt around him grows louder, slick and his own arousal mixing and dripping down your ass.

“Please baby—come for daddy let me feel you make a mess on my cock.” He begs again, voice hoarse. You come hard around him with a choked moan of his name, walls milking his cock making him groan but he doesn’t stop. He pulls out just so his hands can work to flip you onto your hands and knees, gripping your hips as he gives you one harsh thrust pushing his cock all the way into you.

“Feels—feels so good don’t stop.” You moan as he fucks you from behind, the new position letting him drive even deeper. His hand reaches around to rub tight circles on your swollen clit while he pounds into you, the slap of his hips against your ass filling the room.

“Not gonna stop until you’re a whimpering mess for me—be a good girl and give daddy another one—know you wanna come again baby I can feel how tight and soaked you are—let me have it baby let daddy have it.” He says between hot open mouthed kisses down your back, you come again making him moan as your thighs start shaking. He feels your cunt fluttering and gushing around his cock and it has him letting out a desperate groan.

You feel him move and before you can even register what’s happening he pulls you upright onto his lap, your back to his chest and bounces you on his cock in a seated position. You let out a loud moan as you feel his hands cupping your breasts and pinching your nipples while he thrusts up into you. The angle makes everything feel tighter and fuller, your clit rubs against the tips of his fingers he has spread out on your lower tummy every time you sink down.

“Fuck I’m so obsessed with you—with how well you take me—need you just like this every single day…please let me have you like this all the time—need you so bad baby I can’t be without you.” He keeps begging between thrusts, voice breaking with need.

“Yes you—you can have me everyday I love—love feeling you inside me all the time.” Your words send him toppling over the edge, he stays buried deep inside you hips jerking as he pumps thick pulses of his release into you, filling you until it leaks out around his cock and down your thighs in creamy rivulets.

“So good baby you did so good for daddy—made such a pretty mess.” He whispers as he rocks his hips through the aftershocks, pressing desperate little kisses against your neck. He pulls you off his lap easing out of you slowly and carefully, one hand steadying your hip as you tremble from the lingering sensitivity. A thick trickle of his release follows, sliding warm and sticky down your inner thighs.

“Easy baby—I’ve got you.” He murmurs against your skin as he presses soft apologetic kisses to the backs of your thighs and the curve of your ass as he helps you lay down on the bed. He disappears for only a moment and you hear the sound of the tub draining as you roll over onto your back before he returns with a warm damp cloth, a glass of cool water and a soft towel.

“Now don’t even start with the whining okay? I’m going to clean you up and then we can have a nice long cuddle.” He tells you softly when he sees you eyeing the damp cloth in his hand, you just give him a huff as he places the glass of water on the nightstand before leaning over and placing a kiss to the side of your face.

After a moment you feel the bed dip as he kneels between your legs and starts cleaning you with the gentlest touches. Unfolding the cloth and wiping away the mess between your folds in slow, soothing strokes. He’s meticulous as he always is when you actually let him do this, which is rare because most of the time you just convince him to take you to the shower or the bath. His eyes are soft as he takes his time carefully parting your swollen lips to clean every crease, pausing to blow cool air over your oversensitive clit making you twitch and then pressing a tender kiss right there in apology.

“Sorry baby… almost done…you’re so perfect and open for me—I love seeing you like this.” He tells you with nothing but fondness in his voice as he uses the towel to wipe down your thighs, your stomach and the sweat damp skin of your breasts. Every motion unhurried and loving.

“That feels nice.” Harry smiles as you let out a soft sigh, a few moments later he helps you sit up against the pillows, holding the water glass to your lips.

“Indulge me please…just a few sips.” You decide it’s better to just give in and let him help you drink a few sips, a loving look in his eyes as he glances down at your face. “Besides you need this after how hard you came for daddy—how many times was it? Four…five? Doesn’t matter you just need to rehydrate.” He adds with a wink making you glare at him but he just ignores it as his free hand strokes your hair back from your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone as he studies your expression for any sign of discomfort. “Tell me how are you feeling sweetheart….any soreness? Anywhere you want me to rub?”

“My legs maybe? They aren’t sore but…they feel kinda shaky.” You answer honestly as he sets the water back down on the nightstand.

He guides you onto your side in the center of the bed, then climbs in behind you pulling your back flush to his chest. You let out a sigh of content as his arm wraps securely around your waist, hand splayed low over your belly, while his other hand begins a slow firm massage. Kneading the muscles of your thigh and then your calf, working out the lingering tension from how hard your legs had trembled. He presses his lips to the nape of your neck, the shell of your ear then the curve of your shoulder, each kiss lingering and warm.

“You were incredible.” He whispers, voice low and deep. “I’m so in love with you and I know I get intense—begging and just needing you over and over—but it’s because you’re my everything…my whole world.”

“It’s okay—I like it when you beg.” You feel him smile against the side of your neck.

“You know you can tell me to fuck off at anytime right? I won’t be mad or disappointed—I’ll go take a long cold shower and sort myself out.”

“I know.”

“Good because I don’t ever want to overwhelm you to the point you’re not…enjoying it.” You place your hand over his that’s on your lower belly.

“I always enjoy it Harry but I know what you’re saying—don’t worry if there’s ever a time it starts to be too much I’ll tell you.” You reassure him with a small squeeze to his hand that making him place a kiss to the spot below your ear. He lets out a soft sigh as his palm moves over your hips where he knows there’s going to be light little marks left by his grip. He moves his hand upward doing gentle circles over your lower back, then soft strokes along your spine.

“Tell me what did you do while I was gone besides give me a minor panic attack?” He asks as he continues running his hand up and down your back, while his face is nuzzled behind your ear.

“I FaceTimed Niall because he was having a wardrobe issue—oh you’ll never guess what song he played.” Your voice is warm and soft as you become more pliable under Harry’s palms.

“Can I get a hint?” He asks as his lips press quick little kisses down the side of your neck making you giggle at the sensation of his stubble tickling your sensitive skin.

“Okay one hint—you ready?”

“Ready.”

“It’s very warm—I’m wearing a coat…nobody knows why.” You feel Harry’s chest vibrate as he tries to muffle his laugh by pressing his face into the crook of your neck as you do your best impersonation of him.

“Your hint is just quoting me to me in a horrible British accent?”

“Don’t be rude my accent is wonderful—and it’s just what popped into my head to help you guess the song.”

“Your accent needs some work but I bet the crowd loved that—steal my girl is a classic.” He answers as he tucks the duvet higher, pulling it snug around both of you and tucking the edges under your side so you’re cocooned in warmth.

“He sounded so good—I only cried once.” You inform him making him chuckle as he tangles his legs with yours, one thigh sliding between yours to keep you close while his hand returns to your stomach to rub slow soothing circles.

“Glad it was only once.”

“Me too…hate crying over livestreams.” You tell him with a yawn that has Harry holding off a smile at how adorable you look when you start to get sleepy.

“You good baby? Need more water? Want me to get you a snack or something?” He asks after a few moments of silence and when you shake your head sleepily, he just smiles and presses another kiss to your shoulder. “I love you so much it scares me sometimes,” he admits quietly, voice thick. “But nights like this… they remind me how lucky I am—and that you’re mine but I’m yours just as much.”

“I love you too Harry…we’re truly stuck with each other.” He can hear the sleepy smile in your voice as you snuggle deeper into his comforting hold.