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A Saturday at his place where it rains all day, the kind of rain that makes going anywhere feel like a decision that requires more energy than it’s worth. You don’t leave. By evening you’ve eaten everything in his fridge and Oscar is asleep between you on the sofa, warm and ridiculous, and he’s reading something he won’t show you the cover of and you’re reading something you keep losing your place in because you keep looking over at him. Nobody says anything for a long time. It’s the most content you’ve felt in years, maybe longer.

A Sunday morning where he makes eggs, the good kind with herbs from the small pot on his kitchen windowsill, and you sit on the counter watching him cook and then just start eating directly from the pan because neither of you wants to deal with the washing up twice. He looks at you and says you know we have plates. You say I know. Neither of you moves.

The afternoon you rearrange his calendar so completely that when he comes back from lunch he just stands in your office doorway for a moment and says how did you know. You say you always run late on Tuesdays. He looks at you for a long moment, quiet and considering, like he’s cataloguing something, and then he says yes I do and goes back into his office without another word. You look at your screen and feel warm for the rest of the afternoon without entirely understanding why.

The evening he picks you up from Mia’s after a girls dinner, except this time you were expecting him. Mia comes downstairs to wave you off, spots him leaning against the car, and spends three entirely unbothered minutes telling him about the sourdough man who has apparently sent a follow up message. Harry listens to all of it with complete attention and genuine concern, asking a follow up question that makes Mia point at him and say to you that’s the right response. She looks at you over his shoulder with an expression that says I am keeping this one and you look away before she can see you agree.

A Monday morning where Lucy stops by your desk, sets a coffee down in front of you without saying anything, and walks away. You both pretend that didn’t mean exactly what it meant.

A night where you can’t sleep, lying there in his dark bedroom staring at the ceiling while he breathes slow and steady beside you. He wakes up anyway, without you saying anything, without you moving, just surfaces from sleep and turns toward you and says what’s going on. You tell him about something small that has been sitting in your chest for days, something you’ve been calling nothing every time you’ve checked in with yourself. He lies there in the dark and listens to the whole thing and then says that sounds really hard and doesn’t try to fix it or reframe it or tell you what to do next. Just says that sounds really hard and means it. That’s exactly right.

The weekend you go to the farmer’s market near his house, which was his idea. You walk around for two hours buying things neither of you strictly needs, a bunch of flowers that don’t match anything in his kitchen, a jar of honey from a man who talks about his bees like they’re members of his family, a loaf of bread so large it takes up most of the tote bag. Oscar trots between you on his lead with the self important energy of a dog who has been invited somewhere and considers this his due. At some point Harry takes your hand without looking at you, mid conversation, mid stride, just reaches over and folds his fingers through yours like it’s the most natural continuation of whatever he was doing, and you walk the rest of the market like that. When you get home you make lunch from everything you bought. It takes twice as long as it should because you keep getting distracted, because the kitchen is small and he keeps reaching past you for things and at some point the cooking stops being the point entirely. The kitchen ends up a mess. It’s the best afternoon you’ve had in months.

A Tuesday where you send him a calendar invite titled do not schedule anything here for the evening. He accepts it without comment and at five o’clock appears at your desk, jacket on, and says ready. You say ready. The restaurant is somewhere you’ve never been, tucked down a street you wouldn’t have found on your own, the kind of place with no sign and very good lighting and a menu that changes weekly. The food is extraordinary, the wine is good, and by the end of it you’re both slightly too warm and laughing about something that started as a serious observation and collapsed somewhere in the middle. He looks at you across the table in the candlelight, your face still bright from laughing, and says I really like you, just like that, quietly and without any particular ceremony, like it’s something he’s been thinking and finally decided to say out loud. You say I really like you too. It’s such a small thing to say after I love you but it lands just as heavily, maybe because it means something different, something lighter and more daily, something that lives in the ordinary moments rather than the big ones.

A morning where you arrive at the office before him for the first time in weeks because you stayed at yours the night before, your own bed, your own ceiling, your ceiling fan finally fixed, and somehow still you slept badly and woke up too early and felt the absence of him on the other side of you like a sound that’s stopped. When he walks in and sees you already at your desk something crosses his face that he doesn’t bother hiding. He stops. Says I didn’t sleep as well. You look at him and say neither did I. He nods once, goes into his office, and you look at your screen and think that you really need to stop sleeping at yours.

Stolen glances across conference rooms. His jaw doing that thing when he’s trying not to smile at something you’ve said. Your pen moving across your notebook writing nothing because you forgot what you were supposed to be writing down and didn’t notice for a full thirty seconds.

Three months of this.

Three months of it being the most normal and the most extraordinary thing simultaneously. Three months of figuring out what it looks like to be two people who work together and also love each other and mostly getting it right.

And then.

The morning of the quarterly board meeting arrives grey and slightly too cold for the time of year.

You’re walking through the lobby with your bag over your shoulder, still thinking about coffee, when you hear footsteps behind you. He falls into step beside you without announcing it, the way he always does, like he’s simply continuing a conversation that never quite stopped.

“Are you excited?” he says.

You look at him sideways. “For the quarterly board meeting.”

“Yes.”

“Deeply,” you say. “I’ve been thinking about nothing else for weeks.”

The corner of his mouth lifts before he says something he finds funnier than you will. “Just sit there, look pretty, take notes.”

Your face goes warm before you can do anything about it. You look at the elevator button like it contains important information.

“That’s literally my job,” you say.

“Then you’ll be excellent at it,” he says simply, and he sounds so completely sincere about it that you can’t even argue with the absurdity of the statement.

The elevator opens. You step in together. He presses the button for the executive floor and you stand there side by side in the mirrored walls. You can see him in the reflection looking entirely too pleased with himself for a man who just told his assistant to look pretty in a quarterly board meeting.

“Who’s going to be there?” you ask.

“Everyone,” he says. “Twice a year the board meetings are open to the whole company. Anyone who wants to come can.”

You look at him. “The whole company.”

“The whole company,” he confirms, with the ease of someone who has done this many times and finds nothing alarming about an entire company watching him work, which you find both admirable and slightly baffling.

The doors open onto the executive floor. You head toward your desk, he heads toward his office, the morning starts moving, emails and calls and the quiet efficient machinery of the day getting underway.

You drop your bag, pull up his calendar, scan through everything once to make sure nothing has shifted overnight. Then you look up toward his open office door.

“Do you want a coffee before it starts?” you call through.

He appears in the doorway a moment later, already reaching into his jacket pocket. He holds his card out toward you without a word.

“Get one for yourself,” he says.

You look at the card, then up at him.

“I have money,” you say.

“I know,” he says, still holding it out.

You take it.

He goes back into his office. You stand there for a second with his card in your hand thinking about the first time he handed it to you for a lunch run months ago, how formal it felt, how careful you were about giving it back, how different the same gesture feels now when it means something else entirely.

You go get the coffees.

The coffee cart is on the second floor, tucked into the break room near the windows overlooking the street below. You’re waiting for the order, watching people on the pavement below going about their Wednesday morning, when you hear Lucy behind you.

“Excited for the meeting?”

You turn around. She’s in a sharp grey blazer, coffee already in hand, looking at you with that expression she has where you can never quite tell how much she knows and how much she’s simply observed and filed away for later.

You laugh a little. “Funny enough, Mr. Styles asked me the same thing this morning.”

Lucy raises an eyebrow. “Mr. Styles.”

“I know,” you say. “It just felt weird to say Harry. We’re at work.”

She looks at you for a moment with that expression that contains several things she has decided not to say out loud, her head tilting just slightly, her coffee cup held still in both hands.

“Hm,” she says.

You look back at the coffee cart.

“There are going to be some big things happening today,” she says, almost casually, almost like she’s just making conversation about the weather.

You look at her. “Big things like what?”

She smiles, small and controlled. “You’ll see.”

“That’s not ominous at all,” you say.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she says, in a tone that doesn’t confirm that at all, then she tops up her coffee, says she’ll see you in there, walks out before you can ask anything else.

You stand there for a second after she’s gone, the break room suddenly very quiet around you, the sounds of the office filtering in from the hallway outside.

The barista calls your name. You take both cups, push whatever Lucy just said to the back of your mind, and head toward the big meeting room.

It’s already filling up when you arrive. More people than a usual meeting, chairs arranged in rows behind the main table at the front, the kind of setup that signals something more formal than routine. You move through it carefully, both coffees in hand, make your way to the front where his seat is, set his cup down, find your spot slightly behind and to his right, set yours down, open your notebook, uncap your pen, settle in.

Professional. Neutral. Completely unremarkable.

Harry arrives two minutes before it’s due to start, jacket on, completely composed, and stops briefly at the table to pick up his coffee. He glances at you as he does it.

Just glances.

But his eyes are warm and you feel it land somewhere in your chest and look quickly back at your notebook.

Just sit there, look pretty, take notes.

You press your lips together.

The meeting begins.

He walks the room through the quarterly figures first, the numbers clean and well presented, his voice steady and authoritative in that register he uses when he’s talking to a large group, the one that carries without effort and makes people in the back row sit up straighter. He covers strategy for the next two quarters, changes to two department structures, a new partnership that’s been in negotiation for months and is now confirmed. He handles all of it without notes, which you’ve seen him do before and which still impresses you every time even though you’d never say that out loud.

You take notes.

You keep your face neutral.

You do not look at him any more than is professionally appropriate and when you do it’s with the expression of a person who is simply paying attention to her employer, which is exactly what you are, which is the only thing you are right now in this room.

The presentation wraps up. He sets his hands flat on the table.

“I’ll open the floor to questions,” he says.

A hand goes up near the middle of the room. Greg from accounting. You recognise him from the third floor, someone who brings a printed agenda to every meeting and always has a follow up.

“The Q3 reports,” Greg says. “The breakdown on the northern division numbers. Can you walk us through those?”

Harry nods once. “I’ll get those to you directly after the meeting. Good question.”

Greg sits down looking satisfied.

Harry scans the room. “Anyone else?”

A beat of silence.

Then Lucy raises her hand.

She stands up slowly, smoothing her blazer, and the room shifts its attention to her and she lets it, taking a breath before she speaks like someone who has been thinking about what they’re going to say for a long time and has finally decided to say it.

“I have a question about protocol,” she says. Her voice is clear and carries to every corner of the room without her needing to raise it. “Specifically, what is the protocol at Fine Line Enterprises if someone suspects a higher up is in a relationship with someone who reports directly to them?”

The room reacts.

Not loudly. Just enough. A sharp intake of breath somewhere to your left. Two people exchanging a glance near the back. A silence that has information in it spreading from person to person like something dropped in still water, rippling outward before anyone has said a word.

You feel your face go completely still.

Your pen is touching the paper.

You don’t move it.

You don’t move anything.

Your heart is beating very fast, your chest has gone tight, and you are suddenly and acutely aware of every single person in this room and the direction their eyes are moving. You keep your expression exactly where it is. You stare at your notebook. You breathe.

You do not look at Harry.

You do not look at Lucy.

You stare at your notebook and you wait.

Harry doesn’t react immediately.

That’s the thing about him. He never does. He lets things land and sits with them for a moment and you’ve watched him do it in tense client meetings and difficult negotiations and now you’re watching him do it here, in a room full of people, with a question that has your name written all over it even though nobody has said your name.

He looks at Lucy.

Lucy looks back at him.

The room is very quiet.

Then he straightens slightly, and when he speaks his voice is completely even.

“Actually,” he says, “there is a policy.”

The room shifts. Just slightly. Just enough.

“Any relationship between a senior employee and a direct report is required to be disclosed to HR immediately. HR then conducts a standard review to ensure there’s no conflict of interest and that both parties are protected.” He pauses. “It’s a straightforward process. It exists for good reason.”

Lucy nods slowly. She still hasn’t sat down.

“And has that policy been followed,” she says, “in any current situation you’re aware of?”

Silence.

Harry holds her gaze.

“No,” he says. “It has not. That’s a failing I take full responsibility for.”

The room reacts. Not loudly. A sharp intake of breath near the back. Two people exchanging a glance. The stillness of a group of people who have just been handed a piece of information they were already half expecting, the confirmation of something they’d been saying to each other in lowered voices for weeks.

Lucy tilts her head slightly.

“So what happens now?” she says. “Given that the policy wasn’t followed.”

“The matter is referred to HR for review,” he says. “Standard process. Both parties will be spoken to separately and the situation assessed fairly.” He looks around the room with the same expression he uses when closing out any other agenda item, calm and final and inviting no further discussion. “Which will be handled promptly.”

Lucy looks at him for a long moment, something moving behind her eyes that you can’t read from where you’re sitting.

Then she says, “And just to be clear. When you say both parties.” She pauses. “You’re referring to yourself as one of them.”

The room goes completely silent.

Not a shifting of chairs. Not a cleared throat. Nothing.

You stare at your notebook.

You are not breathing.

Harry looks at Lucy and his expression doesn’t change and his voice doesn’t change and when he speaks it is with the complete composure of someone who has known this moment was coming and decided a long time ago exactly how he was going to meet it.

“Yes,” he says simply. “I am.”

The silence that follows is enormous.

Someone near the back makes a sound that is quickly swallowed. You can feel the attention of the room moving, people glancing toward you and then away and then back again with the poorly disguised curiosity of people who are trying very hard to look like they aren’t doing exactly what they’re doing, forty people performing casual disinterest with varying degrees of success.

You keep your eyes on your notebook.

Your face is still.

Your pen is capped and resting on the paper and you are doing the most demanding piece of acting of your entire life right now just sitting here looking like a person who is completely fine, like your hands aren’t slightly cold, like your heart isn’t somewhere in your throat.

Then from somewhere in the middle of the room a voice says, quietly but not quietly enough, “I knew it.”

The room dissolves.

Not into chaos. Just into the low controlled murmur of forty people trying very hard not to react and reacting anyway, the specific sound of an office absorbing information it has been waiting for. Harry stands at the head of the table and lets it settle and then says in exactly the same voice he’s used for the entire meeting, “HR will be in touch with the relevant parties this week. Any other questions?”

Nobody has any other questions.

“Good,” he says. “Thank you all.”

The meeting ends.

Chairs scrape. Voices rise. People file toward the doors with the energy of a group that has somewhere very important to be, which is anywhere they can talk about what just happened without being overheard.

You sit very still in the middle of all of it.

You close your notebook.

You cap your pen.

You look at the table in front of you and think that you need to stand up and walk out of this room looking like a person who is completely fine.

You will do that.

In just a moment.

People file out around you and you stay where you are, sitting in your chair with your notebook closed on the table in front of you, the room emptying out in every direction until it’s almost quiet.

You don’t look up.

You hear footsteps slowing beside you and you know without looking that it’s Lucy. You can tell by the pace of them. You’ve spent four months learning the sounds of this office and the people in it.

She stops.

You look up.

She looks down at you and her expression is not unkind but it’s not warm either. Something in between that you don’t have a word for. Something that looks like it might be sorry but isn’t quite ready to be.

“I hope it was worth it,” she says quietly.

Not cruel. Just honest. Which is almost worse.

She walks out.

You look back at the table.

The room is nearly empty now. A few stragglers near the door, voices low, not quite looking at you but acutely aware of you, the awareness of people who are pretending not to be interested and failing at it.

You feel it before you can stop it.

The first tear rolls down your cheek slowly, almost like it’s asking permission, and then another follows before you can blink it back and you press your lips together hard and look at the ceiling and breathe through your nose and none of it helps at all.

You just want to go home.

That’s the only thought your brain is producing with any clarity. Not what this means or what happens next or what HR is going to say or how the whole company is going to be talking about this by lunch. Just a very simple, very specific, overwhelming desire to not be in this building anymore.

You pick up your notebook and your pen and your coffee cup which has gone cold. You stand up. You walk toward the door with your chin up and your face as composed as you can make it which is not very composed at all but it’s the best you have right now.

The hallway outside is busy in that post meeting rush, people gathered in small clusters, voices dropping when you pass and picking back up again after, and you keep walking and you don’t make eye contact with anyone and you take the long route back to your desk because it goes past fewer people and you need every extra second you can get.

You sit down.

You put your notebook on the desk.

You look at your screen and the words blur slightly and you blink and press two fingers to the bridge of your nose and breathe out slowly.

This is fine.

You are fine.

You are absolutely not fine.

You want to go home.

You make it to your desk long enough to grab your bag and then you’re moving, down the hallway, past the cluster of people near the printer who go quiet when they see you, through the door at the end, into the bathroom.

You lock the door.

You stand at the sink and grip the edge of it and look at yourself in the mirror. Your face is a complete mess, eyes already red, jaw tight from holding everything in, and you’re breathing too fast and too shallow and the walls of the small room feel like they’re pressing in from every direction.

You slide down until you’re sitting on the floor with your back against the wall, your bag in your lap, and you pull your phone out and call Mia.

It rings once.

“Hey, how’s the big scary board meet—”

“Mia,” you say, and your voice comes out completely wrong, high and thin and already breaking, and that’s all you get out before it falls apart entirely.

“Hey,” she says immediately, her voice dropping. “Hey. What happened. Talk to me.”

“I can’t,” you say, which isn’t true, you just can’t find the beginning of it, can’t find the thread to pull that will make it come out in the right order instead of all at once.

“Okay,” she says. “Just breathe for a second. I’m here.”

You press the back of your hand to your mouth and try to do what she says and mostly fail at it. Your chest is tight and panicked and the tears are coming properly now, the kind you can’t stop once they start, and you’re sitting on a bathroom floor in your work clothes crying in a way that feels completely disproportionate and also completely appropriate at the same time.

“Someone,” you start, and have to stop. “In the meeting. Someone stood up and asked about the policy for sleeping with a higher up.”

Mia says nothing. Just listens.

“Harry had to stand there in front of the whole company and say that the policy existed and that he’d broken it and that it was being referred to HR and everyone knew, Mia, everyone in that room knew exactly what they were talking about, they were all looking at me and I just had to sit there and keep my face completely still and—” you stop because you’re crying too hard to keep talking. You press your hand over your eyes and just breathe for a second.

“Oh no,” Mia says quietly. “Oh no, sweetheart.”

“And then Lucy,” you say. “On her way out she stopped and looked at me and said I hope it was worth it and I just—” you exhale shakily. “I don’t know if it is, Mia. I don’t know what happens now. What if they make him fire me. What if HR decides there’s a conflict of interest and I lose my job. What if everyone thinks I only got the position because of him.”

“Stop,” Mia says firmly but gently. “Stop. One thing at a time.”

“I just want to go home,” you say, and your voice cracks on the last word. “I just want to go home and get out of this building and I don’t want to walk back out there and have everyone looking at me.”

“Then go home,” she says simply.

“I can’t just leave,” you say.

“Why not?” she says. “You’re clearly not okay. You’re allowed to not be okay. Go home.”

You sit there on the bathroom floor with your back against the wall and your phone pressed to your ear and the fluorescent light above you doing nothing useful for your composure and think about walking back out through that office and past all those people and sitting at your desk outside his door and pretending to work like none of it happened.

“I can’t do this,” you say quietly.

“You can,” Mia says. “But you don’t have to do it today. Pick yourself up, wash your face, walk out, go home. That’s all. Just that.”

You close your eyes.

“What if he’s upset with me?” you say. “He had to sit there in front of his entire company and—”

“He chose this,” Mia says. “He chose you. Whatever happens next he walked into that room knowing who he was and what he was doing and he stood there and owned it. That’s not on you.”

You sit with that for a moment, turning it over.

“I really liked this job,” you say quietly. Which is such a small thing to say about it but it’s true and it’s sitting in your chest right next to everything else.

“I know,” Mia says. “I know you did.”

“I’m going to go home,” you say.

“Good,” she says. “Call me when you get there.”

“Okay,” you say.

“And y/n,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“He stood up in front of his whole company and said it was his fault,” she says. “He didn’t let them look at you. He looked at them. Remember that.”

You press your lips together hard.

“Okay,” you say softly.

“Go home,” she says. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you say.

You hang up.

You sit there for another minute on the cold bathroom floor and then you put your phone in your bag, press both hands flat on the tile, push yourself up. You go to the sink and run cold water until it’s properly cold and press your wet hands against your face, against your eyes, against the back of your neck, until some of the heat goes out of it.

You look at yourself in the mirror for a long moment.

You pick up your bag.

You unlock the bathroom door, walk back out into the building, keep your chin up, don’t look at anyone, go to your desk, pick up your things, leave.

You make it to the car without talking to anyone.

That’s the goal and you achieve it, head down, bag over your shoulder, through the lobby and out the front doors and across the car park and you don’t look up until you’re at your car and you’ve got the key in the door. You get in. You close the door. You sit there for a second in the sudden silence, the sounds of the building and the street muffled now, just you and the smell of your car and the steering wheel under your hands.

Your phone rings.

You look down at it on the passenger seat.

Harry.

You watch it ring.

Once. Twice. Three times.

You let it go to voicemail.

You can’t. Not right now. Not when you can still feel the weight of that room on you and Lucy’s voice in your ear and the humiliation of sitting behind him while the entire company connected the dots one by one. You cannot hear his voice right now without falling apart completely and you are barely holding it together as it is.

The ringing stops.

You start the car.

The drive home is twenty minutes and you cry for all of it. Not the quiet dignified kind. The ugly kind, where you can’t quite catch your breath and your chest hurts and you have to keep wiping your face with the back of your hand so you can see the road. You’re not even entirely sure what you’re crying about. All of it at once. The meeting and Lucy and the fact that something that felt so private and so yours has been laid out in front of forty people under fluorescent lighting on a Wednesday morning, like something taken out of its proper context and held up under the wrong kind of light.

You knew this was a risk.

You knew it from the beginning. From the first kiss in his office and the hotel and the plane and every single moment after it. You knew and you chose it anyway because it felt worth choosing and it still feels worth choosing and that somehow makes this worse rather than better because you can’t even be properly angry about it. You can just be sad.

You pull up outside your building and sit in the car for a minute after you’ve cut the engine, watching people on the street outside going about their Wednesday like nothing has happened, like the world didn’t just shift slightly on its axis in a conference room.

Your phone rings again.

Harry.

You put it face down on the passenger seat.

You go inside.

You don’t change. You don’t make tea. You don’t do any of the sensible things a person does when they come home in the middle of the day. You just drop your bag by the door, kick your shoes off, lie down on the couch, pull the throw blanket over yourself, and stare at the ceiling.

The flat is very quiet.

Outside you can hear the street doing its Wednesday afternoon things, completely indifferent to the fact that your professional life may have just collapsed in a conference room while you sat behind it trying to keep your face still.

You close your eyes.

You think about the Tuesday morning three months ago when he left a coffee on your desk without saying anything and how warm that felt. The Saturday it rained all day and you didn’t leave. The farmer’s market and Oscar trotting between you and his hand finding yours without looking.

I really like you.

I really like you too.

You pull the blanket tighter and press your face into the cushion and think that you really, genuinely loved that job. Not just because of him. Because of the work and the pace of it and the feeling of being good at something that mattered. Because you caught a time zone error on your second week and he noticed. Because you learned his rhythm and got it right and it meant something.

Now forty people know about it and Lucy said I hope it was worth it and HR is going to call and you’re lying on your couch in your work clothes at half past eleven on a Wednesday morning.

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table.

A voicemail.

You look at it for a long moment.

You don’t listen to it.

Not yet. You’re not ready for his voice yet. Not ready for whatever calm and certain thing he’s going to say that will make you feel better and worse at the same time, that will make the whole thing feel both smaller and more significant than it already does.

You just lie there.

You rot, as Mia would say.

You absolutely completely rot.

You fall asleep somewhere around two in the afternoon with the television on low and the blanket pulled up to your chin and your shoes still by the door where you left them.

You don’t mean to sleep that long.

You just do.

When you wake up the flat is dark except for the television, some programme you don’t recognise casting blue light across the ceiling. Your neck is stiff from the couch cushion. For approximately three seconds you feel fine and then you remember and it all comes back at once, landing in your chest like something heavy dropped from a height.

You lie there for a while longer.

Your phone has several notifications. Two missed calls from Harry. One from Mia. You leave them all, pull the blanket back over your shoulders, stare at the television without watching it, let the evening settle around you like something you have to wait out.

The flat feels very small tonight.

It always feels a little small compared to his place but tonight it feels smaller still, the ceiling a little lower and the walls a little closer and the quiet of a space that only has one person in it pressing in from every direction.

At nine o’clock there’s a knock at the door.

You drag yourself off the couch with the blanket still around your shoulders and pad across the floor in your socked feet. Your hair is a complete disaster, still in your work clothes from this morning, eyes puffy in a way that cold water didn’t fix when you tried it at seven.

You unlock the door and open it.

It’s not Mia.

Harry is standing in your hallway and he looks at you with an expression you have never quite seen on him before. Not the composed professional version. Not the Sunday morning version. Something underneath both of them, something that lives below the surface of his composure and very rarely makes it to his face. Something that looks a lot like concern stripped of all its usual management.

He’s still in his work clothes. Jacket on. Like he came straight here from the office without stopping.

You stare at him.

“What are you doing here?” you say, and your voice comes out rough from sleep and crying and the general wreckage of the day.

“You weren’t answering your phone,” he says.

“I know,” you say. “I wasn’t ready to.”

He looks at you standing there in your doorway wrapped in a blanket and something moves across his face.

“Can I come in?” he says.

You look at him for a second. Then you look past him into the hallway and back at him and you think about your flat. The cracked bathroom tile. The ceiling fan. The single couch and the small kitchen and all the reasons you have always defaulted to his without ever quite saying that out loud, all the ways this place is smaller and less impressive and not somewhere you’ve ever particularly wanted him to see.

You’ve never had him here before.

He’s never been here before.

He’s standing in your hallway looking at you like that and you are wrapped in a blanket at nine o’clock on a Wednesday night and you don’t have the energy to be embarrassed about any of it.

You step back from the door.

“It’s small,” you say. “Just so you know.”

“Okay,” he says, and walks in.

He looks around your flat for just a second, taking it in quietly and without comment, then sits down on your couch and pats the cushion beside him like he’s been here a hundred times.

You stay standing for a moment with your blanket around your shoulders feeling like the most tragic figure in recent history.

Then you sit down.

He looks at you.

“Let’s talk about it,” he says.

“I don’t want to,” you say.

“I know,” he says. “I do though.”

You pull the blanket tighter and look at the television which is still on low, some programme neither of you are watching, and feel your eyes start to fill up without much warning.

“Y/N,” he says quietly.

“I’m fine,” you say, which is such an obvious lie that you don’t even bother trying to make it convincing.

“You’re not fine,” he says.

“I’m not fine,” you agree, and then the tears come properly and you press the back of your hand to your mouth and look at the ceiling because that still doesn’t work but you keep trying it anyway.

He doesn’t say anything. Just sits there beside you and lets you cry, which is exactly right and also somehow makes it worse because you love that about him, that he knows when not to talk, and loving something about him right now is complicated.

When you’ve pulled yourself together enough to speak you look at him.

“What happens now?” you say. “With HR. What actually happens.”

He shifts slightly to face you, elbows on his knees, and his voice when he speaks is completely calm the way it is when he’s explaining something that matters and wants you to actually hear it.

“HR will open a standard review,” he says. “They’ll speak to both of us separately. Confirm that the relationship is consensual, that there’s no coercion, that your work hasn’t been affected unfairly in either direction.” He pauses. “It’s a process. Not a punishment.”

You look at him. “And then what?”

“It’s documented and filed and a policy gets written that should have existed six months ago,” he says. “That’s it.”

You stare at him. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” he says.

“But I could lose my job,” you say, and your voice cracks on the last word and the tears that you just got under control come back immediately.

“You won’t lose your job,” he says.

“You don’t know that,” you say.

“I do know that,” he says. “You haven’t done anything wrong. You’re not the one in a position of power here. If anyone is in trouble it’s me.”

You look at him.

“You,” you say.

“Me,” he says simply.

“You’re in trouble,” you say.

“Potentially,” he says.

“You could lose your job,” you say.

“I’m the CEO,” he says. “It’s complicated.”

You stare at him and then something about the complete composure of him sitting on your small couch telling you he might be in trouble with complete unbothered certainty makes you start crying harder, the ugly kind again, and you pull the blanket up over your face for a second which is not your finest moment.

He laughs.

Quietly, genuinely, not at you but with you even though you’re not laughing, and the sound of it is so warm and so normal in the middle of all of this that it makes everything feel slightly less like the end of the world.

“It’s okay,” he says, and his hand finds your knee through the blanket. “I knew what I was getting into.”

You pull the blanket down and look at him with your red eyes and your wrecked face and your hair that has not been brushed since this morning.

“You knew what you were getting into,” you repeat.

“From the beginning,” he says. “I knew the risk and I chose it anyway because you were worth choosing.” He looks at you steadily. “That hasn’t changed.”

You look at him for a long moment.

“You’re very annoying,” you say, in a voice that is still slightly wobbly.

“I know,” he says.

“I was trying to be devastated and you’re being very reasonable about it.”

“I can be less reasonable if that helps,” he says.

“It won’t help,” you say.

“I didn’t think so,” he says.

You sit there for a second and then you lean sideways and put your head on his shoulder and he puts his arm around you and you sit like that in your small flat with the television on low and the city outside the window doing its quiet Wednesday night things and you think that Lucy said I hope it was worth it.

It is.

It really is.

You sit there for a moment and then you tilt your chin up and look at him.

“Could you actually lose your job though?” you say. “Genuinely.”

He makes a quiet sound that is almost a laugh. “No.”

“Why not?”

He’s quiet for a moment, his thumb moving slowly across your shoulder.

“The company was started by my father,” he says.

You wait.

“He passed away,” he says. “Several years ago.”

You lift your head off his shoulder and look at him properly.

“Harry,” you say softly. “I didn’t know that.”

“You didn’t ask,” he says, not unkindly. Just factually.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

He nods once, accepting it without making anything of it, the way he accepts most things that can’t be changed.

You sit with it for a moment. Thinking about all the conversations you’ve had, all the evenings on his sofa and Sunday mornings in his kitchen and late nights talking about things that mattered, and somehow this never came up. And somehow it was always there, in how he runs that company, in the care he takes with it, in how he says Fine Line like it means something beyond just a name, like it belongs to him in a way that goes deeper than a job title.

“So the company,” you say slowly. “It was his.”

“It was his,” Harry says.

You look at him.

He looks back at you.

“You own it,” you say.

“Yes,” he says, with the complete calm of someone confirming something entirely unremarkable.

You sit back against the couch and look at the ceiling.

“Mia asked if you were a billionaire,” you say.

“I remember,” he says.

“You said not billions.”

He says nothing.

You turn and look at him very slowly.

He meets your gaze. Perfectly composed. Giving you absolutely nothing.

“Harry,” you say.

“The company is valued at—” he starts.

“Harry.”

He looks at the television for a second.

“It depends on the quarter,” he says.

You press both hands over your face and say nothing for a long moment.

From behind your hands you hear him laugh, quiet and genuine, and you think about your cracked bathroom tile and your car with the check engine light and him sitting on your small couch saying it depends on the quarter like that’s a perfectly normal thing to say on a Wednesday night.

You drop your hands.

“You could have mentioned that,” you say.

“You didn’t ask,” he says.

You shake your head and look back at the ceiling and the silence settles between you for a moment, comfortable despite everything, despite the day and Lucy and the room full of people and all of it.

“Can I ask you something?” you say quietly.

“Yes,” he says.

“Your dad,” you say. “What was he like?”

Harry is quiet for a moment. Not the uncomfortable quiet of someone who doesn’t want to answer. Just the quiet of someone deciding where to start, how to reduce something large into something that fits into words.

“Brilliant,” he says finally. “Relentless. He built the company from nothing, genuinely from nothing, and he never let anyone forget how hard that was but he also never made it feel like a burden.” He pauses. “He was the most certain person I’ve ever known. About everything. What he believed in, who he loved, what he was building.” A beat. “I get that from him I think.”

You look at him sideways. “The certainty.”

“The certainty,” he confirms.

“That makes sense,” you say softly.

He almost smiles, and you can see him in it for a second, the version of him that existed before all of this, younger and less certain maybe, someone who had to learn it rather than always having it. “He would have been insufferable about the company being what it is now. In the best possible way. He would have had opinions about everything, been right about most of them, completely impossible about the rest.”

“You miss him,” you say.

“Every day,” he says simply. No performance in it. Just true.

You don’t say anything because there isn’t anything to say that would be enough and you’ve learned that about Harry, that he doesn’t need you to fill the silence, that sometimes the most useful thing you can do is just be there inside it with him.

You lean over and rest your head against his chest. His arm comes around you. You sit like that in your small flat with the television on low and the city outside the window and you think about a man you never met who built something from nothing and raised a son who is certain about everything and who is sitting on your couch on a Wednesday night because you weren’t answering your phone.

“He would have liked you,” Harry says quietly, after a while.

You close your eyes.

“You don’t know that,” you say softly.

“I do,” he says. “He had very good taste.”

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

You knew the moment Blake turned off the main road that this had been a mistake. Miles of dark, empty industrial buildings stretched along the old highway. She told you the event always took place out here (because technically it was illegal) but you really started to feel anxious the closer you got.

Then she pulled her little Ford into an industrial park, the tires hitting gravel. The hulking warehouse looked like it might've been forgotten twenty years ago if it hadn't been all lit up with dozens of cars parked in front and loud music pouring from the entrance. Deep bass vibrated through into the car and you swallowed as you watched out the window with wide eyes. A crowd spilled around a wide loading dock and people clustered in groups beneath bright floodlights mounted on the building’s corners.

Blake parked in a random spot between a dented pickup and a matte-black motorcycle before cutting the engine.

“You okay over there?” she asked.

“I’m just… taking it in.”

“Lot to see. Even more when we get inside.”

You glanced toward the warehouse entrance where a heavyset guy in a black hoodie stood beside a folding table collecting cash.

“I didn't realize it was going to look like this, like… sketchy. Dangerous…” you admitted.

Blake laughed under her breath as she grabbed her bag. "Well, I mean it is illegal fighting and betting in an old warehouse outside of town. If it looks sketchy… that's cause it is.”

That wasn’t reassuring. You climbed out of the car, your sneakers hitting the gravel as the cool night air hit your face, making you glad you'd grabbed your cat sweater last second, even if it screamed—this person does not belong here! The closer you got to the building, the more alive the place felt. The more real it all was.

There was a low murmur of people talking over the music, smoking, and a few guys leaning against the side of a truck passing around a bottle of something potent.

“Wait,” you said, catching Blake’s arm before she started toward the entrance. “How do know this is safe? I mean, look at these people. I'm not judging, but… Do you trust Victor?”

She grinned like she’d been waiting for that question. "Of course I do. I've been fucking him for like three months now."

You huffed a nervous laugh, not convinced that the act of sex made anyone all that trustworthy. “But just two days ago you said you hated him and that it was 'complicated' with him.”

“Hey,” she said, pointing a finger at you. “Don’t start. I like complicated. And I've been here before. It's fine.”

You raised your hands in surrender. “I’m just saying… we could have had a fun girls' night, like, out dancing or something. What does Victor do here again?”

She continued toward the warehouse as she spoke. "He trains here sometimes. Helps run bets on fight nights.”

“I am just not a fan of participating in illegal stuff.”

“It's only illegal… technically. Like, if the police show up, everyone will just get sent home. Don't worry.”

“Blake.” You stopped and stared at her in surprise. "Police?"

“Oh relax,” she said, looping her arm through yours and dragging you forward. “No one’s going to raid the place. It’s been running for years.”

The bass inside thudded harder as you got closer, the metal siding of the warehouse practically vibrating with it. The air smelled like cigarettes, gasoline, and beer. You had no idea what you'd just gotten into, and now you were truly wishing you hadn't been so curious about it in the first place.

At the folding table near the door, the guy in the black hoodie counted cash while another marked wrists with a black marker. Blake slipped him a couple of bills.

“Two.”

The man barely looked up before marking an X on both of your wrists and jerking his chin toward the entrance. Inside, the noise and the scene was more overwhelming than it had been outside. Your eyes widened instantly.

The warehouse had been cleared out except for a massive open space in the center where a makeshift ring had been taped off on the concrete floor. Heavy industrial lights hung overhead, casting everything in sharp white beams.

The crowd pressed in close around the edges as people shouted numbers and pointed toward a chalkboard. It was leaning against a support beam listing names and odds, next to a folding table that had stacks of cash, plastic cups, and a cooler full of beer.

You turned slowly, trying to take everything in. “This is insane.”

Blake just smiled like this was exactly the reaction she expected. “Told you.”

Your gaze drifted toward the center where two guys wrapped their hands with white athletic tape while others shouted words you couldn't make out over the music. It was sensory overload. The music was so loud that it was hard to hear yourself think, much less anything that anyone was saying. People were leaning close to speak into ears, bass vibrated under your feet, the occasional shout of voices carried, and the view of people crowded together…

The crowd suddenly roared, making you startle. “What—”

“That guy won that round,” Blake said, speaking loudly so you could hear. “Next round starts in a minute.”

You watched as someone near the chalkboard wiped away a name and wrote another. The crowd moved as bodies pressed closer to the taped ring, and you stepped forward almost without realizing it, curiosity pulling you along with everyone else.

A guy climbed over the taped boundary first… lean, quick-looking, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he rolled his shoulders. He looked mean.

The music filtered through every shout and scream as another man approached. Your eyes followed the movement as he stepped into the light next to his opponent.

He was tall with broad shoulders, tight muscles marked with fading bruises and ink on his arms and chest. His hands were wrapped in tape, knuckles thick, and he rolled his neck. His shoulder-length hair was messy, falling slightly into his face as he calmly looked at his opponent. This one looked even meaner.

The other man was pacing, bouncing, shouting who-knows-what at the tattooed guy. Their demeanors couldn't have been more different. Mr. Tattoos was just standing there, eyes sharp and focused, like a man waiting to get something done.

You didn’t even realize you’d leaned forward slightly until Blake’s voice cut in beside you. “He's the one everyone’s betting on tonight. Main event.”

Your eyes didn’t leave him. “What’s his name?”

“Harry.”

Harry's gaze lifted from the floor and he scanned the crowd slowly. Shouts grew louder as he turned himself look toward his audience, eyes roaming over every head who stood just outside the space of the taped ring. It was as if he were silently telling everyone there to bet on him. That he would win and that a bet against him was a mistake.

Then the referee stepped between them, and someone shouted the final odds, as the music was lowered just enough to give you a subtle jolt of brief calm. And then the fight started.

The two men circled each other as the referee stepped back out of the taped square. The crowd carried clearly now that the music wasn't as loud, shouts, whistles, someone yelling out last-second bets. Your heartbeat picked up.

Harry didn’t bounce like the other man did. He stood loose and steady, shoulders relaxed, eyes locked on the man in front of him. Watching him up close made your tummy flip in half. There was a kind of quiet confidence in the way he held himself, like he already knew exactly how this was going to end.

The other guy rushed first. He lunged forward with a wild swing that made the crowd shout in approval, but Harry barely moved. He stepped back half a pace and the punch cut through empty air where his jaw had been a second before. The motion was so casual it almost looked lazy.

Then Harry hit him before you even saw his arm lift. The sound of it cracked through the space loud enough to make you flinch. His fist connected clean against the man’s ribs and the man grunted, stumbling sideways as the air rushed out of him.

The crowd roared excitedly, and you looked around at the insanity of people enjoying this kind of sport. “Jesus,” you said.

Blake leaned closer to your ear, grinning. “Jesus ain't here tonight.”

The other fighter recovered quickly, shaking it off as he came back swinging harder this time. Two quick punches flew toward Harry’s face. One grazed his shoulder, the other missed entirely as Harry ducked beneath it and stepped inside the man’s reach.

He moved differently than the other guy. You knew next to nothing about boxing, or fighting, or whatever this was exactly. But you knew enough to see how different the pair in the ring acted. Harry was controlled and patient. Every movement he made was practical, and every punch he threw landed. He didn't attack at the air or miss like the other guy.

Harry drove another punch into the man’s stomach, then followed it with one quick hook to the jaw that snapped the man’s head to the side. The sound of the crowd rose again as the fighters grappled.

The other one staggered back a step, blinking hard as he tried to reset himself, shaking his head like he was seeing stars. His chest rose and fell faster now while Harry's barely moved.

They circled again for a few seconds before the other man charged again, clearly frustrated now. His swing was bigger this time, reckless, and Harry slipped past it with a quick pivot that made the whole exchange look almost effortless. You couldn't help but feel a thrill at how easy he made it look and a surprised smile found your lips without you even meaning to put it there.

Then his fist came up from below. A brutal uppercut landed squarely under the man’s chin and the impact lifted him clean off his feet.

For a split second, everything went strangely quiet in your head as the man’s body crashed down onto the concrete inside the taped ring. You stared, waiting with your breath held, but the man didn't get back up.

The crowd exploded. People were shouting, cheering, slapping each other’s shoulders as cash started changing hands around the edges of the ring. The referee stepped forward immediately, crouching beside the fallen fighter while someone waved a hand in front of his face.

Harry stepped back, breathing a little heavier now but otherwise looking almost untouched. A thin line of sweat ran down the side of his chest as he rolled his shoulders again and flexed his taped hands. You stared at him, mouth dropped open, your heart racing like you'd just been given the biggest rush of your life.

“That’s it?” you asked, stunned.

Blake laughed beside you. “That’s it. None of the fights last very long.”

The referee waved it off a moment later, and the music blasted back to full volume again, the bass hitting so hard you felt it in your ribs. You wouldn't call yourself a convert or anything, you still didn't like that all this was illegal, but there was something so electrifying about what you'd just seen that made you want to watch again.

You kept your gaze on Harry as he turned away from the downed fighter and stepped over the taped boundary as if the whole thing had just been another routine task for him. A couple of guys patted him on the back as he moved through the crowd, someone pressing a plastic cup into his hand as he passed. He nodded to a man standing near the betting table before disappearing between bodies toward the back of the warehouse.

You swallowed, only then realizing you'd been following his movements from the ring all the way until he'd disappeared. You were a bit hypnotized by the whole thing. By him.

Blake nudged you with her elbow. “Careful,” she teased over the music. “You’re staring.”

You blinked, forcing yourself to look away as heat crept over your skin. “Hard not to.”

Your attention drifted toward the spot where he’d vanished, curiosity tugging at you despite yourself. The crowd was already shifting again as the next names were written on the chalkboard and more fighters began wrapping their hands near the edge of the taped square.

But Harry was gone, swallowed by the warehouse and out of your line of sight. And you couldn’t quite shake the image of him walking away through the crowd, sweat still shining on his skin and that same calm look on his face, like the fight had barely meant anything to him at all.

Blake wasted no time pulling you through the crowd once the next fighters were about to step into the ring. “Come on. Victor’s in the back.”

You followed her as she wove through the crowd, slipping between shoulders and ducking past a group arguing loudly over a bet they’d apparently just lost. The deeper you moved into the warehouse, the more the noise changed. The music still pounded behind you, but the roar of noise faded slightly as you passed through a doorway and into a long side hall lined with metal doors and stacked crates.

The lighting back there was harsher, fluorescent strips buzzing faintly overhead. You stepped past men leaned into walls and watched as someone sat on an overturned crate icing his knuckles while another guy discreetly counted money inside an envelope.

Blake pulled you into a room where you spotted Victor. He stood near a folding table with two other men. When he lifted his head and saw her, his face broke into a grin and he pulled her into a quick kiss before she even had a chance to say hello.

“There she is,” he said, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Havin' fun?”

“Of course we are,” she replied, already leaning into him.

“Couple of decent fights tonight. You missed the first knockout, though. Gray laid Shane flat in under a minute.”

Blake nodded. "I think we got here right after that one."

Victor’s gaze flicked to you then, giving you a quick once-over before he nodded in greeting. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” you said, though the word came out a little breathless. “It’s… a lot.”

He laughed and nodded, and Blake slipped from his arms, heading toward the cooler where cups were stacked. A moment later she handed you a plastic cup filled with something amber and fizzy, and had one for herself.

“It’s just rum and coke,” she said when you hesitated. “I made it. It’s safe.”

You nodded and took a sip. You were glad it wasn't too heavy on the rum, but it was just enough to relax you a little.

The group fell into conversation, talking over the distant bass and the muffled shouts drifting from the main warehouse. You tried to follow along, but most of it sounded like inside jokes and betting talk you didn’t quite understand. Someone mentioned odds changing after Harry’s fight, and Victor shook his head, muttering something about people being stupid enough to keep betting against him. That part you understood.

You leaned back against the wall with your cup in hand, half listening and half letting your mind drift. Even back there you could still hear the rhythm of the event out front. The music suddenly dipped lower again, and a fresh wave of shouting carried through the building as another fight had apparently started.

Your heart kicked up a little at the sound. You pictured the taped ring again, the bright lights overhead, the moment Harry’s fist connected with that brutal uppercut. The image replayed in your mind as you took another sip of your drink to steady yourself.

It had been shocking to witness, but also… exciting. You shifted your weight, feeling electric nerves buzzing through you. It made you feel anxious and unsettled. You were in a place where you definitely didn't belong. But as you emptied your cup, another problem made itself known.

You leaned toward Blake, raising your voice slightly so she could hear you. “Hey… where’s the bathroom?”

“Oh, uh… right," she said as she looked at Victor.

Victor pointed down the hall behind you. “Just follow the hallway you came down all the way to the end. There’s a door that goes outside. When you step out, go left and there should be two doors marked ‘employees only.’ One of those is the bathroom.”

“That’s it?” you asked.

“Pretty much.”

"Pretty much?" You looked at Blake, hoping that she would volunteer to go with you.

Instead, she gave you a quick squeeze on the arm. “You’ll be fine. Just come right back.”

You nodded and set the empty cup on the table, slipping out into the flow of people in the hallway. The space was tighter now than when you’d first walked through it, and you had to excuse yourself a few times as you squeezed past a group arguing over something.

The further down the corridor you went, the quieter it became, and the lights were dimmer. At the very end of the hall, you found the metal door with a sign that read 'EXIT'. It creaked loudly when you pushed it open, and it thudded shut heavily as you stepped out.

The back of the warehouse looked completely different from the front. Instead of floodlights and crowds, the space behind the building was dim and mostly empty. A single overhead light cast a weak yellow glow over a patch of cracked pavement and a row of dented dumpsters.

You turned left like Victor had said and spotted the doors almost immediately. Both were old metal with faded signs that read EMPLOYEES ONLY in peeling black letters. The first one opened when you tried it.

Inside, the bathroom was exactly what you'd expected from a place like this. Small, a little grimy, and smelling faintly of citrus and stale water. But when you checked the stall and saw an actual roll of toilet paper hanging on the holder, you felt an absurd wave of gratitude.

“Well… that’s something,” you whispered to yourself.

A minute later you stepped back outside, brushing your hands on your jeans as if that would somehow replace a sink with running water and soap (neither of which existed inside the bathroom). For a moment you just stood there, taking a breath and enjoying the brief quiet away from the pounding music and crowded hallways. It was almost too much inside.

Then you noticed you weren’t alone. Across the small stretch of pavement, someone was leaning back against the brick wall of the warehouse, one foot braced behind him. The overhead light caught the shape of broad shoulders beneath an open button-up shirt, the fabric hanging loose and open over his chest.

Harry lifted a plastic cup to his mouth and took a slow drink as he stared at you. You froze for a second, letting your eyes rake down his long frame. He was wearing jeans now too, instead of the athletic shorts he'd worn in the ring.

Up close, without the noise and lights of the ring, he somehow looked even bigger. Or maybe it was because you were alone out there with him. His presence was quite intimidating. The tattoos along his arms were clearer now from where you stood, and the muscles in his forearms flexed as he lowered his cup.

You managed a small, nervous smile and reached for the metal door behind you, hoping to slip right back inside before it became awkward. Only the handle didn't budge. You frowned and tried again, but it was locked..

A small rush of panic fluttered through your chest as you turned the handle a third time just to be sure, but the door remained stubbornly closed. And when you glanced up again, Harry was still watching you.

“You lost?”

His voice carried across the short stretch of pavement between you, calmly, like the two of you were standing in a quiet bar instead of behind an illegal fight ring. The words startled you enough that you stepped away from the door, letting your palm fall from the handle as you gave a small shrug.

“Just trying to get back in,” you said, forcing a smile that felt a little tight around the edges. “Didn’t realize it would lock.”

“It’s an exit.” Harry said as he tipped the plastic cup toward his mouth again, taking a slow drink without breaking eye contact.

You let out a short, nervous laugh. “Well, yeah… I should've figured.”

He watched you for another second, that same steady look from the ring now fixed on you instead of an opponent. Something about it made your pulse thrum, though it wasn’t exactly fear. It felt more like the kind of awareness you got when someone was paying very close attention to you and it felt like you were in the spotlight.

You shifted your weight and glanced toward the row of dumpsters, then back toward him. “So… I guess I just walk around the building to get back inside?”

“Probably easier.”

His tone wasn’t unkind, but it carried a hint of amusement that made you feel like he’d already figured out exactly how out of place you were. He leaned his shoulder more firmly into the brick, the overhead light catching the line of his jaw as he studied you.

“You’re with someone inside?” he asked.

“My friend,” you said. “Blake. She knows Victor.”

Harry’s brow lifted slightly in recognition. “I know Victor.”

You nodded and looked toward the building again, unsure of what to do next. You should probably have started walking to head back around the building, but the cool breeze outside, the quiet, and the company of one handsome fighter seemed a lot more intriguing to you suddenly.

He shifted, letting the cup hang loosely from his fingers as his gaze drifted over you again. You couldn’t quite decide if the look was just curious or assessing. Maybe a little of both.

The silence stretched for a moment before you cleared your throat. “Your fight was… impressive.”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “Oh, yeah?”

You nodded, suddenly aware of how strange it felt to be complimenting someone for knocking another person unconscious. “I mean… I don’t really know anything about fighting, but it looked like you knew exactly what you were doing.”

Harry pushed one foot off the wall and adjusted his stance slightly, rolling his shoulder like the muscles were still unwinding from the adrenaline. “I do know what I'm doing. Yes," he paused, letting his gaze drift over your sweater. "You come to places like this often?”

You laughed immediately, shaking your head. “No. Definitely not.”

That earned you a real smirk full of dimples and a pretty row of straight teeth. “Oh, I can tell. I was kidding.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “You can tell?”

“You don’t look like the kind that spends her Saturday nights in warehouses watching people punch each other.”

You glanced down at yourself. “What does that even mean?”

“It means,” he said slowly, his eyes flicking back up to meet yours, “you look a little out of place.”

The honesty of it caught you off guard, but there was something teasing in his tone that softened the words.

“Well,” you admitted with a small smile, “I did just get locked outside. I am a bit out of my depth here.”

He nodded, pressing his lips together, still staring you down like he was trying to figure you out. “And the jumper." He motioned a hand toward your sweater. "With the cartoon cats and flowers… Declaration of innocence.”

You sputtered a laugh and looked down at your top. You lifted the bottom hem upward and flashed him a peek of the plain black t-shirt you had on underneath.

"Was just gonna wear a black shirt, but I didn't want to get cold."

He took another sip from his cup before pushing himself off the wall completely. The movement made your attention drift back to his arms without meaning to. Up close you could see faint bruising along his pecs where his shirt draped open, and a small cut across one knuckle where the tape had already started to darken.

“So, this is your first time at one of these?" he asked.

“Yeah.” You nodded.

“What did you think?”

You hesitated for a second, trying to figure out how honest you should be. “Honestly, it was kind of terrifying,” you said. “But also… exciting.”

His eyes warmed a fraction at that.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s usually how people describe it their first time.”

You glanced toward the warehouse wall, listening as another burst of cheers rose from inside. The music dipped for a moment and then surged back again, vibrating through the brick behind him.

“So is this something you do a lot?” you asked.

“Sometimes. Once a month maybe.”

“Do you ever lose?”

The question slipped out before you could stop it. For half a second you worried you’d said the wrong thing, but Harry just huffed out a quiet laugh.

“Not tonight, I didn't.”

Something about the confidence in his answer made heat creep up your neck again. You folded your arms loosely across your stomach, trying to look less like someone who was fighting for her life, not to let her nerves get the best of her.

“Well,” you said after a moment, “for what it’s worth… I’m glad I got here in time to see it. To see your fight.”

His gaze lingered, and you watched him slide his eyes down to your tennis shoes.

“You came just to watch, or did you put a bet in too?”

You shook your head. "No, just to watch. My friend said it was fun. I was curious, so I tagged along."

He nodded. "And you had fun, thought it was exciting."

You gestured vaguely toward the warehouse behind yourself. “It definitely was fun. More than I thought.”

Harry’s smirk returned slowly. “Careful,” he said. “People get hooked on the adrenaline. And especially once you start winning bets, gets hard to stop.”

You held his gaze, surprised by how much steadier your nerves felt now compared to a few minutes ago.

“I guess that could be true.” You shrugged and let yourself smile wider. "Is that why you do this? The adrenaline of fighting?"

He shrugged a shoulder. “Something like that.”

You were quiet for a moment. Not sure of what to say next or if you should say anything more. If you were wise, you'd have already gone back into the building and found Blake and then convinced her to take you home. But there was something about Harry…

“You not in a hurry to get back inside?” he asked, brows lifted.

You tilted your head slightly, letting your grin grow.

“I was,” you said. “Before I got locked out. Kinda nice out here. Quiet.”

His eyes flicked to the door behind you and then back to your face.

“Lucky accident, then.”

The way he said it made your stomach flutter, and you couldn’t quite decide whether the feeling came from nerves… or curiosity. Harry didn’t look away as he lifted his cup again and finished the last of whatever was inside it, tipping it back slowly, and you noticed the movement of his throat when he swallowed.

For a moment, you were both quiet. The silence behind the warehouse wrapped around you again, broken only by the distant sound of cheers from inside and the bass vibrating through the brick and the metal. Suddenly the feeling inside of you was alive, charged…

“So what happens after this?” he asked.

You blinked at the question. “After… the fight?”

“After tonight.” He motioned vaguely toward the warehouse with his chin. “You heading home?”

“Probably,” you said with a small shrug. “I mean, that's the plan. Afterwards, my friend is gonna drop me off at home.”

Harry nodded slowly. His eyes dipped briefly to your sweater again before lifting back to your face. “Seems like a shame.”

Your brows lifted. “A shame?”

“You finally get a taste of the adrenaline,” he said, leaning one shoulder back against the brick again, eyes fixed on you, “and then you just go home.”

You laughed lightly. “What exactly would you suggest instead?”

Harry’s mouth tilted slightly, and there was something unmistakably playful in his expression now. “Burn it off.”

You stared at him for a breath, the words settling in your mind.

“Burn it off?” you repeated slowly.

He watched your reaction with obvious amusement. “Yeah.”

Your face warmed as the implication crept in, though you weren’t entirely sure if you were reading him correctly. “And… how exactly does one do that?”

The corner of his mouth pulled higher. “Couple different ways. Some more fun than others.”

You scoffed a laugh and shook your head, glancing toward the warehouse again before looking back at him. “You’re being very vague.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

Harry pushed off the wall again and stepped a little closer to where you stood. “Let’s say,” he said calmly, “you’ve got a lot of nervous energy after watching something like that. Right?”

“Yeah,” you agreed.

“You could get another drink,” he continued, “go back in and watch some more fights. Find a club to go dancing, work off the energy that way… Or, maybe you and I can get outta here, find somewhere private to burn off the adrenaline together.”

Your heart thudded as he watched the thought unfold in your head. You blinked up at him, shocked. "You can't be serious."

"Why not?"

"I'm… You don't know me and I don't know you. Like…" You looked at him as he moved closer, your head tilting back as he stood over you. "You mean… sex, right?"

He laughed. “What? You don't like sex?” he asked, a dangerous smile on his face that made your insides feel like hot slush.

You blinked. "Well, yeah… But… I—we…"

"You have a boyfriend?"

You shook your head, stunned that any of this was happening.

"You attracted to men?"

You nodded and tried to go for a yes, but the words didn't come out.

"Are you scared of me?"

You shook your head. "No, I just… we don't know each other."

He held out a hand toward you, brows raised. "I'm Harry. It's nice to meet you…"

You let out a laugh and slid your palm against his, still looking up at him. "I'm… Y/n."

He grinned. "Y/n…" He nodded and dropped your hand but didn't move back to ease the distance. "I think you're cute. I like your smile. I'd love to burn off some adrenaline with you, but if you don't want to, that's okay. I understand. I'm a stranger and you just watched me knock out another man. Should we go back inside?"

You nodded, releasing your breath but half disappointed in yourself, if you were honest. Because Harry looked like he'd show you a really good time. And he was hot as fuck. But you were a practical girl who made good, smart decisions with her life. You were definitely not someone willing to throw caution to the wind with a strange, hot fighter… who you'd just met… who was basically asking you to have sex with him.

Harry slipped a hand into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small key ring, twirling it once around his finger as he stepped past you and walked toward the back door where you'd been locked out.

You watched in surprise as he slid the key into the metal door and then pulled it open halfway before glancing back at you.

You cocked your head and dropped your mouth open. “You had a key the whole time?”

He shrugged, a grin still on his face. “Yeah.”

“You watched me struggle with the door,” you said, incredulous.

“I did.”

“And you didn’t open it.”

Harry’s shoulders lifted. “If I'd done that, you’d have gone right back inside.”

You stared at him, half shocked and half amused. “That was dishonest of you.”

“It was. I apologize. But I wanted you to stick around a little longer. Thought you were pretty and figured it was a good way to get you to talk to me.”

The whole thing was flattering, even though it shouldn't have been. You should have just walked away and gone around to the front of the building and found Blake. You didn't know this man, but you were curious. And he was hot…

You let out a breath through a small smile, shaking your head as you stepped toward the doorway. “You’re a bit too confident.”

Harry’s smirk returned. “Probably. I mean, I did just win the feature fight, though.”

You passed the threshold as he held the door for you and smelled the scent of a dark amber and vanilla cologne he must have been wearing. A little sweet and a little masculine. Then you glanced at his pecs, the dark tattoos etched over strong muscle.

When you heard the door close behind you, you turned to make sure he was still there, and he just grinned at you before he was next to you, walking in stride toward the room where you'd left Blake.

And for reasons you didn’t entirely understand yet, the idea of walking away from him, of saying goodnight and it was nice to meet you… suddenly felt less appealing than it probably should have. The heat of him next to you, the way he seemed to know everyone he passed by in the hallway, the way he stood tall over everyone and guided you without so much as laying a finger on you… It made you wonder if you should give him a chance.

The music slammed back into your ears as you both neared the main part of the warehouse and then stepped into the room where Victor and Blake still were. They both looked up when you appeared in the doorway.

Blake’s brows rose immediately when she saw Harry behind you.

“You okay?” she asked, glancing between the two of you.

Victor gave Harry a curious look but didn’t say anything.

You hesitated for a second as you looked back up at Harry, and it was either a moment of complete clarity or insanity, but you weren't about to miss out on where the night could go if you left with Harry. If you took him up on his offer.

“Hey… I think I’m actually gonna head out. With him…" You glanced up at him and watched his expression shift into surprise.

Blake blinked. “Already?”

Harry nudged you, eyebrows knitting together. "Really?"

“Yeah,” you said, trying to sound casual despite the flutter of nerves in your chest. You decided it was in fact a moment of insanity, but you were committed now.

Her eyes slid past you to Harry again, and her expression slowly shifted into something far more knowing. “Oh,” she said slowly. "You sure?"

Heat crept up your neck, but you held her gaze. “I’ll text you. Okay?”

Victor chuckled quietly under his breath while Harry stood, a bit stunned that you had changed your mind, his expression told you as much.

Blake looked between the two of you once more before letting out a dramatic sigh.

“Well… alright,” she said. “Be careful. Harry, Victor knows where you live, so… be nice.”

He let out a laugh, looking at you as if to double-check that you were serious. “I'll be as nice as she wants me to be.”

Victor stepped away from the table then and held his hand out toward Harry. "Before you leave, I need the key back."

You watched Harry reach into his pocket and drop the small key into Victor’s palm without a word before he handed over a thick envelope that was full of cash, you assumed. Harry took it, tucking it away without checking inside, as if he already knew exactly what was in there. Victor patted him on the back, and then glanced at you with a look that was hard to read but it felt a little like you were being sized up. Like maybe Victor was trying to figure out if you were gonna be able to handle Harry or not.

"Well," Victor said dryly, "that was quicker than I expected."

Blake shot him a look before stepping closer to you. The teasing in her face had softened some now that you were actually leaving. "Text me if you need anything," she said quietly. "I mean it."

You nodded, trying not to let it show just how fast your heart was beating now that everything had shifted from impulsive idea to reality. "I will."

Harry stayed beside you, quiet still, one hand in his pocket while the other hung at his side. You were already feeling awkward about everything after having just announced to the room that you were leaving with a man who'd just pummeled someone for money. A man you hardly knew at all.

Everyone in the room already knew what happened next, and that made you feel extra uncomfortable about the curious, amused eyes that slid between you and Harry. You'd go home with him, have a good time (hopefully), and then… well, you hadn't thought too much about what happened after but you were trying to live on the edge a little. A far cry from your usual daily life.

Blake looked between the two of you one more time, then let out a breath through her nose as if she’d already accepted that there was no talking you out of this now. "Alright," she said. "Go on then. Have fun. But text me if you need me."

You laughed nervously. "I said I would."

Victor smirked as he looked at Harry. "Try not to corrupt her."

Harry’s mouth quirked just at the edge, but he said nothing.

That sent another wave of heat creeping up your neck, and you shook your head a little as if that might calm the flutter in your stomach. Then Harry tipped his head toward the hall, soft green eyes on you, wordlessly asking if you were ready, and when you nodded, he turned and stepped into the hall. You followed him toward the main room and heard raucous shouting over the next fight. You wondered how many fights there were at these events.

The warehouse felt different now than it had when you first arrived. Maybe because you were leaving it with him. As you walked through the side corridor and back out toward the main entrance, people moved around you with drinks in hand, smoke curling into the floodlit space. The gravel lot was still full, cars parked at odd angles, bass vibrating faintly beneath your shoes as you trailed Harry outside.

He led you without a word across the lot, weaving between cars until he stopped beside the matte black motorcycle you’d noticed earlier when Blake parked. For a second, you just stared at it, then at him.

"This is yours?"

Harry glanced back at you over his shoulder as he reached down to the handlebars. "Yeah."

You opened your mouth, though you weren’t sure what you were going to say. Something about that made sense. Of course, he rode a motorcycle. Of course he did. He turned and looked at you, eyes narrowing briefly as if in thought, then his gaze shifted past you, scanning the lot. His expression lifted like he'd just realized something.

"Stay right here," he said, lifting a finger.

Before you could ask what he meant, he turned and jogged off across the lot.

You watched him in confusion as he crossed two rows over toward another motorcycle parked under a floodlight. Whoever owned it had left a helmet looped over the handlebars. You saw Harry glance around, then unhook it and head back toward you casually, as if he'd just grabbed his order from the counter at a Starbucks.

Your jaw dropped as he came to a stop in front of you, holding the helmet.

"Harry…"

He was already checking the strap, barely looking up at you. "Hold still."

You did, mostly because you were too startled not to, and he lowered the helmet over your head gently. His fingers brushed your jaw as he reached under your chin to adjust the strap.

You blinked at him. "Whose helmet is this?"

He didn’t answer.

Your eyes narrowed. "I just watched you take this off someone else’s bike."

Harry grinned, still wordless, as he snapped the buckle under your chin.

"Did you steal this?"

He looked at you then, close enough now that the overhead lights caught the almost transparent green in his eyes. "What," he asked mildly, "you want me to put it back?"

You stared at him in disbelief. "Yes. We can’t just steal somebody’s helmet."

"You don’t wanna come with me?"

The question landed in a way that made your protest skitter to a halt. His hands were still at your jaw, and there was something so calm in the way he looked at you that it made the whole thing feel completely surreal. The noise from the warehouse seemed farther away suddenly, the crowd and the smoke and the lights blurring around the edges while his attention stayed fixed on you.

"Well," you said, trying to hold on to your common sense, "that’s not really the point."

"Feels like it is. Cause I'm not letting you on this bike if you're not wearing a helmet. Simple as that. Not risking it."

You let out a breath of disbelief, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. "You’re unbelievable."

"I’ve heard worse."

You were still looking at him like you meant to argue more when he reached up, curled a hand lightly at the space where your shoulder met your neck, and kissed you.

It was quick, but it most definitely was not casual. His mouth was warm and firm against yours, just enough to leave you stunned by the time he pulled back. Every thought in your head seemed to scatter, and for a second, all you could do was stare at him.

Harry’s expression didn’t change much, but there was satisfaction in it now, like he already knew exactly what that kiss had done to you. Then he turned, swung one leg over the bike, and started it up. The engine rumbled to life beneath him, low and choppy, and he looked back over his shoulder as he held an arm out toward you.

You stood there for a second, heart pounding, helmet slightly too big on your head, and shook your head at yourself. You could not believe you were doing this.

But your body was still warm from the kiss, your thoughts still tangled from the look on his face, and before you could talk yourself out of it, you stepped forward and climbed on behind him. The seat dipped beneath your weight and you carefully settled yourself, your hands hovering awkwardly for a moment before finally landing at his waist.

"Where’s your helmet?" you asked, leaning closer so he could hear you over the engine.

Harry looked back at you, one hand still on the handlebar. "After what you just saw me do in there, you think I’m worried about my own safety?"

You frowned behind the visor. "That’s not funny."

"I’m serious." His hand slid back and touched your knee, which felt way too sweet for what was actually happening. "Only one I’m worried about wearing one is you."

And that… it made you feel a little sad. There was no bravado in the way he said it. He wasn't bragging about being a tough guy. He was simply telling you that he didn't care much about himself.

Then Harry reached down, shifted the bike into gear, and pulled out.

The sudden motion made your heart leap and your arms tighten around him automatically. Gravel crunched beneath the tires before the motorcycle found the road, and then the night opened up around you, cool air rushing past as the warehouse lights fell behind. Every single sound was swallowed by the engine and the wind, and you pressed a little closer to him, clinging to the solid line of his body as he drove you away into the dark.

Once he took you off the industrial roads and toward the city, the darkness began to break away into streetlights, gas stations, late-night storefronts, and the occasional car passing by. You had no real sense of direction with the helmet on and your cheek pressed near his shoulder, but you noticed when the scenery changed.

But when he slowed the bike and turned into the parking lot of a squat little diner with a glowing sign that read OPEN 24 HOURS, you blinked in confusion. You had expected him to take you straight to his place.

Harry shut off the engine and the sudden quiet felt strange after the rush of noise and vibration under your thighs. You carefully climbed off the back of the bike and pulled the helmet off before he took it from you and hooked it over the handlebar, then glanced at you as if nothing about the detour required explanation.

You looked up at the diner and then back at him. "What are we doing?"

"Eating."

The answer came so simply that you stared at him for a second. "Eating?"

Harry started toward the entrance. "Yeah."

This had not been what you'd imagined at all. You’d assumed, maybe unfairly, that once you agreed to leave with him the night would move in one very obvious direction. The fact that he’d brought you to a diner first instead of straight to his place caught you off guard.

You followed him inside, everything about the place was classic diner vibes… including the smell. It was mostly empty at that hour, just a couple of booths occupied. The lights were bright, the vinyl booths worn, and behind the counter a radio played music because it appeared the place was not set up with any kind of modern sound system.

Harry led you to a booth near the windows and slid in across from you. A few seconds later an older man shuffled over with two menus tucked beneath one arm. He had a lined face, thinning gray hair, and the kind of posture that suggested life had worked him over more than once. But his expression was bright and familiar as he looked at Harry.

"Well, look who finally remembered this place existed," he said, handing over the menus. "Haven’t seen you in what, three weeks?"

Harry took his menu and glanced up at him. "Been busy."

You looked between them quietly, surprised by the ease in Harry’s voice. The older man made a face like he didn’t quite buy the excuse, and then he broke into a rough cough, turning his head away from the table as he brought a fist to his mouth. It lasted only a few seconds, but by the time he straightened again, you noticed Harry was already watching him with a faint frown.

"Sorry about that," the man muttered.

Harry leaned back slightly against the booth. "Need to stop smoking, Marty."

That earned him a laugh. "Do you see a cigarette in my hand, son?"

Harry pointed lazily toward the old man’s chest. "No. But I see a pack of Winstons right there, which tells me all I need to know."

You glanced where Harry's finger pointed and, and sure enough, there was the outline of a cigarette pack tucked neatly into the breast pocket of his shirt. The old man followed your gaze and then laughed again, shaking his head in good humor as he leaned down, bracing both hands against the edge of the table.

"Interesting," he said, looking directly at Harry, "how you think my smoking is worse than your own self-sabotage." He squinted his eyes. "We both probably got some lessons to learn. Difference is, I’m old and it’s too late for me. You’ve still got your whole life ahead of you."

Harry lifted his brows and shook his head, as if to say he wasn't going to be discussing life's hardships right then. It felt to you like this was a conversation they’d had before. It made you wish they'd keep going so you could learn more.

The old man’s attention turned to you then, and his face softened. "And who’s this?"

Harry glanced over at you. "This is Y/n."

You gave him a small smile. "Nice to meet you."

"Marty," he said. "Likewise."

There was a little pause after that, just enough for you to get the feeling Marty was putting pieces together in his head and deciding not to comment on any of them. Instead, he straightened again and tapped a finger against the menu in Harry’s hand.

"You eating the usual, or are you gonna surprise me?"

Harry didn’t even open the menu. "What’s good tonight?"

Marty looked offended. "Everything’s good tonight. You know that."

That made the corner of Harry’s mouth tug upward. "Alright. Then give me the usual."

Marty turned to you. "And for you?"

You looked down at the menu, then back up, a little embarrassed by how impossible it suddenly felt to make a decision. Everything on the page looked heavy and diner-specific in a way you weren’t used to ordering at nearly midnight.

Harry noticed your hesitation. "Burgers are good," he said. "Pie, too, if you’re a dessert person."

You smiled. "Okay, I'll go with the burger."

Marty looked between the two of you with open amusement now. "A burger for the pretty lady. Comes with fries, that work?"

You nodded, closing the menu. "Yes. That's fine."

"And what would you like to drink?"

You shrugged and flitted your eyes at Harry and then up to Marty. "Water?"

He smiled at you. "Is that a question? Or is that what you'd like?"

"Um. Yeah. Water, please. That… yeah." You looked down at the formica table top and the aluminum edging as Marty made a sound of approval.

"Alright. Harry's usual, and for the lady a burger and fries with water… and let me guess… no pie because young people don’t know how to live?"

You laughed softly, looking back up at him. "Maybe pie."

"If you're still hungry, we'll split a piece when we're done eating," Harry added.

Marty gathered the menus from the table, gave Harry some kind of knowing look, and then headed toward the kitchen.

Once he was gone, you looked across at Harry, who had stretched one arm along the back of the booth and was watching you with that same calm, unreadable attention that seemed to be a constant with him.

You smiled a little. "So you bring all the girls to late-night diners?"

Harry’s gaze stayed on your face. "No."

You tilted your head. "Then why’d you bring me here?"

He looked down for a second, dragging his thumb slowly over the edge of the table like he was thinking about how much truth he wanted to give you. When he looked back up, his expression had softened.

"You seemed nervous," he said. "Thought you might wanna eat first. Give you a chance to change your mind before it's too late."

You pushed out a half laugh and tilted your head at him like he was some kind of alien. "Before it's too late? What's that mean?"

"Just means I can tell you're not used to any of this. You've got this… good girl thing going on and so, this is kind of a buffer for you. If you need it."

"Okay… I guess that's true in a way. I'm definitely not used to watching fights in warehouses," you said.

Harry’s mouth lifted. "Or jumping onto the backs of motorcycles with men you don't know."

A scoff fell from you as you looked down again. "Who also steals helmets," you said, a smile creeping up on your mouth as you looked back at him again.

His grin lifted entirely then, and the dimples that carved into his cheeks made him look almost innocent. He nodded and ran a finger under his nose. "Who does a lot of things he shouldn't do."

You studied him for a moment, this man who had just knocked someone out cold in front of a screaming crowd and then stolen a helmet like it was nothing, only to bring you to a diner and make sure you ate before the night went any further. The contradiction of him was getting harder and harder to pin down.

"Marty seems to know you pretty well," you said.

He shrugged one shoulder. "I come here often enough."

"You always stop here after fights?"

"Sometimes after work. Sometimes late." He glanced toward the counter where Marty had disappeared. "He’s been here a long time."

You rested your forearms on the table and looked at him more openly now. "So you and Marty just became friends over coffee and burgers?"

Harry huffed a quiet laugh. "Something like that."

There was a beat of silence, and then you smiled. "I didn’t picture you as a diner regular."

He looked at you like he was examining, though the teasing was back in his eyes now. "What did you picture me as?"

You looked at him over the smooth laminated table, the fluorescent lights catching the bruises peeking through the open collar of his shirt, the roughness in his hands, and the tiredness that seemed to sit just beneath all of his confidence.

"I’m still figuring that out," you said.

He pressed his lips flat before pursing them. "Fair enough." Settling his own forearms over the table he kept his eyes on you. "What do you usually do for fun?"

Licking your lips, you took a breath. You imagined you were about to bore the tears out of him. "Flowers." You nodded, clearing your throat and forcing yourself to feel more confident about what you were about to tell him. "I like to press flowers and frame them. I know all about flowers too. I even… work at a flower shop."

He huffed a laugh. "Flowers. I'm only a little surprised. Imagined you'd say something like reading and sipping tea, spending time with your family…"

You shrugged. "I like those things too. What, you don't like reading and tea? Or… your family?"

He lifted his brows, clearing some kind of unwanted thought from his head. "Not particularly. Can't remember the last time I drank tea. Or saw my family. And can't seem to sit long enough to read anything that keeps my attention either."

"Well, I make fresh chamomile honey tea and the recipe is pretty much perfected… There's a balance between dried and fresh… I have this method where I use honey to age the flowers. Anyway. We even sell it at the shop because people love it so much. I bet if I gave you some, you'd change your mind about tea."

"You make and sell homemade chamomile tea? What's the name of the shop?"

You laughed. "Lavendar Lane Florals. I hate the name, personally, but my aunt named it when she opened the shop like… 25 years ago. Can't go and change it now."

Harry nodded slowly. "You work at your aunt's shop. Okay…"

"Something wrong with that?"

"No," he said with zero amusement. "Of course not."

"I mean… I run the shop, so it's not like I'm just her employee. Well, I guess I am technically her employee since she owns it but I'm like… taking over and in a few years since she's planning on retiring." You paused as he continued nodding. "And… well anyway. What about you? Do you just… fight for a living?"

He let out a loud laugh that made his shoulders shake a few times before he shook his head and licked his lips. "No. I do not fight for a living. I'm a package delivery driver. Northline Logistics. Fighting is for getting out all the stuff in my head and making a little extra on the side."

You took a breath again, not expecting that at all. "Oh, wow. Northline…That one's like, the most expensive delivery carrier. We usually go with Rapid Delivery for the shop. How do you like it?"

"It's work. Keeps my mind occupied. Good benefits. Pay's alright. Steady schedule."

Just before you could respond, Marty appeared with a tray with all the food and your drinks. You watched him place your plate down in front of you. A steaming burger piled with lettuce and tomatoes, and a side of rough cut fries, piping hot just next to it. Then your ice water in a tall, hard plastic, opaque cup before he gave Harry his order.

He’d gotten a roast beef sandwich with gravy on thick toasted bread, a heap of fries on the side, and a little cup of coleslaw shoved into the corner of the plate. Beside it, Marty placed a plain black coffee in a heavy white mug that had seen better days.

"There you are," Marty said. "And don’t complain the coffee’s stale this time. I made a fresh pot just for you."

Harry looked down at it and gave a small nod. "I'd never complain to you, Marty."

The old man snorted as if he didn’t believe that for a second, then walked off toward the counter again.

You looked at Harry’s plate, then at your own. "That looks good. So, that's what you always get here?"

Harry picked up the mug first and took a sip of the coffee before answering. "Most of the time."

You reached for one of your fries and shoved it into your mouth. The food was hot enough to make you wince a little, but it was good, greasy just as diner food was supposed to be, and you realized only then that you actually were hungry.

Harry ate like someone who was used to being hungry—efficiently, without fuss. Quietly. He didn’t seem self-conscious about the silence, but you were because your nerves were still a little on edge over everything and silence felt too awkward for you at the moment.

"My parents would lose their minds if they knew where I was tonight."

Harry looked up briefly from his sandwich, then back down again as if to signal he was listening.

"They already think I’m incapable of making any good choices on my own," you went on, tearing off a piece of lettuce that had slipped from your burger. "And I’m twenty-seven. Twenty-seven. But somehow they still act like I’m seventeen and can’t be trusted to cross a street without supervision."

Harry nodded, chewing.

You kept going, partly because he was listening and partly because now that you’d started, you couldn’t seem to stop. "They’re not bad, just… overbearing. My mom calls constantly. My dad likes to phrase everything as concern, but really it’s just because he's super controlling. And then there’s my aunt, which doesn’t help because if anything even remotely interesting happens at the flower shop, somehow my parents hear about it before I’ve even made it home."

That got the edge of Harry's mouth lifting.

You pointed at him with one fry. "See? That’s horrible, isn't it? They're so annoying."

"Sounds annoying," he said simply before taking another bite.

"It is." You sat back a little, shaking your head. "I moved out two years ago and they still act like I’m having some kind of extended rebellion. Like any minute now I’m gonna come to my senses and move back home and ask my mother what I should wear every day for the rest of my life."

That made him huff a quiet laugh, and the sound of it pulled a smile from you before you could help it.

"I’m serious," you said. "Blake stopped by the shop one time and my aunt told my mom she thought Blake looked…" you lifted both hands making air quotes, "a little too alternative and then suddenly I was getting a lecture over dinner about surrounding myself with stable influences."

Harry lifted his coffee mug and took another sip, eyes on you over the rim this time. "You seem stable enough."

You smiled and looked down at your plate for a second. "I feel like I'm going crazy. All I want is my independence. I'm a grown woman. I love them, it's just… too much at times."

He set the mug down again and reached for one of his fries. You noticed he still hadn’t offered anything about his own life beyond the delivery job and the fights. He listened well, though it seemed. He just let you talk, like he didn’t mind hearing you untangle your thoughts out loud.

"I know it probably sounds stupid," you said after a second. "There are way worse problems to have than parents who care too much."

Harry’s expression shifted. "Doesn’t mean it’s not still a problem."

You looked at him more carefully then. "You don’t talk to your family much?"

Harry picked up half his sandwich again and shrugged one shoulder. "No."

There was something in the way he said it that made it clear the subject was closed before it had even opened. You could have pushed, maybe, but it would have felt wrong. So instead, you just nodded and let the moment pass.

"I see," you said softly.

You switched subjects and talked a little more about the flower shop, about wedding clients who wanted impossible peony arrangements in the wrong season and the older woman who came in every Friday for fresh roses just because she liked them. Harry listened calmly as he ate and occasionally asked short questions that told you he was paying more attention than he let on. By the time you’d finished eating, your nerves had eased just a little. You weren’t exactly relaxed, because the part of the night where he took you to his place was still coming, and soon.

Marty came by just as Harry was drinking the last of his coffee.

"You alive over there?" he asked Harry, reaching for the empty plate.

"Barely."

"Thought so." Marty stacked the plates, then glanced at you. "How was the burger?"

"Really good," you said. "And the fries."

He gave you a satisfied little nod like he’d personally cooked every item in the place.

"How about that pie?"

Harry looked at you, brows raised and you shook your head. "I'm too full to eat another bite of anything."

"We'll just get the check then, Marty."

The old man nodded, reaching into his apron to pull out the bill and handed it to Harry. "You working tomorrow?"

Harry nodded. "Early."

"Then don’t be out all night doing anything dumb."

You looked between them, smiling a little at the way Marty said it, like he’d probably said similar things to Harry more than once.

Harry reached into his pocket for cash. "We'll see."

Marty took the bills from him, glanced down at the amount, and shook his head. "You tip like you’re trying to buy my affection."

Harry stood, sliding out of the booth. "Thought I already had it."

Marty laughed under his breath and gathered the last of the dishes. "Get out of here. And make sure she gets home safe."

You stood too, smoothing your hands over your jeans as Harry waited for you at the end of the booth. Marty headed back toward the counter, but not before throwing one last look over his shoulder at Harry that seemed to carry a whole conversation inside it.

Then it was just you and Harry by the door before he pushed it open for you. You walked in step with him as you moved to where he'd parked. He stopped beside the bike and looked at you.

"Changed your mind yet?"

You looked at him, at the bruises scattered just beneath the opening of his shirt, at his tired eyes and the way he held himself like he was confident but had too many secrets to really bare himself to anyone. Maybe you should have changed your mind, but you hadn't.

"No."

He paused and looked you over for a moment before he reached for the helmet hooked over the handlebars.

"Alright then," he said.

And a few minutes later you were back on the motorcycle behind him, your arms wrapped around his waist as he pulled away from the diner and carried you deeper into the city night.

It wasn't but a few minutes later that he was turning into an older apartment complex and parking his bike in a numbered spot next to a utility van.

You climbed down slowly and Harry followed, taking the helmet from you and tucking it under his arm before leading you up a short flight of stairs and down a dim exterior walkway. He unlocked the door near the end and pushed it open, stepping aside so you could go in first.

The apartment was clean, but plain, devoid of any life aside from a weight bench near the wall, a rack stacked with weights next to it, and closer to the corner, hanging from a brace in the ceiling, a bright red punching bag. It wasn't messy at all, just otherwise stripped down to the essentials: a couch, a coffee table, a television, a small kitchen with almost nothing left out on the counters. No framed photos. No decorations. No books stacked anywhere. No little pieces of a person scattered through the room anywhere.

You stepped farther inside, taking it in while Harry shut the door behind you and tossed his keys onto the small table beside the couch and then placed the helmet next to them.

There was so little of him in the place that it made you turn to look at him again.

"What do you do in your spare time?"

Harry glanced at you as he plucked at the last few buttons on his shirt, leaving it hanging open so you had a full view of his chest up close. "Work out."

Obviously.

You let out a small breath that was almost a laugh. "That can’t be all you do."

"Well, it’s most of it."

The answer made you smile, though there was something kind of sad about it too. The bare bones decor of his place suddenly made more sense if that was the case. If he was being honest.

You were still looking around when he crossed the room toward you.

The shift in him was so quick it startled you. One moment he was across the apartment answering you casually, and the next he was standing right in front of you, crowding into your space until your back brushed the edge of the counter behind you.

His hands came up and cupped your face, warm and large. You inhaled a soft breath.

"What?" he said, looking down at you with a not-so-innocent smile. "You trying to figure me out already?"

You swallowed. "Your apartment’s just… very plain."

"You saying it's boring?"

A nervous little laugh escaped you. "Maybe."

Harry’s thumbs brushed lightly at your cheeks, his eyes moving over your face in a way that made every inch of you feel noticed. Then his gaze dipped to your sweater, and his mouth curved.

"You really did show up at the fight dressed like this," he said softly, teasing. "Little cat jumper. Soft as anything. You look too innocent to be standing in my apartment right now, Y/n. Too sweet."

Heat rushed straight into your face. "It’s just a sweater."

"Mm." He leaned closer, the tip of his nose nearly brushing yours. "That’s not what I said."

Then he kissed you. It was nothing like the quick kiss in the parking lot just after he'd stolen the helmet. It was deeper, a little filthy with his tongue tasting slowly before pressing it over yours… like now that he had you there he meant to take his time and make you feel every second of it. His mouth moved over yours like he'd been yearning for it all night. It made your knees soften almost immediately, and when he let out a deep sound against your lips, it went straight through you.

"Fuck," he whispered, barely pulling back. "Even your mouth is sweet."

You could hardly think. Your hands had somehow ended up on his chest, fingers pressing lightly against warm skin and old bruises, and he seemed to like that because his grip on your face shifted just slightly, one hand sliding down to the side of your neck, thumb brushing over your pulse point.

"I’m gonna have fun with you," he said, voice rougher now, his eyes flicking down to your mouth. "Been thinking about getting this sweater off you since I saw you outside the warehouse."

A small sound slipped out of you before you could stop it, embarrassed and breathy.

Harry groaned, lips brushing yours. "Yeah," he said quietly. "That sound. Want to hear that one again."

You felt yourself melting under the way he looked at you, under the press in his hands and the fact that he seemed so completely in control while you were losing your footing by the second. He kissed you again, as one of his hands slid to your chin, holding you steady exactly where he wanted you while his mouth moved over yours until you were clinging to him just to stay upright.

Then he took your hand and pressed it over the line of his zipper through his jeans, still kissing you, still guiding you with a calm confidence that made your thoughts go fuzzy around the edges. The heat and bulk of him through the denim made your world tilt just a little, and when he finally pulled back, you were left standing there dazed and staring up at him, hand still in place over him where he'd left it.

The grin that spread across his face was wicked and warm at the same time.

"You’re a good girl, aren’t you, Y/n?" he asked softly. "What is it you like?"

You blinked at him, still trying to catch up. "I… uh…"

Harry took your hand then, threading his fingers through yours as if the question didn’t need answering yet. He started backing you down the short hallway, eyes never leaving your face.

"I like, um…" You laughed nervously, already flustered by the question. "I don’t really… I uh…"

He pushed open the bedroom door and led you inside, amusement spreading across his face as he turned to look at you. "That’s what I thought," he said.

His hands slid slowly down your arms over the soft knit of your sweater, and the look in his eyes told you very clearly that he planned on finding out exactly what you liked. He backed away a step and clicked on a lamp that sat on a bedside table and suddenly something skittered past your feet and into the bedroom.

You jumped back and looked at Harry with wide eyes just as he bent and reached down toward something that had ducked past the table with the lamp and when he stood back up, you were completely shocked to see him cradling a cat in his arms.

The cat was older, gray all over except for a white patch at his throat and another at one paw. His face looked permanently displeased, with one ear nicked and eyes the color of bright amber.

Your expression softened instantly. "Oh my god."

You reached out toward it, fingertips barely lifting before Harry’s voice stopped you.

"Wouldn’t do that."

You looked up at him. "He doesn’t like being pet?"

"He doesn’t like people," Harry said simply. "Except me."

That made you draw your hand back to your side again, though your eyes stayed fixed on the grumpy-faced cat. He stared at you for a second from the safety of Harry’s arms, unimpressed and vaguely judgmental—if cats could be judgmental—then Harry bent and set him back down. The cat landed lightly, flicked his tail, and wandered out of the room at an unhurried pace like he had more important things to do than supervise whatever was about to happen in there.

You watched him disappear into the hallway before looking back at Harry. "What’s his name?"

"Tyson."

You blinked, then laughed. "Tyson?"

Harry’s mouth tilted. "Like Mike Tyson."

"You named your cat after a professional boxer…"

He shrugged one shoulder. "Seemed fitting."

You smiled and glanced toward the door where the cat had vanished. "He’s cute."

"He’s mean."

"He looked fine to me."

Harry stepped closer again, that calm confidence settling right back over him now that the brief interruption had passed. His eyes dropped to your mouth, then lifted, green and far too pretty for a man with busted knuckles and countless bruises on his body.

He slid a hand down to your waist, the other settling at the back of your neck as he pulled you in close again, and when he kissed you, it felt like he was picking up exactly where he’d left off in the hall. You leaned into him and your hands rose to his chest, palms flattening over his sturdy muscles as he kissed you harder. He made a quiet sound against your mouth, and the hand at your waist tightened just enough to make your breath stall.

He squeezed harder, fingers sliding up under the sweater and you let out a breathy, nervous laugh that turned into another small, helpless sound when he kissed the corner of your mouth and then your cheek, his nose grazing your skin.

"Still nervous?" he asked softly.

"A little."

"Mm." He pulled back just enough to look at you, both hands settling at your hips now. "Cute. So fuckin' cute."

That only made you more flustered, which he clearly enjoyed if the slow rise of the grin on his face was any indication. He dipped his head again and kissed you until your thoughts blurred, until the apartment and the bike and the warehouse all felt far away, and there was only the lamp-lit room, and his hands on you.

Harry’s mouth moved slowly against yours, like he knew what you wanted. Like he knew just how to make you melt into him, how to make you weak.

Your hands were still resting against his chest when he shifted them, guiding your wrists gently outward until your palms slid over the warm breadth of his shoulders instead. The movement pressed you closer to him, your body fitting flush against his.

His hand slipped under the hem of your sweater, fingers lifting, dragging the soft knit of it upward and over your head, making your arms lift before he tossed it away to the side. You put your hands on his shoulders again as his fingers spread over the bare skin of your waist under your black-t-shirt. He had rough calluses from training, and the contact made a heat trail up the notches of your spine. His mouth curved against yours as his hand slowly glided the thinner material up inch by inch.

"You feelin' shy?" he asked, amused.

"I’m not," you protested weakly, though no one would have ever been convinced by the sound of your voice.

He huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah, you are. Like it, though."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, green eyes dragging slowly over your face, fingers still curled into the fabric of your shirt.

"Arms up for me again."

You lifted your arms slowly and he tugged the shirt up and over your head. The cool air of the room brushed over your skin instantly, and your instinctive reaction was to bring your arms down across your stomach. You really, really couldn't believe you were doing this.

Harry took your wrists. "Hey," he said quietly, making you look up at him.

He laced his fingers through yours so you couldn't cover yourself. Then he lifted your hands and pressed them gently against his own chest, right over his heart.

"Don’t do that," he said.

Your nerves twisted even tighter as his eyes moved over you slowly. He grinned, gaze raking over your stomach and your arms, the line of your shoulders, and then over the swell of your breasts pushing at the soft fabric of the totally unsexy bra you wore.

"You’re fuckin’ adorable," he said under his breath. "Like a little treat for me."

He let go of your hands and reached around to the back of your bra before he paused and looked at you. "You gonna let me keep going?"

You nodded almost immediately. You were nervous, but well past the point of no return.

"That a yes?" he teased softly.

"Yes." You were boiling hot. Every inch of you felt like it was steaming, mostly because of the way Harry was being with you, but definitely also because you were a bit out of your depth with someone like him.

The clasp popped open under his fingers at your yes. He slid the straps slowly down your arms, letting the fabric fall away before tossing it aside. The moment your chest was bare, Harry inhaled, lips parting.

"Jesus. That is… you are so pretty."

His hands came up immediately, large, rough palms cupping your breasts, making your knees loosen again. His thumbs brushed slowly over the sensitive peaks, testing the reaction, and when a quiet sound slipped out of you he smiled.

"There it is again."

Before you could swallow the sound, he bent his head and his mouth closed around one nipple with a wet warmth that sent a jolt straight through you. You reached up to his shoulders as his tongue flicked over the sensitive skin, his other hand cradling the opposite breast.

"Sweet girl," he hummed against your skin, like he was enjoying himself far too much.

His mouth traveled upward then, leaving a damp trail of kisses over your collarbone, your throat, the side of your neck. Every place he touched lingered just long enough to make you want more.

You were barely aware of his hands sliding lower until the button of your jeans popped open. You gasped quietly against his mouth when his fingers slipped inside the waistband, brushing against the soft skin of your low stomach before tugging the denim downward.

"Step out," he said gently.

Your legs felt a little shaky as you moved. Harry bent to pull the jeans the rest of the way off, and when he stood again, there was something distinctly darker in his expression. Hotter.

For a moment he stayed a foot back, just looking at you. Almost completely bare from head to toe under the warm glow of the bedside lamp. His gaze dragged slowly down your body and back up again as you pressed your thighs together from the scrutiny.

"Fuck," he breathed, reaching toward you as a finger trailed along your hip. "Even these panties."

You looked down at yourself, nipples peaked, goosebumps on your tummy, full coverage cotton panties with colorful flowers printed on the fabric. You swallowed and looked back up at him to see his eyes on your face.

"You weren't expecting to get fucked tonight, were you?"

You shook your head, a puffed laugh falling out. You thought you were going to shake out of your skin standing there like that, practically naked while he was still clothed.

He grinned. "Did not expect to meet such a nice girl tonight."

He moved closer and pulled you by your hips, eyes wandering over your skin and your breasts and then back up to your eyes. "I don't deserve anything this nice."

Heat rushed into your face and you shifted your weight as he lifted a hand up to your face, thumb smoothing against your bottom lip. "Shaking. Need a minute?"

You let out a sound, chest heaving. "No. I'm…" You swallowed, yet again. "I'm okay."

He groaned and leaned in, running his nose along your jaw as he spoke, heat trailing with his breath. "You are gonna make me want something I don't get to have."

You were far too gone to make sense of his words at that moment when he pressed his lips on your neck again, arms wrapping around your back before his hands slid down, fingers spreading over your hips before gliding around to the front of your body again. One hand slipped between your thighs, but only the ghost of a touch at first.

You inhaled a shaky sound and placed your hands on his shoulders when you wobbled.

Harry looked at you. "Relax for me, Y/n," he murmured.

His fingers moved slowly, tracing along your inner thigh before drifting higher. When he finally brushed against the soft, sensitive center of you, your entire body reacted with a small, involuntary jerk.

Harry chuckled quietly. "Just touching. Can we get these panties off?"

You nodded. "Yeah. Okay."

"Yeah? Okay?" He teased, looking at you as he tucked his fingers into the elastic of your panties at your hips and began to slide them down. Once they were pushed just to your knees, they dropped by themselves to the floor at your feet.

He groaned as he put his hands on your hip and smoothed them down to the outside of your thighs before he drew his fingers again to the space between your legs. "Keep making those cute sounds for me. Yeah?"

You didn’t answer, mostly because the moment he touched you again your thoughts scattered completely. His fingers slid through the slick warmth between your legs, and he let out a low, satisfied sound.

"Well, look at that."

You bit your lip, skin hot yet covered in goosebumps as he drew a finger upward and found your tender bud, circling. "Even your clit is all wet," he said softly.

"H-Harry—"

He pulled in a breath through his teeth as he dipped his fingers lower. "Oh, sweet girl. Yes, that's what I wanna hear. Keep making those noises, keep saying my name."

One of his fingers pressed gently inside you, and he hissed when he realized how open you already were. The sensation made your head tip forward against his shoulder with a quiet gasp.

"Easy," he murmured before pushing in deeper.

Your fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt as he slowly worked his digit in and out, gushy. He pulled out his finger and placed a hand between your thighs, making you spread your legs the slightest before he pushed back in, adding a second finger. The soft stretch made a sound squeak from your throat.

Harry kissed your temple as he fingered you right there next to his bed. You'd never had anything like that happen to you before. Being fingered standing up was new, and the fact that you were stark naked while he was still wearing his clothes made it feel all the more intense.

"How long's it been since you've been fucked?"

You lifted your head to look at him, clinging tight as he fucked your pussy with his fingers. "I… Last year."

He blew out a breath, eyes locked on your face. "And you're sure you wanna be fucked tonight? Still all shaky."

You nodded and moaned, hips moving against his hand erratically.

"Mmm…" he moaned, amused, fingers still pumping.

His thumb brushed lightly against the sensitive bundle of nerves above where his fingers moved inside you, and the sudden combination made a helpless sound slip from your throat again, and he groaned softly at the noise.

"That’s it," he said.

He pulled his fingers out slowly before guiding you toward the bed. "Come on."

His lips found yours again as he eased you down onto the mattress, the kiss slow and deep as he followed you onto the bed. His hands immediately returned to your body, sliding over your stomach, your hips, your thighs like he couldn’t stop touching you.

"You’re so fuckin’ cute," he murmured.

His fingers slipped between your legs again.

"And you feel even better than you look."

Before he pressed his fingers back in, he pushed himself from you and stood back. "Rub your pussy for me while I take my clothes off."

You reached down at once, watching Harry as you found your clit and began sliding your fingers over yourself. He kept his gaze locked on the space between your legs as he shrugged his shirt off to the floor and then unbuttoned his jeans.

When he shoved them down, he was left in his boxer briefs. The thick bulge that sat under them looked so big and long already, the thin fabric stretched tight over the heavy outline beneath it. But his attention was fixed on you. On the way your hand moved slowly between your legs. On the way your thighs trembled slightly as you touched yourself.

"Yeah," he said softly. "Just like that."

You were feeling all flushed and exposed like that. You'd never done anything like it before… rubbing yourself in front of anyone. Especially a man you hardly knew at all. But there was something about him that made you want to just say yes to everything he asked of you.

"Look at you," he murmured.

You forced your eyes up from where you’d been staring at his bulge through the boxer briefs. Looking into his eyes hadn’t helped your concentration at all.

Harry stood at the edge of the bed, broad shoulders rising and falling slowly as he breathed. Up close you could see every mark on him now… deep purple bruises blooming across his ribs, light yellowed ones along his abdomen where older hits had been healing. A thin scar ran diagonally over one side of his stomach, disappearing into the waistband of his boxer briefs.

Your eyes drifted over every hard dip and muscled curve. Across the hard lines of his chest, over the scattered tattoos across his skin, down the defined ridges of his abs that flexed when he shifted. He had laurel tattoos that curved low at his hips, just above the waistband, drawing your gaze right back to the thick shape pressing against the fabric there.

You stopped moving your fingers as you were too caught up in the way his body looked. There was so much there to see and explore.

"Hey," he said.

Your eyes flicked back to his face as he stepped closer, climbing onto the bed with you in a smooth motion. The mattress dipped under his weight as he moved you gently toward the center, guiding your hips with both hands.

"Don’t stop touching yourself, pretty."

Your breath shuddered as you resumed the slow motion of your fingers, making the little gushy noises start up again. Harry watched for another second before lowering himself between your legs. The position made your heart gallop wildly.

And then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the top of your knee. Then another. His mouth traveled upward over your thigh, warm and lingering, his hands sliding along your hips to keep you open beneath him.

"You’re so sweet," he murmured against your skin as his lips moved higher.

"So fuckin’ pretty." Another kiss at your belly button.

"And you make the cutest sounds for me."

You let out one of those "cute" sounds immediately, accidentally, soft and breathy, and Harry groaned quietly.

"Yeah," he said under his breath.

His fingers slid between your legs again, replacing your hand. You gasped softly when he pushed two fingers back inside you without warning, the stretch somehow more intense now that you were lying open beneath him.

"You got this wet all for me," he murmured, almost impressed.

Your hips lifted upward, and you moaned. Harry dipped down to kiss your stomach then, while his fingers slid through you, deeper than before, his knuckles brushing against you with every thrust.

"God, Harry…" you whispered.

He leaned down beside you, his mouth brushing your ear.

"You feel that?" he murmured.

You nodded weakly.

"Yeah, you do. Little pussy is just sucking my fingers in, begging for more."

His breath was warm against your skin as he continued speaking softly against your ear.

"Such a good girl," he said.

Your fingers twisted in the sheets.

"So sweet for me. Letting me play with you like this."

His hand slid over yours then, guiding it back down between your legs.

"Here," he said.

His fingers kept moving inside you as he repositioned your hand over your clit again.

"Keep rubbing for me."

The moment your fingers began circling there again, the combination made your entire body jolt, and Harry groaned quietly at your ear.

"That’s it."

His fingers pumped deeper now, curling slightly in a way that made your back arch off the mattress. It was good. You were already feeling the rush of what he was doing to your body, and his deep voice vibrating at the lobe of your ear sounded like sex.

"Fuck," you gasped.

Your hand trembled against yourself, the rhythm becoming messy as your hips began chasing the sensation. You couldn't believe that you were on the edge of coming already. For you, it was unusual, especially when it included another person.

Harry’s voice stayed soft and close. "Look at you." His lips brushed your temple. "Already shaking."

You knew you were trembling already. Your thighs quivered around his arm, breath coming faster now as the pressure inside you built higher and higher. You gasped as he curled and you hastened the pace of your fingers.

"Mmm," he murmured, slowing his fingers suddenly.

You let out a broken groan but before you could even process what he was doing he slid down between your legs, his body settling against the mattress as he pulled your hips slightly closer to his mouth. Your hand hovered uselessly over yourself for half a second, then his mouth replaced where your fingers had been.

The first drag of his tongue over your clit made your entire body jerk violently.

"Harry—Yes!"

Your hand shot downward but he caught your wrist before you could pull away, and he guided it to his head where your fingers tangled in his hair.

Harry looked up at you from between your thighs, green eyes dark under the low light.

"Pull," he murmured.

You whimpered when he pumped his fingers deep.

"As hard as you want."

Your fingers tightened in his hair as his mouth returned to you immediately, tongue pressing slow, deliberate strokes against the sensitive bundle of nerves he’d just abandoned seconds ago. His fingers continued to glide into you as he sucked you into his mouth.

The sensation was overwhelming. "Oh my god!"

Harry groaned softly against you at the sound. "Squeezing my fingers so hard," he murmured before leaning down again and wrapping his lips around your bud.

Your hips lifted helplessly, chasing his mouth as his fingers thrust steadily upward inside you again. His tongue moved faster now, every movement sending sharp waves through your body. Your legs shook hard around his shoulders.

Harry looked up again, watching your face as he continued licking you.

"Come on," he murmured against you.

Your fingers pulled harder in his hair as you let out a loud moan into his room.

"I know you’re close."

And you were already falling apart. Your back arched violently off the mattress as the tension snapped through you, your entire body shaking as the orgasm tore through you and Harry licked you through every wave of ecstasy. His tongue stayed on you, fingers still filling you, as your thighs trembled uncontrollably around him.

Harry didn’t stop working you until the tremors running through you started to soften. Your fingers were still tangled in his hair, chest rising and falling as the last warm waves of your orgasm rolled through you. Everything felt loose and floaty, like your bones had turned soft under your skin.

When he finally pulled his fingers from you, he lifted his head and shifted his hands to the backs of your thighs, nudging them apart again so he could look at you. Study your puffy, wet folds and everything else there between your legs. His eyes moved slowly over the flushed skin there, the slick shine still clinging to your thighs, and a crooked smile pulled at his mouth.

"Well," he said.

Your face burned from the scrutiny of his eyes on you. Harry brushed a fingertip lightly along the inside of your thigh before dragging it slowly through the wetness between your legs again, watching the way your body reacted to even that small touch.

"Look at that."

You let out a flustered sound and tried to shift your legs closed in embarrassment, but he caught your thigh easily and squeezed it.

"No," he said with a smile, amused. "Let me see."

His thumb brushed over your skin before he leaned down and pressed a wet kiss to the inside of your knee.

"Even your pussy looks cute," he added quietly. "All soft and shy."

You covered your face with your hands, and he chuckled under his breath.

"C’mon," he murmured.

He guided you farther onto the bed, easing you back against the pillows until your head sank into them. Your body still felt a little fluttery from the orgasm, limbs loose as you watched him move.

He stepped off the mattress for a second.

Your eyes followed him automatically as he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxer briefs and pushed them down his legs. And oh god. He was certainly… hung.

You’d already noticed how thick he was through the fabric earlier, but seeing him fully now made your stomach flutter all over again. He was big. Heavy and thick in a way that made heat coil low in your stomach even through the lingering haze of your orgasm.

Harry grinned as he reached into the nightstand, pulled the drawer open, and took out a condom. He placed it on top of the wood before turning back toward the bed with you. When he climbed onto the mattress beside you, the movement shifted the bed slightly and he reached for your hip, making you roll toward him.

You were still a little stunned, mind a bit mushy when he leaned over and kissed you. He slid a hand down your thigh and pulled it, draping it over his hip so your body turned toward him.

He pulled you closer so that his cock was pressed against your stomach. You moaned against his mouth as Harry grinned, before shifting back just enough to take your hand. His fingers guided yours slowly downward and your palm brushed against him, making you freeze immediately.

He was warm and so hard. Your fingers wrapped around him and your eyes widened slightly as you felt just how thick he actually was in your hand.

Harry huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah," he moaned.

You glanced up at him, still holding him carefully, scared to squeeze too hard. You shouldn't have been surprised that his dick was as ample as it was. Because there was something about Harry that made it seem like exactly what you should have expected.

You began to move your hand slowly, gently. You stroked him carefully, your grip light and cautious like you weren’t quite sure how hard you were supposed to hold him. Harry watched you for a second as a small grin tugged at his mouth.

"That’s cute."

Your brows pulled together as you looked him, a little lost at what he meant.

"You’re being real gentle with it."

You slowed your hand uncertainly, and he brushed his thumb along your cheek.

"Don’t stop," he said softly.

You resumed the motion, still careful.

Harry watched your hand move along him for a few more strokes before his gaze lifted back to your face. "Let me see something."

Your paused your motions.

"Let me see those pretty lips wrap around it for a little bit," he said. "Wanna do that for me? Suck it a little?"

You blinked as you nodded and released his girth from your palm before shifting. Moving carefully, you sat on your knees between his legs while Harry leaned back against the headboard, settling comfortably against the pillows so he could watch you.

The truth was that you had some experience. But not like this. You'd given blow jobs, hand jobs, and even had sex in various positions before… This felt like an entirely different undertaking with Harry.

You rested your hands lightly on his thighs and looked up at him before leaning forward slowly. Then you dipped your head and ran your tongue along the underside of him.

Harry inhaled sharply. "Fuck."

You glanced up at him again to check his face. His jaw had tightened, pupils spread dark as he watched you.

"That’s good," he murmured, licking his lips.

You smiled and leaned down to try again. Your tongue traced another delicate path before you finally wrapped your lips around the head of him and suckled the tip gently as you peered up at him.

Harry swore under his breath as his hand came up to cup your cheek as he watched you. "You are the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen," he whispered, voice rougher now.

Your lips moved slowly over him, trying to take a little more. A soft wet sound slipped from your mouth when you tried again and Harry groaned quietly.

"It’s a lot for you, huh, pretty?"

His thumb brushed your cheek. "But you like that. Don't you?"

You tried to take him deeper, blinking your eyes and concentrating on not scraping your teeth against him. But he was a lot in your mouth and it felt like an almost impossible task.

You inhaled through your nose, forcing another inch of him into your mouth as you gripped the tops of his thighs. You coughed and pulled back to suck more air into your lungs.

Harry smiled. "Wish we had time to let you practice on it more."

His fingers slid gently into your hair. "Get you used to gagging on it a little."

You leaned down again, taking him into your mouth as far as you could, leading with your tongue and sucking as you went.

This time he pushed lightly at the back of your head, testing the movement and your throat tightened and you swallowed around him. A soft gurgling sound slipped out.

Harry’s head tipped back with a low groan. "Oh, baby…"

He held you there for another second before easing the pressure and guiding you back up. A thin string of saliva followed as you lifted your head and Harry caught your chin between his fingers and pulled you up toward him.

He pulled you to his mouth, kissing you hard and slow, tongue pressing against yours. When he pulled back, his eyes searched your face.

"What position do you like?" he asked.

You blinked at him. "I… I don’t…" Your words stumbled over each other.

Harry laughed softly. "Yeah… Fuckin' too cute for me."

Before you could answer, he pulled you further up, dragging you over his thighs and into his lap. You straddled his him as his hands slid slowly down your sides, warm palms smoothing over your ribs and around your waist.

"God," he said quietly.

His hands moved lower, spreading over the curve of your hips before sliding around to your bottom.

"You’re making this too hard for me," he said, lip parted. "Not gonna wanna say goodbye to you in the morning."

You weren't exactly sure what he meant, but there was something sad in his words just then. And you'd picked up on a bit of melancholy in him. Like he'd been really hurt by someone in his past. It made you wonder about him. Want to know more about everything, but he didn't seem the type willing to divulge his secrets easily.

His hands moved upward again, cupping your breasts as he leaned forward to kiss one nipple, and then the other. Slow and warm, his lips wrapped and wetted as he fluttered his eyes closed briefly.

"Fuck me," he groaned against your skin.

His thumbs brushed lightly over the sensitive peaks as he parted from them.

"Too sweet."

He pressed a kiss to your collarbone. "Too cute, baby."

You shifted in his lap, the movement sliding your body against him and dragging your sensitive clit across the hard line of him.

Harry groaned quietly and then he leaned over to the nightstand, grabbed the condom, and tore it open before rolling it slowly down over himself while watching your face as if he liked watching every little reaction that crossed it. The soft lamp light caught the green of his eyes as he smoothed his palm down the length of himself, making sure it was seated properly, before his gaze drifted back to your body sitting there in his lap.

He huffed out a quiet breath through his nose and shook his head. "Jesus."

He slid his hands back to your hips, thumbs brushing against your skin before he leaned in and kissed you again. His mouth moved lazily over yours for a moment before he pulled back and gave your hips a gentle squeeze.

"C’mon," he said softly.

He guided you carefully off his lap, turning you around to face away from him with steady hands until your knees settled into the mattress in front of him. His palms stayed on your hips as he moved you forward a little farther onto the bed, easing you down until your elbows rested in the sheets.

The position left you spread out with your ass up in the center of the bed and Harry shifted behind you as he got himself into position. Your skin prickled under the feeling of his eyes moving slowly over your backside, over the curve of your waist and the soft line of your hips…

Then he gently settled a hand at the small of your back. His thumb brushed lightly over your skin and his thumb traced the small inky design there carefully.

Right above the curve of your ass at the back of your hip sat a delicate little flower tattoo, the thin petals shaded softly against your skin.

Harry leaned down slightly to look at it closer, then he bent and pressed a kiss right against the ink.

"Is this a daisy?" he asked.

You turned your head, glancing back over your shoulder at him.

"It’s a chamomile flower," you said.

Harry looked at your face and then he let out a low groan of laughter. "Oh, my god."

He leaned down again and kissed the little flower a second time, open-mouthed this time, his lips lingering against your skin.

"You are so fuckin’ cute, Y/n," he moaned.

He slid his hand up the curve of your waist again. "Goddamn," he added under his breath. "You’re precious."

You felt his palm settle against your hip. "Got my heart pounding and everything."

Then he moved a hand lower, one stayed at your hip while the other drifted lower between your thighs. His fingers spread your cheeks slowly, his breath leaving him in a soft hiss when he saw you like that from behind.

"Jesus, fuck…" he muttered.

His hands nudged your knees a little wider.

"There we go… let me see that..."

You shifted, thighs parting a little more as you bit down on your lip hard to push down the heat of bashfulness. You'd never had anyone really take in the view of your bits like that before. Except your gynecologist.

Harry dragged two fingers slowly through your folds, the touch making you gasp softly as he gathered the lingering slickness there.

"Oh, honey," he said.

You felt his hand guiding himself behind you, dragging and pressing, before, he slowly pushed forward. The first press of him against you made your thighs wobble, your fingers tightening in the sheets beneath you.

Harry paused for a second and then he eased forward again, letting you feel every inch as he worked himself deeper inside you. Once he stuffed himself into the hilt, he stayed there a moment, completely still.

You inhaled softly as your thighs trembled slightly, letting your body adjust around the thick stretch of him. You heard Harry let out a breath.

"Fuck," he moaned.

His hands slid up the backs of your thighs and settled at your hips as he looked down between your bodies. From where he knelt behind you he could see the way the two of you were joined, the thick length of him slowly disappearing into the slick spread of you. He groaned quietly at the sight, hips giving the gentlest experimental roll that made you gasp.

"Oh my god. Look at that," he breathed.

Your stomach fluttered at the way he said it, like he was half talking to himself about the way your body looked around him.

"So fuckin’ pretty."

He pulled back slowly, just enough that you felt the gradual drag of him sliding outward before he eased forward again, pushing back into you at the same slow pace. Your mouth parted around a shaky breath as he repeated the motion.

"You’re so wet."

Another slow thrust had your body rocking forward slightly from the pressure, elbows sliding against the mattress as you tried to steady yourself.

"Feel how your pussy wraps around me?" he said softly.

You let out a small broken sound in response, and Harry groaned again.

The pace stayed slow for a moment longer, the steady glide of him in and out of you filling the room with soft, slick sounds that made your face burn even as your body pressed back helplessly into the rhythm. The bed creaked faintly beneath the two of you, the quiet noise mixing with the sound of your breathing and the occasional low groan slipping from Harry’s throat.

Then, his grip on your hips tightened, and the next thrust came harder. Your breath punched out of your lungs as he drove into you deeper that time, the sudden force making the mattress shift beneath your elbows.

"Oh! Mmmm!" you cried.

His hips began moving faster now, the slow rhythm breaking apart into deeper, stronger strokes that pushed your body forward each time he buried himself inside you again. The sound between your bodies grew louder with every movement, wet and messy and impossible to ignore.

Your voice came out choked as you tried to breathe through it and Harry moaned behind you, like he was feeling the same thing.

"Oh, shit…" he muttered.

One of his hands slid down the curve of your hip and squeezed your ass firmly as he thrust again. Your whole body jolted before his palm tapped lightly against the soft curve of your bottom. Like a test swat. The sound popped softly in the room and your back arched immediately at the sensation, breasts dropping toward the mattress as your hips lifted higher into him without you even thinking about it.

Harry sucked in a breath. "Oh, baby… You like that?"

Another deep thrust had you pressing your cheek down to the bed, mouth dropped open wide.

"Sweet girl like you wants a spanking?"

Even if you had an answer for him, you couldn't. The only thing that came out of your mouth was a broken string of sounds as his hips drove forward again, the thick stretch of him filling you so completely it made your head spin.

Your thoughts had gone hazy and gooey and all you could feel was him. How big his cock felt in you. How achingly deep he reached inside you. The front of his thighs against the back of yours…

He swatted at your bottom again. This time a little harder so you really felt it. Your body jolted forward, a surprised sound bursting from your throat as the sting melted across your skin. Harry immediately thrust deep behind it, burying himself all the way inside you until his hips pressed flush against your ass.

Then he stopped moving. For a second the room filled with nothing but the sound of both of you breathing. You could feel his cock throbbing inside of you as he stayed seated deep in you and completely still.

You lifted your head to turn and look at him over your shoulder and you saw that his eyes were closed. His face was twisted in concentration like the feeling of you wrapped around him had hit him all at once. When he opened his eyes, the expression in them made your stomach flip. He looked like he’d forgotten everything else for a second.

Harry leaned forward suddenly, his hand slid gently to the side of your neck, fingers curling there just enough to keep your head turned toward him as he bent, chest against your back, and caught your mouth with his.

The kiss was crooked from the angle. Your lips brushed his unevenly as he started moving again, hips driving forward, deep into your guts, each thrust pressing you slightly into the mattress as his mouth kept finding yours in messy little kisses along the corner of your lips and your cheek.

"Rub your clit again for me," he said against your mouth.

You reached down and slid your hand down between your legs and the moment your fingers found the sensitive bundle there your body jerked as Harry thrust deeper. Your breath broke into small gasps as delicious sparks filled your tummy.

The sound of your bodies filled the room now. The wet slide of him inside you, the creak of the bed frame, the rough rhythm of Harry’s breathing against your ear.

Your fingers moved faster and Harry groaned shakily against your mouth. "Just like that."

His balls pressed softly against your fingers each time he pushed forward, the sensation sending little shocks through your already trembling body. The pace between you kept building, his thrusts growing rougher, less controlled as you bunched at the sheets beneath you with the hand you used to keep yourself steady.

You could feel him starting to shake. Harry’s breathing grew ragged behind you, the sounds slipping from his throat deeper now as he rocked harder into you, lips still at your mouth but almost not kissing anymore.

Your own body tightened in response to him as tension gathered low in your stomach, spreading outward with every thick thrust, every drag of your fingers against your clit, until the pressure inside you felt almost unbearable.

Harry groaned your name under his breath, and suddenly your vision blurred. He let go of your neck and he pressed both palms down on the bed on either side of you as he fucked in and in. The rhythm was so sharp that it made your toes curl.

Your fingers were moving desperately between your legs while Harry’s hips drove into you again and again, thudding into your skin… and then your entire body seized around him, a sharp cry breaking from your throat. The orgasm rushed through you as your back arched as your thighs trembled beneath him.

"Fuckfuckfuck—" Harry cursed behind you.

He felt it the instant your body clamped down around him, the tight pulsing squeeze of you making his thrust stutter as a long, rough groan tore from his chest. His hands tightened on your hips, holding you there while your body shook beneath him, and you could hear the sound of him losing control right behind you.

"Jesus, Y/n— Ah…"

Your name broke apart in his mouth as your body kept tightening around him, the tremors rolling through you in waves. Harry groaned louder when you squeezed again, his hips driving forward one last time before he buried himself as deep as he could and came hard into the condom, his breath leaving him in a long, helpless sound against your shoulder.

For a few seconds neither of you moved. The room filled with the sound of both of you breathing hard, the mattress creaking faintly beneath your weight while the last little tremors worked their way through you both.

Your strength drained out of you all at once and your elbows finally gave out and you sank forward onto the bed, cheek turning into the comforter as your arms stretched out beneath you. Your body felt warm and heavy and pleasantly loose, like every muscle had melted at the same time.

Behind you Harry stayed where he was, still kneeling between your legs. You could hear him breathing, deep and unsteady. And then a moment later, you felt his hands return to you.

They settled gently on the backs of your thighs first, his thumbs brushing slowly over your skin as if he was using the feel of your skin to ground himself. One of his palms slid up over the curve of your bottom, the touch softer as his breathing gradually slowed.

When he finally shifted, you heard the quiet rustle of movement behind you as he carefully pulled away and reached for something near the nightstand. The motions were brief and soft and quiet as he helped you wipe up and then cleaned himself.

Your body still felt pleasantly hazy. The kind of warm, floating tired that came after a good workout or a long day when you'd finally laid down in bed, exhausted. But this was even better. It was because of Harry and the orgasms he'd just given you.

It had been… really good. Better than you expected. Better than you'd ever experienced. And he didn't even really know you.

A small smile tugged at the corner of your mouth as you stared toward him, sliding his boxer briefs up his legs in silence. You hadn’t expected him to be like that at all. For someone whose hobby was fighting in a warehouse and walking around with bruises all over his ribs, he had been surprisingly gentle. And attentive.

Harry sat beside you on the edge of the bed, one forearm resting loosely across his thigh as he leaned forward slightly and reached for his phone. The light from the screen traced across the line of his chest and over his shoulders and the scattered bruises still blooming along his ribs, catching in the messy fall of his hair.

But he seemed different suddenly. He laid his phone down and stared toward the door of his room. He stayed quiet like that for a moment. Like he was deep in thought. His mind had drifted somewhere else entirely, and you didn't know if you should ask him if he was okay or if it was better to just remain quiet.

Slowly you reached a hand up to touch his back and when your fingers pressed against his shoulder blade he startled just slightly and stood up, running a hand through his hair.

"You can uh, get some rest. I'll be in, in a little while. Need to… do something." He didn't even look at you when he said it. You watched him step out of his room and you were suddenly filled with shame and confusion. After what you two had just shared, you thought this would have gone down a lot differently. It wasn't like you were expecting him to fall in love or anything, but the sudden disassociation had you on edge.

You climbed from the bed and picked up your sweater to bring it over your head and pull it down your body to cover yourself before you stepped into the hallway and then toward his living room to see what he was doing. He had his phone in his hand and he was looking at his screen like he was in pain. You didn't understand what was going on but part of you thought that he was acting this way because he was already seeing someone.

"What's wrong?" You blurted out.

He looked up at you, brows shot up before he closed his phone and set it down, shaking his head as he stepped into his kitchen. "Nothing. Just got something to do."

You followed him, now completely convinced he was cheating on someone with you and you weren't about to let it go now. You placed your hands on your hips and stared at him as he grabbed a cup from his cabinet.

"You have a girlfriend, don't you?"

He stopped mid-motion and turned to look at you. "What? No. God, no. It's nothing like that, Y/n. Just… don't worry about it, okay?"

You hummed, still unconvinced, and leaned back into the counter, watching as he poured water into his cup. "Then what's all this? Why are you acting guilty?"

He sighed and shook his head before he took a long drink from his cup. He finally turned to face you, and the expression that twisted there made it look like he'd just been punched. "Damnit. You gotta wear that? Come on…"

Your brows knitted together as you looked down at yourself and back at him. "Wear the sweater? I didn't want to walk out here naked to confront you."

He weakly gestured at you. "It's just… It's too… You shouldn't even be here. You're way too good for me. So yeah. I do feel guilty. I should've…" He let his eyes drag over your sweater and down your legs.

Suddenly Tyson stepped into the kitchen and moved toward your ankles before brushing against you so lightly at first that you almost thought you imagined it. But then the old cat curved around the back of your leg and rubbed against you again, slowly, his tail flicking as he passed. You froze, looking down at him, just as Harry did.

His eyes dropped straight to the cat, and he looked genuinely caught off guard… shocked. Tyson circled back and bumped his side against your calf again.

Harry stared at him. "What the hell?"

You looked down, then back up at him. "What?"

"He doesn’t do that." Harry’s voice had gone flat with disbelief. "He doesn’t do that with people. I was surprised when he ran into the bedroom the first time because he usually just hides. But this…"

The cat moved around you once more, brushing against the other leg now as if he had decided you belonged there after all. You didn’t know what to make of it, and judging by the look on Harry’s face, neither did he.

"Oh," you said. Not really knowing what else to offer.

Harry let out a short breath through his nose and dragged a hand down over his mouth. "I’ve never seen him do that before."

You folded your arms over your chest, the confusion and embarrassment from the last few minutes still sitting in you. "Do you want me to call a cab?"

Harry’s gaze snapped back to your face. "What? No."

"You just said I shouldn’t even be here." Your voice came out tighter than you meant it to, but you couldn't help it. Your feelings were hurt. "And you feel guilty, and now you’re acting like something terrible just happened, so if you want me to go, just say that."

"It’s not that I want you to go."

"Then what is it?"

He looked away first, clenching his jaw. For a second you thought he might just avoid the question altogether, but then he muttered, "I just can’t be getting attached."

You blinked at him. "Attached?"

His expression shifted instantly, like he regretted the word the second it left his mouth. "That’s not what I meant."

"Well, that's the word you used."

Harry exhaled hard and shook his head, already trying to pull back into himself. "Forget I said that. I’ll take you home in the morning."

You stared at him, incredulous. "In the morning?"

"Yeah." He gestured vaguely toward the bedroom with his cup still in hand. "You should get some sleep."

You let out a disbelieving laugh. "No, I don’t think so."

His brows drew together. "Y/n—"

"Why not just take me home now?" You pushed off the counter, the sweater bunching around your crossed arms as you looked at him. "I don’t want to sleep in your bed while you’re out here sneaking around being weird after we just—" You stopped yourself, cheeks heating, then pressed on anyway. "Like… I just don't know you all that well and this is… it's weird. The way you're acting."

Tyson bumped your leg again. Harry looked down at the cat and made a low, frustrated sound, raking a hand back through his hair. "Jesus Christ."

You stood there waiting, heart beating too fast, while he stared at the floor for a second like he was trying to get control of himself. When he looked back at you, some of the tension in his face had eased, replaced by something more tired than defensive.

"You wanna go home?" he asked quietly.

You swallowed and nodded. "I’d rather be at home if you’re going to act like this. Whatever this is."

That seemed to hit him. "If I lie down with you," he said, "will you stay till I have to get you home?"

You hesitated. "What time?"

"Five-thirty."

You stared at him for a second, unable to believe this was where the night had landed.

"I don't know, Harry."

"Look, I'm sorry. I'm… I don't sleep well. I maybe get three hours a night. Four. And if I sleep longer, it's for… like two days. I'm all fucked up, Y/n." He looked up at you, and the look of apology on his face was sincere. "Got a lot of shit in my head. You're genuinely… really nice. I apologize for ruining the night like this. I just didn't expect…"

He trailed off and looked away, eyes blinking as he swallowed and shook his head. "I would prefer you to stay. We can get a little sleep, okay? Like four hours? Then I'll bring you home and you never have to hear from me again."

You frowned. Part of you wanted to wrap him up and comfort him. Have him tell you everything, lay it all out for you so you could just listen to him. But you knew better than to push at someone you didn't know well enough. Whatever he was going through, and whether or not any of it was true, you felt like at least you could stay for a few more hours until he was ready to get you home.

"Okay."

His eyes lifted, and he looked surprised and then relieved. His shoulders dropped a little, and after a long moment he set the cup down on the counter and reached past you to switch off the kitchen light. The room dimmed, leaving only the softer glow from the living room and the faint light spilling in from the streetlights outside.

When you both stepped back into the bedroom, Harry was moving silently, none of the teasing swagger from earlier left in him. He pulled the covers back, waited for you to climb in, and then joined you a second later before switching off the lamp, and the room dropped into darkness.

For a moment you lay there on your side, tense and uncertain, listening to the shift of the mattress and his breath as he settled. Then he moved closer behind you and wrapped an arm around your waist, drawing you back against him gently.

He didn’t say anything else. He just held you there, quietly, his breathing gradually evening out against the back of your neck until your body gave in to the exhaustion of the night and you drifted off in his arms.

𑁍ࠬܓ

It was still dark outside when the two of you left his apartment. Neither of you said much as you stepped out into the early morning. Harry locked the door behind him and you followed him down the exterior walkway with your arms folded over yourself.

He had the helmet in one hand, dangling from his fingers as he moved. Sleep had softened him a little, but only on the surface. You could feel the sadness in him more clearly now. It seemed to emanate from him, to settle over the line of his shoulders and the way he moved, like something unseen had its grip at his throat and refused to allow him up for air.

You hadn’t known him long enough to say for sure what haunted him, and you knew better than to pretend you understood. But between what he’d said in the kitchen, the way he barely slept, the near-emptiness of his apartment, the hollow look that had crossed his face when he mentioned he hadn't talked to his family in a while… it all added up to something heavy, you were sure.

Harry handed you the helmet once you reached the bike and waited while you put it on. Then he climbed on, and after giving him your address, you settled in behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist and held him a little tighter than you had the night before.

When he turned into your apartment complex, you expected him to stop at the curb, let you off, and disappear before you’d even gotten your key into the door. But instead he parked properly, killed the engine, and climbed off first before turning to help steady the bike while you got down. You pulled the helmet off and blinked at him, surprised when he didn’t immediately reach for it.

"What are you doing?" you asked as he started walking with you toward your building.

He glanced at you. "Walking you up."

"It’s okay, you don’t have to."

Harry’s mouth quirked like he found that mildly ridiculous. "Not safe to let you go wandering around alone like that, even if it’s a decent neighborhood."

You didn’t argue. You just carried the helmet against your hip and walked beside him through the dim, quiet courtyard toward your door. You were tired enough that your thoughts felt a little loose at the edges.

You stopped at your door and turned toward him. "Thank you," you breathed.

Harry shook his head. "Don’t thank me. I'm sorry for how the night turned out."

Your fingers tightened around the helmet. "You don't need to apologize. I did have a good time."

His expression shifted at that, something tired and regretful passing across his face before it smoothed over again.

Then, before you could stop yourself, the question slipped out. "Are we gonna… see each other again?"

The second you asked it, embarrassment washed over you. You almost winced at yourself. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Either way, the question was out now, hanging there between you where you couldn’t take it back.

Harry smiled then, but it was sad enough that your stomach sank before he even answered.

"I don’t know," he said quietly. "We’ll see. Okay?"

You nodded and looked down, pretending to adjust your grip on the helmet so he wouldn’t have to see too clearly that you understood exactly what that meant. He hadn’t asked for your number. He hadn’t offered his. And now the simple answer only confirmed what some part of you had already known.

Then you lifted the helmet slightly toward him. "Here."

Harry looked down at the helmet and smiled. "Keep it."

A little laugh escaped you. "I can’t use this, Harry."

He shrugged. "Neither can I."

You lowered your hand and looked at him for a beat before dropping your gaze again, wishing you could just make this moment disappear forever. Then his fingers were at your chin, lifting your face back up until you had no choice but to look at him.

"Don’t be sad," he murmured. "None of this is worth being sad about."

You tried for a smile, though you weren’t sure how convincing it was. You nodded quietly, and he dropped his hand before you faced toward your door to stick your key in it.

Pushing at the door, you turned back to look at him as he stepped away, hands in his pockets. The edge of his mouth turned up into a crooked grin aimed at you before he finally turned, broad shoulders hunched as he led himself down the stairs and kept walking until he was gone.

. .

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i.

Y/N has never been to a beach house. 

She’s been to a beach, yeah, and she’s been to a house, obviously, but the mix of the two? That’s for people who own shares in oil companies and sleep on Egyptian cotton sheets that they can regularly afford to change. Owning a house in an area even remotely near a beach could be a hole in the pocket, but owning a separate house, away from where you live, just so that you have somewhere fun to spend a couple of weeks in the Summer? That’s a whole separate type of wealth Y/N has never once experienced; one that had been relegated to maladaptive daydreams where she’s famous and getting paparazzi photos taken of her near the ocean for a new single. 

So when her friends suggested they rent one in Japan for a little summer vacation, she snorted and asked them if everybody had 3000 each to put toward it. But it turned out that Niall’s uncle’s friend actually owned one. His wife grew up in Minamiizu and wanted to be able to travel back easily now and then when she wanted to visit, but didn’t necessarily want a house there. There was a beach house in Shimoda for sale at the time of them looking, which directly bordered Minamiizu on the southern tip of the Izu Peninsula.  It was roughly a two-and-a-half-hour train ride to Tokyo, so they could spend a couple of days in the city as well. 

His uncle’s friend was offering them a cheaper rate than anyone would on Airbnb, so long as they promised not to do any gross damage that would need fixing afterward. Which meant, for half the price that a typical Airbnb would charge, they would have a week and a half at a beach house. And when they all managed to get PTO from their respective jobs, managed their other non-work-related commitments around it, and bought their plane tickets, Y/N realized that this was actually happening. They do a lot of talking and fantasizing about different trips that they want to take, but not very often do they come to fruition. 

Y/N was excited, though, and a little nervous. It was her friend group, sure, but she had only travelled long distances with Niall (it was on a whim, in his pursuit to meet a man he’d been talking to in Spain, whom she thought they were about to bring back with them on some sort of spousal visa, but he ended up lowkey being a catfish). Y/N was unsure of what all of their travel types were – who was type A, type B, or (in Niall’s case) type C? Y/N knew Adam would be type A, because he’s type A in every other aspect of his life, but how many type As could be in a group without it being too many chefs in the kitchen? And how many type B’s can there be before they get nothing done because nobody has a set itinerary? And how many people were going to threaten to beat Niall for the state he often leaves bathrooms in after he’s done getting ready? 

She isn’t sure. Niall, Adam, Mei, and Y/N have known each other since UNI, where they all got disgustingly close in their dorm the first year, when they all used the common room often because they hated their randomly assigned roommates. Then, for the next three years, they shared a four-bedroom flat just a block or two from campus and saw each other at various states of disarray. Then, Mei introduced them to Chris, who worked in the same cafe she did while she was looking for a job that pertained to her degree, and he slid into their group quickly and easily. Niall met Maeve during a mixer that they both happened to attend because they both thought they might be Bi (Niall is still on the fence; Maeve has come to realize she is), and while sparks didn’t fly in a relationship sense, Niall invited her to the bar, and they all hit it off well. And Adam met Harry in the lab where he works, and. . . .

The thing is – Harry is very sweet. He was the person who trained Adam at his job for the two-month period during which they were oriented to the new position. Apparently, lab politics could be sort of intense, and the drama that brewed there was as aggressive as the Bacillus species (whatever that means), and new people get eaten alive there. Harry, allegedly, wouldn’t let Adam get caught up in the drama and once took the fall for something he knew that he would be forgiven for, but Adam would never be able to live down. From that point on, Adam invited Harry to everything they did, and Harry fit in nicely. 

But Harry didn’t fit in because his humor was the same or because he necessarily liked the same things as them. Chris and Maeve were as brash and crass as they all could be. Harry fit in because he was polite – he was tender and kindhearted, and very gentle. He didn’t speak much, but his eyes were always very sweet and soft, and when he spoke, it was thought-out and careful. Harry was the opposite of brazen; he cared plenty about how he came off to others, and she thinks that’s why he holds himself the way he does. Yet it was still genuine. His nature was just good, honestly. He was born to save kittens from trees, help kids cross roads, and load up groceries in the elderly’s cars. 

For this reason, Harry also seems to have to do a lot of emotional labor for the group, which Y/N isn’t a fan of. It’s because he’s so kind and gentle that everyone is always bothering him with their problems. It’s one thing to express stress or feelings to a friend, but it’s another thing to know that Harry will listen, no matter if it’s the same issue a billion times, with gentle guidance and a soft suggestion. His feelings don’t get hurt when you don’t take the suggestion, though, and he’ll always act like it’s his first time hearing you complain about the same thing, though the little things he remembers tell you that he is intimately aware of every nook and cranny of the problem.

There were plenty of times that Y/N had to coax a drunk Mei or an overly disgruntled Niall away from Harry when they were out and he’d been trapped in their hot seat for a while. “Why don’t we let Harry enjoy some of his night too?” She’d suggested as she guided them away, then ended up lending her ear to the same problem that they were ignoring the answer to.

It didn’t help that Harry was ridiculously smart, too, in all the things that you’d need a smart friend for, so he’s always getting bothered with finance questions, medical questions, and even house-related issues (“Should I get a contractor or do you think I could do this myself?” “Well, do you know how to do it yourself?” “No, but I think I could watch a video on it or something?” “I mean. . .well, that is one option, and you’re welcome to try it, but I think it’d be smarter to get a contractor. I actually know a couple, I can get something scheduled for you?”). 

It’s not always like that – they don’t keep him around just to use his brain – but it does happen quite a bit. Y/N thinks Harry might like it too. There’s always a pleased smile on his face whenever the conversation is over, and he never seems to be too annoyed when someone treats him a little like a search engine. He still laughs with all of them, still jokes, and keeps turning up, so he must enjoy them. Hell, Y/N thinks she gets more annoyed with it than he does. 

She thinks maybe that’s why she and Harry had never gotten super close. They were friends, yes, but he was the only one she’d never hung out with one-on-one. Y/N isn’t sure why. . .maybe because she just never got an “in”, so to speak? Like, he helped Niall through a pretty difficult situationship debacle that Y/N’s only answer to solve was ‘burn him alive’, and now he and Harry routinely go out for coffee, trying new cafes together as one of their hobbies. He directed Chris to a trusted gutter guy who would quote him a reasonable price on a complete gutter overhaul, and for this reason, he and Chris got together to do house projects a lot with each other (Chris had even helped Harry build his sister’s gazebo – Y/N didn’t know either of them could operate a drill until that). Usually, it went like this: Harry helps a friend, the relationship opens, and Harry and the friend get closer because of it. 

But Y/N didn’t want to bother Harry with her issues. She barely wanted to tell anyone when she was going through something because she didn’t want to be a burden. And that doesn’t really fit well with the order Harry does things in, so they just never got past the overly polite stage of their dynamic. 

Still, Y/N has noticed that Harry stares quite a bit. She doesn’t know if he realizes he’s doing it, but if she feels eyes on her, there’s a 9 out of 10 chance that it’s Harry’s gaze. Almost like he was trying to figure her out or something? She doesn’t know. As soon as she locked eyes with him, he’d dart to look away with a blushing face, and Y/N never called him out on it because. . .well, that’s just not their relationship. 

(She had brought it up to Niall in passing, who said something along the lines of, “Hate to break it to you, but you’re a pretty girl – he probably likes you, and it makes him awkward.”).  

That’s why it’s just a little awkward when Y/N realizes that she and Harry are sitting right beside each other on the plane. It’s a long way to Japan to be sitting beside someone you don’t even regularly speak to. She was less worried about not knowing what to say to him and more worried about Harry realizing that she didn’t know what to say to him. Like, the last thing she wanted was for Harry to think that she didn’t like him, and she’s a grade-A yapper, so if she all of a sudden just didn’t speak, it would look a little suspicious, no? And Harry would be the person to notice something like that, because he notices things about everybody and everything – he’s very observant. 

For that reason, she does her best to wipe any sense of hesitation from her face. She doesn’t want Harry to see it and feel like she was upset, because she wasn’t upset at all. At least, not with him, just at her complete inability to speak with him in a meaningful way that would make him comfortable. 

“Looks like you and I are together!” Y/N smiled softly as they looked at their tickets. 

Harry smiled too, but followed up his smile with, “Do you want me to switch with Niall or Mei? That way, you could sit next to a friend?” 

And how he said it sort of made her feel sick to her stomach. It was a genuine suggestion and statement – he didn’t say it with any vitriol or spite, but it was the way he’d said it so nonchalantly that unsettled her. Like, he didn’t believe for a second that they were close enough to sit on the plane with each other forever, which, maybe, was true, but she didn’t like how it sounded. 

“What? No! You’re my friend too.” 

Y/N must have seemed as legitimately startled and unsettled as she felt, because his eyes widened: “Oh, I didn’t mean – I didn’t mean like, we weren’t or anything! I just meant so – you know, because you’re closer, and – I didn’t –” 

“Well, Mei snores, and Niall is the worst manspreader in the world,” she told him, “So unless you don’t want to sit with me, then you’re stuck with me.” 

“No, I do! I don’t mind sitting with you at all.” 

So Y/N is in front of Harry as they make their way to their seats in the tight walkway between rows. When they are stowing their carry-ons overhead, Harry grabs for hers first and makes sure that it slips in easily before working his own on. Even though Y/N’s seat wasn’t technically the window seat, he ushered her in first and took the one in the middle, so he’d be sitting next to the stranger. Y/N is almost overwhelmed by the amount he had taken care of her in all of 5-minutes. Is this the same treatment he’s giving all of their friends? 

“I hope this doesn’t come off as rude,” Harry began, pointing at his headphones, “But I have a few audiobooks that I downloaded for the flight. I was going to listen to one of them after we took off, if that’s okay?” 

“Oh, no, that’s – that’s perfectly fine, don’t worry about me.” 

It was as simple as that. Y/N had been all worried for nothing, just for Harry to be the one to shut her out. Hell, maybe he didn’t like her or something – not that she expected him to speak to her the entire flight. She’d just been panicking about not knowing what to say to him, but she does wonder if he would have put his headphones on for anyone else soon after takeoff. Or, well, Y/N wondered if anyone else would have given him the chance to. He’d said he’d downloaded the audiobooks for the flight, so maybe this was his plan all along. 

God, why the hell is she overthinking this? It’s stupid, and she decides that she’s going to take her melatonin and try to sleep for as long as she can, as she’d intended to do no matter who was sitting beside her. Y/N chews the gummies thoroughly and swallows them, just as Harry is about to put the headphones over his ears. 

“Just tap me if you need anything,” he offers before placing them snugly over his ears and letting his eyes flutter shut. Y/N stares at him for a little while; she’s able to without seeming like a creep. He’s got his glasses on, resting on the bridge of his nose. His hair is neatly styled like it always is, smoothed away from his face, but she thinks the headphones will muss it up a little. Y/N tries to think back if this is her first time seeing Harry dressed so casually, too – he’s usually a button-up kind of guy, but right now he has an oversized university tee on and soft linen bottoms that – with any of her other friends – Y/N would have just reached out and felt them between her fingertips. Instead, her fingers just itch to touch it where they lie on her thigh. 

She turned her head forward again, then to the left so she could peer outside at the clouds that passed them with a soft sigh. She just needs to turn her brain off, probably. Vacations always make her sort of anxious, and her dynamic with Harry seemed to be a little source of anxiety for her as well. Everything she’s anxious about only exacerbates when she’s already nervous. 

Y/N lets her eyes flutter shut. 

She’s sure they’ll probably get closer during this trip, at least. 

                                                                  .                         .                        .

The plane ride wasn’t that horrible.

It was long- somewhere in hour three, she stirred from her melatonin, her legs felt cramped, and the urge to stretch them became so overwhelming that she was about to toss them over Harry’s lap. Y/N knew that with the type of person Harry is, he would have accepted it without a second thought – lifted the armrest between them and let her rest her legs there. Hell, he’d probably even start rubbing them too if she wanted. He’s always absentmindedly squeezing or feeling something, and sometimes that happens to be his friends', whoever's and whatever body part is closest to grabbing. 

But she refrained. She only caught Harry looking at her once when she was wriggling, trying to lock her knees, and stretching her feet beneath the seat in front of them. When she met his gaze, she gave what she hoped was a reassuring “I’m totally good and not at all uncomfortable and moments from freaking out” kind of smile, which he returned softly – still looking concerned. A couple of minutes went by, then he showed her how to move the seat back. He didn’t speak, just carefully pointed at the lever on the side of the seat and showed her. 

It did make it a little better, which was good. She didn’t love using the toilet on the plane either, but Harry went first, and when she asked him how it was in there, he told her it wasn’t so bad. “It’s more spacious than some I’ve been in the past,” he told her, so Y/N went after him. When she came back, Harry hadn’t put his headphones back in yet. Mei had reached out and squeezed Y/N’s bum from across the aisle, which made her gasp and jolt forward, and Harry all but jumped, prepared to catch her if she hadn’t caught herself on the seats. 

Those were the only interesting things to happen, though; otherwise, the plane ride was just long and boring. They had coordinated their flight so that, by the time they arrived in Japan, it would be early afternoon. That way, they could land at their airport, take the train to Shimoda, and get acquainted with their Airbnb before going out to dinner. They didn’t necessarily count this in their days here, since most of it would be taken up by travel. 

The airport was busy, and with immigration, customs, and security screening, it did take a bigger bite out of the day than they thought it would, but it wasn’t so bad. Y/N and Christopher made it to the other side far more quickly than anyone else. Harry, who had been beside her to start, had made his way to the back of the line so he could coach their friends on what to do. He was a good person like that, always making his own processes longer so he could benefit others. And it was then, from Christopher, that she found out Harry had actually traveled to Japan before. Though instead of staying in the countryside, he was in Tokyo for the duration of his trip. Which meant he was more familiar with this airport than any of them, even though he’d only been there once, so everyone was relying heavily on him. 

The train ride was long but beautiful. Y/N stares out the window at all of the greenery – the further they get from the city, the brighter and clearer it appears. She feels like a dog, pressing her face against the glass with wide eyes, watching the trees and buildings whip past. Niall even petted the top of her head and asked if the “good girl wanted a treat,” but she batted him away. She feels excited and incredibly exhausted, and her belly is growling so intensely that she needs to eat soon or she will start getting snappy. Two hours fly by when you’re able to stretch your legs, and there’s so much scenery to look at that you’ve never seen before.  

They (and by "they," she means Maeve) coordinated a ride service to pick them up in two separate cars and take them to the house. That ride was much shorter; the sun in the sky was still visible, but noticeably beginning to be painted pink and orange by evening. It smells like the nearby ocean when they step out of the train car. The sun is warm, but the breeze is cool and brushes across the sweat that has begun building on the back of her neck. Once more, somehow Harry is sitting beside her – before they’d gotten in the car, he started to reach for her suitcase to lift it into the trunk, but she grabbed it before he could. She felt bad because he’d already had to wrestle with her carry-on earlier, so she didn’t want him to do it again, trying to fit both her suitcases into the trunk with everyone else's. 

Y/N felt that familiar burn of eyes on her, but when she turned around, Harry had tilted his head down, looking at his phone. Both Mei and Christopher studied Japanese at university, so one of them had to be with a group (if they split into groups) at all times to avoid looking like stupid tourists. Harry has the third most knowledge. Y/N can get by with the little she does know, certain questions she can ask, how to order food, and how to carry on at least a little bit of small talk. The driver knew English, though, so nobody necessarily got to practice their skills or anything. 

The house is a good size. It isn’t massive, but it would comfortably fit all of them, even though they’d have to double up on rooms. There were three rooms: two had two people each, and one had three. They thought the best way to decide who roomed where would be to use a random generator, since all of them were close enough that the pairings didn’t really matter. Plus, it would be the fairest in choosing who had to be in the group of three, with slightly less space to work with. 

Or, well, it would have been fine, but for some reason, the universe is just desperate to smash her and Harry together. So they do get a nice room for just the two of them, but that’s the issue, isn’t it? It’s just the two of them. If Y/N had been worried about the plane ride being awkward, then a week and a half of her and Harry sharing a space was probably going to be even worse. She could suggest switching too, but there’s a look on Harry’s face. . .well, she isn’t sure what it means. Y/N can’t tell if he hates it or loves it. He seemed indifferent as he heaved his duffel over his shoulder and dragged his wheeled suitcase behind him, going toward their room.

Niall slipped into the space beside her. “Do you think you two are going to cuddle?” He whispered in her ear, “Harry’s a cuddler, y’know?” 

No, Y/N didn’t know because she doesn’t know Harry that well at all! 

She is trying to be positive about this. Maybe this would actually encourage her and Harry to get closer? That would be nice, she thinks – there’s nothing like sleeping in the same room together during vacation to increase your bond. The first time she realized that Adam was repositioning her head in the middle of the night when she was lying weird, she was like wow, we might be best friends, so maybe something like that would happen. And she’d not felt as close to Mei as she did until they stayed the night in a hotel bed together when their flat was being fumigated (Adam and Niall were sharing the other bed across from them), when she woke up pressed back to back and was so warm and cozy she fell right back to sleep despite needing to pee. 

Y/N and Harry could grow a lot from this, right? This could be really nice if it works out. 

So hopefully it works out. 

                                                           .                         .                   .

The first night wasn't so bad. 

They go out to eat at one of the top-rated places, and they are all dressed relatively cozily for the occasion. The last thing anyone wanted to do after a full day of travel was get ready for anything. They all planned to eat, go home, shower (for the ones who hadn’t already), and get into bed. Y/N eats Kinmedai Nitsuke, which is their prized local speciality, and it’s so tender and delicious that she wonders how many things in the world are this good that she’s been geographically limited to. They do walk down to the beach to at least get a look at it, though nobody could necessarily hop in unless they wanted to soak their clothes.

White, powdery sand is what slips between her toes and coats her flip-flops. From what she could see, the water was a pretty turquoise as well – she was excited to do more than dip her toes in it tomorrow. They’d planned several full-blown beach days so they could truly soak up their time near the water.  They take some silly photos, watch the sun set, and Y/N spots a crab that scurries away from her feet, then disappears into the sand – she squeals because it’s cute and also because she’s a little terrified of it. 

When they go back to the Airbnb, Y/N is full, content, and ready to shower. Harry needed to as well, but he offered for her to go first. When she all but refused (because he was always putting people ahead of himself), he hurried to gather his towel, his loofah, and his soaps and shampoos. He might have taken what Y/N could only describe as the world’s quickest shower, because as soon as the water had turned on, it was on for maybe five minutes before it turned off. The door to their shared bathroom opened, and Y/N got more of an eyeful of Harry than she thinks she’s ever received before. 

To be fair, she’d probably be seeing this much of him anyway tomorrow in his bathing suit. Only then would she know that there was something beyond a towel covering his prick. But right then, with him still dripping wet from the shower, he only had a towel looped around his waist, and it did very, very little to hide an incredibly impressive bulge. One that Y/N had only accidentally seen in a pair of too-tight jeans Niall had squeezed him into one night (and Y/N had to keep staring at his crotch, because he kept readjusting, and whining about how the button was digging into his bladder and wow – she had to try and ignore how cute he sounded when he was whining). 

His cheeks are flushed, but so is the rest of his skin, like the water had been scalding. There was a lot of torso she was seeing too, tattoos mapped out on relatively tanned skin – she’d seen these a couple of times too. Harry definitely did not seem like the type to have tattoos, so when she had met him in the wintertime, all he ever wore was long sleeves, and she never suspected a thing. Then Spring came that year, with warmer temperatures and shorter sleeves, and she was finally exposed to Harry’s skin in all its glory. She’d seen bits and pieces but never all of them: how they decorate his skin, how they make absolutely no sense but for some reason fit him well. 

“Sorry,” he apologizes, and Y/N yanks her gaze from his torso back up to his body, “I just – I rushed out of here and forgot to bring my clothes. I don’t think I used too much hot water.” 

Y/N pressed herself up from where she was sitting beside her open suitcase on the floor. “And it would be okay if you did,” she told him, grabbing for her toiletries and the clothes she was changing into, “I’ll let you get dressed.” 

So what if Y/N thinks about Harry’s body the entire time she’s in the shower? That’s her own business. He had a nice body – sue her! Y/N may not know much about him and may not be very close to him, but she can appreciate a nice body when she sees one. Hell, she’ll probably be oogling over all of her friends when they’re here together. It didn’t help that the little beads of water were dripping through the swell of his tits. Y/N shivered a little as she scrubbed herself down, trying not to take up too much time since Harry was in and out. This also cut off her “free-thinking-about-Harry’s-body” time, so it was probably for the best. 

She washed her face, brushed her teeth, and put on her cute night set that she didn’t know she was going to be showing off to Harry first. Once she made it back into the room, Harry was sitting on his bed, and Niall and Mei were sitting on her bed across from him. He is still flushed, but this time with many more clothes – pajama bottoms and an oversized shirt. Mei cheered when she saw her, “This is so cute, what the fuck? When did you get these?” 

“My Hangyodon nighties,” she grinned, the fish man with the red little octopus sidekick in the middle of his tank top and then speckled all over the pajama shorts, “You love them?” 

“Do I love them? I’m going to steal them off you in your sleep!” Mei ran her fingers beneath the spaghetti straps, pulling them until they snapped. “Harry will help me sneak in, right, Harry?”

Harry shook his head with a soft laugh. “No, no,” he told her, “I’m loyal to my roomie.” 

Mei grumbled, pulling Y/N into the bed, “Annoying,” she threw her leg over Y/N’s thighs while Niall pulled her head into his lap, “You’ve already bewitched him, hm? I’m cutting it off myself.” 

Harry just watches, gaze pleased and soft from his side of the bed. He is leaning back on his palms, stretched out, his legs parted and. . .yeah, Y/N is looking a little, but nothing crazy. 

Eventually, Niall and Mei leave, and Y/N gets up under her blankets and smells the gentle, citrus scent of the blankets. Harry’s voice is soft when he murmurs, “Goodnight, Y/N,” he tells her, “Let me know if you need anything, okay?” 

She snuggles deeper into her blanket. 

“Goodnight, Harry.” 

                                                                      .                         .                       .

On the first night of any vacation, Y/N never slept very well. She wakes up periodically throughout the night, checks her phone to see the time, realizes only an hour has passed, and then eventually lulls back to sleep. She isn’t sure why – it’s not like she wasn’t dog tired in the first place. A full day of travel always wore her down to the bone, but being in an unfamiliar space without her familiar comforts left her in a liminal state between consciousness and unconsciousness. Not to mention the time change was fucking with her too. 

Y/N thinks the last time she looked at the clock was 4 AM at least, and then the next time she woke up, it was to Harry stretching, standing on the side of his bed. Sun poured in through the blinds, cutting through the curtains and filling up the room. She grumbled a little; the sound of her feet moving against the mattress pulled Harry’s attention over to her. His eyes are all sleep-swollen and soft – he smiled at her, then made his way to the bathroom. He was kind of cute when he woke up, but whatever. Y/N doesn’t care about that. She pressed her face into the pillow and huffed – the sun still looked like it might just barely be 7 in the morning. Of course she’d get paired with an early riser. 

She flopped around in bed for a while, at least an additional 30 minutes to an hour, before she finally answered the call of her bladder and went to pee. The dire need to pee plus the pressing urge to see where the hell Harry had disappeared for 30 minutes after waking up is what drags her from the call of sleep. What could he possibly be busy with? And why would she care what he was doing? Her stupid brain just needed something to focus on, she thinks, when there were too many unfamiliar things and too many unfamiliar surroundings. But really, she should be fixating on their beautiful surroundings, the soft, flower-bloom scent that over takes the entire neighborhood they’re in, and the sea salt wind of the ocean nearby. 

Y/N peed, then tiptoed out of the room. When she checked her phone, it was 7:05 AM, and she knew all too well that if Maeve and Adam didn’t get to sleep in, they would have two (surprisingly) very crabby adults on their hands. More crabby than Niall or Mei combined, because at least when they’re tired they get a little loopy and silly – Maeve is a bit scary, and Adam is just downright pouty the whole day. Paired with this, both of them are incredibly light sleepers, so something like a creaky floorboard could draw them from slumber in an instant. 

Y/N found Harry in the kitchen, quietly making breakfast. When he spotted her, he was just about to flip the eggs. With the pan in one hand and the spatula in the other, he pointed at the table where there was a pile of French toast and fruit sliced already. One plate had already been made up. He works efficiently – how had he done all of this in 30 minutes? “I cut the crusts off that one already,” he told her, voice just barely above a whisper, “They’re still on the plate in case you want them, though.” 

“You didn’t have to do that for me.” Her eyes were wide; she could feel them. How had he known she didn’t like the crusts on bread? Also, where the hell did he get groceries from? “How’d you get put on breakfast duty?” 

“Oh, I didn’t,” he shook his head, “I just like to cook. Reckon if we are going to be out in the sun all day, we should have something in our bellies.” He nodded his head in the direction of the other rooms. “Niall and Mei came into my room last night to ask what I wanted from the grocery because they were having it delivered. I think they meant to ask you too, but got distracted by your pajamas.” 

That made sense. She’d been wondering why they were in her room, but once she was accosted about her pajamas, she’d forgotten to ask. 

Y/N made her way to the kitchen table, “Thank you, Harry.” 

“No problem,” he told her, “I hope you enjoy it.” 

When Y/N took the first bite, she held back a gasp. It was really good – she didn’t know how much of that was because Harry was adept in the kitchen and how much was because of the geographical ingredients. Either way, it was sweet and syrupy without Y/N needing to add any syrup onto her plate. The powder from the sugar covers her lips – she can feel it, tacky and sweet. Her eyelids flutter a couple of times, blinking rapidly before a presence suddenly looms over her. 

Harry is there, sliding two eggs onto her plate. They’re over medium- another weird fact to know about how she liked her food. He looks absolutely chuffed watching her eat, his glasses slipping to the tip of his nose, “It’s good?” 

“It’s great,” she tells him, nodding, “Thank you, really, this is – really yummy.” 

The twinkles in Harry’s eyes are something different. Before the moment could linger any longer, Chris appeared at the doorframe with Mei in tow. “Oh, thank fuck,” he sighed softly, “I woke up like an hour ago, starving to death – I ate like ten of those jelly candies I got from the airport.” 

“Loveeee Harry’s cooking,” Mei hums, eyes barely open, “Y/N, I’m sitting next to you. Someone get me scissors so I can cut this tank off her.” 

Everyone wakes up pretty soon after that, because while Y/N and Harry are willing to tiptoe around, Mei and Christopher go by the beat of their own drum. And that drum wakes up the whole house when Christopher drops an egg on the floor and all but cries out, wondering what he did to deserve this from the universe. They all finish eating, brush their teeth, and get ready for the beach. They pack up all of their towels and sunscreen, Y/N fits a hat over her head, and she packs a portable fan for when Maeve inevitably starts sweating on the beach, but refuses to get in the water (she likes to swim for about 30 minutes at a time, with 1-hour intervals in between because she doesn’t like how the salt water feels on her skin and how pruny she gets). She also blows up a floaty with every last bit of air in her lungs, which will undoubtedly get stolen by Niall about ten minutes in. 

By the time they get down to the beach, the sun is a little higher, but not too hot. The water glimmers and glistens beneath the rays; the water is crystalline blue and turquoise. Apparently, almost everyone had lathered up on sunscreen before they left the house, but Y/N had been distracted packing her day bag, so she waited too late. When she’d finally laid out her towel and peeled off her cover-up, though, there was nobody available to help her get her back. 

Well, nobody except for – 

“I can get your back for you?” Harry’s voice is soft, as gentle as he can be, holding out his hand for the bottle she is holding. 

Y/N’s eyes darted to where everyone else was already splashing around in the water, excited, dropping down to their chins. She looked back to Harry, nodding softly – she felt bad, keeping him out of the water to help her. Harry probably would’ve already been in there had he not seen her looking around hopelessly. 

“Yeah, that’d be nice, thank you. I’m sorry.” 

He took the sunscreen, popping the cap. “Ah, what are you apologizing for?” Y/N turned away from her, hearing the spurt of the sunscreen into his hand, “I’ll need some help too, if that’s okay?” 

It’s cold when his hands touch her – Y/N jumps, hissing from the temperature and Harry. . .well, it sounds like he almost coos, “It’s a bit cold,” he warns her late, “Sorry, I should’ve told you.” 

His hands are careful as they massage the sunscreen into her shoulders, between them, and down her spine. They feel huge against her, over her, the back side of her sides and hips. When he rubs over the back of her neck, Y/N swallows thickly – it’s a little hard not to have a little pervy thought float through her. Because if he wanted to, he could probably press her forward and grab her hips, follow her down to the ground, and – 

“Okay! All done,” she can hear the smile in his voice, and she instantly feels like a lecher. What the hell was she doing having a thought like that? “Would you get me?” 

It’s no better, rubbing the sunscreen into his shoulders. Harry is so broad – he never wears clothes that show it off much, but Y/N had seen him in a workout tank top once and almost gasped. His shoulders are big; his back is sculpted – it’s the sort of thing you might see on an inspo page for working out. It leads into the shape of his biceps and triceps, and maybe it’s for the best that she isn’t that close to Harry? Because clearly, she’d been around him for like a day and a half and she can’t have a normal thought to save her fucking life. 

Beneath her fingers, his skin is warm and soft. She doesn’t even realize that the sunscreen is gone until she’s been rubbing it on him for like two minutes. 

“Ah, I used too much,” she lied through her teeth, patting his shoulders gently, “There you go, all done.” 

She kicked off her shoes and all but stumbled over the little hills of white sand while she ran to the water because she couldn’t look at his face right now. Harry would probably be able to take one peek at her face and read that she’d been thinking something less than. . .morally pure. So she runs right over to the water, only slowing when she gets to the edge of the water, the waves pulling back, then sloshing over her ankles. Niall had already stolen the floatie, so he found it and flopped over, hooking her arm over the edge of the sparkly inflatable. She splashed Niall a bit, and he let out a silent scream, “Dick, you dick!” 

“You were feeling Harry up a little bit.” Adam appeared behind her, reaching for her hand that was in the water and pulling it out, flipping it over so she was palm up. He places a big shell in her hand: “Hide this from MeiMei; she’s after it.” 

“I was not feeling him up.” She grumbled. 

Adam raised his eyebrows, “I mean, baby, I’ve got 20/20 vision and –” 

“Mei! Look at this pretty shell!” Y/N hollers, and Adam gasps, grabbing the shell back from her and floating deeper in. 

“Oh, evil, you’re evil!” 

It was pretty, the water was cool on their skin, and the sun was warm but not oppressive today. Y/N had been prepared for intense humidity, but it wasn’t horrible. They swim for hours, get out to look for shells, take more photos, dig in the sand, and make a sad excuse for a sand castle. Y/N’s lips taste salty from the water, and her fingers are all pruned when they make their way to the beachside treat shack (it’s called Umi-no-le, Harry tells them).  She eats a skewer and fries, then plucks off Adam’s edamame in exchange for letting him try some of the seafood off her stick.  

Harry disappeared but returned with ice cream, somehow carrying four, keeping one between his index and middle finger and the other between his ring finger and pinky. Somehow, the cones are perfectly balanced because she thinks he could probably palm a basketball, squeeze it, and pop it in a single hand. She didn’t know he was going for ice cream – she probably would have ordered one too, but she didn’t know he was going for it. And maybe she would demand some of Niall’s, but he got Matcha, and she wanted to try the red bean. Actually, all of them had Matcha. . except for Harry. 

Stupidly, she mentioned this to Christopher, who had offered her a lick of his cone. “Oh, Harry got red bean.” He turned to find him, “Harry! Can Y/N have a lick of your ice cream?” 

Y/N blinked wide, “Oh, I don’t –” 

“Yeah.” The cone was presented in front of her mouth almost immediately. Harry hadn’t licked it yet, it seems, and Y/N thinks it’s not fair that she gets the first lick, but when she opens her mouth, Harry says gently, “Go on, it’s okay. You can tell me if it's good.” 

So Y/N does lick the cone, dragging her tongue over it slowly and trying not to focus on how Harry watches her. It’s delicious – she’d like to get another taste, sure, but she already feels bad. She’d prided herself on never needing to ask Harry for anything, and yet this entire day she’s had to bother him nonstop- it’s felt like. Even though she didn’t ask him for breakfast. She just wants him to be able to enjoy his vacation too, without having to worry about anyone but himself, yet it’s the first day, and it feels like she is using him 3 separate times. 

“Thank you.” She nodded at him, “It’s really good, Harry; you’ll like it.” 

He grinned, then licked it himself. He paid no mind to the fact that she had already licked the cone – Harry’s always been quite used to sharing, though. Which has always surprised her. From what she does know of Harry, he only has one sibling, and he’s the youngest, so he should probably be the worst at sharing. 

Should she try to do things for him? What could she even do for Harry? The only thing she could think to do was what she had been doing: to be self-sufficient enough that he didn’t need to worry about her. Encourage him to take longer showers – maybe she should take hers first so that he won’t worry about taking the hot water. That’s like. . .all she’s got. She could offer to do things for him, but she knew he would refuse – she’d just have to do it. She could try tonight to put food on his plate or something – Y/N thinks they’re planning on going to a Yakiniku place tonight. Y/N could grill him some meat? Y/N doesn’t know. She just hates feeling like she owes someone something, even if she knows Harry wasn’t expecting anything from the help he gave. 

“Do you want one?” Harry asks, waving the ice cream in his hands, “I can go get it?” 

Y/N shakes her head, “No, no, I’m okay; I’ll go get it later.” 

Harry pouts his lips a little, but continues to eat his ice cream. 

                                                               .                            .                              .

It’s the third official day of them being there (not including the travel day) that Harry surprises her. Or – shocks her, rather. 

Their mandatory Anime-level beach episode went swimmingly. They stayed out all day, alternating between playing in the water and playing on the beach. Y/N had fallen asleep briefly on the sand and woke up to an umbrella being opened above her, shoved into the ground. Through bleary eyes, she could make out that Niall was the one doing it, but it was nowhere near a selfless act, because he dropped down on the towel, pulled right beside her, and immediately closed his eyes. 

(“Should we cuddle?” 

“Too hot, Ni.” 

“Ugh, you’re right, you’re right. Imagine me cuddling you right now though.”) 

They eventually made their way back to the Airbnb around 3 PM, for those who didn’t take a nap on the beach to nap if they wanted to, to decompress, or to shower off the ocean before dinner. Y/N was sun-tired even after her nap, but she flopped down on the bottom of her bed, face pressed into the covers, the fan above her whipping a cool breeze around the room. Harry moved quietly around the room, but he didn’t stay in there for long. 

When they went out to eat that night, Y/N did just as she said she would and did most of the grilling. By no means is she enjoying herself, and after a couple of times of her friends demanding which pieces to grill, she does threaten them to stuff it and take what she gives them before she grills them on the tabletop. Whenever Harry tried to take over grilling, she snapped the tongs in his direction and told him to eat. He only tried twice before getting the hint that she wasn’t going to let him. 

That night, she showered first, as quickly as she could, before popping out of the bathroom, out of breath and slightly panting. “The water is still hot,” she told him. Harry seemed startled, like he hadn’t expected her to come out so quickly. So he gathered his things, went into the bathroom, and then showered. It wasn’t as long as she thought it should have been, but it was still longer than the one the night prior. When Y/N was about to fall asleep, Harry offered her a bottle of water, and Y/N shot up to go grab it before he could. She got one for both of them, set it at his bedside, then crawled back into bed. 

The next day, they did some local shopping, trying street foods and spending money happily. Y/N doesn’t see much of Harry on this day, but she can feel him staring multiple times throughout the shopping trip. Though any time she turned to follow the feeling, his gaze had been pulled elsewhere. Honestly, she doesn’t even know if it was Harry who was staring at her, but that’s the only person she could think of who would be. Part of her almost inquired about it in a jewelry store, but Maeve distracted her with a beautiful jeweled hairpin. 

They went back to the beach at sunset after eating, watching the pink and orangey hues that mottle the sky, and walking off their meals. That night, Y/N rushed to take her shower first again, keeping it brisk and forcing Harry in there sooner than he anticipated. Then she lied to him, told him she was doing some yoga and liked to do it without interruption, so she would stay in the shower a little longer than he normally would. 

But it’s not until the third day that something truly shifts in the air between them. The morning was normal enough – everyone made their own breakfast because Harry and Christopher woke up early to work out, taking a run on the beach during sunrise. But he still slices fruit for everyone (he’s the only one who knows how to cut a pineapple appropriately). They have a little bit of a free day, because they planned to go on Perry Road that night, whose streets are willow-lined and beautiful. There were cozy bars and izakayas that they were all eager to discover. 

Y/N, Niall, and Maeve lingered around the house, and Adam and Mei went on a trail to see if it was worth it, dragging the others out to it on a different day. Harry and Christopher. . .well, actually, Y/N didn’t know what they were doing. They went on their morning run together, and she thinks they went back to the shops today for whatever reason. Maybe there was something they wanted that they didn’t get yesterday or something. She didn’t know. All she knew was that she, Niall, and Maeve were watching a Japanese drama and wavering in and out of sleep for a lazy little day. 

Later that night, Y/N experiences Perry Road in all of its willow-covered, canal glory. She loved the sound of their feet meeting the cobblestone and the water sloshing from rocks thrown. It’s gorgeous, and they go to a tavern and eat and drink to their heart’s content. Y/N is seated beside Maeve, across from Harry, but it isn’t like she’s only left to speak to them. Everyone is chatting about everything – plans for tomorrow, Adam’s situationship, the crab that chased after Mei and how she almost got Y/N pinched when she jumped on her back to get further from it. 

“You’re much stronger than I realized,” Harry had noted as they reminisced on the event from yesterday, like it was from years ago, “You barely even stumbled when she jumped on you.” 

“Yeah, isn’t it unsettling?” Adam inquired, “I thought I could beat her in a wrestling match, and she straddled and apprehended me in like fifteen seconds flat; it was outrageous.” He motioned toward her, “She hides her strength in her cute demeanor.” 

Harry’s cheeks are pink, and Y/N doesn’t know why he’d be getting flushed thinking about it. It’s probably from the alcohol to some degree, Y/N thinks, but it was just so sudden. And like, it’s making her face feel hot too. Was he thinking about her apprehending Adam? Or maybe he’s imagining himself in Adam’s place? 

Y/N doesn’t know. She wipes her brain clean of it. When Harry was pouring sake into everyone’s shot glasses, he would have had to reach over the table to fill up hers, so she took the bottle from him to fill up her own. And when he was offering everyone a taste of his karaage, Y/N told him that it was alright (before quietly ordering her own side of it – Harry noticed, definitely, but she avoided eye contact. And she wasn’t trying to be a dick either; it’s just there was barely any left after everyone else tried, and Harry clearly liked it – she wanted him to finish it off). But it was when Y/N had stretched across the table for the salt that Harry definitely could have handed her, but he was mid-bite of his burger – that Harry got upset. 

She didn’t think about how it looked until he mumbled, “I could’ve handed you the salt.” 

In their time here, Y/N has jumped through hoops so that Harry hasn’t had to do anything for her, and not once has he questioned her about it or commented on it. Y/N didn’t know if she’d finally just pushed him too far or if the sake was getting to him. Maybe both? Y/N isn’t sure. All she knows is that she isn’t expecting him to bring it up at the end of the night. After they finish walking up and down the streets, taking pictures, visiting the beautiful shrine (or as much as they could see with the sun having gone down), they make their way back to the Airbnb. 

Y/N is about to grab her things and rush to shower before they all watch a horror movie in the living room when Harry appears in their shared room. 

“Can I talk to you for a second?” 

She pauses, arms full of her clothes and her towel, and looking at him with eyebrows raised and gaze widened. “Oh? Yeah, sure!” She nods, but her heart is sort of hammering. The face he’s making is not typical of his gentle features; it’s hardened, and he looks upset. . .almost irritated, actually. Harry had never looked at her like that before, and she finds that she really doesn’t like it. She’d actually prefer if he never looked at her like that again. “What’s wrong?” 

There’s alcohol swimming in his gaze – he might have had more sake than she originally thought – and she could tell that his cheeks were flushed from his drinks now, since they had been for most of the night at this point. He doesn’t wobble where he stands, but his eyes are just glassy enough for her to see the pink bottle they’d been pouring from for most of the night. His lips were wet too; glossy and pouted from the spirits and the number of times he’s run his tongue over his mouth. 

“You never let me do things for you,” he said with no preamble, hands clenched in each other, his thumb running over his knuckles – a nervous habit, despite him not looking or sounding it, “Every time I try to do something for you, you do it yourself. Anytime I offer, you brush me off. You make things more inconvenient for you just so that you can tell me not to. Why? Why do you do that?” His brows furrowed, “At first I just thought you were super independent, but. . .but I noticed things, y’know? You let the others pamper you – you practically begged Niall to grab the remote for you, but when I tried, you immediately scrambled up. You’ll eat off Mei’s plate, but rather order a whole side of something than try mine. You – you like, completely shut me out! Not just here, at home too,” he seemed flustered, frowning, “When we get drinks, you always order your own even if it’s my round to pay. Whenever I offer to pick you up from the store, you go out and get it yourself or go without. Hell, even little things – you know this is the 10th time you’ve reached across a table to grab something instead of just asking me to hand it to you?” Was he counting? “What did I do? Do you – is it something about me? Do you not like me? Do you think I’m gross, or – or –” 

“Harry, no, that’s not it at all!” Y/N feels a bead of panic dribble through her. This was actually the opposite of what she was trying to do! She wanted him to feel unburdened by her, not like she was intentionally avoiding him or thought he was gross. She feels miserable that this is what he’s been thinking the whole time. “You – you do so much for everyone else, Harry; I feel like you rarely worry about yourself. I just didn’t want to. . .I didn’t want to be a burden or anything, was all. You’re – I never want to be one,” and maybe she was a little drunker than she thought, too. Her brain is swimming, creating a direct channel from her reasoning to her mouth with little regard for how much she wanted to admit, “Harry, like, you’re always doing stuff for people. You’re listening to their problems, you’re contacting services for them, you’re helping them submit paperwork, and all of that. I just don’t want you to have to like. . .have your brain on when it comes to me. You should just be able to relax sometimes.” 

He seems no happier with that explanation than he seemed with her being disgusted by him. Still, he frowns, and it pulls his whole face down so sadly that Y/N feels like the worst person ever. 

“But I like that,” he stresses, “I want that. I like when people. . .when people need me, and when I can help. It makes me feel good. I never feel put out or put off or like. . .or like anything bad from it; I just feel good.” He sounds close to whining, honestly, and it makes something twist in her lower belly, “When you let me help with your sunscreen and. . .and when you tried my ice cream, I – I was so happy.” He sighs, pressing the hair away from his face, “Please, it’s okay to let me do things. Please let me. I want to make you feel good too.” 

Y/N is just. . .she’s dumbfounded, really. She wasn’t expecting such a reaction from him – not intense, nor this honest. Guilt sits like a heavy lump in her stomach, surrounded by all the sake, and she thinks that she has misread this situation entirely. Harry was definitely an acts-of-service kind of guy, as far as showing love goes, and she’d been curbing his every attempt. He probably thought she didn’t want to be friends at all. No wonder they had such a hard time getting closer. 

Because it wasn’t like she didn’t know that he liked to do things for people. She did know that – she could tell by the soft, pleased smiles he always had when someone came to him for something. Y/N guesses she just really hadn’t noticed how much it was upsetting him so badly that she wasn’t allowing him to do anything at all. 

“Harry, I’m so sorry,” her shoulders sink, lips pouting to match his, “I really – I just wanted you to have to worry about one less person, is all, but I. . .I definitely over did it, if you think that I don’t like you,” she shakes her head, rattles her brain, “I – seriously, I didn’t know it was upsetting you so much. It started with me just trying not to bother you with, like. . .my problems and stuff, but somehow it amassed into me not letting you do anything for me at all. That’s my fault.” 

He sighs softly, “I just want to be helpful to you too,” he explains, then opens his arms, and Y/N doesn’t hesitate to step forward into his embrace. She’d always heard that Harry gives really, really good hugs, but she’d never gotten to experience one for herself. He smells good, even though it was the end of the night and they’d been doing things all day. There’s the barest hint of the smoky smell from the tavern they’d been at, but beyond that, she could smell his fabric softener and cologne. Harry always chose light, airy scents that were gentle and soft. Being near him always sort of smelled like being near a fresh pile of laundry. His arms were big too, wrapped around her, and in them she felt sort of safe and warm. As she tucks herself against him, he rests his cheek against her head, and he rubs his palm up and down her back soothingly. It feels good – really, really good. She can’t believe she’d been self-denying of such comfort without even realizing it. “You’re really fun, Y/N, and you’re amazing. I want to be closer friends, but. . .but doing things for people and helping them out are how I get close. You’re not. . .doing anything wrong at all. I just wanted to make sure that you didn’t hate me.” 

“I don’t hate you at all.” Her words are a little muffled against his chest, and she’s almost hyperaware of how bulky it feels against her face, “It’d be impossible to hate you, really. I just. . .I don’t know. I guess I didn’t think this through as well as I thought I did.” She sighed, “But you have to let me do things for you too, okay? I’ll – like, not all the time- but I don’t want this to be a friendship where you give, give, give, and I take, take, take. You shouldn’t let people take advantage of you like that.” 

He’s still rubbing her back, slow and soft, “I know, I will, we can. It’ll be good. I’m excited.” 

That night, Y/N felt clean and dry after her shower, comfortable in her pajamas and snuggled up in a blanket on the couch while they watched Ringu. She’s not drunk, but she’s in that pleasant, hazy state where she’s still a little buzzed and she thinks the same goes for Harry. Mei lies between Y/N’s legs, her head resting on the inside of Y/N’s split thighs. Harry is to Y/N’s left, also in his pajamas, and one arm is thrown over the back of the couch while he leans into his corner. There’s a pillow between his hip and Y/N’s head, but she’s still tucked there, close enough that she can smell him, and close enough that Niall saw, wraggled his eyebrows, then promptly burrowed into Christopher’s side.

Typically, there is a rule that Y/N is not allowed to lie down during movies because she promptly falls asleep without fail. Adam, Mei, and Niall had started a “sleep-count” each week: how many times they’d put something on the telly and how many times Y/N would doze off during it. This extended into the rest of their friend group, and Y/N would get pillows thrown at her, or tickled, sometimes lowkey heckled until she pouted and woke up. Apparently, Mei was too drunk to really care tonight, and everyone else might have just been startled or confused by the sudden closeness of her and Harry. She can’t think of the last time she sat next to Harry when they watched a movie, let alone lay against him. 

Long story short, she definitely falls asleep. She stirs once when Harry gasps at something that happens on the screen, but her eyelids feel too heavy to keep open, even when she peeks them open to see something terrifying. Mei’s head is so heavy on her thigh that she knows for sure she was knocked out. The warmth from either side, plus the scent of Harry’s clothes, is what ultimately put her back to sleep. 

The next time she woke up, she was in bed. Y/N is unsure how she got there, but she had a sneaking suspicion it was the snoring lump in the other bed. Through her bleary eyes, she can see how he’s all rumpled, legs kicked out from the blankets, twisted around his body. Y/N doesn’t think she ever gets to see Harry asleep because he’s usually awake by the time she gets up. His mouth is hanging open, and his hair is a mess on his head. He looks cute – Y/N wishes she could press her face into his back and breathe in deeply. Or wiggle up under his bicep, see if he warps his body around to cuddle her. 

She fell back asleep, smiling a little. That’d be nice. 

                                                                 .                           .                           .

Y/N thought she and Harry were due for only one breakthrough this trip. 

It was good – not having this weird amount of negative tension between them. Harry didn’t start pouring his heart and soul into doing things for her, but he did pour milk for her cereal one morning, and he helped her with her sunscreen later that day. She even let him buy her an ice cream without being weird about it. In the same breath, Harry lets her do things for him too – there isn’t much, because he’s very self-sufficient and does everything before anyone could think to do it for him. But she tries her best! Sunscreens him right back, splits a sandwich with him when she caught him staring at it, and she even takes his side when he told them what music he listens to when he’s working out (she didn’t agree at all – Norah Jones is for cozy coffee mornings and gardening in Spring, not for lifting 200kg with your legs, and running with a 12% incline on a treadmill – but she defends him intensely). When they did go for barbecue, Y/N grilled him meat and piled his plate high with it. She even hoarded some of the cucumbers because she remembered they were his favorite from the first place they went to like this.

He still stares at her a borderline weird amount, but that’s never really bothered her. And she doesn’t mind how he swallows thickly when he watches her eat a popsicle, or lick whipped cream off her hand, or when Niall swats her bum in passing, and she gasps. Harry’s cute, and he’s sweet, and it’s fun to see a cute, sweet guy like him flustered about things like that. Especially with how pink he gets, how he fumbles over his words, and stumbles when he walks. She’d been trying to catch a peek of him adjusting or anything, but of course, he’s much too mindful to do something like that too obviously. 

It’s the night before their Tokyo day that Y/N finds they will have two breakthroughs on this trip. 

The day starts relatively normally; they wake up, they eat, they get ready, but nobody does makeup or anything because they planned to spend the morning at the beach, then the afternoon in the hot springs, and there was a bar nearby where they would get drinks. It was pretty close to where they were staying – a lot of things were within walking distance for them, which was really nice. They are at the beach early enough that the critters are out – birds are flying low, fish are closer to the shore than they are when it’s a little busier, Y/N and Mei hunt for shells while Adam and Harry swim. The others took their time getting down there, but when they show up, it’s a little less calm, and Y/N does get accidentally tackled into the water by a very rowdy Maeve. When Y/N popped back up with a gasp, Maeve apologized profusely. Harry appeared from where he’d been closer to the buoys, right at her side, all wet, with his hair slicked down the side of his head. 

“Are you alright?” His brows were furrowed, and his head was tilted. He’s close enough that she can feel the warmth of his body beneath the water. 

Y/N nodded, waving them off, “I’m okay, I’m okay.” She wiped the water from her eyes. “At least the water isn’t freezing.” 

“You’re playing favorites!” Niall accused her, “I accidentally splashed you yesterday, and you almost drowned me.” 

“That’s because Maeve is a precious angel and you are a little creature from the lagoon.” 

“What? Lagoon!” 

After the beach, they rinse the ocean water off and then head to the onsens. It was nice because the wind had picked up, so it was a little chillier than it had been before, the sun hiding behind the clouds. Sinking into the warm water was like a nice, hot bath. The heat soaked into her muscles, warmed her inside out, but the issue was that it was actually almost boiling. They rented a private one, so they spent most of the time cycling in and out of the heat. Y/N could tolerate about 15 minutes before she had to get out; then she’d cool down, then she’d stick her feet in. They had a cooling room, so after they were all done sweating half their body weight in water, they took some time to settle the temperature in their bodies. 

They had showers on site, so they could rinse off once again (“We are going to be giant prunes by the end of the day,” Christopher whined), and they brought clothes to change into. Niall and Adam lost rock, paper, scissors, so they had to take everyone's wet clothes and towels home and meet them at the beachside bar. It was one they hadn’t been to yet, with a wider drink selection and a little bit more traffic than the others. There was a younger crowd, so it was far more rambunctious, and the music was louder. 

Y/N felt Harry’s eyes on her all of the time, but she especially felt them on her tonight. And especially when someone at the bar took an interest in her. 

The thing is, Y/N rarely gets hit on in public. Y/N used to question it and be bummed out, but then she realized the one thing that pissed her off more than anything was a drunk prick, breathing his vodka breath on her face, trying to get her to blow him in the bathroom. And then, when her frontal lobe developed, she realized that dating a stranger that she met in the bar, drunk, was probably not the best thing in the world for her. So she tried to find the bright side in it, rather than mope about how people weren’t showing interest in her and feeling ugly; she reveled in the fact that she didn’t have to worry about anyone annoying her. 

All that being said, rarely doesn’t mean never. Tonight, two people had approached her — one who almost immediately suggested that they go somewhere to fuck, so she squashed it immediately. The other one was a little sweeter, gentler; he sort of reminded her of Harry now that she thinks about it. His name is Yuuki, but he tells her to call him Yuu. He ambled up to her when she was getting a drink with Mei and was normal enough that she hadn’t shipped him off immediately. How the bar was set up was that most of it was outside, and the “inside” was more like verandas with lights strung up around them. They had a table that they were all kind of staking their claim on, and Yuu followed Y/N and Mei back to it.

Truthfully, Y/N thought he was interested in Mei when he first walked up, but Mei is the sort of pretty that a lot of guys are scared of, so they chat up her friend in hopes they’ll be a wingman. That was the sort of situation Y/N thought she was about to experience. But when they got back to the table and they were all speaking, Yuu made it clear pretty quickly that his intentions were with her. Y/N didn’t realize it until he complimented how she looked tonight, and when she brushed it off, he doubled down.

“I mean it,” he assured her, “Like, you guys have been outside sweating all day, and you still look this beautiful? Isn’t that kind of unfair?” 

Y/N’s eyes went wide. “Oh, wow,” she chuckled a little, “You’re forward, huh?” 

“I try to be, if it’s someone I want.” 

There’s a tingle on the nape of her neck, burning, hot. She tried to subtly turn to look, and she locked gazes with Harry, who. . .who is always looking at her. And he looks. . .well, she’s trying to decide how he looks. Upset? No, not really. Not angry either? But he does look put off. Not to the extent that he did when he confronted her, but still, he clearly wasn’t smiling as widely as he had been throughout most of the day.

Y/N could do a couple of things. She could politely decline Yuu because she really wasn’t planning on pursuing this beyond some friendly flirting. Or. . .she could see how Harry would react if she did actually pursue something. Now that Y/N thinks about it, she doesn’t think she’s ever pursued someone in front of Harry before, so she really doesn’t know how he would react. She isn’t sure why she cares how he would react, but it’s something that has suddenly piqued her interest. Does he like her? Niall at least thinks that he thinks she’s pretty and that’s why he’s always looking at her. But she thinks she’s. . .at least a little tipsy. Not really, but that’s what she’ll blame it on if someone asks her. 

She just wants to know! It’s like. . .he and Adam do this all the time, right? The scientific method? She’s just testing something right now, creating a hypothesis and testing it immediately. It would be interesting to see his reaction, right? He’ll probably not care anyway, and Y/N would have strung this guy along for a whole lot of nothing. But it’s fun to flirt sometimes. And it’s fun to see how someone like Harry might react if he’s jealous. Heavy on the if, considering Harry might not even like her at all, so she was just wasting everyone’s time. 

But that version of Harry she saw the other night, who asked to speak with her directly, who told her exactly what was on his mind, and confidently let her know what he wanted? That was nice to see! She just wondered what other ways she could make him speak his mind. 

Still, Yuu is cute and not annoying, and he’s sweet with all the things he’s saying and calling her. It turns out that he isn’t a local, but his family summers here a lot, so he knows a lot of interesting facts and random shit about the development of the island. He also tells her that they need to check out the Shimoda Ropeway, a cable car that takes you on a ride up the Nesugata Mountain, and doesn’t insert himself into the plans like he’s trying to make a date out of it. 

Y/N giggles more than she might normally, and she stands close to him. She touches him a little more liberally than she would typically, squeezing his arm when he mentions working out, pulling a fuzz off his top, leaning in close to see the pendant on his necklace. The burn of eyes on her stays the entire time, and whenever she looks up, Harry’s frowning a little, turned away like he doesn’t want to see it but can’t help but stare. Yuu goes to get them another drink, and Niall saddles up next to her, clicking his tongue and murmuring low in her ear. 

“He looks like he either wants to cry or devour you,” he tells her, “Maybe both?” 

Y/N’s heart starts to race. Is he really looking that way, or is Niall just being delusional? She doesn’t get an answer because Niall disappears just as soon as he’d come to her side, swayed by the call of Adam, clearly getting into an argument on the phone with a drink in his hand. Y/N briefly makes eye contact with Harry before Yuu returns soon after. She couldn’t read him, not at all. 

It wasn’t until Yuu leaned in and whispered something in her ear that she heard something fall. Just a soft thud and a little gasp, and Y/N’s eyes followed the commotion, where Harry had dropped his drink in the sand. A little had splashed on his trousers, but nothing seemed broken or dangerous. She wants to get up – to tease him a little, and see if he’d smile about it – but she isn’t rude, and Yuu is mid-conversation with her still, even if it was guided in a more flirty direction. 

And she’s able to give Yuu her attention for four more minutes before her gaze tries to find Harry again, only this time, he isn’t sitting where he had been most of the night. They were all scattered around, using the table as a sort of base point, but Harry had been sort of resting against the corner edge of the bar with his drink since Yuu came up to speak to her. He was still close enough that he could be a part of the conversation with Maeve and Christopher, but far enough that he was able to fade into the background if he wanted. Harry was good at finding spots like that when he needed them. 

But he wasn’t there. Like a prairie dog, her head perks up, and she looks from left to right, searching for him, but she can’t seem to find him. Something is unsettled in her chest, a small pout forming on her mouth. 

“Sorry,” she cut Yuu off, patting his thigh as she stood up, “My friend disappeared on me; I’m g’na go find them.” 

“Take your time,” he waved to her politely, “While you do that, I’m going to catch up with my friends and make sure none of them are face down in the sand right now.” 

Y/N hunts down Adam, who is frowning at his phone and texting what seems to be a multiple-paragraph-long text with random caps lock moments and exclamation points: “Hey, did you see where Harry ran off?” 

Adam looks up at her, his frown soothing when he realizes it’s Y/N speaking to him, “Hm? He said he needed some air or something and went out toward the beach.” Adam made a vague motion with his hand. “Which is silly because we are already outside, but who knows. Would you go check on him? He sounded kind of sad.” 

For a second time, guilt warps something ugly and inky in her chest. He sounded sad?  That was not what she wanted at all! She – Y/N doesn’t know what she wanted exactly. She kind of wanted him to be – not angry, but irritated, maybe? The same sort of irritation he’d felt when she wasn’t letting him help her out, when he was blunt and to the point with his feelings, if he was feeling anything at all about the situation. Y/N thought maybe she’d get to see another side of Harry that she might not have been privy to. One that’s a little jealous. One that might like. . .do something, if he wanted to, with her. 

But instead, she thinks she made him sad. Y/N all but stumbles further onto the beach, away from the bar. Thankfully, he must have just left because she finds him relatively close by, heading off horizontally to the ocean, in the direction of the Airbnb. His head is tilted down, hands in his pockets. 

“Hey!” Y/N called out to him, starting forward, “Harry!” 

He pauses, so she knows he heard her, but he doesn’t stop. Actually, he sped up a little even, and removed his hands from his pockets, reaching them toward his face as if he might be wiping away tears, and Y/N reached down to take her shoes off so she could move quicker. The little hills and valleys of sand are making her stumble pretty badly, and she almost falls flat on her face a couple of times from how soft it is, her feet sinking in, the little grains sticking between her toes. Her dress billows from the way the wind is whipping, and she almost gets tripped up a couple of times on that, too. 

But she makes it to him with no injuries and reaches forward, grabbing his shoulder and pulling him back, “Hey, I called for you –” she starts to scold him until she sees his face. 

His eyes are watery, rimmed red, with flushed cheeks and little stained tracks from what could only be tears. Y/N’s eyes go impossibly wide, mouth falling open, “Harry –” 

He tilts his face away. “Don’t look at me for a second,” he fusses, hiding behind his hands, “I’m – I’m – don’t –” he’s flustered, she can tell, and beyond the ache she feels for making him sad, there’s a twitch somewhere else too. Somewhere deep and warm and confusing. Y/N is unaware of this bodily reaction to someone crying because she’s never experienced it before. She tries to stuff it down, though, for a second, in favor of focusing on the moment. 

Because Harry looks so sad, with a pouted mouth, and a puffy face. Y/N doesn’t know if he’s drunk or not, but when she reaches up to gently touch his face, the skin is warm. “What’s this, hm? Why are you crying?” He goes easily with how she tilts him all around, this way and that, his chin up, down, side, side, like she’s searching for a notable sign of distress, like a scrape or a scratch. She had a feeling that she might know, but that would be kind of crazy, right? If it was what she was thinking, then she was a huge dickhead. He was even more softhearted than she thought he was. 

“N-nothing,” he tells her, “There’s sand in my eye.” 

He looks unfairly pretty like this, Y/N notes while she’s looking at him. Tear drops cling to his eyelashes, and the color of them is intense, even through the lens of his glasses. His lips are slick and wet, and he sniffles every so often, looking at her with the most pitiful gaze she’s ever seen. Y/N feels horrible and weirdly horny, and she wants to wrap him in bubble wrap and swallow him whole. 

“Sand, hm?” She repeats, and he nods, “Nothing else?” 

Harry’s quiet, and Y/N sighs a little, her hand falling from his face. What was she doing? This was stupid. . .she should just tell him straight out that she wanted to see how he reacted if she was flirting with someone else, for some reason. It just felt like. . .like she just wanted to know, okay? You can only see someone as hot and pretty as Harry shirtless in tiny swim trunks for so long before you have to start wondering things. And you can only stand for them to stare at you for so long without wondering if maybe they were interested. And maybe for the last two days you’ve thought about how he carried you to bed, and how strong he was, and how big his biceps are, and how he could probably squeeze you tight. How his stamina must be insane if he’s going on runs with Adam and only Adam is returning winded, while it seems like they only had to stop exercising for his sake. 

Her fingers carefully loop around his wrist. “Well, I think I was the one to kick the sand in your eye by accident,” she tells him. “Come back with me; I wanna go back.” 

“Are you sure? We – I’m seriously fine; I just needed a second to shake some thoughts out of my head,” he told her, “If you wanted to… to stay, I know you were – um. . .speaking with someone.” And though he tries not to, it’s spoken with just enough vitriol that if Y/N hadn’t been suspicious before, she definitely would have been now. 

Y/N starts walking in the direction of the house again, fingers tightening around his arm. 

“He’ll be okay,” she answers, “Text the others and let them know we’re headed out first.” 

                                                                   .                          .                           .

They really don’t speak much on the way back to the house. Harry eventually falls into step with her instead of her dragging him behind her, but Y/N doesn’t let go of his arm at all. She can feel the thundering of his pulse beneath her fingertips, and it sort of makes her salivate like she’s a vampire or a mosquito. What the hell is going on with her? The reaction she’s having to this sniffly, crying Harry is almost visceral. Has a guy ever cried because of her before? She doesn’t know – she’s certain she would remember if this were the reaction that came from it. 

They get to the house pretty quickly. They kick off their shoes at the front door, and Y/N dips her feet into the bucket of water (that Harry has been routinely changing out) so that there’s no sand tracking through the house. She led them to their room, even though there was nobody home. It just felt wrong to be out in the open when they both have a room they share, and the others would be home every minute. If she were questioning him, and he started crying again, and in front of everyone? Y/N would feel like a monster. She doesn’t want them to see him crying because she can tell he’s a little embarrassed about it, even though it’s cute. 

“Harry –” she begins, because she’s about to apologize and try to explain herself without sounding like a maniac, but Harry starts talking before she can. 

“I think you look beautiful tonight,” he rushes to say, “And I thought it first, but I didn’t get the chance to say it. Then that man said it before me, and it just. . .upset me. I could tell he was whispering it in your ear, but I. . .I thought about it first. I know that’s stupid and childish, but –” he shook his head, “But that’s just how I’m feeling right now. I should’ve been the first to say it.”

Alarms are blaring in her head right now, but not bad ones. Good ones. Bright ones. Chirpy, twinkling, sparkling alarms that explode with sweets and whipped cream, cakes and pies. Confetti bursts from the speakers as they sound. 

Y/N doesn’t think when she leans in; she just does what her body urges her to do, and it’s urging her to kiss him. Her heart is thudding rapidly when she grabs him by the face and presses a kiss to his mouth, sucking his bottom lip between her teeth and nipping. Harry makes a startled squeak in his throat at first, but accepts her readily, meeting her tongue outside of her mouth to flicker together. He tastes like fruity alcohol plus a hint of saltiness from his tears, and Y/N feels like her head is swimming. This is too much and not enough all at once. But this feeling that she’s been feeling, niggling at the back of her head – she had to satiate it right then and there. It was demanding that she do, actually. 

Harry moves fluidly with her. He kisses like someone who definitely knows how to kiss, tilting his head, working himself into it, his hands finding her sides and squeezing. His tongue is feathery when it flickers into her mouth, touching hers softly before curling and rubbing against it. She pulses then flutters around nothing, walls coaxing something imaginary deeper inside of her. It feels good – so good that her eyes practically roll to the back of her head. The heat of his body against hers and the need to press closer and kiss deeper are what drive her. Plus the sweet noises that are leaving his throat, low and whiny, as his glasses get all screwed up, crooked and fogged between them. 

Y/N takes a step forward, and her thigh comes in contact with his erection. Her heart was already racing, but it gallops when she feels that. Harry’s big. She’d already kind of clocked this because of his swim trunks and the couple of times she’s seen him in his briefs, but seeing is way different than feeling. Feeling him, she registers that he has a monster in there and it’s something that needs to be dealt with accordingly. 

Her hands slid from his face, down his body, toward the belt around his hips, but before she could properly undo it, Harry reached down to stop her. 

The sound that she moans against him is questioning, brows pinching together when she pulls away to see him. Was she reading this wrong? Maybe she shouldn’t have kissed him? But he’d been responding so eagerly to it; she wouldn’t have guessed that this was something that he didn’t want or was unsure about. His grip around her wrists is strong, and when she realizes that he’s only using one hand, she thinks she might just pass out. 

“Sorry,” her words sound a little wet before she swallows, “Do you – did I – I’m sorry,” she doesn’t feel very drunk from her drinks, but she feels drunk with lust, and the flushed, slicked, and swollen look of Harry’s lips after being kissed. Hell, she could have been doing this every fucking night, couldn’t she have? If he wanted it, she could have given him a temporary lip stain just from pressing their mouths together. “I took it too far? You’re hard, so I thought –” 

“I want to do you,” he murmurs, cutting her off and sinking to the floor in front of her. Y/N gasps when his nose drags from her belly button, down to her crotch, pushing his nose against her and breathing in softly. Her stomach does a hot little flip-flop from arousal, his hands slowly dragging from her ribs, down to her hips, and they feel so fucking massive against her, she feels herself getting wetter. “I don’t – I don’t care if I cum tonight, I want to make you cum before the others get here.” 

And she definitely, definitely, definitely wasn’t expecting this. Y/N isn’t sure what she thought might happen if she flirted in front of him, but the last thing she imagined was that he’d end up on his knees in front of her. He makes a filthy sight – and an image that she thinks would do numbers on socials and probably inspire many blurbs and headcanons about needy boys who sink to their knees with teary eyes wanting to make you feel good. She can’t believe what she’s seeing or feeling when he starts to bunch the fabric of her dress up, shoving it over her hips and making her hold it so that he can focus on what’s underneath it. 

Her panties, she could bet, were already damp, but Harry presses his face against her and sucks in a long, deep breath. Y/N twitches, jumping and giggling from the ticklish feeling, a soft moan tickling from her throat when she feels his lips graze against her folds. Harry guides one of her legs over his shoulder, letting it dangle and encouraging her to rest her weight on him as he tugs the crotch of the panties to the side and drags his tongue up from hole to her swollen, throbbing clit. They whine in unison – Y/N at the feeling of his wet, slick tongue between her, and Harry at her taste (or at least that’s what she’s guessing). He sucks the engorged button into his mouth for two little pulls before popping off, dragging his tongue against her again. She’s happy that her panties are flimsy, stretchy little things today so they don’t get too in the way of his tongue. 

Harry eats like he’s starving for it. Like he’d been starved all day and Y/N finally let him have a taste. He laps at her like a needy mutt, desperate, hungry, flicking his tongue between her folds and slurping up what she has to give him. The gravity in how he’s eating her makes her drip directly into his mouth, and every time she squeezes or pulses, it drags him back to her hole like he’s going to suck it right out of her. Y/N’s tummy is so clenched, hips bucking into his mouth, fingers curling up tight in her dress. Her left hand is tangled in the fabric of her dress and also in his hands, where he has a firm grip on her, keeping her as still as he can so she doesn’t topple over. Y/N is wondering how many people he’s eaten out against a wall to have this down to a science, but those thoughts are silenced when he suckles her clit into his mouth again. 

His eyes alternate between being blissed out and closed, and staring up at her. Gaze is still all swollen from crying earlier because of her; she’s pretty sure. Did he have a crush on her? Is that why he’s always staring and looking at her? Is that why he was so sad she wasn’t letting him do things for her? Was she reading too far into this? 

His fingers dig into her flesh, pulling her closer, moaning against her pussy like he was the one being eaten out. Y/N would do that – she’d split him open and tongue his cute little hole too, if he’d let her. Y/N thinks she’d do anything for him right now if it meant that she could feel his tongue like this more often. There’s a burning coil tightening in her belly, ready to burst while he happily dines between her legs. Her folds feel slick, and her pussy feels a little sloppy, with how much she’s leaking onto his tongue, but he has never seemed so at ease. Even when they were soaking in the onsen today, he seemed ten times more relaxed with a face full of her cunt. His glasses push up against her when he moves closer, and for some reason that really does her in. 

Y/N’s head thuds back against the wall, her throat extending with a moan when she starts to cum, thighs shaking hard. It’s intense, more than she’s expecting. She thinks it’s the fastest and hardest that she’s cum with someone else in her life, and it’s unknotting muscles that have been wound up for years and years. Y/N’s pussy contracts like it’s begging for something to be inside of it and Harry listens, letting her grind herself against his face while he wriggles his tongue inside of her. He makes these soft, pleading hums of “Mhm, mhm,” like he’s begging for more, telling her how okay he is with this, how pleased he is. Helping her helps him; he told her that, and she’s certain that extends to cumming. 

Eventually, it’s too much. He drags her orgasm out for as long as he can before she’s twitching and sensitive, shoving against his forehead until he detaches from her with a wet pop. Her leg slid off of his shoulder, down to the floor uselessly. Honestly, she thinks his hands on her are the only reason she hasn’t toppled right over yet. 

Harry looks lewd. His face was wet and blotched pink all over; his lips were swollen and fat from the kissing and from what he’d just done to her, glistening as he lulled his tongue around them to lap up every bite of her juices he could. His glasses are all fucked, still crooked since they kissed, so she reaches down and straightens them out. Even though he’s holding his body is lewd, on his knees, legs outstretched, his cock obvious and thick in his trousers and a clear wet spot that spreads with each little throb she can see. 

Y/N feels crazed, almost, when she sees that. Her eyes wild as she blinks, “You’re – you –” she stutters, and Harry has the nerve to look sheepish. 

“Yeah,” he answers delicately, “You tasted really, really good, I – I’ve been wanting to do that since you said nobody has ever made your thighs shake while they ate you.” 

Still catching her breath, she asks, “When did I say that?” 

“Two years ago, after the movies once.” 

Y/N has no recollection of this, and that makes it even more steamy, for some reason. Has he just been thinking about that? For two years? 

She moves her foot to the wet bulge in his bottom and presses the sole of her foot along the curve of it. The sound Harry makes is delicious and a little pathetic when he grabs her ankle tightly and rolls up into the touch before jerking away, “Ah, too much,” he whined, thudding his head against her thigh, “We need – we need to – come and lie down, I’ll clean you up.”

Y/N crawled into the bed, wondering what that could entail before Harry appeared at the bedside with a warm, wet cloth in his hand. He’s still in his messy bottoms, but he doesn’t seem to care, as he delicately strips her of her panties. He’s gentle while he wipes away the spit and her cum, before placing a soft, sweet kiss on her thigh before heading to her suitcase. She watches as he picks out the pajamas from her sleepwear packing cube and brings them over to her, along with a new pair of panties. 

“Thank you for letting me,” Harry tells her as he lies them carefully beside her, then leans down and places another wet, sucking kiss to her thigh, “Your skin tastes so sweet.” 

She is still breathless, mouth opening and closing like a fish, “That – Harry, your tongue is insane – thank you,” she says, instead of asking the million other questions she wants to ask. Neither of them has the capacity for that right now. They just had two very big revelations in the last 72 hours, and Harry has cum cooling and drying probably very uncomfortably in his pants right now. The others would be back sooner rather than later, and at least Mei and Niall will probably tumble into the room, if not to catch them “in the act,” then to see if they are okay. Harry had messaged them that they were feeling dehydrated from sweating all day, and they were going back to get some rest. “I’ve never – I’ve never cum like that before.” 

He grins sweetly. Like a switch has been flipped, he’s got that sweet, gentle look in his eyes again. 

“That makes me happy. I’ll be right back, okay? I need to clean up.” 

Y/N watches him disappear behind the door with a pair of briefs and his own pajamas in his hands. She hears the sink faucet turn on and the gasp of someone who just put a wet washcloth on their softened, sensitive cock. Her mind is reeling. 

Heat pools in your belly even now, but you keep your expression casual, a small smile playing on your lips as you take a slow sip of orange juice. He hasn't looked at you directly once this morning, that distance he's been trying to maintain since all of this started on the pool deck still firmly in place. It only makes you want to push him harder.

Harry turns finally, setting plates down with a soft clink. His green eyes flick to Emma first, soft and indulgent in that fatherly way, before they brush over you, brief, guarded, like he doesn't trust his self-control.

''Lovebug, you know how these things go. You say 'a couple of friends' and it turns into half the town. I know that you want to celebrate, but the last thing I need is the place trashed or the neighbors calling the cops because some kids are blasting music until dawn.''

''But it's her birthday,'' Emma whines dramatically, dragging out the word as she leans forward, eyes wide and pleading. She reaches over and squeezes your hand, her excitement infectious even as your own thoughts drift elsewhere. ''She deserves something fun after putting up with me all year in that tiny dorm. And you've been so chill about us being here the whole summer. Please, Dad? I'll handle everything. Invites, food, cleanup. You won't even know it happened.''

You squeeze her hand back, playing the grateful best friend while your gaze drifts to Harry again. The way the morning light catches the stubble on his jaw, the faint line of tension between his brows... Part of you wonders if he's replaying last night too, the risk, the way he'd filled you up and walked away. It sends a thrill through you, knowing you can affect him like this even when he's trying hard not to show it.

Harry sighs, running a hand through his curls as he sits down at the head of the table. He piles his plate high with eggs, bacon, and toast, movements deliberate, buying himself some time. Saying yes feels like giving in to the very temptation he's been fighting, indulging the girl who's been tormenting him with tiny bikinis and secret touches.

But it's your birthday. And he hates to refuse his daughter anything, especially when her excitement is so genuine.

''Fine,'' he sighs deeply. ''But I'm holding you to that cleanup promise. And I want it wrapped up at a reasonable hour. I'm serious.''

Emma lets out a squeal and launches herself at him for a hug, nearly knocking over her juice. You laugh softly, but your eyes meet Harry's over her shoulder for a beat. He looks away first, jaw tight, but you catch the way his fingers flex against her back.

Breakfast stretches on after that. Emma chatters nonstop about guest lists and playlist ideas, waving her fork around as she plans. You contribute here and there, suggesting snacks, nodding along, while the sun climbs higher, warming the wooden deck beneath your feet.

Harry eats in relative silence, offering short affirmatives to Emma's questions, but you feel the weight of his awareness of you with every shift in his seat, every time he reaches for the coffee pot. The domestic normalcy of it all only heightens the forbidden undercurrent.

By the time plates are cleared and Emma's dragging you upstairs to get ready for the town trip, the plan is set. Your birthday party will be at the beach house. The thought makes your skin tingle with anticipation.

The drive into town with Emma is all windows down, wind whipping your hair, and loud music blasting from the speakers. She sings along off-key to some pop song, one hand on the wheel and the other gesturing wildly as she talks about who to invite. Mostly the crowd of rich vacationing twenty-somethings she's befriended on the beach and through Andy. You laugh at her stories, adding your own comments, but your mind keeps drifting back to the house, to Harry.

At the liquor store, the cart fills quickly under Emma's enthusiastic direction. Bottles of vodka, rum, tequila, mixers in every flavor, Emma piles them in with glee, comparing labels and debating which ones will make the best punches.

The cashier, a bored college-aged guy, raises an eyebrow at the sheer volume but rings you up without much comment after checking your IDs. You banter lightly with Emma the whole time, teasing her about how Andy will react to her in whatever outfit she picks, making her blush while you load every bottle into the trunk.

The party supply store is next, a brightly lit haven of streamers, balloons, fairy lights, and plastic cups. Emma grabs handfuls of everything in vibrant colors, chattering about where to hang things and waving around Harry's credit card like money grows on trees.

You help load the cart, fingers brushing over crinkly plastic and smooth glass, memories of quieter past birthdays flashing through your mind. Small family dinners before your parents' divorce turned everything tense, awkward college parties where you felt out of place.

This one feels different. The anticipation of Harry's eyes on you all day, of the chaos later, mixes with a genuine spark of excitement. You deserve this, you tell yourself, even as part of you wonders how far the night will push the fragile line you've been dancing with him.

When the car pulls back up to the beach house later that morning, the trunk and backseat are crammed with bags that rustle every time you hit a bump. Emma is still buzzing with energy, talking a mile a minute about who's definitely coming and who might bring their own crowd, her hands gesturing wildly as she parks.

You help unload everything, the plastic handles digging into your palms, the weight of all those bottles and supplies a tangible reminder of how quickly this ''small'' party is going to spiral. The ocean air feels thicker now with the rising heat, carrying the faint scent of salt and sunscreen as you and Emma haul the bags inside.

Harry is out on the deck when you arrive, wiping down the outdoor table with slow, methodical strokes, but you catch the way his shoulders stiffen slightly at the sound of the car doors.

Emma doesn't waste a second. She dumps her bags in the living room and immediately starts unpacking decorations, stringing colorful streamers across the ceiling beams and draping fairy lights along the railings that overlook the beach.

''Dad, can you help with the stereo? Please? The one in the corner, I want it loud enough that it carries down to the water but not so loud the neighbors complain, of course.'' She bats her eyelashes in that way she knows works on him, her voice sweet and hopeful.

Harry hesitates in the doorway, cloth still in hand, his gaze flicking from Emma to the growing mess of supplies and then briefly to you. You're bending down to sort through a bag of plastic cups and snacks, your sundress riding up just enough to show the backs of your thighs.

He looks away quickly, jaw tightening, but the image lingers. This is exactly what he was afraid of. The memory of last night hits him, hot and unwelcome: your body under his hands, the way you'd teased him until he snapped, the quiet creak of the guest room floor as he slipped out afterward. Indulging her means being around you all day. Watching you. Wanting what he can't have. But how can he say no to her?

After the divorce, his ex-wife's coldness and manipulations had left Emma guarded and him overly eager to shield her from any more disappointment. He'd promised himself after the papers were signed that he wouldn't let Emma feel that sting again. Saying no to her felt like failing at the one thing he could still control.

He blames himself for staying longer than he should have for Emma's sake; Claire's affairs and barbs have made him overcompensate by giving his daughter whatever makes her smile. He knows he lets her get away with more than he should. Tonight will be no different.

''Alright, lovebug,'' he says finally, voice warm despite the tension coiling in his chest. He sets the cloth down and moves to the corner where the old stereo system sits, crouching to check the wires and connections. His hands are capable, veins standing out as he adjusts knobs and tests the speakers. The low rumble of bass starts up as he powers it on, and Emma squeals, plugging in her phone to queue up a playlist of early 2000s club songs, the familiar beats vibrating through the wooden floors and out onto the deck.

You climb the small stepladder to hang a strand of fairy lights along the top of the sliding doors, stretching up on your toes. The dress shifts again, fabric brushing your skin, and you feel Harry's eyes on you before he forces them back to the stereo. He adjusts the volume, testing different levels so the sound carries down toward the beach without being obnoxious, his broad back flexing under his shirt.

The handyman focus nearly makes you drool. The humility in his competence, the way his fingers twist wires with precision. You remember those same hands on your hips, in your hair, clamped over your mouth to muffle your moans. Heat rises in your cheeks, but you keep working, the ladder creaking under your weight as you reach.

Emma is oblivious, dancing a little to the music as she tapes streamers, chattering about how perfect it's going to be and how Andy is going to lose it when he sees the setup. Harry helps where she asks, holding the ladder steady for you at one point, his hand brushing your calf ''accidentally'' as he steadies it. The contact is brief, electric, and he pulls away like it burned him. Bad idea, his mind repeats like a mantra. She's Emma's best friend. Emma's best friend.

You and Emma move from room to room, hanging lights that twinkle even in daylight, scattering snacks in bowls, arranging bottles on a makeshift bar. Harry drifts between helping and retreating to chores, wiping surfaces, moving furniture slightly for better flow, anything to keep his hands busy and his eyes off the way your body moves when you bend or stretch. Every stolen glance feeds the frustration building in him, making him clench his jaw harder.

Distance. That's what he needs. But how the hell is he supposed to stay away when you're right here, turning his home into your playground?

...

By late afternoon, the beach house looks transformed. Emma steps back, hands on her hips, admiring the work with a satisfied grin.

''This is going to be the best birthday ever. Dad, you're the best for letting us do this.'' She hugs him tightly, and Harry softens visibly, hugging her back even as his eyes find you over her shoulder again. The conflict wars inside him, but for his daughter, he'll endure it.

The sun has dipped low by the time the first guests start trickling in, painting the sky in soft oranges and pinks that reflect off the ocean. Emma's playlist blasts through the house, the bass vibrating through the wooden floors and out onto the deck in heavy waves.

You've changed into a sundress that swishes around your thighs, cute but casual, and you stand near the makeshift bar, pouring drinks and trying to match Emma's energy as people filter through the doors.

At first it feels manageable. Emma invited the usual crowd of rich twenty-somethings she's befriended over the summer, kids whose parents own massive beach houses up and down the coast, the kind with private docks and yacht club memberships.

You recognize a few faces from past summers spent here with the Styles family: a girl named Sophia who always threw huge parties, a guy named Theo who spent last year trying (and failing) to teach you how to surf. They greet you with airy hugs and compliments on the decorations, their designer clothes and expensive colognes filling the air as they grab cups and head straight for the alcohol.

But then more people start showing up. Friends of friends. Plus-ones who heard about the ''beach house rager'' through whatever group chats these circles use. The living room fills steadily, bodies pressing closer as the music gets louder, laughter ringing out over the thumping beats. Emma is glued to Andy's side near the sliding doors, her hand in his as they laugh about something, heads bent close. She waves at you once or twice, mouthing best birthday ever, but she's lost in her own bubble, leaving you to navigate the growing crowd alone.

You feel a little out of place. These aren't your people. The opulent wealth, the casual entitlement in how they drape themselves over furniture and pour drinks without a second thought. You've spent the past year buried in textbooks and late-night study sessions, which left little room for this kind of chaos. After all that pressure, there is something freeing about this. The way everyone is letting loose, bodies moving to the music, drinks flowing, no one worrying about deadlines or grades. You catch yourself smiling as you weave through the room, the bass thrumming in your chest. It feels good to breathe for once.

That freedom doesn't last long without responsibility creeping back in. Someone knocks over a cup near one of Harry's paintings, an abstract piece that probably cost more than your tuition for a semester, and you're there in seconds, grabbing napkins and dabbing at the spill on the wall.

''Sorry!'' the girl laughs tipsily, but you wave it off with a polite smile and keep moving. Harry's fancy glasses are everywhere, crystal tumblers and stemware that are far too delicate for this crowd.

You move through the kitchen and living area like a patrol officer, picking up discarded cups, wiping sticky counters, gently steering a couple away from a side table that holds a vase that looks expensive. It's stressful, the constant vigilance, but there's a strange satisfaction in it too. After a year of being the responsible one in every group project and library cram session, being the one keeping things from spiraling completely feels familiar to you, almost comforting.

More bodies pour in until the deck overflows, and soon the chaos spills down to the beach. Someone starts a bonfire on the sand, driftwood piled high, flames crackling against the darkening sky, and the crowd migrates, drinks in hand, laughter carrying on the breeze.

You follow at a distance, the hem of your dress brushing your legs as you walk barefoot on the cooling sand, making sure no one litters or starts anything too reckless.

The music from the house still pumps audibly, mixing with the waves and the crackle of the fire. Couples kiss in the shadows, groups play sloppy games of beer pong on makeshift tables, and the air grows thick with the smell of smoke, salt, and spilled liquor. It's a full-blown rager now, messy and loud and exactly what Emma wanted, you're guessing.

You feel the pull of it, the freedom of just letting loose, but your sense of responsibility tugs harder. It always has.

Hours blur. You lose track of how many times you've circled back to the house, wiping surfaces, herding people away from fragile things, all while the bass continues to thump and more guests keep arriving.

Emma and Andy are seated on a log by the bonfire, lost in each other, and you're on your own, heart racing with a mix of adrenaline and the shots Emma insisted you take with her earlier.

The front door opens sometime later, much later than Emma had promised Harry it would end. Harry steps inside, his expression shifting from mild expectation to pure fury in an instant.

The living room is a disaster: cups everywhere, bodies draped over furniture, a couple making out aggressively on the couch, beer pong setup taking up half the space with sticky liquid pooling on the floor. Music blasts louder than ever; Emma must've turned the volume up when the party spilled onto the beach.

Harry's jaw clenches hard as he starts pushing through the crowd, broad shoulders cutting a path, eyes scanning furiously for you.

You're in the kitchen when you spot him, wiping up yet another spill on the counter, your hands sticky with someone's mixed drink. Your heart skips at the sight of him, hair slightly messy from the wind, anger radiating off him in a way you've never seen before.

You weave through the crowd toward Harry, the bass from the speakers thumping heavily in your chest as bodies sway and bump around you. The air is thick with the smell of alcohol, smoke drifting in from the beach bonfire, and too many perfumes mixed together.

Your heart races a little faster when his eyes find yours across the room, sharp, furious, the kind of look that sends nerves spiraling through you. But before you can reach him, two police officers step through the front door, their uniforms cutting an authoritative contrast against the half-dressed partygoers and red Solo cups littering the floor.

One of them, an older man with a stern face and salt-and-pepper hair, taps Harry firmly on the shoulder.

''Excuse me, sir. Are you the owner of this property?'' the officer asks, voice loud enough to cut through a particularly loud chorus of the music. His partner, younger and broader-shouldered, stands beside him, scanning the room with a disapproving frown as someone nearby laughs too loudly and knocks over another cup.

Harry turns, his shoulders squaring instantly, jaw locked tight.

''Yes, I am. What's the problem, officers?'' His tone is polite on the surface, but you can hear the undercurrent of barely contained anger, the way his eyes keep darting back to you with dagger-like glares even as he addresses them. The frustration radiates off him in waves. You can practically feel it from where you stand a few feet away, the memory of his warnings about keeping things contained hanging heavy between you.

The older officer continues, notepad in hand. ''We've received multiple noise complaints from your neighbors tonight. Large crowd, loud music, and there's a bonfire down on the beach that's drawing attention. We need you to shut this down immediately.''

Harry nods once, curt and tight. ''Of course. I understand. I'll put an end to it right now. My daughter assured me it would be a small thing and wrapped up early. I apologize for the disturbance.''

His words are measured but his gaze on you never wavers, sharp and promising consequences. The party swirls on around you, and Harry looks ready to tear the whole thing apart with his bare hands.

You step forward before his negativity sours everyone's mood. A soft smile curves your lips as you move closer to the officers, tilting your head slightly and letting your voice come out sweet and cooperative. ''Officers, I'm so sorry about all this. It's my birthday and things got a little carried away. We didn't mean to cause any trouble.''

The younger officer's eyes linger on you a second longer than necessary, his stern expression softening just a fraction as you meet his eyes. ''Birthday, huh? Still, the complaints are piling up. Bonfire on the beach, music carrying for blocks. We can't just ignore it.''

You smile warmly, apologetic, stepping a tiny bit closer and gesturing around with an open, innocent hand. ''I know, and I feel terrible. We'll turn the music down right away and start getting everyone out. I promise we'll have the place cleared and quiet within the hour.''

The older officer exchanges a glance with his partner, the younger one's posture relaxing noticeably as he gives you a small nod. ''One hour. We'll be back to check, and if it's not dispersed by then, we'll have to start issuing citations and breaking it up ourselves. Keep it calm until then.''

''Thank you so much,'' you sigh, flashing one last bright smile as they turn to leave. ''We really appreciate it. Have a good night, officers.''

The second the door closes behind them, Harry's hand is on your arm, grip firm and unyielding as he pulls you through the crowd toward the stairs. The charm that worked on the officers has only multiplied his anger, the way they'd softened for you clearly grating against every nerve he has left. Your heart pounds, nerves twisting low in your belly. You open your mouth to say something, anything, an apology, an explanation, but he doesn't give you the chance.

Harry's grip on your arm remains firm as he pulls you down the hallway, the party noise downstairs a muffled but constant thrum, laughter and shouts blending into the bass that vibrates through the floors.

He pushes the bedroom door open, only to freeze for a split second. A couple is tangled on his bed, hands roaming, mouths fused in a sloppy, drunken kiss, completely oblivious.

Harry's voice cuts through the air, low and commanding. ''Get out. Now.''

The couple startles, scrambling off the bed with wide eyes and mumbled apologies as they adjust their clothes and hurry past you both, the door clicking shut behind them.

You turn to him quickly. ''Harry, I'm sorry, I didn't think it would—''

He cuts you off sharply, one large hand grabbing your face, fingers firm on your jaw as he pulls you into a bruising kiss. The force of it pushes you back until your shoulders hit the wall with a dull thud, the impact rattling through you. His mouth is hungry, almost punishing, tongue sliding against yours with raw need. It's full of pure desire and frustration that's been simmering since the time he sneaked into your room to fuck you while his daughter was asleep down the hall.

One of his hands slides down, gripping your thigh and hiking it up around his hip, opening you to him as he presses closer, the hard line of his body pinning you in place.

Between heated kisses, he forces out a curt, gravelly question against your lips. ''Are you drunk?''

You shake your head breathlessly, the words tumbling out as his mouth moves to your neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin. ''Just a few shots... I'm fine. Promise.''

That seems to be all the confirmation he needs. After that, Harry goes eerily quiet. He's usually a talker during these stolen moments: filthy words, degradation, praise, but tonight the anger has stripped that away. The only sounds he makes are low, quiet grunts as he yanks your underwear down your legs, not bothering to take off your sundress.

He just needs access, quick and urgent. His hands are rough but efficient, lifting you fully so your legs wrap around his waist, your back pressed against the wall. The music downstairs covers most of the noise, the thump of bass, distant laughter, but the risk, the possibility of someone wandering upstairs, still hangs heavy.

He frees himself from his pants with one hand and pushes into you in one deep thrust. The stretch is immediate, intense, pulling a moan from your throat that he quickly silences by clamping his free hand over your mouth. He doesn't want to hear you right now.

His face stays buried in your neck and cleavage, lips and teeth working the skin there as he fucks you against the wall. Each grunt vibrates against your collarbone, his hips snapping with pent-up frustration. This is a quick fix, a release for the tension you've built in him all day.

You cling to him, legs tight around his waist, body submitting completely to the rhythm he sets.

The lack of eye contact stings in the best way. He's too furious to look at you, too consumed by the need to use you for relief. Your moans are muffled against his palm, the party noise below masking everything else. His strokes are deep, purposeful, and every thrust pushes you higher against the wall, your sundress bunching around your hips.

Pleasure builds fast, your body responding to his anger like it always does, tightening around him as your orgasm crashes over you. You tremble in his hold, a muffled cry vibrating against his hand.

Harry buries himself deep with a final, strained grunt, and spills into you in hot, thick pulses. His body tenses against yours, breath ragged against your neck, before he slowly lowers you back to the floor. He pulls out without a word, tucking himself away and zipping his pants.

He steps back, jaw still clenched, and walks toward the door without a glance back, leaving you standing there against the wall: dress rumpled, legs shaky, his come slowly leaking down your thigh. You stay there for a moment, catching your breath, body still buzzing.

Harry storms downstairs without a word, the bedroom door shutting firmly behind him. The party is still in full swing, music blasting, bodies moving, laughter and shouts bouncing off the walls, but the second he hits the living room the atmosphere shifts.

He cuts the stereo with one sharp motion, the sudden silence almost louder than the bass had been. A collective groan rises from the crowd, followed by confused protests.

''Party's over,'' he says, voice carrying the kind of parental authority that cuts through the remaining noise. ''Everyone out. Now.''

It is not that simple.

People are drunk, stubborn, some still dancing to the phantom beat in their heads. A few argue, others try to negotiate five more minutes. Harry moves through the rooms like a storm, collecting cups, turning off lights, ushering groups toward the door.

You come downstairs a few minutes later, legs a little unsteady, the evidence of what just happened upstairs warm between your thighs. Emma appears from the deck, cheeks flushed and eyes wide, Andy close behind her. Harry turns on her first.

''You promised me this would stay contained and end at a reasonable hour,'' he says, the disappointment in his tone heavier than anger. ''I trusted you. Look at this place.''

Emma's face falls. She starts to apologize, voice small, and Harry softens just enough to keep from crushing her, but the scolding is firm. You step in to help herd the last stragglers out, the house gradually emptying until only the four of you remain amid the wreckage. There's empty cups and discarded bottles everywhere, every surface sticky with spilled liquor, the smell of it hanging in the air.

You suggest splitting the work so it goes faster. Emma and Andy take the beach, bonfire remnants, cups half-buried in sand, the debris that spilled outside. You and Harry stay inside. The decision is deliberate on your part. You need to talk to him.

The silence that settles between you once the others leave is thick, almost physical. Harry starts collecting cups without looking at you, jaw clenched so tightly the muscle jumps. You work beside him, wiping counters, gathering trash, the ordinary motions feeling loaded. Every clink of glass, every soft scrape of a chair, seems too loud.

Minutes stretch. You can't stand it.

''Harry, I'm really sorry.'' Your voice is quiet, sincere. ''It got out of hand so fast. Emma invited a few people, they invited more... I didn't mean for the police to show up or for it to turn into... that.''

He doesn't answer, doesn't even look at you, just keeps cleaning. You try again, the desperation starting to seep in. It reminds you of the way your mother would go cold for days after you said the wrong thing, the way your father's disappointment sat in the air like something you could choke on. You hated that feeling more than almost anything. The need to fix it, to make the anger go away, rises sharp and familiar.

''I'll pay for any damages,'' you offer. ''Glasses, furniture, if anything got broken, just tell me and I'll cover it. I don't want you to be mad.''

Harry stops. He sets a stack of cups down harder than necessary and finally looks at you. The green of his eyes is stormy, tired, conflicted.

''I don't want your money,'' he says, voice low. ''I have enough. You know that.''

''Then what can I do? Tell me. Whatever you need,'' you say, softer now, almost pleading.

''It's not about the party. Or the mess. Or the money.'' He runs a hand through his hair, looking away for a second before forcing himself to meet your eyes again. ''I've been pretending the age difference doesn't matter. That we're just two people who... But tonight reminded me exactly how young you are. How reckless. You throw a party that turns into a rager, charm cops to get out of the consequences of your actions... We have nothing in common, not really. And every time I touch you I feel worse about doing it behind my daughter's back. All for what? For lust? Simple attraction? Because that's all there is between us, and I don't know if that's worth the trouble.''

The words hang in the quiet house.

Outside, you can hear the faint sound of Emma and Andy laughing on the beach. Harry's shoulders are tight, the conflict written in every line of him. The guilt, the residual desire, the need for distance. He looks at you one last time, his eyes softening for the briefest second, like he might say more, might reach for you, might take the words back. Then he turns away, gathering another armful of trash, the moment of almost-reconciliation slipping through the cracks.

You stand there in the middle of the kitchen, the apology still on your tongue, the ache of his distance settling deep. The house feels too big, too quiet, and the summer suddenly heavier than it was this morning.

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

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She pulls her sweater tighter around her body. Her clients have been keeping their coats on during sessions for the past couple weeks as the weather has gotten cooler.

The clinic phone rings. She picks up.

“Hi, you’ve reached the Trauma & Wellness Centre.”

“Hi, Y/N. It’s Agatha. I’m calling to let you know I can’t make it for tomorrow’s session. I know I’m calling within the twenty-four-hour window, but it’s a family emergency. Do I still have to pay the late cancellation fee?”

Y/N could make her pay the late fee and probably should, considering how tight finances have been.

“No, Agatha. That’s okay. Thank you for calling and letting me know.”

After hanging up, she looks up at the ceiling and groans loudly. That’s the second client who has cancelled this week. Both of them are some of her only clients paying the full fee for her sessions because she offers a sliding scale, which most people end up using.

The phone starts ringing again. She squeezes her eyes shut, bracing herself for another cancellation.

“Trauma & Wellness Centre,” she says, hoping she doesn’t sound as miserable as she feels.

“Hi, Y/N,” is all the caller says. A deep male voice. Most of her clients are women of various ages, though she has seen some men in the past. This doesn’t sound like any of them though.

She waits for him to say something else, but he doesn’t. “Who is this?”

“Harry. From high school.”

She doesn’t speak.

“The guy you did homework for? The one who—”

“I remember you.” Of course she remembers him. How could she not? “How did you get this number?”

“From your website?”

“Oh. Right.” If someone wanted to find her, it would be pretty easy to search up her name, click on her clinic website, and get her contact information from there.

“How’s life?” he asks.

This is so weird.

“Um, good,” she answers, while her mind works in the background to make sense of this odd situation. “Sorry, why are you calling?”

He clears his throat. “I’ve been thinking about everything that went down in high school. The way people treated you. The way I treated you...” He pauses, takes a breath. “I don’t like who I was back then.”

She narrows her eyes, confused. “You defended me,” she says slowly, wondering if she’s the one misremembering things.

“I exploited you. Made you do my homework and cheated off you in exams in return for defending you. I wanted to apologize and pay you back for all the work you did.”

“You want to pay me back for doing your homework in high school?”

“Mhm. So, what do you need? A house? A car?”

She laughs. “You cannot be serious right now. This is… This is a joke, right?”

He must be pulling some sort of prank on her. Is he in cahoots with others from high school? Did they plan this?

“I’m serious, Y/N.”

“You’re willing to spend thousands of dollars on me because… What? You feel guilty about something that happened fifteen years ago?” She wonders if he also hears how absurd that sounds.

“Look, I… I’ve done quite well for myself since then. Let’s just say I have a lot more money than I need. I’m not making empty promises here.”

He sounds sincere. But she still can’t wrap her mind around any of it.

“This is ridiculous. I haven’t even seen you since high school, Harry.”

“Would you be more open to it if we met in person?”

“Maybe? No.” She covers her eyes with her hand and sighs. “I don’t know.”

“Let’s meet.”

She has to admit she’s curious about him. Back in high school, he was this tall, handsome jock. The girls would’ve been all over him if he wasn’t so intimidating. But it was that intimidating demeanor that successfully kept the bullies away from her.

He wasn’t mean though. Even when telling her bullies to back off, he didn’t do it in a way that personally attacked their character. He was just serious, straightforward, and had enough muscle on him to scare off the guys who had been especially cruel to Y/N.

She wonders what he’s like today. So, she agrees to meet him, and they exchange numbers.

As she locks up the clinic for the night, the conversation is replaying in her head. Why now? Why would he reach out to her now? After all these years?

She gets into her car—an old, beatup Honda Civic, which is also hanging on by a loose thread. The check engine light comes on as she turns the key in the ignition. She desperately needs a visit to the mechanic.

Harry’s offer is already starting to look tempting.

***

Y/N doesn’t know what to wear to this meeting. Should she dress like someone that has her shit together and doesn’t need his pity money? Or should she dress like someone whose life is falling apart and could clearly use some help? Ultimately, she decides to stay in her work clothes—a simple blouse and dress pants.

She drives to the address he sent her. As she pulls up to the house, she notices the size of it. The huge winding driveway leading to a three-car garage, the perfectly manicured lawn, the pristine porch with a bench and flowerpots.

She rings the doorbell and waits. Harry appears a moment later, dressed comfortably in a hoodie and sweatpants, and yes, just as handsome as she remembers, but now in a more mature, rugged way with stubble and crinkles by his eyes when he smiles. His curls are styled much better than they were in high school, when he didn’t seem to know quite what to do with them.

“Come in.”

She steps into the spacious foyer. It smells like a fall scented candle in here, notes of cinnamon and vanilla in the air.

“I’m surprised you invited me to your house.”

He takes her coat without asking and hangs it up in the closet. “I wanted you to see I’m not lying about the money.”

“What do you do for a living?” She looks up at the tall ceiling, sun pouring in through the skylight.

“I play hockey. Or I used to. I retired last year.” He shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Oh. I had no idea. Then again, I know nothing about that world.”

“It pays a stupid amount. As you can see.”

“It’s just you living here?”

He nods. She wonders if it ever gets lonely.

As he leads her to the living room, he offers her something to drink. She politely declines. They sit on separate couches, facing each other.

“You look different,” he says, studying her for a moment.

“So do you.”

They stare at each other. He looks away first, a faint smirk on his lips that she would’ve missed if she wasn’t looking so closely.

“You’re a therapist now,” he states.

“Yeah. I unfuck people’s brains, as my best friend Cindy says.”

“Some people in high school could’ve used that.”

“I didn’t have the skills back then, unfortunately.”

He laughs. She holds back a grin.

“So, the offer...” she begins, rerouting her attention from his cute dimples to the point of their meeting.

He nods, encouraging her to continue.

“Why? I mean, why now?”

He leans back on the couch, laying one arm over the back of it, his pensive gaze settling on the glass table between them. “Since retiring, I’ve had a lot of time to think. And the one thing I can’t get off my mind is...” His green eyes lift to find hers. “You.”

She swallows. Her throat feels dry. Maybe she should’ve accepted that drink.

“Like I said on the phone, I don’t like the way I exploited you when you were vulnerable.” He pauses, jaw tightening. “I told myself at the time that it was a fair trade. Protection for homework. But that’s not what it was. You were scared and alone, and I saw an opportunity. I don’t regret defending you. I just regret trying to get something out of it.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’d like to think I’m not that person anymore…”

She didn’t truly believe he felt guilty until now, seeing and hearing him explain it to her in person. The way he struggles to meet her eyes but still wills himself to. The way he fidgets with the strings on his hoodie. He’s clearly been rehearsing what to say and how to say it.

“Harry,” she starts gently, “I appreciate you reaching out to apologize after all these years. But I really don’t need—or want—your pity.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not what this is. Y/N, I wouldn’t have all this”—he gestures vaguely to their surroundings—“if it wasn’t for you. I owe you.”

She laughs. “You’re giving me too much credit.”

“You’re the reason I was able to party my way through high school and still get into a good university.”

That part may be true, but she still doesn’t believe she was the reason he made it this far. She decides to concede on that point.

“I just think that money could be used for much better things,” she argues. “You could donate to a charity—”

“I already donate to charities.”

“Okay, well, maybe I could give you a list of charities that are close to my heart and—”

“That’s not enough. I want to help you directly.” His gaze is intense now, piercing into her with determination. “Consider it a donation to your clinic.”

She pauses. It’s technically the same thing. Him sending her money versus “donating” it to the clinic. And yet, this framing makes it sound different. Better. Noble.

She thinks of the dying space heater. The clients who keep cancelling. The old work computer that takes fucking ages to turn on. The things she could do with that money are… Well, endless.

“You’re actually making a difference,” he says more softly this time. “I just played a game. You deserve this money more than I do.”

She wants to keep arguing, but there’s no point. He has his mind made up, and she can be quite stubborn herself. They’ll keep talking in circles.

“Can I think about it?” she asks.

“Sure. The offer doesn’t expire.”

***

“So, let me get this straight,” says Cindy, swirling around her iced matcha.

Y/N needed to consult someone about this whole situation, and Cindy would tell it to her straight. So, she invited her to brunch that Saturday.

“You have a hot, rich former hockey player offering you a shitload of money for nothing in return…” Cindy taps a finger against her chin. “I’m not sure I’m seeing the issue.”

Y/N quirks a brow. “I never said he was hot.”

Her friend rolls her eyes. “Bitch, I googled him. Those shots of him on the ice are sexy.”

Y/N hadn’t even thought of googling him. She’s been too busy with work. Maybe she should do her research too.

“Fine. He’s hot. But that’s not the point.”

“Right. The money is the point.” Cindy leans forward on the table, punctuating her next few words, “The money that you very clearly need! When someone’s throwing you a life raft, Y/N, you take it.”

“Wouldn’t you feel weird accepting money from some guy from high school?”

“Maybe at first… But then I’d take a look at my bank account, and it wouldn’t feel weird anymore.” Cindy shrugs and takes a bite of her sandwich.

Y/N sighs. Her friend does have a point. Most people in her position wouldn’t hesitate to accept an offer like this. In fact, they would jump at the chance for free money before even vetting that it was legit. Is she being stupid for not accepting it?

“Look, you’re struggling,” Cindy says, more gently now. “Mark royally fucked you over and left you with heaps of debt. You keep giving discounted sessions to clients even though you can’t afford it because you’re a good fucking person.” She reaches for Y/N’s hand on the table and gives it an earnest squeeze. “You, of all people, deserve this money.”

Y/N looks down at their hands, feeling the weight of Cindy’s words settle in her chest. Her closest friend who has known her for nearly a decade.

“That’s what this is really about, right?” asks Cindy. “You think you don’t deserve it.”

That thought has been nagging at her ever since the initial phone call with Harry. She has always been someone who earns her success, who fights for every scrap. Hardship is familiar, perhaps even comfortable. But that also means she doesn’t know when to ask for help or even how to accept help when it’s offered to her on a silver platter like this.

She is struggling. Mark, her idiot of an ex-husband and former business partner, mismanaged their clinic’s finances. When he lost his license for misconduct, he disappeared, leaving Y/N to pay off the debts he incurred. She’s not blameless; she was stupidly in love and blindly trusted him.

She can’t bring herself to ask Harry to pay off her debt. She just can’t. Not yet. But maybe she can use his help in other ways.

That night, she calls him.

“Hey. So…” She takes a deep breath. “I guess I could use help with a couple things at the clinic.”

She expects some smug response about her finally giving in, but all he says is, “Okay. Name them.”

“The chairs in the waiting room need to be replaced.”

“Done.”

“And my work computer. It’s from 2018. I could use a new one.”

“Done.”

“That’s all.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mhm.”

A few moments of silence pass by, as if he’s waiting for her to change her mind and add more to the list, but she doesn’t.

“Alright,” he says. “Well, if you think of anything else—”

“I’ll let you know. Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“No need to thank me.”

***

The new computer arrives that following week. The chairs are delivered the next day.

Y/N is in her office, catching up on notetaking for her sessions that day, when she hears footsteps out in the waiting room. It’s nearly five o’clock. She has no more appointments that day, so she’s not sure who to expect when she walks out of her office.

She certainly wasn’t expecting Harry. Dressed in a blue long-sleeve shirt and black athletic shorts, sunglasses perched on his head. He waves.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” she asks.

“Just came to see if the chairs arrived.”

“Yeah, they got here an hour ago. I still need to get rid of the old ones.” She eyes the worn-out chairs with holes in the fabric. The new ones are stacked in a corner.

“I can do that.”

She raises her brows. “Oh, you don’t have to. I was going to take care of it after finishing my work.”

“No, no. I’ve got this. You go do your thing.” He starts moving towards the old chairs before she can protest.

She returns to her office and sits down at her desk. Harry can be seen through the blinds, carrying the chairs out to the dumpster. She tries to focus on her notes, but her attention shifts to the window each time he walks by. She watches him pause at one point, placing the chairs down, his hand rubbing his hip. Even through his shirt, she can see his muscles flexing as he picks them back up.

After some time, he stops appearing outside her window. She hears movement out in the waiting room—the sound of him rearranging the new chairs.

Then he’s in her doorway. She meets his gaze, smiles. He saunters in, observing his surroundings. The art on the walls. The plants on the windowsill. The couch set up on one side of the room facing an armchair, a coffee table in the middle. Her desk sits on the far side of the room.

“Nice office,” he comments.

“Thanks.”

“How’s the new computer?”

She glances at it. “Fantastic. Hasn’t crashed on me once. But I’m still hitting save every other minute because I have trust issues.”

He chuckles.

“Bit chilly in here, no?” he asks, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“That’s because I turned off the space heater.” She pats the old thing on the floor by her desk.

He frowns. “No central heating in this place?”

“There is. Or used to be. It’s wonky.”

He gives her a look that tells her exactly what he’s about to say.

“We can get that fixed, you know.”

She hesitates. “You’ve already done a lot.”

“A computer and chairs is not a lot.”

For him, it’s hardly a drop in the bucket. She bites her lip, considering it. It’s definitely harder to say no with him standing right there, looking at her with his intense green eyes.

“Okay, it would be nice to not freeze my ass off every time I’m in here,” she admits.

“Done,” he says. Like he’s her fucking fairy godmother. Or her own personal genie in a bottle. A cute genie. With dimples and broad shoulders and incredibly toned thighs—wow, how had she not noticed the thighs?

She realizes she’s staring and yanks her gaze back up to his face.

“I should get back to my notes,” she says.

“Right. I’ll leave you to it. Bye, Y/N.” He backs out of her office.

“Bye, Harry.”

As soon as she hears the front door close, she turns to her computer and googles his name, clicking on Images first. Cindy was right. Harry in hockey gear is mesmerizing. On the ice, he looks stern, focused, and intimidating. Photos of him off the ice—in press interviews and photoshoots—show a different side. Warm, friendly, and kind. In all of them, he looks undeniably attractive.

After scrolling through images for God knows how long, she returns to the All tab. She clicks on his Wikipedia page, scanning his accolades. A list of championships, MVP awards, stats that mean nothing to her. Then she reaches the section on his retirement. Recurring injuries. Surgery— She closes the tab. It feels too personal.

The link below his Wikipedia and Instagram is for The Styles Foundation—a charity founded by Harry that focuses on youth mental health initiatives and, more recently, covering the cost of therapy for retired athletes who can’t afford it.

Reading about his charity, Y/N feels a different kind of connection to him that she never did before. Connected not only by their past but also a cause—the desire to make mental health care more accessible.

Next, she looks up videos of Harry playing hockey. Watching him masterfully weave his way through his opponents on the ice makes something stir in her lower abdomen. After spending fifteen minutes watching his top ten career highlights and slow motion fan edits of his best goals, she snaps out of her trance and abruptly closes the window.

***

A few days later, Y/N parks outside her clinic, mentally gearing up for the day ahead. If she remembers correctly from her calendar, she has a day full of back-to-back sessions. As she exits her car, she notices a woman standing outside the clinic entrance, watching her. She’s in her forties, maybe, with a neat bob and a blazer. Not one of her clients.

“Are you Y/N Y/L/N?” asks the woman as she approaches.

“Yes.”

“You’re my daughter’s therapist.”

“Who’s your dau—”

“How dare you?”

The vitriol in her voice takes Y/N by surprise.

“How dare you report me to child protective services? I have never hurt my daughter or any of my children. I would never do such a thing!”

Now she understands. This is Kayla’s mother. Nineteen-year-old Kayla began seeing Y/N six months ago. Last month, she opened up about being physically and verbally abused by her mother growing up. Although Kayla is an adult now, she has younger siblings still living with their mother, which meant Y/N had to report the abuse.

“What has Kayla told you?” asks the woman.

“Ma’am,” Y/N begins slowly and calmly, “I can’t disclose that. I understand you’re upset—”

“You are tearing our family apart, do you understand?” The woman steps closer, her voice rising with each second. Y/N takes a subtle step back. “Do you have any idea what this is going to do to us? Are you even a real therapist? I heard about what goes on at this clinic. I should be the one reporting you!” She points an accusatory finger at her. “My daughter is never coming back here.”

Y/N’s jaw tightens. “Your daughter is an adult. She can decide for herself.”

“Not when I’m the one paying for her sessions.”

Y/N’s heart sinks. Kayla never mentioned that her sessions were being funded by her mom. Not that that would’ve changed anything. Y/N would’ve had to report the abuse regardless. But it still stings to know that this may prevent Kayla from accessing therapy again.

The woman finally turns on her heel and storms off to her car, slamming the door shut and speeding off.

Y/N unlocks the clinic with trembling hands and steps inside. Tears well in her eyes as she walks to her office. It’s not the first time something like this has happened in her career, but it never gets easier. She collapses at her desk and takes a few deep breaths to calm her racing heart.

The sound of the front door opening sends her heart into a tailspin again.

“Y/N?” Harry’s voice carries down the hallway.

She quickly wipes the tears off her face and walks out to the waiting room.

“Morning,” he says. “I was just— What’s wrong?” His brows furrow in concern, eyes scanning her face.

“Nothing.” She shakes her head. “Just a client.”

“You already had a client? I thought you just opened.”

“No, um…” She pauses, carefully considering her words. “It was a client’s mother. She was waiting for me when I got here and yelled at me for reporting her for child abuse.”

“Shit. That’s awful. I’m sorry.”

She shrugs, but her eyes fill with tears again.

Harry appears to move towards her instinctively, then stops himself. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She shakes her head.

He studies her for a moment. “How can I help? Let me take something off your plate today.”

His offer lifts some of the weight in her chest.

“Really? Don’t you have, like, stuff to do?”

He shrugs. “Nothing important.”

“I have back-to-back sessions today, but I’ve been wanting to organize the back room. There’s a ton of boxes with documents that need to be shredded.”

“I’m a great shredder.”

She laughs. That weight lifts a bit more.

***

When Harry first reached out to Y/N, he wasn’t expecting it to turn into… this. He was prepared to drop a large sum of money directly into her bank account and call it a day. He didn’t think she’d be so reluctant to accept the offer.

It didn’t seem like pride. She just seemed skeptical at first and then like someone who isn’t used to having things handed to her, which Harry could respect. Still, he was determined to help her, and when he met her in person, that impulse only grew stronger. She was so… genuine. And tenacious. And inspiring.

After everything she went through in high school, she could’ve turned into a bitter shell of a human being who takes her grievances out on everyone else, and she would be totally justified in doing so. But instead, she turned into someone that spends her days helping people heal from trauma and other mental struggles. How could anyone not be inspired by that?

When he found her crying after getting yelled at by a client’s mother, it reminded him of the last time he saw her cry, which was in high school. She was hiding under a cold, dark stairwell by herself, sobbing quietly into her knees.

“Are you, um… Are you okay?” he asked when he found her there.

The sobbing abruptly stopped. She stared up at him wide-eyed, a deer caught in headlights. “Y—yeah.”

“You can’t let them see you cry, you know,” he told her. “It’ll just make things worse.”

“I know.” She sniffled. “That’s why I’m here.”

That was the day they made the deal. She was vulnerable and desperate. Harry thinks she would have agreed to just about anything. And he used that to his advantage. Maybe if it had been someone else in his place, they would’ve gone even further, made even bigger requests, but he couldn’t use that to excuse his own behaviour.

Now he’s trying to make things right. He’s not sure if he believes in karma, but he does believe in taking accountability.

He spent that whole day at the clinic, shredding papers in the back room while Y/N saw clients. He put his headphones in and listened to music to entertain himself. It felt oddly relaxing. And it was nice to see Y/N popping her pretty head in every now and then to check on him.

He kept returning that week to help out, even bringing her coffee some days. She eventually asked him to sign a volunteer contract, explaining the confidentiality rules to him, and to get a background check.

“Not because I think you’re a criminal,” she reassured him. “It’s just protocol.”

He understood. If anything, he found it admirable that she wanted to do things the right way.

He enjoyed being in the clinic. Even if he was only doing menial tasks, like shredding papers, cleaning, and organizing. It felt… meaningful.

“I noticed you don’t have a receptionist,” he said to her one day. “Is there a reason for that?”

“We used to have one. She was pretty flaky. Then she just became another expense to stress over, so I had to let her go.”

“We?”

“Huh?”

“You said ‘we’ used to have one.”

“Oh. Did I? Whoops.” She gave a sheepish laugh and walked back to her office.

Except Harry had noticed the other office. The one that remains unused with nothing but a desk and two chairs inside it. It looks like it once belonged to another therapist. But he doesn’t want to pry, so he keeps his questions to himself.

It’s Friday now and he’s in the back room again, shredding documents, headphones in, humming along to Joni Mitchell. He pauses for a moment to lean back in his chair and stretch. That’s when he notices her standing in the doorway, a small grin on her face as she watches him.

“Oh, hey.” He removes his headphones.

“I just wanted to let you know I have to close the clinic early because I have plans tonight.”

“Wow. And here I thought you were a workaholic.”

She gives him a wry smile. “I am on most days. But I can’t miss this. My best friend Cindy got a promotion, so a few of us are going out to celebrate.”

Good, he thinks to himself. This past week, he has seen her work ten-hour days, which apparently is the norm for her. She deserves a night out.

“Actually, would you…” She hesitates, biting her lip. “Would you want to come?”

He doesn’t even have to think about it. “Sure. Your friend won’t mind?”

“No, I think she’ll be happy to finally meet you.”

“You told her about me?”

Her eyes widen briefly. “Only in passing. She’s nosy.”

He chuckles. “Alright, I’m in.”

He offers to drive them to the bar. Her friends are already there when they arrive, sitting at a table in the back. She introduces all of them. Cindy, Poppy, Sara, and Jamal. Harry tries to commit their names to memory.

Cindy is a short brunette with a sharp wit. Y/N was right. She seems thrilled to meet Harry, exchanging sly glances with Y/N in the way that women do sometimes when they seem to be telepathically communicating.

Her other friends seem alright, though a couple of them make comments at Y/N that could pass as innocent on the surface but seem to have snarky undertones. Maybe he’s reading into things too much or doesn’t understand their dynamic quite yet. That can happen when you’re the outsider in a friend group.

It’s fascinating to see Y/N in a different setting, in non-therapist mode. She’s dressed in a fitted white t-shirt with a short black skirt and boots. Her hair is down, her shoulders relaxed. Her hands nurse a margarita. She laughs freely and often, and when Harry realizes it’s the sweetest sound he’s heard in a while, he knows he’s in trouble.

“Harry, how do you and Y/N know each other?” asks Poppy.

“We went to the same high school.”

“Oh! High school sweethearts!”

“We never dated,” Y/N quickly corrects.

Poppy gapes at her. “What?! Let me guess. You were too busy paying attention in class and being a good student,” she says in a patronizing tone. “Boring!”

Harry quirks a brow and glances at Y/N, who just quietly sips her margarita.

“What was Y/N like in high school?” asks Sara.

Now she shifts uncomfortably in her seat, brushing her fingers through her hair, avoiding his gaze, like she’s afraid to hear what he has to say.

“She was smart. Really smart. She was kind, even to people who didn’t deserve it.”

He keeps things vague. It seems like most of her friends don’t know what she endured in high school.

“Wow. You make her sound like a saint.” Poppy laughs. “She can’t be that perfect. C’mon, give us some embarrassing stories.”

“Poppy, shut up,” Cindy cuts in, then turns to Harry. “Was Y/N always this hot?”

Y/N nearly chokes on her drink, coughing into her elbow.

Harry smirks. “I thought she was pretty, yeah.”

Pretty felt too simple. He remembers watching her during an exam. He told himself it was just part of their deal—cheating off her meant frequently looking over at her. But then he started getting lost in the details. Like the way her brow would furrow when she reached a difficult question, puckering her soft lips, tapping her pencil against her temple as if the answer was just stuck somewhere in her brain and the pencil would knock it loose. Yeah, pretty was just skimming the surface.

Y/N seems taken aback by his admission. Cindy grins, pleased by his answer.

“Harry, my brother is a huge hockey fan,” says Poppy, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“Oh yeah?”

“You were actually his favourite player until you retired. He would kill me if I don’t at least get a selfie.”

“Poppy,” Y/N says sternly.

“What?”

“It’s fine,” says Harry. “I don’t mind.”

Y/N still gives him an apologetic look.

Later that night, he leaves to use the restroom. When he returns, the live band has started their set and most of their group has moved to the dance floor, leaving their drinks behind at the table. Y/N is still there with her friend Jamal, patiently listening to him rant about his toxic ex-boyfriend who keeps calling to fuck with his head.

“J, you really need to block him,” she shouts over the music.

“You know I can’t do that!”

She sighs, like they’ve had this conversation fifteen times. Eventually, Jamal tires of ranting and saunters off to the dance floor. Y/N watches her friends dancing with a small, wistful smile on her face, one hand fiddling with her dangly gold earrings.

Harry leans closer and says in her ear, “You should go dance.”

“I promised to guard everyone’s stuff,” she replies, gesturing to the unfinished drinks, purses, and other belongings messily strewn across the table.

Harry doesn’t like that sweet Y/N had been relegated to guard duty. “I can guard it.”

She hesitates. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Go dance.”

She gives him a grateful grin and then she’s off. He watches as she joins her friends on the floor, throwing her hands up in the air and grooving along to the music. Cindy starts grinding on her theatrically, and she returns the favour by giving her friend’s butt a few playful spanks. Harry laughs, thoroughly entertained by their antics.

By the end of the night, Y/N is happily drunk and high on life. So much so that she nearly crosses a busy street without looking on the way back to Harry’s car, but he grabs her by the waist just in time. When they reach his car, he opens the door for her before getting in himself.

“Did you have fun tonight?” she asks as he pulls out of the lot.

“Yeah, I did.”

“Did you really? I hope you don’t feel like I just brought you along to take selfies with my friends and guard our stuff while we danced. I swear that wasn’t the plan. I didn’t even know Poppy has a brother who likes hockey? She might have made that up, now that I think about it.” She frowns thoughtfully, her lips set in an adorable pout.

“I didn’t feel that way at all, lovie.” The pet name slips out before he can stop it, and he feels his ears go warm. But she hardly seems to notice. “And Poppy is, um… an interesting character.” That’s the most polite descriptor he could think of.

Y/N gets an odd expression on her face when he says that. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” He decides that having this conversation while she’s drunk is probably not the best idea and drops it.

She falls asleep at some point, and Harry subconsciously drives smoother to avoid waking her up. He glances at her periodically, the image of her sleeping face under the glow of passing streetlights too beautiful to resist.

She stirs awake on her own when they reach her apartment.

“Thanks for the ride, Harr bear,” she says. “You’re the best.”

He chuckles. “You’re welcome.”

He waits until she’s inside the building before driving away.

***

Y/N sleeps in the next day. Well, her definition of “sleeping in,” which involves getting up at eight instead of six.

She eats breakfast and gets ready to go to the clinic. She keeps her Saturday afternoons open for clients who can’t meet during the week. It’s half past noon when she leaves her apartment and gets in her car. Except when she turns her key in the ignition… The car doesn’t start. She tries again. And again. Nothing. Not even a click.

Fuck. That’s what she gets for ignoring the check engine light for so long.

She has a session at one o’clock. She could take the bus, but it would take her an hour to get there. She would call Cindy, but she’s out of town for the weekend. She calls Jamal. No answer. She calls Sara. Voicemail. She doesn’t even bother with Poppy. Sighing, she realizes she’s left with one choice. Harry. She feels bad asking him for yet another favour. Not that she necessarily asked for the other ones. But still.

The clock is ticking. She doesn’t have time to deliberate. She calls Harry and explains her situation. Not surprisingly, he agrees to give her a ride.

“I’m really sorry about this,” she says as she gets into his car a few minutes later. “No one else was available.”

“No, no, I’m glad you called,” he says with a smile.

“Really? I thought you’d be sick of me after we basically spent all of yesterday together.”

“Please. I could never be sick of you.” He says it like it’s a given, like there’s nothing he’d rather do than spend time with her.

When they reach the clinic, he asks what time she gets off work that day.

“At six,” she answers. “But I can take the bus home, it’s fine.”

He gives her a disapproving look. “You’re not taking the bus. Text me when you’re done, okay?”

“Okay.”

She’s smiling as she walks into the clinic, her dead car forgotten and filed away in the back of her mind. Her good mood doesn’t last very long though. Her sessions are tough that day. One client recently got back together with her abusive ex-boyfriend, seemingly undoing all the work they’ve done in therapy. Another client lost a loved one to a long battle with cancer. And finally, her last client lays into her for not immediately fixing all her problems, even though they’ve only had three sessions so far and she has refused to do any of the homework Y/N assigns.

By the end of the day, she is utterly exhausted.

While she waits for Harry, she decides to check her banking app. Another loan payment was automatically withdrawn today. Her balance is hovering close to zero yet again. She’s been paying off this loan for three years. Three years, and it feels like she’s barely made a dent. She groans, feeling twice as drained as before.

Harry must see it on her face when he pulls up in his car because he says, “Rough day?”

“Yeah,” she sighs, settling into the passenger seat. Then she pauses, pokes her nose in the air like a dog and sniffs. “Were you eating in here?”

He turns to look in the backseat. She follows his gaze to find multiple takeout bags sitting there.

“I got Thai food,” he says. “I was going to invite you over for dinner, but if you’re too tired, I—”

“I love Thai!” She looks at him with wide-eyed excitement.

“I know. You bring it for lunch all the time.”

Y/N could cry. She could actually physically burst into tears right now. He noticed what she was bringing for lunch? And went out of his way to get it for her and was planning to invite her over for dinner?

“I’d love to join you for dinner,” she says instead of crying.

***

Y/N has never felt more comfortable, snuggled under a fluffy blanket on Harry’s big couch, legs curled under her, belly full of Thai food. Harry goes to the kitchen to put away their dishes and trash. When he returns to find her wrapped up like a burrito on the couch, he seems quite pleased, as though his mission has been accomplished.

“I have a confession,” she says as he sits down next to her.

“I’m listening.”

“I googled you.”

He lets out a laugh. “To be fair, I googled you first. That’s how I got your clinic number.”

“Oh. Yeah.” She frowns, realizing it’s not as wild of a confession as she initially thought. “But I mean, I watched you play. You’re really good on the ice. Like, scary good. Do you ever miss it?”

He thinks for a moment. “Sometimes… Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, and I think I have a game the next day. And then I remember I’m retired. And there’s this mix of relief and…”

“Grief?”

He meets her eyes. “Yeah. Not just missing the game, but, like, the structure that came with it? The schedules, the teammates, the expectations. It was all so predictable. And then suddenly, I was just… a guy with a lot of money and no idea what to do with himself.”

“How did you deal with that?”

“Well, at first, with a lot of alcohol.” He laughs sheepishly. “That wasn’t quite working, so I started talking to people. Other retired athletes. That helped. And I started putting my time and money into things that matter to me.”

“Is that how your foundation came about?”

He raises his brows. “You really did your research.”

She shrugs, a small proud smile tugging at her lips.

“I actually started the foundation while I was still playing. I lost a teammate to suicide, and I wanted to contribute to mental health initiatives, so that’s how it started. Then after I retired and struggled with that transition, I wanted to help other retired athletes.”

She watches him closely as he speaks, the way he gestures with his hands, the grief in his eyes when he mentions his teammate, the determination when he explains wanting to help others like himself. The warm feeling in her chest expands and spreads through the rest of her body.

“You’re a really good guy, Harry.”

He smiles, then looks away briefly, like he’s contemplating his next words. He opens his mouth, then closes it.

“What?”

“I have a confession too,” he finally says.

Her stomach flips.

“In our last year of high school… I was going to ask you out.”

She blinks at him, hardly processing the words at first. “You were?”

He nods.

It’s suddenly too hot under her blanket, so she pulls it halfway down her body. “Why didn’t you?”

He thinks about it.

“Were you scared of what people would think? It’s okay if you were,” she says softly, though her heart sinks at the thought.

“No, I was scared of what you would think. I thought you were too smart to go out with a dumb jock like me.”

She frowns. “That’s not true.”

He tilts his head. “No?”

“No.”

They gaze at each other for a long moment. She realizes how close they are on this couch and how warm her face is and how he’s directly staring at her lips now. He shifts closer and closer. Her breath catches in her throat.

And then he kisses her. A soft, lingering kiss at first. Then another. And another. It’s only once she has fully melted into goo that he properly kisses her, hands cupping her face and angling it towards him so he can slip his tongue in easily. He tastes like the guava candy they found at the bottom of their takeout bags—sweet and tangy.

She brings her hand to his chest, gripping the front of his shirt in her fist. She’s breathless when he pulls away. He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head like he’s in disbelief.

“What?” she asks.

“You have no idea how many times I imagined doing that back in high school.”

And she stops breathing again. She really had no idea. Not a clue how he felt about her. Of course not. She was too busy trying to survive.

His thumb traces her bottom lip. Then he gently pushes her onto her back and props himself up on one elbow next to her, a hand resting on her lower abdomen, which twitches and clenches under his touch. Leaning down, he hovers just inches from her mouth. She tries to kiss him, but he pulls back. She tries again and he does the same thing, smirking. The teasing bastard. Finally, she grabs his face and plants a firm kiss to his lips.

His hand shifts from her abdomen to her waistband. She’s still in her work clothes. Undoing the top button of her pants, he slips a hand inside, fingers grazing over the wet spot that has formed over her panties. He nips gently at her bottom lip before pulling away and shifting down the couch. His fingers hook into her waistband.

“Can I?” he asks, looking up at her.

She nods, acting like her entire body isn’t vibrating with anticipation.

Soon, her bottom half is exposed. He wastes no time in spreading her legs apart and bringing his mouth to her clit. The sudden contact makes her flinch away.

“Too much?” he asks.

“Just sensitive. Sorry.”

He hushes away her apology, then takes his time sprinkling kisses all over her inner thighs. He pulls her legs up over his shoulders, hands firmly gripping her sides when he licks her clit again, more gently this time.

“Tastes so good, Y/N. So sweet,” he murmurs against her clit.

She grins to herself, letting her head drop back as he slips his tongue directly into her wet hole. Her hands grasp at the blanket beneath her at first and then the back of his head. No part of her was expecting tonight to go like this. He laps at her pussy like some sort of starved animal until the orgasm rips through her, making her toes and fingers curl.

“Fuck, Harry, oh my God,” she stammers out as she comes.

He licks her clean with his tongue, being careful not to overstimulate her. Then he stands up and her gaze lands on the clear outline of his bulge pressing against his sweatpants. When he begins undressing, she starts to move towards him.

“Wait,” he says. “Stay where you are.”

She obeys, sinking back into the couch, her eyes never leaving him. She knew he was fit—former athlete and all that—but seeing the proof before her eyes is something else. The broad shoulders, the thick pectorals, the insane biceps and quads, but also the slight pudge that has formed around his middle and sides—she admires all of it.

He leaves the room for a moment and returns with a condom, rolling it on before sitting down on the couch.

“Come here,” he says, patting his thighs.

Entranced, she crawls over to him. He pulls her into his lap so that she’s straddling him. Between them, his cock is swollen thick, the veins visible through the flushed skin, pulsing and throbbing in a way that makes her salivate.

“Put it inside you,” he says.

She doesn’t hesitate. Her hands grasp his cock. She already knows how full and thick and tight he’s going to feel inside her. She lines his tip with her entrance and presses down slowly, taking him inch by inch, moaning at the overwhelming sensation of his length filling her up.

He hisses, closing his eyes for a moment. “Fucking hell, Y/N.”

Once her pussy swallows him whole, he grabs her hips and holds them there. His gaze scans over her face, eyes swimming with lust.

“Jesus. You’re so beautiful.”

He unbuttons her blouse, pulling it off of her, then unclasps her bra. His large hands cup her exposed breasts, fingers tweaking the hardened nipples, making her gasp.

Then with a hand wrapped around her throat, he pulls her in for a brief kiss and says, “Ride me, pretty girl.”

And she does. Her hips start bouncing on his cock. He grabs her ass with his other hand, kneading the thick flesh, as she rides him faster and faster.

“That’s it, baby,” he grunts. “Good girl. Don’t stop.”

He thrusts up into her, meeting her halfway. His hand remains around her throat, squeezing lightly at the sides. She wraps her hands around his forearm, keeping it there.

“Harry…” she moans, unable to form any other word with her mouth right now.

“Feels good, yeah? Are you going to come on my cock?”

She nods, swallowing thickly, feeling the pressure of his palm around her throat.

“Yeah, you are. Give it to me, Y/N.”

She comes hard, clenching around him intensely and repeatedly. He coaxes the orgasm out of her before following it up with his own, his cock throbbing against her walls and filling the condom with each spurt.

She lets herself collapse on him, burying her face in his neck, his cock still inside her. He wraps his arms around her and keeps her close until she’s ready to get up. Then he carries her up to his bathroom so they can get cleaned up.

As they lie in bed that night, she reflects on what a turn of events today has been. From her car breaking down to Harry confessing he had feelings for her in high school to them having sex? Her teenage self could’ve never foreseen this. She almost chuckles to herself as she falls asleep.

***

When Y/N awakens the next morning, it takes her a few moments to remember where she is and why she suddenly has curtains on her window that weren’t there before. She rubs her eyes and looks beside her to find Harry lying on his side, his soft gaze trained on her. He wraps an arm around her waist and slides her closer with no effort at all. He kisses her forehead and the tip of her nose.

She laughs softly. “Morning.”

“Morning.”

“What time is it?”

“Nine-ish. Please tell me you have the day off.”

“I do.” She never sees clients on Sundays. Thank goodness.

“Good.”

Then she remembers. Her car. A dreadful groan escapes her.

“What?”

“I still have to deal with my car.”

“Are you going to take it to the mechanic?”

She shakes her head. “It’s been giving me trouble for a while. Too many repairs this past year. I fear it’s time to let her go.”

He gives her a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry.”

She stretches her arms overhead. Harry pushes up on one elbow, his green eyes deep in a thousand-yard stare. She can almost see the wheels turning in his head.

“So, hypothetically, if you were to get a new car, what kind would it be?” he finally asks.

She narrows her eyes at him.

“What? It’s a hypothetical. Humour me, will you?”

“I don’t even know. I’ve had this one since I was in college. I never imagined replacing it.” She thinks about it. “Maybe I should go look at some cars.”

His eyes light up. “We’re going car shopping?”

“We’re going to look at cars,” she corrects.

“Right. Looking. Very serious, non-car-buying looking.”

She rolls her eyes.

***

As soon as they enter the dealership, car salesmen start circling them like sharks. Harry handles them smoothly, telling them to fuck off in the most polite way possible (“we’re just looking, thanks”).

He lets her take the lead on where to go first, so she heads over to the row of sensibly priced sedans, though they’re still far out of her price range. She sits inside one of them. Harry joins her in the passenger seat.

“I like this one,” she says, hands smoothing over the steering wheel.

“It’s very… practical,” he says, looking over his shoulder at the backseat, clearly unimpressed.

“That’s the point.”

“But it lacks personality, don’t you think?”

She glares at him. “Harry, it’s a car. It just needs to get me places.”

He throws his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. But let’s just look at some more. For fun.”

She sighs and agrees. Why is she not surprised that he’s a car guy?

He takes her over to some of the more high-end models. Y/N’s eyes rake over the glossy exteriors of the cars, the obscene price tags making her chest cave. Harry excitedly points out some cool features he notices. When one of the salesmen walks over, he doesn’t turn them away this time. Instead, he lets the guy tell them about the car they’re looking at.

Y/N feels strange all of a sudden. Like the world around her is fading into the distance, the salesman’s voice turning into muffled background noise. Her heart feels like it’s in her throat. She’s vaguely aware of Harry glancing at her, his hand finding her elbow.

“Are you okay?” his voice breaks through the fog.

She shrugs him off and heads for the exit. Except she doesn’t know where it is. Where the hell did they enter from? Why is this place so fucking big? Why are there no exit signs?

“Y/N!” Harry catches up to her and grabs her hand. “Hey, stop. What’s wrong?”

“I can’t do this.” She shakes her head, not meeting his eyes.

“Do what?”

“Act like this is normal. Someone buying me a car? And don’t say ‘we’re just looking.’ I know you’re seriously thinking of getting me one. And I know it’s not a big deal to you, but it is to me, okay?”

“Okay, I—”

“And it’s not that I’m ungrateful.”

“I never said you were—”

“I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me so far. But this”—she gestures at the showroom around them—“is too much. I can’t keep taking from you like this. That’s not— That’s not who I am.” Her voice quivers. She swallows hard, pushing down the emotion. “Can we go?”

***

Harry keeps glancing over at Y/N on the way home, wondering if she’s okay. She appears calmer than she did at the dealership, her gaze focused out the passenger side window, but she looks so defeated, it makes his chest ache.

Did he push her too hard to accept his money? He just wants to help her. That’s been his goal this entire time. He thought that buying her smaller things for the clinic might warm her up to bigger purchases, but maybe he was wrong. The last thing he wanted to do was stress her out even more, and now he feels like that’s exactly what he’s done.

It’s late in the afternoon when they get back to his house. Y/N is quiet for the rest of the day. She takes a nap on the couch, while he gets some chores done. When she wakes up, they put on some trashy reality TV and eat dinner. That’s when she starts to seem more like herself, roasting the guys on the show for their mediocre attempts at impressing the women.

She pauses the show after a couple episodes. He looks at her.

“I need to tell you something,” she says, fidgeting with the remote in her hands.

He nods encouragingly.

“The clinic was previously co-owned by someone else... My ex-husband, Mark. We met in grad school and came up with the idea of opening a practice together. The first couple years were great.” She pauses, a haunted look creeping into her eyes. “And then the complaints started coming in.”

“What kind of complaints?”

“Mark was flirting with clients. Bringing wine into sessions. Kissing them. Sleeping with them. The list goes on.”

“Jesus Christ,” Harry mutters.

“I know. I had no idea. I know that sounds dumb. Our offices were literally across the hall from each other. How could I not have known? But he hid it so well.”

“I believe you.”

She looks at him. He sees the relief there, like she’s been bracing herself in case he didn’t.

“I filed for divorce after that,” she continues. “Several clients sued. He lost his license. And then… He vanished.”

“Vanished how?”

“His office had been emptied out overnight. He texted me that he was sorry, that he needed a fresh start. And then he blocked me.”

“Hardly an apology.”

“Yeah.” She scoffs. “Anyway, I was left with the debt. We took out a loan to start the clinic. It was in both our names. When he left, I had to pay it off. And the settlement from the lawsuits. The clinic was liable. I had to pay that too.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s my punishment for being so fucking oblivious.” She shakes her head at herself. “I didn’t see what he was doing to those clients. God, I’m a therapist. I should’ve seen it. That’s my entire job.”

“You can’t blame yourself for that.”

She shrugs, staring down at her hands. She’s shaking.

“How much?” he asks softly.

She closes her eyes. He can tell she’s debating whether to answer the question honestly.

“The loan is about 40k. The settlement was way more. Like 80k. I’ve been paying it off for three years. I’m down to about 60k.”

The numbers don’t shock him. He doesn’t even flinch. But the fact that she’s been carrying this burden—largely the consequences of someone else’s recklessness—all on her own shoulders makes him irate. His jaw tightens. He imagines bashing Mark’s head in, then running him over with a bus. Repeatedly.

But beneath the anger is something else. Guilt. The same guilt that drove him to contact her in the first place. Didn’t he once exploit her vulnerability too? Perhaps not in the same way as Mark. But still. Is he really that much better than this guy he wants to rip to shreds?

“I’ve been paying it off bit by bit,” she says. “But I’m barely staying afloat. It’s a constant reminder of the biggest mistake of my life, and I can’t take it anymore.” She finally breaks, the tears pooling in her eyes. “I thought I could do it on my own, but… I need help, Harry. And I hate the way I feel when I say that. I don’t know if it’s pride or what—”

“It’s not pride,” he interjects gently. “You’re just so used to fighting and enduring and working your ass off for every little thing. That’s all you’ve ever known, lovie.”

She puts her face in hands, body trembling with quiet sobs.

“Come here.” He moves closer and wraps his arms around her. “It’s okay. You don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

Harry hardly sleeps that night. He lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, while Y/N is sound asleep next to him. He keeps replaying what she told him about her ex-husband and the debt. The way she took responsibility for someone else’s actions and called it her punishment made him sick.

He doesn’t want her to go through something like that ever again. Not just the financial hardship. But also the betrayal by someone she deeply trusted, someone who was supposed to love and protect her. He can’t let that happen again. He won’t.

***

The next day, Y/N and Harry have an honest conversation about how this is going to work. She agrees to let him pay off her debt in full. She also agrees to let him buy her a new car… on one condition.

“I get to choose the car,” she says. “No luxury models. Just a normal, sensible car.”

“But a Lamborghini would look so sexy on you,” he whines.

“Harry.” She gives him a stern look.

“I’m kidding. Mostly.” He smirks. “Okay, no luxury cars.”

“Thank you.”

“No, thank you for letting me do this. I know it’s not easy for you.”

For the next few weeks, she feels lighter than air. She hasn’t felt like that in years. At least not since before the debt. She’s sleeping better. Opening her bank account doesn’t make her stomach turn. At the clinic, she’s more present with her clients.

To make things even better, she’s been spending most nights at Harry’s place. They’ve fallen into a routine of having dinner together, sleeping together, waking up together, moments of intimacy sprinkled into every interaction.

One morning, she wakes first and heads to the kitchen to make breakfast while catching up on her friends’ group chat, which was popping off last night, but she was too busy having fun with Harry to read the messages.

Poppy: Mandatory drinks tomorrow night!!

Everyone except Y/N and Cindy liked the message.

Cindy: i’m out of town for a work trip again sorry babes

Jamal: Y/N pls say you’re coming. We need your therapist superpowers

Sara: Yeahhhh I need help dealing with my narcissist boss

Jamal: And my narcissist ex!!! :(

Y/N leaves her phone on the counter with the group chat open, as she finishes preparing breakfast. It’s been a while since she has seen her friends. She briefly considers the consequences of not going. Poppy wouldn’t be too happy. Not because she adores Y/N. She just hates when someone cancels on her plans and acts a bit cold to them the next time they see her. When Poppy plans something, everyone is expected to be in attendance.

Harry enters the kitchen and immediately walks up behind her, hugging her waist and kissing her cheek. She grins and turns her head to kiss him back. Then he moves over to pour himself a cup of coffee. She notices him glancing at her phone on the counter.

“Therapist superpowers?” He looks at her with a cocked brow. “Aren’t you supposed to be off the clock when you’re with friends?”

She shrugs. “I’m the therapist in the group. They come to me for advice.”

He takes a sip of his coffee and walks over to the fridge, out of sight.

“Are you going?” he asks.

“Yeah, probably. Do you want to come?”

“I have some foundation stuff to take care of.” He pauses. “Is Cindy going?”

“No, she has a work thing.”

“Is it even going to be fun without your best friend there?”

Her brows furrow slightly at the odd question. “Yeah, why not? I love Cindy, but I don’t need her there to have fun.”

He doesn’t say anything.

She turns around now to face him. “Why do I feel like you’re trying to convince me not to go?”

He shuts the fridge, laughing softly. “Maybe because I am?”

“But why? You won’t even be home tonight.”

“It’s not about that.”

She stares at him expectantly, waiting for him to elaborate.

“I just got a weird vibe from your friends last time,” he says. “Especially Poppy. She called you boring to your face.”

“That’s just how she is. She’s insecure and annoying. She’s also fun and hilarious sometimes.”

“But even the others… They treat you like a free therapist to help solve their problems. Doesn’t that bother you?”

She laughs. “Harry, they’re joking around. It’s banter between friends. That’s all.”

He gazes at her quietly, like he’s holding back from saying more.

“Okay,” he finally says. “Maybe I misread things.”

She gives him a gentle smile now. “Thanks for looking out for me. But everything’s fine. Really.”

He smiles back, but the skepticism is still there, just below the surface.

***

“I’m glad he ended things, but… I don’t know.”

“I’m sensing some ambivalence there.”

“I just feel like everyone leaves me eventually—”

A loud bang outside the office makes both Y/N and her client jump. The client’s eyes dart towards the door.

“I’m so sorry. I’ll be right back,” says Y/N.

She hurries out of the office and finds the light in the restroom is on. Inside is a large man lying on the ground beneath the sink with a wrench in hand.

“Um, hi, excuse me?” she says, taking a tentative step towards the stranger.

He looks at her. “Hi! Harry said you had a leak in the bathroom?”

A leak in the— She never told him that. He must’ve caught it himself.

“Good news!” the man continues, beaming like he just won the lottery. “It was just a loose compression nut. Took two minutes.” He scoots out from under the sink and stands up. “You have a good day now.”

“Wait, don’t you need payment?”

“Harry said he’ll handle it.” He leaves.

She stands there for a moment, somewhat flustered. She appreciates that Harry had taken care of something that otherwise would’ve been a nuisance for her. She just wishes he would’ve given her a heads up to make sure the plumber wouldn’t interrupt one of her sessions. She returns to her office and tries to resume where they left off, though the client seems a bit guarded after that.

Her last session runs late, so she’s the last of her friends to show up at the bar that evening. She parks by the front and joins them inside. Poppy immediately brings attention to her lateness.

“Y/N! We were worried you got lost.”

“Sorry, things ran late at the clinic.”

“How are things at the clinic? Any psycho client stories?”

Y/N gives a nervous laugh. “You know I can’t talk about clients.”

Poppy pouts. “Well, that’s no fun.”

She called you boring to your face. Harry’s words from that morning ring through her mind.

“Is that a new car?” asks Jamal, pointing out the window at her car.

She suddenly regrets parking so close.

“Oh, um, yeah.” She starts perusing the drinks menu.

“Wait,” says Sara. “Didn’t you say a few weeks ago that you can’t afford a new one?”

Before she can respond, Poppy says, “Harry got it for her.”

Y/N is taken aback by the confidence in her voice. “Wh— How did you know that?”

Poppy smirks. “I didn’t. But I do now.”

Y/N shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

“I knew you looked different,” she says, giving her a once-over. “So, what? He’s your sugar daddy now?”

Y/N laughs. “We’re the same age.”

“Doesn’t matter. He’s buying you a car? Did he get that dress too?”

She doesn’t respond. Because the answer is yes. She and Harry went shopping last weekend. She saw a dress she liked with a ridiculous price tag. He pleaded with her to at least try it on, which she did. She fell in love with it. And well, there he was, ready with his credit card.

“Hey, I’m not judging,” says Poppy, leaning towards her. “If I knew a guy like that, I’d be milking him for his money too.”

Y/N frowns. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

Poppy just smirks again. Y/N tries not to roll her eyes. The conversation moves on to Sara’s narcissistic boss, but she can’t stop thinking about how Poppy’s last comment got under her skin. She’s not milking Harry for his money. But she can see how it may appear that way to an outsider. And now she’s insecure about it. Great.

The comment keeps nagging at her for the rest of the night and into the next day. She knows she shouldn’t bring it up to Harry. She knows.

And yet, that evening, while they’re cuddling on the couch watching some corny romcom that she can’t pay attention to, she blurts out, “Do you ever feel like I’m using you for your money?”

He’s quiet at first, then pauses the movie and shifts on the couch so he can see her face. “Why would I think that, lovie? I practically had to beg you to accept my money.”

She instantly feels reassured by his answer. But now she has to deal with the concern on his face.

“It was just something in the back of my mind I had to clear up,” she explains, reaching for the remote to resume the movie, but he doesn’t let her.

“It was in the back of your mind or did someone else put it there?”

She frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It was Poppy, wasn’t it? Or one of the others?”

She sighs and rubs a hand over her face. “Look, I’m sorry I brought it up, okay? Let’s just drop it.”

“No, Y/N.” He sits up, making her do the same. “I don’t like that your friends say shit like that. It clearly bothers you too or you wouldn’t have brought it up.”

“What do you want me to do, Harry? Stop hanging out with them?”

“Yes.” His jaw tightens.

She scoffs and leans away from him, genuinely shocked by his response. “Well, that’s... kind of controlling.”

He blinks, equally as shocked by her choice of words. “Controlling? How’s that controlling?”

“You want me to stop hanging out with my friends because you don’t like them? Do you hear yourself?”

“I’m not trying to control you. I’m trying to protect you.”

“We’re not in high school anymore, Harry. I don’t need you to protect me from people. I can do that myself.”

“Can you?”

She narrows her eyes. “Excuse me?”

He sighs. “Y/N, you constantly let people take advantage of your kindness. Your friends, your clients, your ex? Can’t you see? It’s all the same fucking pattern. I hate it because I love you, and I know you deserve better than that. So, no, I’m not being controlling when I say you have shitty friends.”

She doesn’t say anything. His words settle like a pit in her stomach. Harsh, acidic, and, worst of all, true. Softened only by the confession of love casually thrown in there.

Her job is about recognizing patterns in people’s behaviours. Patterns that they repeat from childhood, from past relationships and friendships, from past mistakes. Has she seriously failed to recognize them in her own life?

Harry stands up, visibly frustrated and tired. “I’m going to bed.”

He leaves her on the couch and heads upstairs. She stays there for a while, stewing in her own mix of anger and hurt. When she finally goes up, he’s on his side of the bed with his back to her. She gets in on her side and tries to sleep, neither of them saying a word.

***

The next day, Y/N is up and out of the house before Harry’s even awake. At the clinic, she buries herself in her work, though her mind is still processing the argument from last night. A client cancels last minute without good reason, and she once again waives the late cancellation fee because… Well, she can’t help it. Maybe Harry was right. She does let people walk all over her.

Still, she doesn’t appreciate the way he said it. Implying that she can’t take care of herself. That she can’t think for herself. That she needs someone else to step in and tell her what to do. She’s not that incapable of looking out for herself. Right?

At lunchtime, she stares at her phone, wanting to text him but not knowing what to say. When her screen lights up, her heart flutters, expecting it to be him. But instead, it’s Jamal. Shoving her disappointment deep inside, she picks up the call and listens to her friend vent about his ex for the hundredth time. Ten minutes into his monologue, she finally works up the nerve to lie and tell him she has a client waiting to see her. He takes up five more minutes of her time before hanging up.

Y/N shakes her head at herself, pinching the bridge of her nose. Before her fight with Harry, she might not have thought much of these interactions. Now, it’s impossible to ignore the way she fails to set boundaries with people.

Then she hears someone out in the waiting room. She goes out there to find a delivery person setting down a bouquet of wildflowers on the front desk.

“Hi there! Delivery for a Y/N Y/L/N?”

“That’s me.”

She walks over to the flowers after the delivery guy leaves, feeling the delicate texture of the petals between her fingers. A small note is nestled among them.

I’m sorry. — H

She sighs, staring at the two words, hating the way her heart liquefies in her chest, hating the way she wants to call him up right now and tell him all is forgiven, and especially hating the way she craves his presence. A craving felt deep in her abdomen, raw and tantalizing.

She recalls what he said to her last night. Not the criticism of her friends or her tendency to let people take advantage of her. But how he said he loved her. The way it naturally slipped out in the midst of his rant, like the words had been sitting on the tip of his tongue for far too long.

Y/N: The flowers are pretty

She texts him once the flowers are in a vase and she’s sitting in her office.

H: Glad you liked them

H: I really am sorry. I hope you don’t really think I was trying to control you

“I don’t” is what she types at first but then deletes it.

Y/N: I know that wasn’t your intention

He doesn’t reply for a while after that. He texts again as her workday nears a close.

H: Can I take you out to dinner tonight?

Y/N: Yes

***

Y/N’s texts have seemed distant today. Harry knows trying to decipher tone over text is not wise, but he can’t help it after their argument last night. He hoped that the flowers would show he’s thinking of her and he’s sorry. Not for recognizing that her friends treat her poorly or that she deserves better, but for conveying it in a way that came off as controlling.

He hates the idea of Y/N thinking that he wants to control her life. Sure, every time he sees her, he’s consumed with the primal urge to wrap her in his arms and shelter her from everything horrible in the world, and it takes everything to rein in that part of himself, but he would never want to make her feel like she’s not a person that can make her own decisions.

When she comes over that evening to go on their date together, he expects her to be just as distant as her messages. But she greets him at the door with a firm smooch on the lips, arms wrapped around his neck. He grins and takes in her appearance. An olive-coloured satin dress with a lace trim around the low neckline and a fuzzy brown jacket over it. Cute gold butterfly earrings. Her hair swept back in a low bun. She looks like a tiny fairy that flew over and put a little spell on him to make him weak in the knees.

“You look stunning.” He kisses her cheek, then adds with a sheepish laugh, “I realized this is my first time taking you out on a proper date. I’m not sure why it’s taken this long.”

He knows why it’s taken this long. Because he enjoys having her to himself when they’re at home, where he can cuddle and kiss and touch her however he likes and not worry about odd looks from anyone while he sniffs her hair when she’s not looking.

She smiles. “It’s okay. I like spending nights in with you…” Her gaze travels down his body, taking in his appearance now. A dark button-up, sleeves rolled to his forearms, and tailored trousers. His curls are more tamed than usual but not too perfect. “But it’s also nice seeing you like this.”

A smirk tugs at his lips. “Yeah?”

She nods, her eyes flicking down to his mouth, then back up. And he’s a goner.

He takes her face in his hands and kisses her hard, tongue finding hers with ease. She leans back against the door, her hand on the back of his head keeping him close. He reaches down to find the slit in her dress that exposes her thigh. His fingers trail up to her underwear.

She hums against his lips and pulls away briefly. “We’re going to be late.”

“That’s fine.” He bites her bottom lip. A soft whimper escapes her.

Dropping down to the floor, he hooks his fingers into her panties and pulls them down her legs. She steps out of them, her heels still on her feet. He adjusts the dress so it bunches up around her waist and tells her to hold it there. Then he lifts her right leg over his shoulder to give himself better access. And then he notices the arousal leaking out of her, the dampness along her inner thigh.

“What’s this?” He looks up, smirking when he finds her blushing.

“I was thinking about you on my way here,” she confesses, a little breathlessly.

“Thinking what about me?”

“Just… Your eyes. Your hands. Your mouth…” She swallows. “Your cock.”

The swelling in his pants intensifies. He digs his fingers into the thigh resting on his shoulder while his tongue nudges her hole. He licks a single line from her entrance to her clit. He’s not sure how it’s possible, but every time he tastes her, it feels like the first time and it makes him want to devour her even more. His tongue moves ardently between her folds. She nestles her fingers in his hair, grinding her hips against his mouth.

“Harry, that feels so good. Please don’t stop.”

Her moans get louder, thighs tensing around him as the orgasm sweeps through her. He licks her clean with his tongue, not missing a spot. Then he helps get her panties back on and rises to his feet. She looks unbelievably cute with her flushed cheeks and dazed eyes.

“Now we can go,” he says.

***

Harry’s hands keep finding her that night. A hand on her thigh as he drives them to the restaurant. On the small of her back as they enter. Caressing her arm as they peruse the menu together.

After ordering, he asks about her day and listens to her vent about a frustrating call she had with a client’s insurance company. Their food arrives fairly quickly. He’s about to dig in when he notices Y/N eyeing her plate oddly. Then he realizes.

“You asked for no mushrooms,” he states, noticing the mushrooms sprinkled all over her plate.

“It’s fine.” She waves a dismissive hand.

“You should tell them.”

“It’s no big deal.”

He glances around and makes eye contact with their server, waving her over.

Y/N gives him a look. “Harry…”

The server approaches their table.

“Hi, I think there’s been a mistake,” he says. “She asked for no mushrooms.”

The server’s brows shoot up. “Oh! I’m so sorry. We’ll get that fixed up right away.”

Harry gives her a polite smile. “Thank you.”

The server walks away with the plate.

Y/N glares at him.

“What?”

“I said it wasn’t a big deal,” she says in a hushed but firm tone.

His brows furrow. “Well, it is to me.”

She sighs and looks away, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Y/N—”

“I’m going to use the restroom.” She starts to scoot to the end of booth.

“You’re upset.”

“I’m not. I need to pee,” she says flatly without looking at him.

He stares down at his food after she leaves, pondering her reaction to what he thought was a kind thing to do. They brought her the wrong order; he spoke up because she didn’t want to. What was so bad about that? He thinks back to their fight last night.

Controlling.

Does she think he was being controlling again? He just wanted to make sure she gets what she asked for. She did say it wasn’t a big deal, but he thought she only said that to avoid being an inconvenience. Maybe he was too quick to assume she wanted him to speak up for her. Maybe she felt embarrassed. Maybe he should’ve asked first…

She returns a few minutes later. Her food has arrived by then too, without mushrooms this time. They eat in silence for a bit. Then she asks about his day. He tells her about the meetings he had with some of his foundation’s donors and the cute puppy he met on his run that morning, pulling up a picture on his phone. She coos at the happy little Corgi in the photo.

The rest of their night proceeds normally. They finish their food and share some cheesecake for dessert. He pays the bill. They head home.

When they reach his bedroom, he sits on the edge of the bed and begins unbuttoning his shirt, preparing to sleep. Y/N slips off her dress, leaving her in just her panties, then walks over to stand between his legs. She takes his face in her hands. His fingers freeze on the second last button of his shirt. He meets her gaze with curiosity.

“You said something last night,” she says.

He immediately knows what she’s referring to. He was worried after he said it. Worried that he chose the worst possible time—the middle of an argument—to say the three most important words. But they slipped out before he could even assess the context in which he was saying them. Maybe that’s what happens when you love someone as much as he loves Y/N—it eventually overflows through every crack and crevice.

“Did you mean it?” she asks, studying his face.

“Of course.”

“I love you too.” She plants a tender kiss to his lips.

His hands rest on her forearms, caressing her wrists with his thumbs. Then he shifts one hand to her hip, thumb tracing the lace on her panties. He’s already thinking about burying his face between her legs again, getting lost in the sweet scent and heavenly taste, but before he can do anything, she sinks down to her knees on the floor.

He watches as she finishes undoing the last two buttons on his shirt, letting it fall open. Then she unzips his pants and releases his hardening cock from its confines. He leans back against his hands on the bed, inhaling a shaky breath as she wraps one hand around the base and her lips around the tip. Her gorgeous eyes blink up at him as she takes more of him into her mouth, tongue stroking the underside of his cock deliciously. She bobs her head along his length, stroking whatever’s left of him with her hand.

“Look so pretty like that,” he says. “Taking my cock on your knees. Just the filthiest sight.”

She closes her eyes and moans around him.

“Touch yourself,” he tells her. “But don’t come.”

Her free hand disappears between her legs, fingers rubbing her clit while she continues sucking him.

“Good girl. So good for me.”

He places a hand on the back of her head, applying some pressure, guiding her mouth along his cock. His tip makes contact with the back of her throat with every other thrust, which alone might drive him to madness. Her moans send the most gratifying vibrations down his length.

He pulls out before he can come and takes a second to enjoy the sight of her. The drool and pre-cum coating her chin. Eyes gazing up at him as if he hung the moon in the sky just for her.

“Get up here, sweet girl.”

As she stands, he positions her face down across his lap. He pulls off her panties and spreads apart her legs. He can see the arousal glistening between her thighs before feeling it with his fingers. She makes a sound when his hand makes contact with her clit, burying her face into her forearm.

“Got yourself nice and wet for me,” he says with approval, inserting a finger into her slick hole.

She squirms in his lap, pushing back against his hand. He removes his finger and lands a sharp spank on her bum, making her squeal.

“Stay still,” he warns.

She whines in protest but obeys, keeping her hips in place as he inserts two fingers this time, nudging them in and out at an agonizingly slow pace.

“Harry, please,” she groans, her toes curling.

“Please?”

“I need more!”

He smiles. “Getting greedy, are we?”

“Not greedy. Just…”

“Needy?”

She nods.

“Yeah? Are you my needy little slut, Y/N?”

She nods again, moaning. He relishes the filthy sounds her soaking pussy makes each time he thrusts his fingers inside and the way she struggles to keep herself still but tries anyway. Then he retracts his fingers and takes his time licking her juices off of them, savouring the taste.

“Stand up and bend over the bed,” he says.

As she gets into position, he moves to stand behind her, somehow still in his unbuttoned shirt and trousers. He runs a hand down her spine and over her ass, spanking her once before pressing his cock directly into her pussy. She cries out, hands clawing at the sheets. He lets out a low groan as he bottoms out inside her.

“Fuck,” he breathes. It’s like her pussy was made for him, the way her walls adjust so perfectly to his length, clenching around him just right, forcing him in deeper.

He fists a hand in her hair and starts pounding into her. The sound of his hips slapping against her ass fills the room, but his ears zone in on her moans and whimpers and pleas to fuck her harder.

“So needy for me,” he chuckles darkly. “My perfect needy slut.”

His fingers tighten in her hair, pulling her head slightly off the bed. His other hand grips her hip, keeping her steady while he fucks her senseless.

“Harry, I’m going to come. I— Please—”

“Come for me, baby.”

And she does, the orgasm turning her into a quivering mess beneath him. But he’s determined to coax a second one out of her, so he doesn’t slow down, only thrusting in deeper and harder, grinding his hips against her ass. She screams out as she comes a second time. He joins in now, letting the elation consume him as he lets go inside her.

They’re still for a moment, their breathing gradually slowing in tandem. Then he helps her stand back up on shaky legs, gathering her into his arms, praising how well she did for him.

“Love you. I love you,” she murmurs into his chest.

He kisses the top of her head. “I love you too.”

He finally takes off his clothes, leaving them both naked. They decide to take a warm shower before bed, scrubbing each other clean and deliriously giggling over nothing. Soon, they’re curled up in bed, limbs tangled, drifting off together.

***

The next few days are quiet, peaceful. They have a lazy weekend, going outside only to stroll through the neighbourhood and admire the changing colours of the leaves. Y/N notices that Harry seems different. He pauses before doing things for her, asks instead of assuming. It’s not perfect—she still has to talk him out of driving back to the Thai place when they forget to add the guava candy she loves into their takeout bags—but she realizes he’s trying.

That Friday, she arrives at the clinic for another day of back-to-back sessions, though there are a couple clients she’s really looking forward to seeing. She tries not to grow attached, of course, but she’s human and it happens sometimes.

She’s taking off her coat in her office when she hears someone in the waiting room. It’s a tall blonde woman who appears to be in her early twenties with thick eyeliner around her large brown eyes. Y/N doesn’t think her eyes could possibly be any bigger until they widen at the sight of her.

“Y/N! It is so nice to meet you. I’m really looking forward to working together.” The woman holds out a hand for her to shake, but Y/N just squints at her, trying to figure out who this person is and how she knows her name.

“I’m so sorry, but who are you?” she finally asks.

“Uh, Vanessa? Your new receptionist?” She eventually retracts her untouched hand, clutching the strap of her bag instead.

Y/N’s frown deepens. “My new… receptionist?”

She nods. “Harry hired me. I used to work for his foundation. He said you had a position open and asked if I’d be interested.”

“Huh.” She can’t help the way her facial expression contorts into an irritated glare.

“Should I just set up over there?” Vanessa points to the front desk. “Or maybe there’s paperwork to do first? I already got the background check, as Harry requested. I also have the—”

Y/N has zoned out at this point. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she feels guilty for being impolite to this poor stranger, but the guilt is drowned out by her exasperation with Harry. She has half a mind to pull out her phone and call him up right now to ask why he thought hiring a whole employee for her clinic (hers!) without discussing it with her first was a good idea, but she has a session in a few minutes and she needs to maintain composure.

She ends up leaving Vanessa with some basic tasks of cleaning and organizing the back room, which Harry had mostly done weeks ago, but she can’t think of much else on the spot and she doesn’t exactly have time to train Vanessa on anything.

Compartmentalizing her feelings about the situation carries her through the day. She sends Vanessa home well before 5 p.m., waving off her concerns about “not getting much done today.” Although she has several session notes to complete, she decides to put it off and head out early for once. It happens that she pulls into Harry’s driveway right as he’s getting out of his own car.

He automatically smiles when he sees her, walking around his car to greet her.

“You got me a receptionist?” she says, stopping him in his tracks a few feet away.

He tilts his head to the side. “Vanessa? Yeah, she’s great! She worked for the foundation a while back. I thought I’d pay her for a month, and you can see what you think. I think you’ll like her though.”

“Harry, you can’t just hire a receptionist for my clinic without talking to me first.”

His smile falters. “Well, I thought you’d say no.”

“Exactly!” She splays her hands up in the air before letting them drop by her sides. “If you had talked to me, I would’ve told you that I don’t want this.”

“Y/N, you work twelve-hour days—”

“More like ten.”

“—And it’s because you’re doing it all on your own. You shouldn’t have to deal with all the scheduling, billing, and insurance on top of seeing clients.”

“You don’t get to make that decision for me.”

He just stares at her wordlessly.

“You keep deciding what I need before I even get the chance to tell you!” She can feel her voice going up an octave and pauses to take a breath. “This is my clinic. I get to decide who works there. You know how I felt walking in there this morning? It felt like I wasn’t the owner anymore.”

His brows pinch together. “That’s not— I was just trying to help, lovie.”

“But this isn’t helping. I didn’t ask for this.”

“I—I’m sorry.”

He takes a step forward. She takes one back.

“I think I need some space,” she says, rubbing her forehead and averting her gaze.

“Y/N, I’m sorry. I overstepped.” There’s something in his voice that she isn’t used to hearing from him. Panic? Fear?

“You’re suffocating me, Harry,” she says quietly, her own chest constricting at the words, but what’s more painful is the look on his face as she says it. The way he deflates. “I need to be on my own for a bit.”

She gets back in her car and tries not to look at him as she pulls out of the driveway because she knows his sad eyes will make her tear up and she’ll be driving home blind.

***

For the next week, every time Y/N’s phone buzzes with a notification, she expects it to be him. But it never is. He has been respecting her request for space. She can’t say she doesn’t miss him though. She misses him when she wakes up alone, when she gets in her car, when she goes home to her empty apartment, which was once just fine.

But intermingled with all the longing is her lingering frustration with him. She can’t get past how he thinks it’s okay to decide what’s best for her without even consulting her, and she’s reminded of that every time she sees Vanessa behind the front desk, who she still hasn’t fired because it doesn’t seem fair to let the poor girl get caught up in her and Harry’s quarrel.

At first, the protectiveness just looked like love, but it has since turned into something else—a threat to her autonomy—and she can’t have that. She rebuilt this clinic from the ground up after Mark burnt it all down. That wouldn’t have been possible if she wasn’t competent and capable all on her own.

When she goes to Poppy’s place for a group hangout that weekend, she’s already not feeling her best. She sits in her car for five minutes, staring out the windshield with a dazed look, before heading inside. It’s their usual dynamic at first, everyone talking over each other, not letting anyone finish a thought before moving on to the next, voices getting louder with each minute. Y/N gets interrupted five times, mostly by Poppy, and it grates on her nerves more than ever before.

“Can’t believe Cindy bailed,” Poppy says.

“Did she say why?” asks Jamal.

“Just that she has some work thing again.” She rolls her eyes, pursing her lips. “You know, I don’t even think her job is as demanding as she makes it seem. She’s in marketing, for fuck’s sake.”

“People are allowed to cancel on plans, Poppy,” Y/N interjects.

Everyone turns to her, like she spoke for the first time that day.

“Okay, Y/N. That was rude,” says Poppy.

Y/N narrows her eyes. “What?”

“That sounded so judgmental.”

The irony feels like a slap in Y/N’s face. All Poppy does is judge other people, from complete strangers to dear friends. For her to accuse anyone else of being judgmental is so absurd that it makes Y/N laugh out loud.

“It kind of did,” Jamal agrees, making Y/N even more bewildered.

Sara just looks away, quietly sipping her beer.

“Anyway,” Poppy says, changing the topic.

The interaction leaves Y/N fuming in her corner of the couch. Her face is hot. Angry, exhausted tears prick the backs of her eyes, but she holds them in. She contributes nothing to the conversation after that, not that anyone notices she’s acting any different. They don’t know her. They never have.

At some point, they’re talking about renting out a cottage for the holidays.

“Y/N, you should ask your sugar daddy to rent one out for us,” says Poppy in that annoying singsong voice of hers. The condescension masked behind a thin veil of hospitality.

“I’m not doing that,” Y/N snaps.

“Why not? All you have to do is bat your eyes and he’ll open his wallet.”

“Fuck off, Poppy. Like, seriously, fuck off.”

Everyone’s eyes widen. The silence in the room is palpable.

“I was just kidding, Y/N.” Poppy laughs nervously, shifting in her seat. “You know I was just kidding.”

“No. I’m tired of your little jabs and jokes that aren’t funny to anyone but you. I’m done.”

She stands up and walks straight out the door, not looking back. As soon as she gets in her car, she takes out her phone and pulls up her text conversation with Cindy. Her fingers tremble as she types.

Y/N: I hate Poppy

Y/N: I hate all of them

Tossing her phone on the passenger seat, she starts her car and pulls onto the road. Her heart is racing. Her hands grip the steering wheel hard enough to mask the tremors. The adrenaline is the only thing keeping her tears at bay. For now.

Cindy calls two minutes later, her name popping up on the centre display. Y/N picks up.

“I hate them,” she states, voice dripping with venom.

“I know,” her friend replies.

“Why did I ever think I’d fit in with them, Cin?” She lets out a humourless laugh. “I’ve never fit in. Not in high school. Not now.”

“Okay, that’s not true. You’ve got me. You’ve got Harry—”

“Harry and I haven’t talked in a week.” Her voice breaks now, the adrenaline wearing off quickly with the mention of the man she loves, replaced simply by heartache.

“What happened?”

“He keeps trying to fix things! He got me a receptionist for the clinic without talking to me first. He thinks he’s helping, but it’s becoming too much.” She wipes the tears streaming down her face now. “It’s overbearing.”

She vaguely mentioned to Cindy a couple weeks ago that Harry’s protectiveness was starting to overwhelm her, so none of this comes as a shock.

Cindy pauses before responding, “Do you think maybe that’s just… his way of expressing his love? Like, he thinks he has to solve your problems and make your life easier to show he loves you, but to you, it comes across as overbearing?”

“That’s probably it.” She sighs, pulling over to the side of the road because she definitely should not be driving when she’s this worked up. “But I don’t need him to do all that. I just need to know he’s there for me, not to swoop in at the first sign of danger but to trust that I’m capable of handling things. Am I crazy to want that?”

“Of course not. You just need to tell him.”

She chews on that for a moment. Then her mind returns to her outburst from five minutes ago.

“What about Poppy and them?”

“Fuck them,” Cindy says calmly. “You don’t need that energy in your life.”

“I don’t want you to have to choose between me and them.”

“Meh. I’ve already been pulling away. Why do you think I wasn’t there tonight?”

Y/N releases a sigh of relief, feeling some of the tension in her shoulders loosen. “You’re the best, Cin.”

She can hear the smile in her best friend’s voice as she responds, “You deserve nothing less.”

***

Harry has had the worst week. As if Y/N not talking to him wasn’t bad enough, he fucked up his hip trying to help his elderly neighbours across the street lift their massive old dresser out of their house.

His hip has been weak for years. He injured it a few times while playing hockey and decided to push through until he literally couldn’t anymore, his body revolting against his decision in the form of debilitating hip pain. Surgery and physical therapy worked wonders, but they didn’t magically return his hip to its original condition.

This is his first flare-up in a while, but it’s a bad one. A deep ache runs along the front of his hip and groin area every time he stands up. He’s been limping around the house. Getting comfortable in bed at night is damn near impossible, leaving him awake at odd hours.

He doesn’t mind the pain. He can handle pain. What he can’t handle is how slow it makes him. The mere task of walking from one part of the house to another takes twice as long. When he gets up from the couch, he has to wait a few seconds for the stiffness to subside before moving. Even putting on a pair of socks takes fucking forever.

Layer on his heartache about Y/N, and he’s downright miserable. He told himself he was helping. That he was making her life easier. But the truth is uglier than that. When he sees a problem, he has to fix it because he can’t stand feeling useless. It’s the same thing that drove him to push through injuries and play through pain until his body gave out. The thing that made him start his foundation. His unrelenting need to fix.

But Y/N is a person. And he keeps treating her like a project. Countless times this week, he found himself staring at his phone, typing out a message to her, then deleting it.

I’m sorry.

Please talk to me.

You don’t have to talk to me. Just tell me you’re okay?

I miss you.

I love you.

It takes everything in his power not to send those messages. She asked for space. He’s going to give her space, dammit. Even if it kills him. Even if it makes this hip flare-up feel worse than it is.

The house has felt so cold and hollow and lifeless without her around. It used to feel lonely, living here all by himself, especially post-retirement. But he found his coping mechanisms—running, playing hockey recreationally with friends, foundation work. Now he can feel himself slipping back into that loneliness, but without the same coping mechanisms because his hip won’t cooperate.

On the tenth day—yes, he’s been counting—since his fight with Y/N, he’s genuinely considering driving to her clinic and parking across the street just to catch a glimpse of her. Is it creepy? Yes. Has the past week driven him to insanity? Possibly.

He’s on the couch with an ice pack attached to his hip, weighing the pros and cons of this foolish idea, when the doorbell rings. He groans. It must be his package. He ordered a new heating pad recently since his old one is over five years old.

He braces himself as he stands up, pausing to let his body adjust. Then he carefully walks to the door, ready to greet the delivery driver. But that’s not who he finds.

“Y/N?”

“Hi.” She gives him a small smile. She’s dressed in a cozy sweater with black tights, her hair pulled up in a messy ponytail, a few strands falling loose around her face. God, he missed her.

“Hey. Um, come in.” He steps aside, letting her in before shutting the door.

“I was hoping we could talk,” she says.

Fuck. She’s here to break up with him. Fuck.

He tries to ignore his heart plummeting in his chest and gestures towards the couch, letting her walk in front of him so he could limp behind her. But she notices. Of course she does. She notices the way he winces as he sits down next to her. She notices the ice packs. The painkillers.

“You okay?” she asks, studying him to figure out what’s wrong.

“Yeah.”

She gives him a look.

“It’s my hip.”

Her brows furrow. “Did you get hurt?”

“It’s an old injury. From hockey. It just flared up recently when I was helping a neighbour move their dresser.”

“Oh no. How bad is it?”

“Not terrible. Just… hard to do some things.”

“Like what?”

“Um, walking. Sitting. Sleeping.”

“So… everything?”

He laughs softly. “Pretty much.”

“Have you been resting?”

“Yes. Mostly.”

Another look.

“I hate sitting around.”

Her gaze drops to his hip, where he’s now holding an ice pack. The frown is still there, etched between her brow. He doesn’t like her seeing him like this. Not because he’s ashamed of the pain, but because this version of him—weakened, slow, useless—is so different from the way he views himself.

“I didn’t know you had hip problems,” she says quietly.

He shrugs. “I don’t like talking about it. It’s why I retired.”

She nods, understanding.

“You wanted to talk?”

“We can do that later.”

“No, it’s fine. We can do it now.” If she’s here to break up with him, he’d rather just have her rip off the band-aid and leave him to wallow in his misery alone.

“Okay…” She still seems hesitant, her gaze flicking from his hip to his eyes. “Well, I’ve been thinking a lot about why I was so angry… And part of it was because you weren’t wrong.”

He blinks a few times, trying to hide his surprise.

“It has been a lot, trying to do everything myself. Especially with the amount of clients I’m seeing. But the solution isn’t a receptionist. I need to reduce my caseload, restructure my schedule. That’s something I needed to decide for myself.”

He shifts on the couch, wincing when his hip protests. Y/N watches him unsurely.

“Sorry. Continue,” he encourages.

“It’s not the first time something like this has happened. You do it a lot. Making decisions for me. I know you’re trying to help, but it’s starting to feel like I don’t have autonomy in this relationship.”

He forces himself to keep his mouth shut and listen rather than getting defensive. He’s done plenty of reflecting of his own these past ten days, and something he’s realized is that his true intentions are not always translated through his actions.

“I’ve seen clients have relationships like that. They don’t last. Even when they do, one person ends up resenting the other. I don’t want that for us.”

She’s silent then, giving him the floor.

“Neither do I,” he says. “I don’t know why I’m like this. I don’t know why I feel the need to…”

“Fix things?”

He nods. “I don’t do it because I think you’re incapable or weak. You’re the toughest person I know. I just…” His eyes widen. “Fuck, maybe I am controlling.”

She smiles sweetly and reaches for his hand. “You’re not controlling, Harry. You just have a big heart, and you get carried away.”

He stares at their intertwined hands. “I’m scared I don’t know how to be any different. I like feeling needed.”

“You are needed. But not in the way you think. You don’t need to save me. You don’t need to be ‘Harry the fixer.’ You just need to be… Harry.”

For a moment, he imagines what that would look like. Not Harry the fixer. Just Harry. Not stepping in to save the day. Not anticipating every need before it arises. Not making every decision. Just being present, available, supportive.

“I’m sorry I took your choice away,” he says.

She scoots closer to hug him, but when the couch shifts with her weight, his hip screams at him. He winces. She freezes and stands up, leaning down to hug him instead.

“I feel like I’m sixty years old,” he says, hugging her back, though not as tightly as he would’ve liked to.

“Take solace in the fact that you’d make a sexy sixty-year-old.”

He laughs.

She straightens up. “Okay. What can I get for you? Water? Food? Have you eaten yet?”

“You don’t have to do that.”

She places her hands on her hips. “You’re not the only one that likes feeling needed.”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “I haven’t had lunch yet.”

“On it. You stay right there.” She points at him with a stern look before disappearing into the kitchen.

He finally relaxes into the couch, soothed by the sound of her footsteps in the next room, opening and closing the fridge, rearranging pots and pans, humming softly while she works. And he smiles to himself.

***

It turns out Harry is just as bad, if not worse, at receiving help as Y/N. He tries to do everything himself, even though he can barely walk without being in pain.

“It’s not that bad,” he’ll say, then proceed to demonstrate that it is, in fact, that bad.

It’s actually somewhat amusing for Y/N because she realizes this is exactly how she sounds when she tries to pretend that everything is fine. They’re both shit at acting. At least around each other.

She helps him get comfortable in bed that night with a heating pad wrapped around his hip and an extra pillow under his leg. Then she gets under the covers on her side of the bed.

“You’re so far away,” he whines, reaching for her.

“I don’t want to hurt you!”

“You won’t. Come here.”

She slides into his arms, placing her head on his chest. He lets out a content sigh. As they lie there, she remembers an important update she has yet to share with him.

“By the way,” she says, “you’ll be happy to hear you were right about Poppy and them.”

“That doesn’t make me happy at all, lovie. Are you okay?”

She nods and lifts her head to look at him. “I told Poppy to fuck off.”

A proud smirk tugs at his lips. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you feel about it?” His eyes search her face.

“Relieved… Sad.”

He kisses her forehead, gently stroking her hair. She rests her head back down.

“I always thought something was wrong with me,” she says. “High school. College. After college. Always feeling like the outsider.”

“You know what I think?”

She smiles. “You’re going to tell me anyway.”

“I think you’ve been trying too hard to fit into places that weren’t made for you. I think when you find the right people, you won’t even have to try. Because it’ll feel easy and natural.”

“Like coming home.”

“Exactly.”

“Like I feel with Cindy…” She looks at him again. “Like I feel with you?”

He grins. “I would hope so.”

She kisses him on the lips, soft and tender.

When she pulls away, he says, “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to help this old man take off this heating pad. It’s getting way too hot.”

She chuckles, moving before he even finishes his sentence. “I got you.”

***

It’s Y/N’s last day at the clinic before she takes two weeks off for the holidays. Something she never would’ve done in previous years.

“But my clients need me!” she’d argue when Cindy suggested she take some proper time off over Christmas.

But things are different now. The dangers of sacrificing her own needs for the benefit of others are so much clearer to her. The very real possibility of burnout, which she naively considered herself immune to, is also clearer to her. To put it simply, she’s done with putting herself last on the priority list.

Now she’s at her desk, about to shut down her work computer when her email pings. The subject line makes her smile before she even opens the email.

Subject: Thank you

Hi Y/N,

I wanted to let you know that I settled into a new apartment six months ago. My new job is going well, I’ve made a lot of friends there. I might actually be going on a first date this weekend. I’m safe, happy, and hopeful. I wanted to thank you for helping me navigate my trauma and get to a better place in my life. I truly appreciate everything you’ve done for me.

Happy holidays!

Sincerely,

Yasmin

Y/N is smiling from ear-to-ear by the second sentence and tearing up by the last one. Yasmin was a former client trapped in an abusive relationship. Together, over the span of two years, they formed a plan to help her leave safely and create a new life where she wasn’t constantly living in fear. To read that she’s still thriving makes Y/N want to ugly cry happy tears. She keeps it together enough to type out a response, making sure Yasmin knows she did the work herself.

After hitting send, she shuts down her computer. Her phone buzzes.

H: Done for the day?

Y/N: Yeah, you?

H: Same. I’m outside. Got you a little something…

She hurries to make sure everything is in its place and all the lights are off before locking up. Harry’s car is parked directly in front of the clinic. He’s dressed in a hockey jersey and jeans, his hair hidden under a black beanie, a hot drink in each hand. He looks up when she walks over, greeting him with a kiss.

“Hot chocolate,” he says, holding out the cup in his left hand.

She caresses his cheek, tempted to squeeze it. “Sweetest boyfriend over.”

He chuckles. As they get into his car, he asks, “So. Are you ready to go to your first ever hockey game?”

They’ve been watching several games this season on TV together. Y/N asks a lot of questions—why do they fight so much, how is that allowed, why is the net open, where is the goalie?!—and Harry patiently answers each one. It’s been a fun, enlightening introduction to his world. Now she gets to see it in person. Cindy and her new partner are also meeting them there.

“I am,” she answers. “The real question is: are you ready to answer my stupid questions about the game every five minutes?”

He starts the car and backs out, his hand automatically resting on her thigh. “No such thing as a stupid question, my love.”

“I’d beg to differ.”

On the way to the arena, they exchange updates about their day, everything from the mundane to the extraordinary. Y/N tells him about the thank you email. Harry tells her about the new donors he had lunch with. She notices how easy it is, how safe she feels. Safe, happy, and hopeful. Just like Yasmin.

YN didn’t know who was going to be at this event because she never really got any information beforehand and she never asked because didn’t care to know, this was just a job.

She assumed there was always a chance she would see Harry again because these events were meant for people like him.

The museum was one of the most expensive venues to rent out in London so it made sense that every person, every company trying to throw an event would pick this place because of what a flex it would be.

YN hadn’t enjoyed the first night she met Harry, even if she didn't want to admit that their interactions had stuck with her.

The next day, after the event, she had to go out and buy a new work dress after she couldn’t scrub the stains out of the old one even though she had tried until her arm ached, and she also had to buy a new pair of heels because the liquor had seeped into the soles and made them sticky no matter what she had done to try to clean them.

It hadn’t been something she could really afford but she didn't have the option because she needed the job and she needed an outfit for said job.

Especially after one of her college professor had just told the class they needed to download some program that was going to cost nearly one hundred pounds to be able to do some type of math calculations.

So after one shift that should have helped her catch up on everything that was going to be coming out of her wallet, YN was even worse off than before, with less money, a ruined dress, ruined shoes, and the embarrassing memories of making a fool of herself in front of a literal billionaire.

It seemed to happen that way every fucking time because just when YN started to think she was getting to a better place in her finaces, in her life, something always came crashing back down for one reason or another.

Even though she hated that she was used to it, she had learned a long time ago that getting too comfortable meant that something was about to kick her in the ass and wish that she wouldn't have let her guard down.

She was just lucky she hadn’t been fired for the whole incident with Harry, which she had no intention of telling a soul about especailly not the people at work because it would definitely get back to her supervisor, not that she really had anyone else to tell besides her sister and her gran.

Her gran had no real concept of famous people, no interest in reading gossip rags or watching talk-show television during her day, and even if YN told her she had dragged Harry into a staff bathroom after spilling strawberry margarita on him, her gran probably would’ve focused more on concern about her job than the person she was talking about.

And YN definitely didn’t talk to either of them about her finances because she didn’t want them worrying about her when there wasn’t much they could realistically do without making their own lives harder.

She knew her gran would give her every last penny she had if YN needed it and she knew her sister, Bethany, would do whatever she could too but that wasn't something that YN was ever going to ask or accept from them.

So here she was again a few weeks later, working another event in a new dress and new heels that she had bought because she had no other choice, trying not to think about how much money she had spent just to be able to try to make more.

It took YN a little while to realize Harry was there at this event, mostly because she was overwhelmed with drink orders from needy attendees who couldn't wait patiently but once she spotted him from across the room, it was annoyingly hard to stop paying attention to him.

She didn’t know how to feel about it when she first saw him, her feelings about him were complicated because she'd heard such awful things but he hadn't been all that awful to her and the thing that got her, no matter how much she fucking hated to admit it, was that he was so undeniably handsome.

YN didn’t know if she had ever been around someone as handsome as him before, it was the kind of handsome you see on cinema screens, and the way he dressed only made it worse.

Tonight, he was wearing this dark green, almost black crushed velvet suit that once again looked custom like his last one, and it hugged every inch of him in a way that made it impossible not to notice how broad his shoulders were, how tny his waist was, and how strong he looked even though he was covered up.

She was fucking annoyed that she felt attracted to him, just like all the other girls did because she didn't want to be one more person in the room getting distracted by Harry simply because he was beautiful, rich, and completely closed off like a code to crack.

But truly, his money wasn’t part of the factor for YN, and neither was his cold attitude because if anything, those were a turn-off.

The problem was that he had been kind to her when she messed up or at least he hadn't been outright mean, and he hadn’t really given her a clear reason to think he was an asshole beyond the way that she heard others talking about him.

It was hard to ignore what those women had said, she couldn't just erase it from her mind, especially after the way they talked about him using people and moving on like they meant nothing, and that was the type of person that YN tried to avoid at all costs.

So she avoided him.

She would have denied it if she was called out on it but she was absolutely avoided him, taking long ways around the room that kept her away from wherever he was standing while still getting her where she needed to go.

Unfortunately, her eyes kept wandering back to him anyway, even when she was trying to keep her gaze anywhere but him, and every time she looked, his face stayed straight and unreadable as always.

She didn’t see him crack a smile even once, not even the smallest uptick of his lips, which made him stand out from the over jovial people around him who were putting on their best show, their best face for the night.

Most of them were smiley and overly talkative, chomping at the bit to shake hands, charm people, maybe make a deal during the event, and make sure everyone in the room left thinking they were going to be great to do business with in the future.

Harry didn’t seem interested in impressing anyone.

Why would he need to?

YN can't think of anyone who could impress him when he was the most impressive person in every single room.

He spoke when everyone turned to look at him but mostly nodded when expected of him, and stood through conversations like he was just trying to endure them rather than enjoying the socialization.

It didn’t seem to bother the other people at the event that he was like that because they still flocked to him all the same.

YN doesn’t have to get anywhere close to him until her coworker, Heather, comes up beside her with two drinks balanced on her tray and an expression that already tells YN she is about to be asked for a favor.

“Babe, can you pretty pretty please drop these off?” Heather asks, bouncing on her toes as she shifts the tray toward YN before she even accepts, “I have to pee so bad and some guy talked my ear off for ten minutes so I couldn’t get away.”

“Yes,” YN laughs, already reaching for the two drinks because Heather looks genuinely seconds away from losing it, “Where to?”

“The mojito goes to the woman in that teal dress,” Heather says, pointing quickly toward a woman standing near one of the taller cocktail tables, “And the whiskey neat goes to Harry, green-suit big shot. Okay? Okay. Thanks, love you.”

Then Heather is rushing off before YN can say no.

So YN stands there with both glasses in her hands, feeling the condensation dripping through her fingers which means she really shouldn't try to find some else to deliver these because they'll start to melt.

She would rather not have to directly interact with him again, especially when the last time she had done that, she had ruined his shirt, dragged him into a bathroom, stripped him half-naked, and then rejected him.

It sounded bad when she laid it out like that.

YN inhales a deep breath before she starts to search him out, and it isn’t hard to find him because there are people gathered around him like always, even though this event isn’t supposed to be all about him.

Apparently, he is giving another speech tonight.

YN delivers the mojito first, using her customer service smile and polite voice as she hands it to the woman in the teal dress, and then she turns toward the small cluster surrounding Harry with the whiskey still in her hand.

She has to work her way through the crowd carefully, murmuring little excuses as she passes important people, trying not to bump anyone's elbow or spill anything because that was the last fucking thing she needed.

By the time she gets to him, Harry is turned slightly away from her, his attention on an older man who was far too close to him, speaking intently, and YN can see the strong line of his jaw, the way the jacket spread over his shoulders was basically obscene, and the way his hand rests loosely at his side like he is forcing himself not to check the time.

She taps him lightly on the shoulder, keeping her touch brief and professional, and when he turns his head toward her, she holds out the glass with the calmest expression she can manage, trying not to give anything away.

“Whiskey neat,” YN says, keeping her voice as normal as possible even though her stomach gives an annoying little twist when his eyes land on her, and it feels like she's suddenly under a spotlight.

Harry doesn’t take it right from her away and for one odd second, YN wonders if she has somehow managed to do something wrong again because he only looks at her with that unreadable expression that seems to give nothing away but makes her feel like she's under pressure.

Then, for the first time all night, she sees his lips tilt upward.

It is not a full smile, not even close but it is enough of a shift that his face changes, and YN hates that she feels butterflies in her stomach before her brain can remind her not to feel that way.

She hates even more that she feels special for being the one to earn that smile, especially after watching him navigate through the event without offering anything close to friendly to anyone else for even a second.

So she keeps her face as professional as possible to not give any of that away, holding the glass out patiently and pretending that the slight uptick of his mouth hadn't made her nervous in a way that was too girlish.

“Thank you,” Harry says, his voice low and rasping as he finally reaches for the drink, “I’m glad you decided to put it in my hand and not on my shirt.”

The comment is dry enough in delivery that YN knows he is teasing her, and she has to steady her control on her expression because she absolutely refuses to let him see that it catches her off guard.

His fingers brush against hers as he takes the glass and the contact is brief, barely anything at all but she still feels the cold metal of his rings against her own bare fingers.

They are most likely worth more than anything YN owns, which admittedly is not sayingall that much, and that irritates her for her own financial insecurities which aren't his fault, and she can acknowledge it's irrational.

YN pulls her hand back once the drink is safe in his, smoothing her fingers against the side of her dress as a nervous reaction.

Harry takes a step closer to her and YN catches another whiff of that expensive cologne as he leans in just enough for his voice to lower into something quieter, meant only for her, her stomach clenches, “But if you wanted me shirtless, all you had to do was say the word.”

YN can’t help but roll her eyes at the lame joke and even though she tries to hold onto the professional expression she had been wearing, a small giggle slips out before she can stop it because he is more charming than she wants to admit.

“It was only—” YN begins in her own defense, smiling a slight bit but she stops when she sees someone approaching quickly from her right.

The woman brushes YN’s shoulder roughly as she squeezes into the small space between them, not hard enough to be a real shove but close enough that it seems like it was trying to prove a point, and before YN can even step back properly to give this person space, the woman is standing directly in front of her and completely blocking her view of Harry.

YN blinks at the back of her in confusion.

Whoever this woman is, she has on high heels that make her tower over YN, and she has the kind of long legs, itty bitty waistline, and this straight posture that makes it obvious she is either a model or something close to it.

Her dress is revealing in a way that lets everyone know that her legs are her best feature as well as the expanse of her back, her hair falls perfectly over her shoulders in these long, thick cascading waves.

Even from behind, YN can see the glimmer of diamond jewelry at her neck and the designer clutch tucked neatly beneath her arm.

This is much more the type of girl YN imagines Harry with.

It is such an instant thought that YN almost annoys herself with it because she has no reason to be comparing herself to some woman who is on a different level than her but she still feels suddenly aware of the cheap fabric of her work dress, the insistent ache in her feet from heels she hadn't spent enough on to be comfortable.

YN can’t really see Harry anymore but she can hear the woman clearly enough when she speaks, her voice high-pitched and sweet in a way that is obviously attempting to be sexy, “Harry, it’s been so long. I’ve been absolutely dying to catch up with you. You look incredible tonight. I couldn’t help but think about the time we hooked up in that hotel roo—”

Oh.

Yep.

That is all the information YN needs to hear.

This woman is exactly the type of person Harry ends up in bed with, she had hit the nail on the head.

Beautiful, polished, confident, clearly doing well in life if the designer purse and diamond necklace are anything to go by, and rude enough to shove herself in front of YN like she knew she was above her.

That seems to fit more of the aesthetic YN has already started building in her head for him, whether fair or not.

Pretty people who make room for themselves,w ho hook up in hotel rooms without a second though.

YN does not even know why she is explaining any of this to herself because it is not like Harry really wants anything from her, he's just being somewhat nice.

Maybe he wanted a one-night stand if she would have allowed it because men like him probably don't give much thought to status or bank accounts when it comes to sex, especially if the person in front of them is convenient and willing enough.

But he wouldn't want a relationship with her.

That is such a wild thought for her mind to even have that YN feels embarrassed by it even if no one else can hear it because she doesn't want a relationship with him either, and she doesn't know why the possibility even is in her head.

They are completely different.

They come from different versions of the world and YN can't imagine any conversation where she would be able to relate to Harry beyond the fact that she ruined his shirt and apparently made him curious enough to ask what she was doing after her shift.

He lives in a world where people wear suits custom made for their bodies, drink whiskey neat at events thrown in museums, and have beautiful women cutting through crowds to get to him, to reminiscence about an illicit experiences.

The difference between them is so obvious that it makes her feel ridiculous for even letting her imagination go that far even if it was just for a second.

YN takes a step back, partly because the woman has basically shoved her out of the space and partly because standing there blocked from Harry’s view makes her feel stupid and small in a way that she doesn't want to feel.

She is disappointed in herself for letting her imagination get the best of her like all of her coworkers do at these event because YN has always prided herself on being reasonable unlike all the others.

Harry is not meant for her.

He is barely even in the same reality as her.

So YN straightens her shoulders, smooths her expression back into professionalism that doesn't show that this woman has affected her, and steps around her without waiting to hear how Harry responds to the words because whatever happened in some hotel room before this event has absolutely nothing to do with her.

And she would like to keep it that way.

Even though she tries to push all of it to the back of her mind, it doesn't work nearly as well as she wants it to because for the rest of the night, YN keeps catching Harry’s eye from across the room.

It happens so often that she starts wondering if she is imagining it or worse, if she is the one looking for him first and only convincing herself that he had already been looking because that sounds less desperate.

But every time she sneaks a glance in his direction, Harry’s gaze is already meeting hers, unreadable as it's been since she's met him except now there is something a little different around his mouth, something almost amused that makes her stomach dip before she can stop it.

She wants to smack herself when he tilts his lips at her, not enough to deem it anywhere close to a smile, and she finds herself smiling back before she can remember that she is supposed to be uninterested in becoming one of the women who gets flattered by any bit of attention that he's willing to give her.

YN looks away every time, usually too quickly which probably ends up making her more obvious, pretending to check glasses on her tray or trying to remember a guest's order but she can feel how hot her cheeks are getting.

She tells herself that he's bore and she has become a entertaining distraction because she spilled a tray of drinks on him once and then had the nerve to turn him down at the bar so now he can make this a game for the night then forget about her.

That is probably all it is.

It has to be all it is.

Still, when she passes near him again, trying to keep balance of empty glasses on her tray as she clears one of the cocktail tables, Harry’s attention follows her enough that she feels it against the side of her face.

YN keeps walking and tries not to look at him but because she has apparently lost every ounce of self-control she prided herself on having, she looks over.

Harry is still fucking watching her, the whiskey glass in one hand but it's drained almost to the bottom, the woman who had interrupted them was still standing close enough to his side that she is clearly trying to keep his attention but his eyes aren't on her.

They are on YN.

His face remains steady, his posture still straight and stiff as ever, and from a distance he looks as uninterested as he has all night but YN sees the slight lift of his brow as if he knows she's caught him too.

Her lips twitch before she can stop them.

It is small and she tries to tamper it down it immediately but Harry catches it because his mouth tilts up in response, and the whole thing feels so stupidly private that YN has to force herself to turn away before she does something humiliating like actually laugh.

She hates that it makes her feel noticed.

She hates that she likes feeling noticed by him.

YN grips the tray tighter and tells herself to get a fucking grip.

He is not special because he is handsome or cold or rich.

He is just a man.

Just….a very rich, very closed-off, very irritatingly attractive man but still just a dumb man.

And YN has work to do.

YN has almost convinced herself that she is being ridiculous and delusional by the time she needs to pass him again, and she is in the middle of giving herself a strict talking to when her manager waves her toward a cluster of guests near the far side of the room.

Of course, the easiest path cuts directly past Harry.

YN pauses for half a second with the tray balanced against her palm but her manager is looking at her expectantly and she'd look liek a nutcase for taking the long way to get to where she's being directed.

She straightens her shoulders and starts walking, trying not to act weird.

Harry is standing with a small group of men now, one hand tucked into his pocket while the other holds a new whiskey from Heather, and the woman won't leave his side even though she hasn't seen Harry pay her much attention, if any.

YN keeps her eyes ahead as she approaches, focusing on the area just beyond him rather than him because she is not going to look at him this time.

Then one of the men shifts backward without looking where he was going and YN has to slow her steps to avoid knocking the edge of her tray into his elbow, which puts her closer to Harry than she had planned.

Harry’s gaze cuts to her immediately and even though he is still technically listening to the man speaking in front of him, his attention changes so obviously that YN feels it before she allows herself to glance up.

She only means to look for half a second, just enough to make sure she has enough space to pass him.

Instead, her eyes meet his.

Harry doesn't smile, he just looks at her over the rim of his glass, his expression stoney, and then he winks.

He fucking winks.

It is quick, so subtle, and clearly meant only for her but it still lands with enough intent that YN nearly forgets how to walk.

Her fingers tighten around the tra and she keeps moving though the heat that rushes into her face happens quickly and it's humiliating because she knows he can probably see exactly what it does to her, and that's where he most likely gets off, on flustering girls that aren't in his league.

Her body betrays her before her ego can catch up because her stomach flips and her lips press together to keep from smiling, and that only makes her more irritated because she is apparently much easier to affect than she had wanted to tell herself that she was.

She makes it past him without spilling anything which she couldn't imagine having to go through the ordeal of cleaning him up again, even though she couldn't say that she would mind having him shirtless again in a cramped space.

By the time she reaches the other side of the room, she exhales slowly like she'd jsut walked through fire.

When she finally looks over her shoulder, Harry is already watching her again, his face still mostly blank.

YN narrows her eyes at him from across the room, keeping the expression small enough that no guest around her will notice that she's somewhat glaring at him, and Harry’s smile deepens by the tiniest amount before he lifts his glass to his mouth, she thinks she may see a fucking dimple.

It's gone as quick as it came.

She turns away quickly, annoyed with herself, annoyed with him, and annoyed with the fact that the tiniest bit of attention was making her swoon.

YN keeps herself busy after that, moving faster than necessary between the bar and the tables and being more productive than she normally would be, and she tries to focus on the parts of the job that keep her occupied and distracted, and prevent her from just constantly trying to watch Harry.

The room is starting to thin out a little, which should make everything less stressful but it almost makes the remaining guests worse because the drunk ones have become more noisy, the important ones have become more impatient as the night wears on, and the staff is running low on energy and everything that they're demanding.

When one of the cocktail tables runs out of napkins, YN takes the excuse before any of her coworkers can, slipping away from the main room with an empty tray tucked against her hip and needing a second to ground herself.

The storage room is just beyond the staff hallway, narrow and overly lit enough that she has to squint from the more ambiance lighting of the event room.

YN steps inside and lets the door fall shut behind her, exhaling as she finally has a moment to herself.

For the first time in what feels like hours, she lets her shoulders drop, and the fake expression slides right off her face.

She grabs a stack of cocktail napkins from the shelf, makes sure to check the inventory box near the side because her boss is that strict about napkins, and then turns back toward the door with them under her arm.

She is already thinking about where she needs to go next when she pulls the door open and steps out but he barely makes it one step into the hallway before someone moves into her path.

YN stops so abruptly that the napkins nearly fall out of her hold and her stomach drops when she looks up and recognizes the man in front of her.

He had been lingering too close earlier in the night, standing near one of the high-top tables with a drink in his hand and a smile that had made her uncomfortable without him even saying anything creepy.

Every time she had passed near him, he had found some excuse to touch her elbow, brush his hand against the small of her back, or lean way too fucking far into her space while asking for something he didn't really need.

He had also tipped her well, actually too generously that it felt like there was expectations attached to it, and at first YN had felt that automatic flicker of relief because the money was what she was working for (obviously) and she needed every bit of it but now the memory of his folded bills pressing into her palm feels gross.

YN had laughed off the touches before because that is what she is used to doing at work.

She had smiled politely, stepped away, and told herself not to make a problem out of something that hadn't happened because her manager would dismiss as harmless, especially if the guest had spent enough money or had a big name, that was more important.

Now, this man is standing directly in front of her in the very narrow staff hallway, blocking the path back to the event with one hand braced casually against the wall beside him, and judging by the diamond-encrusted Rolex flashing on his wrist, he is someone important enough that her manager would take his side.

“Excuse me,” YN says, keeping her voice light as she adjusts the napkins against her hip, “I need to get through.”

The man smiles like she has said something funny instead of giving him a clear direction, his eyes moving over her in a way that makes her skin prickle, and she automatically wants to take a shower, “You’re a hard girl to catch alone.”

YN’s fingers tighten around what she's hold because she can already catch the tone but she keeps her expression neutral because she has worked too many events to get fiesty right off the bat, and she knows men like this often enjoy making women uncomfortable simply because they can.

Most of the time they're harmless but not all the time.

“I’m working, I'm busy,” YN replies, still trying to sound pleasant, taking a small step to the side.

He mirrors it as soon as she does it, cutting her off with a step to the side as well to make it clear he wasn't done talking to her.

The hallway suddenly feels cramped and like the walls are closing in.

YN can still hear the music and voices from the event but they sound far enough away that her pulse begins beating harder in her throat because she knows how quickly this kind of situation can become dangerous and that most people don't come back this way.

He had been following her.

“I know,” He says, glancing down at the napkins before his gaze returns to her face, “That doesn’t mean you can’t be friendly, sweetie.”

“I’ve been friendly all night,” YN says, forcing a small smile that feels tight on her mouth, “And now I need to bring these back out now.”

His hand lifts before she can move away, fingers brushing against her upper arm like he is stopping her gently, though there is nothing gentle about the way it makes her whole body tense.

“Don’t rush off,” He says, his voice lowering, drawing the words out like he's pouting, “I’ve been trying to talk to you, pretty. Don't be rude.”

YN looks at his hand on her arm then back at his face, and every instinct in her body tells her to pull away but the Rolex catches the hallway light again and reminds her that he is exactly the kind of man who will get her fired.

She shifts back enough that his fingers fall away though, “I really do have to keep moving. My manager's pretty strict.”

His smile thins, not disappearing but changing just enough that her stomach tightens, he's getting pissed, “I know you manager, Veronica. She'll understand that I had to steal you for a little.”

She tries to step around him again, this time toward the other side but he moves with her, his body blocking the hallway more fully now, and the closeness makes her realize that this isn't going to be easy.

“Please move,” YN says and her voice is still calm but there is less customer service softness in it now.

His eyebrows lift slightly, almost impressed by the change in tone, “Please?”

“Yes,” YN says, holding his gaze even though she can feel the anxiety starting to climb higher in her chest, “Please move.”

He just stands there, looking at her with that same lazy smile, like he is deciding whether he wants to let her pass or make her work harder for it, and YN’s mind begins running through options.

The man’s hand lifts again and this time his fingers reach toward the edge of her napkins near her hip,“You’re very tense.”

YN pulls them back to her body, angling herself away, “Because you’re blocking me.”

His smile widens and it makes him look dangerous, his voice teasing but it doesn't come off as friendly, “Maybe I like having your attention.”

YN’s mouth goes dry.

She is trying to think of something sharp enough to make him stop but polite enough that it will not cost her the job she needs, and the frustration of that makes her chest burn because she hates that she has to make this just right.

“I’m going back to work,” YN says and she tries one more time to move around him.

He reaches for her again, his fingers closing around her wrist this time, and the touch is firm enough that panic snaps through her before she can hide it.

“Don’t be like that,” He murmurs softly, stepping forward until their chests are almost bumping.

YN’s whole body goes still.

The hallway feels too bright suddenly, too narrow, too quiet around them, and for one horrible second, all she can think about is how quickly her night has shifted from being annoyed about Harry’s wink to being trapped outside a storage room by a man who can ruin her life with one complaint.

“Let go of me,” YN says, her voice shaking now, and she hates that she can't keep it together for any longer.

The man’s eyes flick down to where he is holding her, then back up to her face, and his smile barely moves, sharper, “You don’t have to be dramatic.”

YN inhales deeper, her grip tightening as she prepares to yank her wrist away whether it causes a scene or not because whatever risk comes from being rude suddenly feels less terrifying than letting him think he can keep his hand on her.

Before YN can move, the man’s gaze shifts over her shoulder, and something in his expression changes just enough for her to notice.

It isn’t fear exactly, not at first but it is the first time since he stepped into her path that he looks even slightly less sure of himself.

YN doesn’t turn around because she doesn’t want to take her eyes off the man holding her wrist but she hears footsteps behind her, slow and measured against the marble hallway floor, and then Harry’s voice cuts through the otherwise silent space, low but so cutting that it makes the air around them feel colder.

She had thought that eventually it would wear off, that they'd all get used to being around these people so that they could stop making such a fucking big deal about it, it was exhausting to listen to.

It made her job harder because she was the one who ended up running trays across the room, apologizing about delays or forgotten items, and trying to do so many jobs at once because she'd get flustered.

Tonight was no different, except the way her coworkers were literally fangirling over a fucking business owner felt even weirder than usual because normally they saved that level of obnxious lusting for influencers, movie stars, or people who at least made some kind of sense to be excited over.

But no, tonight it was Harry Styles, and because he was not only a billionaire but apparently the second richest man in the world, everyone was acting like jesus had just walked into the buildling for an event.

To YN, that held very little meaning.

Money didn’t impress her but neither did status either, especially when she had actual things to worry about like making sure she had enough money for gas, paying her next round of tuition, and keeping this job long enough that she could maybe at some point move out of the god awful apartment that she was in.

She didn’t know why someone like that needed to be celebrated constantly like an ido.

Maybe she was being too critical about it all but for him to be named England’s Philanthropist of the Year for donating three million pounds to various charities, she couldn’t help but think that was the least he could do with all the unnecessary money he had.

YN knew that probably made her sound bitter but it was hard not to be when everyone around her was acting like he had descended from the heavens for writing checks that wouldn’t even make a minor difference in his life.

The room knew the second he arrived because conversations suddenly went quiet, heads turned, and her coworkers became even more useless within seconds, their eyes tracking him with the same fascination that made YN want to roll hers hard enough to give herself a headache.

YN did glance over despite herself, mostly because it was impossible not to when the entire room was giving him attention, and she could admit, privately and with resistance, that she understood the hype to an extent.

Harry was stupidly handsome, more than he had any right to be when he was already that rich, with broad shoulders, a lean body that made it obvious he worked out, perfectly messy curls, and a cut jaw that looked like it had never unclenched once in his life.

Still, that only made YN even more unenthused because he looked exactly like the type of person who knew exactly how much they were admired.

He was calm but it didn't come off as relaxed or serene, his expression was so closed off as he walked through the room, with barely a nod towards people, and a quick few words here and there.

The people surrounding him seemed to melt toward him anyway, waiting for an little scrap of attention that Harry was willing to give them.

YN watched women and men gravitate into his space, beautiful people with dazzling smiles and amazing outfits on, they held grace on their own but seemed to just want to chase after Harry's tail.

Harry didn’t encourage that behavior, it didn't seem in this moment at least but he didn’t seem surprised by them either, and that somehow annoyed YN more because he just accepted all the attention without giving anything back to anyone in return.

Most of the people drooling after him didn’t stick around long and more than one walked away with a frown or pout twisted across their face which made her realize just how invested in this man people were.

Maybe when someone had that much money, people invented charm for them so they didn’t have to admit they were just fascinated by the power.

She wasn’t interested in fawning over people didn't need any extra fuel to their ego, especially when most of them expected it.

YN passes close to him a few times as she delivers drinks from the bar to people standing in little clusters around the space.

A few of the more pleasant guests have even slipped bills into her hand when she hands them a drink, and each time, YN tucks the cash away quickly, feeling more relief each time because it's closer to making her not have to worry about a bill for a few more weeks.

She is tired, anxious, and trying very hard to stay focused because events like this always make her feel like she is one wrong move was going to get her fired, and she needs this job, so it's not an option.

The managers here were quick to fire people, one time a girl brought some CEO the wrong drink, and she got fired for it.

So when this event turns sideways, YN has to face the fear of losing her job.

YN is balancing a tray of drinks when whistles for her from behind the bar and because she is already anxious about moving quickly enough to keep up with the way these drinks were going out, she looks back for only a second, and sees the bartender holding up another drink that he had forgotten to put on the tray.

She should have stopped walking.

She knows that immediately, even before the collision happens because there is that tiny flash of awareness where her brain reminds her that her feet are still moving even though she's no longer looking forward.

By then it's way too late and she runs straight into something very sturdy that definitely hadn’t been there a moment ago.

The tray tips first then topples out of her hand completely, cashing between her and this person and YN sucks in a sharp breath as glasses right off the metal tray, ice scatters, and drinks go down and out, everywhere.

She feels it get onto her own skin, her dress didn't cover all that much per the dress code requirements, and it is cold and sticky as it seeps down her wrists to her forearms, settling in the fabric of her dress and it soaks into the tops of her heels but the second she realizes that wasn't the worst fucking part about this, her stomach drops so hard that she almost feels lightheaded and prone to passing out.

Because the majority of the drinks are not on the floor, they are drenching the person she ran into.

And the person she ran into happens to be the Philanthropist of the Year recipient.

Fuck.

For a second, YN can’t move because her brain can't figure out what she needs to address first and she's trying to avoid how all eyes have turned to them, the shocked silence is spreading like wildfire around them, and the sight of strawberry margarita soaking into what is very clearly an expensive suit.

Her automatic thought is that she is going to be fired right then and there, in the middle of the event, without even being allowed to finish her shift, and the panic arrives so quickly that she's already figuring out how she's going to get gas in her car after this shift.

It isn’t just that it is Harry Styles, although that is bad enough.

It is the fact that his outfit had been pristine seconds ago, clearly tailored and custom in a way that even YN can recognize despite not knowing anything about suits or fashion in general, and she catches sight of the Gucci emblems on the buttons as she stared wide-eyed which means the shirt alone probably costs more than she could afford in a month, maybe more.

At first, they are not making eye contact because Harry is looking down at his ruined clothes in what seems like complete disbelief and somehow his silence makes everything worse than if he had immediately snapped at her, cursed her out, and told her she fucked up.

YN’s heart starts pounding harder as she looks between his shirt, the broken mess of the tray because not only had she dropped them, this spilled alcohol was surely going to get her a write-up as there was probably two-hundred dollars worth of liquor on that tray alone.

The people around them who have already been staring through all of this seem to be expecting his reaction, anticipation.

The fear hits harder when she remembers his reputation because she has heard enough about this CEO to know that he is an absolute nightmare of a person, cold, heartless as they can come, brutally impatient, and he holds enough power that she knows that he has to say one word, and her manager is letting her go.

This isn't going to be good.

Harry’s eyes finally meet hers after what feels like forever and they are this smooth and clear, almost sea-glass green that YN would have thought looked pretty in the dim light of the room if she were not actively trying not to have a panic attack in front of the second richest man in the world and a ton of other important people.

His face is so closed off in a way that gives her no cue what to expect out of a reaction, she couldn't tell whether he was going to scream in her face, walk away to get her manager, or draw the whole room's attention to it.

His jaw tight enough that his molars must be grinding together, his expression unreadable, and the lack of reaction makes everything worse because she has no control of her emotions right now.

YN can feel her heartbeat in her throat and her hands start moving uselessly at her sides as if she wants to clean the mess but has no idea where to start.

She acts on instinct because she's so nervous.

Her voice is shaky as she makes herself to maintain eye contact with him, even though every part of her wants to look away from his intense stare, like he can see right through her, “I am so sorry, sir. I…I didn’t see you standing there, someone called my name and…and now you have strawberry margarita all over you. I can't apologize enough, I'm so sorry.”

The people around them seem to be preparing for Harry to absolutely lose his shit on her, their conversations stay slow and their eyes locking onto the mess in front of them as if they're waiting on him to start yelling.

But he is still not talking.

For some reason, she takes that silence as her opportunity to fix it, and the only thing that comes to mind is a trick her gran taught her years ago, though she cannot remember it fully and isn't even completely sure she is thinking of the right thing.

“I know a trick,” YN says quickly, her voice still shaky and breathless as she gestures toward his shirt like pointing at the stain like he hand't seen it yet, “I can get the stain out before you accept your aware. Just come with me, I can fix this, I'll fix it.”

She is so flustered that she doesn't really consider how she is speaking to him, doesn't fully process that she is giving instructions to a billionaire in front of a room full of people who are already staring at her like she has lost her mind, and she doesn't care that it is this CEO in any form or way beyond the fact that he is the guest of honor and she really doesn't want to get fired.

It could have been any guest, honestly because her fear isn't about wanting his approval (fuck that) or being embarrassed in front of someone important (who cares).

It is about the job.

It is about rent, tuition, gas, groceries, and the stomach churning knowledge that one ruined shirt could put all of that at risk.

That panic makes her act impulsively and before she can think better of it, YN wraps her hand around his wrist without permission, even though he had still not responded, hadn't agreed to let her fix it.

She gives a light tug and hopes he follows because if he refuses or calls for someone in charge, she has no idea what she will do except burst into tears.

Surprisingly enough, Harry allows it.

His body is stiff beside her and tense and there isn'thing relaxed or understanding about the way he lets her guide him but he doesn't pull away, doesn't humiliate her in front of everyone, in fact, it's obviously he clearly doesn't care about the reaction of people around them because during that interaction, he had never once looked away from YN, and he doesn't stop her when she steers him out of the main area with her hand still wrapped around his wrist.

YN snags a few packets of sugar from a caddy on the way because that is what her brain has decided she needs to fix this, even though she is already second-guessing whether sugar is actually the right thing (was it salt or maybe corn starch?), and then she leads him out of the event where everyone is watching and back into the staff hallway.

She should have asked if he wanted her help, not assumed, in normal circumstances she would never act this rash.

But he isn't resisting or arguing at this point with her and YN is trying to use that as permission to do what she's doing because if she slows down long enough to think about how insane this is, she will actually start crying.

Her hand is still shaking around his wrist when she gets him to the staff bathroom, a single-person room tucked at the end of the hall, and she pulls him in after her before closing the door behind them with chaotic urgency.

The second the door shuts, the silence feels much different than it did in a room full of people.

YN is suddenly very aware of just how small this bathroom is, how broad Harry looks standing in it, taking up so much of the space, and how fucking bizarre it is that she has just dragged the this man, the guest of honor, out of a formal event and into an employee bathroom that smells like cheap hand soap and too much bleach.

She doesn't realize she is babbling until she is already doing it,“My gran taught me this trick, you know? So, like…I can fix this. I’m so sorry, I’m really clumsy sometimes. I…you’ll need to take off your shirt so I can get the stain out, I’m sorry.”

Harry still hasn't said one word and that makes her nerves buzz even harder because she can't tell if he is letting her continue out of the attempt to control his anger, if he's in shock (unlikely), or he's going to just use this to humilate her further.

His expression stays just unreadable as she apologizes almost like a chant, his jaw still clenched, his eyes watchful and calm but that doesn't bring her any hope, it's not an easy calm, it's exerting intense control of his emotions, and she's not used to that.

Her hands move before her brain properly catches up, and she is already reaching for his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders once he gives the smallest shift in his body language that allows it before draping it over the back of the chair in the corner.

Then she steps back toward him and starts unbuttoning his shirt, her fingers working too quickly over the expensive buttons, shaking enough it takes her a few times to figure out how to make her fingers actually do what they need to do because she's too scared.

It is only when she catches a strong whiff of his cologne, it's super strong but smell so good, she's never smelled the scent before, and she knows that it's because she's not around people who can afford such expensive things.

Her hands are on him.

Her fingers are touching his chest through the open fabric of his shirt.

She hadn't gotten any real verbal confirmation by this point that any of this was okay with him and she is standing so fucking close to him right now that she can feel the heat radiating off of him.

YN freezes with her fingers on the third button down, her eyes widening as the reality of what she is doing finally catches up with her, everything seems to be moving extremely fast and then suddenly into slow motion.

“Oh shit,” YN curses, the words slipping out before she can stop them because if spilling the drink on him didn’t get her fired, dragging him into the staff bathroom and putting her hands all over him without properly asking definitely would, “Is this okay? I just…I can fix your shirt. I'm sorry.”

Harry only nods at her and it is such a small movement that it somehow makes him even more intimidating.

How is he this regulated?

YN keeps her eyes on the buttons because looking at his face feels too overwhelming when she can feel him watching her, and once the shirt is loose enough around his shoulders, Harry helps her by shrugging out of it.

Suddenly, he is bare-chested in front of her, he allows her to take the ruined shirt in her hands, and YN’s brain seems to black out completely because he isn't just attractive in the way he holds himself like he's powerful.

He is stupidly in shape.

Like, stupidly.

His muscles look carved into his skin, his shoulders are broad and making him look so overpowering, and he had abs, noticeable and covered in tattoos, not to mention that sharp vee that was disappearing into his trousers.

There are tattoos everywhere and a cross chain sits between his pecs, highlighting just how beefy he actually was.

YN swallows hard before she finally looks away, she had definitely been staring for way to long, and she realizes that she is clutching the shirt tighter than she needs to, causing more wrinkles because she doesn't want to be caught staring at him, she's already embarrassed herself enough.

She isn't sure if she is more overwhelmed by how handsome he is or by how calm he is because his silence starts to just become even heavier as she turns toward the sink.

YN doesn't think her brain is working all that well because she presses her fingers inside the shirt to push the stained fabric upward then dunks the ruined section under the dingy faucet, it wasn't ideal, the staff bathroom wasn't maintained in the way the others were.

Of course, the guest bathrooms are as beautiful as the museum they sit in but the staff bathroom is cramped, barely functional, and he looks so out of place in her that it would be comical if it was a different situation.

She rips the corner off a few sugar packets with her teeth because her hands are too shaky to try to do it gingerly then pours the sugar onto the shirt before grabbing a paper towel and scrubbing it into the fabric with more desperation than actual knowledge of what she's doing

YN is pretty sure it is sugar.

At least, she thought it was sugar when she grabbed it but the longer she scrubs, the more her panic starts making her question everything because maybe her gran had said vinegar or lemon, or maybe the trick had only worked on a completely different kind of stain?

Maybe she's currently scrubbing gritty sugar, now clumping grains into a custom Gucci shirt while the half-naked billionaire watches in completel and utter silence.

Her stomach twists and she glances over her shoulder for half a second before immediately regretting it because Harry is still standing with his chest bare, his arms crossed, and his eyes fixed on her in a way that makes her feel like she's under a microscope.

“I…I can pay you back if this doesn’t work,” YN continues to just babble, turning back to the sink because it is easier to talk to the shirt than to him, "I hope it wasn’t expensive.”

The second the words leave her mouth, she almost wants to laugh at herself because she is talking to a fucking billionaire and offering to reimburse him like she has anything close to the amount of money it would take to replace something like this.

She doesn't know how to speak to him differently though.

She doesn't have some special rich person vocabulary, doesn't know the proper way to say things or to apologize for mistakes, and underneath all the status and money, he is still a person whose shirt she ruined, so she offers to pay him back because she would offer that to anyone else.

Her fingers keep scrubbing even as her face burns with how stupid she feels, and the anxiety makes her voice come out thinner as she adds, “I mean, I can’t pay all of it tonight or anything but I could do it in pieces if I had to.”

The man doesn’t smile at her, doesn't soothe or yell at her, and his expression doesn’t really change at all but he simply says in an even tone, “It wasn’t expensive, don’t worry about it.”

YN knows it is most likely a lie and honestly, she knows it is definitely a lie because she can see the Gucci label.

She also sees his name stitch onto the label, which only confirms that she was right about this, it is clearly custom, clearly made for him.

Still, relief seeps through her before she can stop it because if he is saying not to worry about it then maybe she will not have to drain her account or spend the next several months trying to pay back a billionaire in pathetic little installments.

“Good,” YN says before she can filter herself, her nervous mouth moving faster than her brain, an awkward laugh coming out, “Because I have absolutely no money to pay you back with.”

She notices Harry’s lips turn down slightly at her joke and the lack of reaction makes her cheeks feel like an idiot they're now absolutely on fucking fire.

He probably doesn't find much of any pity for her, not that she was asking for pity in the first place, it's a joke that her friend's would have laughed at but she imagines he doesn't want to hear about her problems, and he most likely thinks she is insane, clumsy, and completely unprofessional.

YN turns back to the sink because looking at him isn't helping, he's not giving her anything to work with then pulls the sopping wet fabric back and elbows the hand dryer hard enough to turn it on, it's weak and groans with age but still, she started stretching the shirt beneath the breeze of warm air in a desperate attempt to keep the fabric from wrinkling any worse than it already has.

The bathroom fills with the loud, groaning hum, and for a few seconds, she lets that noise cover her nearly panting breaths.

Harry is just watching her.

She can feel the intensity of his stare even when she isn't looking at him and it makes her fingers clumsier, if that's possible.

“Do you typically corner men you don’t know into bathrooms and strip them half naked?” Harry finally asks, giving her more than a few words at once, and YN is surprised by how deep his voice is, it's slow and carefully, and then he's stepping towards her to take his shirt when she's ready to hand it over.

The words should probably make her more embarrassed, they do but she can't really process it right now and they also catch her so off guard enough that her mouth answers before she can feel like she has her head on straight.

“You’re my only one,” YN replies anxiously, holding the shirt out to him and then immediately stepping closer again when she realizes she needs to help with the buttons because the fabric is still damp and not cooperating.

Harry’s chest is right fucking there again, his skin is so warm and smells so good, and YN tries very hard to focus on the shirt instead of the way she's touching bare skin, and she tries not to make it obvious how much it is effecting her.

He doesn't move away from her though and he doesn't make any type of shitty comment about her hands shaking but his silence isn't comforting either because his face hasn't changed whatsoever, his eyes keep tracking every anxious movement she makes.

When the shirt is finally buttoned, YN steps back to see if this stupid trick even worked, and the groan that leaves her mouth is louder than she intended.

It is hardly better.

The stain is maybe a little less intense in color than before but she has managed to smear the artificial coloring halfway across the shirt, and now it somehow looks worse.

She shouldn't have done any of this.

She should have apologized, went and found her manager, and accepted whatever happened instead of literally kidnapping him into a staff bathroom and conducting the worst stain-removal to exist while making him take off his clothes.

YN bites at her bottom lip, staring at the damage as dread settles heavily in her stomach, “I’ve completely ruined your shirt.”

Harry doesn't explode the way she is scared he will, even though his face is still emotionless and blank.

Harry just looks down, turns slightly to get a glance of himself in the mirror, and then meets her eye again, "You have completely ruined my shirt. However, it's doesn't change that it's just a shirt."

YN shakes her head immediately because it isn't just a shirt and the fact that he can call it just a shirt only proves how different their lives are.

“No, I can’t…I really should pay you back,” YN says, already reaching into her bra for her phone because she doesn't have pockets and that's super unprofessional on it's own but she doesn't care, "Can I Venmo you?”

Harry laughs lowly and it is the first time he even remotely resembles a human and not a robot, his brow quirks upwards slightly, “I’m not sure what that is, so no. Please, don’t worry about it.”

YN pauses with her phone as she's pulling up the app, staring at him because she cannot tell if he is serious or joking though his expression has shifted back so she has no way of telling.

Before she can argue again about payment, the speakers from the main event suddenly boom loud enough to reach them through the door, and YN jumps because it's so unexpected.

Harry reacts immediately, his eyes snapping toward the door as he reaches for his suit jacket much faster than he has moved since she dragged him in here.

He tugs the jacket on over the ruined shirt, buttoning it quickly in a way that hides the stain for the most part, and YN doesn't expect him to keep talking to her while he does it.

“I have to go,” Harry says, running one hand through his curls as if making sure they are still in place before he turns back toward her, “What’s your name?”

“YN, I really—” YN begins, already trying to apologize again because there is still a stained shirt underneath his buttoned suit jacket, sugar crystallized on her hands, panic sitting in her chest because she doesn't know what's going to happen.

“I’m sorry, I really need to leave,” Harry interjects and he is somehow the one apologizing even though she is the one who drenched him, dragged him away from his own event, and made his shirt significantly worse.

He is already moving toward the door as he says it, his back to completely unreadable while his hand closes around the handle, and then he throws it open and rushes out like the entire thing never happened in the first place.

YN moves carefully back into the main room, trying to make herself useful without drawing attention because she feels like all eyes will be on her because of the mistake but the second she steps through the doorway, her eyes find Harry before she can stop them or before she can worry about anyone staring at her.

He is standing near the podium on the stage now and from this distance, no one would know that ten minutes ago he had been half-naked in a staff bathroom while she scrubbed sugar into custom Gucci like an absolute idiot.

If she had not been the one in the bathroom with him, she would have never been able to tell that he just went through the chaos.

There is something weird and almost scary about how easily he puts the mask back on because YN still feels shaken and sticky and out of breath while Harry maintains the composure he'd had through their whole interaction.

The person at the podium finishes introducing him and the room breaks into applause that startles her almost like the booming speaker earlier, she was so keyed up.

Harry steps forward, accepting the award with a brief nod and an even expression that doesn't become a smile even when cameras flash from the front of the room and people start cheering and whistling.

YN stops near the back wall with an empty tray tucked against her hip, she should be getting drinks but she's telling herself that she wants to make sure that the stain isn't super visible.

It's a lie though, she's watching because she can't help it.

Harry rests one hand on the podium, gripping the edge, and his rings glimmer in the light.

When he begins speaking, his voice carries through the room in the same deep, slow, precise way it had in the bathroom.

“Thank you,” Harry says, his tone smooth as he looks out across the crowd, “It’s an honor to be recognized tonight though the recognition belongs more to the organizations doing the work every day than it does to me for supporting them.”

YN’s brows pull together slightly because she had expected him to sound much more arrogant.

Instead, he sounds formal and detached but not smug.

He speaks about the charities directly, naming programs, initiatives, accomplishments, new goals, and people who made it possible rather than spending the whole speech talking about himself.

YN finds herself listening despite the fact that she had already decided earlier that three million pounds was the least he could do.

It still is, probably.

YN shifts the tray against her hip, watching as Harry pauses while the audience applauds again, his eyes move over the crowd without really settling on anyone.

For a second, she wonders if he is looking for her.

The thought makes her feel so stupid because there is no reason this man to search a room for the waitress who ruined his shirt and then had a nervous breakdown because of it while trying to act like she didn't.

Then his gaze passes near the back of the room and even though she is too far away to know for sure, YN feels a strange little jolt in her chest before quickly looking down at the tray like that will somehow make her not visible.

She finally moves back to her job, she's waiting on a new tray of drinks, when two women sit at the bar stools closest to her, and they snap their fingers for the bartender to come over for an order.

“He looks so fucking good tonight,” One of them says but it almost seems like she's angry about it.

The other woman gives a quiet, bitter laugh,“He always looks good. That's why he can get away with his bullshit."

YN keeps her eyes lowered because she didn't want them to think she was listening, even though she totally was, her attention is on them because there is something about their tone that doesn't sound like the usual fangirling she's used to hearing, it sounds like these girls know him.

She glances up just enough to see them properly.

They are both so fucking pretty that makes YN feel very aware of the damp spots on her cheap dress again, they have perfect hair, expensive, glimmering jewelry, heels that probably cost more than YN’s textbooks, and confidence.

One of them, a blonde woman in a sleek red dress, watches Harry at the podium with a tight smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

“He’s such an fucking prick,” The blonde murmurs, lifting her new drink to her mouth. “Like such a prick that I don't even know if he many makes up for it.”

The brunette beside her hums in agreement, shaking her head with a laugh, “That's why he can act that way, is he knows that he doesn't need anyone, he just uses and then disposes.”

YN shifts slightly, pretending to organize napkins and straws because she knows she shouldn't be listening but now she's entranced.

The blonde laughs quietly but not with humor, “He'll always have girls at his disposal. He'll never run dry, that's why he doesn't have to bother to be halfway decent to them."

YN’s hand pauses over the napkins.

The brunette glances around, then lowers her voice further, which only makes YN listen harder, “You mean the models?”

“I mean everyone,” The blonde replies with a stern look, “Models, actresses, influencers, whoever he feels like fucking. He lets people think that he's interested in getting to know them, sleep with them, and then won't ever acknowledge them again."

YN’s stomach twists with a discomfort she doesn't expect because she doesn't know Harry and has absolutely no reason to defend him but the accusation still feels strange when she thinks about who had just stood half-naked in a bathroom and told her not to worry about a shirt she could never afford.

But also he wasn't trying to fuck her.

The brunette takes another sip of her drink, her mouth twisting sourly as Harry thanks the room and begins to step away from the podium, “Everyone claps because he writes checks but I promise you, he doesn't do anything unless it benefits him.”

“I feel sorry for the next girl who falls for it. Who thinks that Harry will want to marry her, knock her up,” The brunette says, almost bored now, "She’ll think she’s special but it won't take long.”

The blonde laughs softly, "There's no stopping a selfish, power-hungry asshole like him."

She knows she shouldn’t care.

She knows, realistically, that she doesn’t know Harry beyond the worst ten minutes of her entire shift, and even that is generous because most of those ten minutes had involved her panicking, babbling, touching him without permission, and making his shirt worse while he stood there like some statue with abs.

Before hearing those women talk, YN had been willing to consider the small possibility that his silence in the bathroom had been shock or mindfulness, maybe even some weird version of kindness because he didn’t yell at her and didn’t drag her manager into the disaster.

Now, she can’t stop replaying the whole thing differently.

The way he had stared at her while she scrubbed sugar into his shirt feels worse now because at the time she had been so frantic that she couldn’t make sense of it but after hearing those women call him a user and an asshole, it becomes very easy to believe that he had stood there quietly because he enjoyed having that much control over a situation.

YN presses her lips together and forces herself to straighten the napkins she has already straightened too many times.

She thinks about the moment she offered to pay him back, how ridiculous she must have sounded telling a billionaire she could cover the cost in installments, and suddenly the way his lips had turned down doesn’t feel like confusion anymore.

It feels like judgment.

It feels like he had been looking at her and thinking exactly what she already feared he was thinking, that she was poor, frantic, unprofessional.

Of course he hadn’t cared about the shirt.

Why would he?

The cost probably meant nothing to him and maybe that was exactly why he could stand there so fucking calm while she hyperventilated over it.

YN glances toward the stage again before she can stop herself, and Harry is no longer at the podium, but he is still surrounded by people near the front of the room, accepting handshakes and brief conversations with the same closed-off expression that gives nothing away.

It annoys her more than it should because she can still feel the sticky remnants of the drink drying on her skin, her feet are aching from the cheap heels, and her hear still isn't beating quite right.

The women keep talking beside her but YN stops listening before she catches anything else that only makes everything worse.

She doesn't need to know more.

She does not need to stand there finding more and more reasons to feel embarrassed, angry, and stupid for having even thought that maybe he was kinder than she originally thought.

YN reaches for a tray when the bartender slides it toward her and she lifts it with both hands, maybe sure she has a good grip and she's paying attention to where she's going.

She just needs to get throught this shift.

She doesn’t expect Harry to seek her out.

The event is coming to an end and Harry has spent the last hour making his rounds through the party with the same posture and closed-off expression he had since he walked in, moving from one group of important people to the next without ever looking like he is actually enjoying any of it.

He doesn't even try.

Each time YN looks at him, which is more often than she wants to admit, he is not smiling, not laughing, not looking engaged in conversations the way everyone else is.

He looks exactly like what those women had said he was… cold, untouchable, used to people coming to him, and not having to give much effort back at all.

YN tries not to pay attention to him after that, mostly because she is annoyed for wanting to keep looking at him.

She is standing near the bar waiting for another tray when Harry makes his way over and even before he sits, she can feel him there in the way her body reacts with sudden awareness, her shoulders go tight and her grip clutches around the edge of the tray she is already holding.

He settles onto one of the stools that was only a few feet away from her, followed by a few men in suits who clearly want his attention, and YN can see him out of the corner of her eye as he reaches for whatever drink the bartender slides in front of him.

She refuses to look at him.

She has no idea if he has come over to finally give her shit about the shirt now that his speech is over or if he is going to make some rude joke with the men around him about the waitress who dragged him into a bathroom and ruined custom Gucci with sugar packets.

YN makes the mistake of sneaking a glance at him.

He is already looking at her.

Fuck.

Harry’s eyes hold hers for a second and there is nothing obviously mocking in his expression, nothing smug or mean in the way he is watching her but that almost makes it worse because he is still so difficult to read that YN immediately becomes more tense than she just was.

“So, YN,” Harry says, casual as ever, his voice low and smooth as he lifts his glass and takes a small sip, she's surprised that he remembered her name, “What are you doing after your shift is over?”

YN stares at him for half a second because she genuinely thinks she must have heard him wrong then the offer settles in or at least the offer she assumes he's trying to give her, and she's in fucking disbelief.

Really?

That is his ploy?

He is going to sit there after the night she has had, after the ruined shirt and the bathroom and the women at the bar talking about how he uses people, and he is going to see if she will be starstruck enough by his attention to go home with him?

YN hadn’t thought for a second that she would ever be faced with this type of interaction from someone like him because she is not wearing a beautiful dress, expensive heels, dazzling jewelry, or any of the things there other women in here have.

The idea that Harry could look at her in this exact state and decide she might be convenient enough to entertain him for the night makes her feel more insulted than complimented.

Maybe she is assuming the worst because of what she overheard but the women’s voices are still too fresh in her head.

YN feels her jaw tighten but she keeps her expression mostly calm because she refuses to give him the satisfaction of looking flustered again.

“I’m going home and sleeping,” YN tells him bluntly, her voice even as she shifts the empty tray against her hip.

For the first time all night, Harry actually looks caught off guard.

It is subtle because of course it is but YN sees the way his brows lift slightly and the way his hand pauses around his glass, and it makes her feel a bit better than she almost got him to break.

Almost.

YN does laugh lightly, it is entertaining, “Let me guess, you don’t get turned down often?”

Harry’s eyes narrow slightly, not in anger really but in confusion as if he had no idea, why on earth she would turn him down.

YN keeps going before he can answer because now that she has started, her mouth is moving in the same reckless way that got him dragged into the bathroom earlier, “I’m not agreeing to a date because you have money.”

Harry’s face shifts again and YN cannot tell whether he is offended, amused, or just confused by the fact that she is speaking to him like this while wearing a cheap, stained dress and falling apart heels.

Honestly, she doesn't care what he thinks.

She has spent the entire night caring too much about what he might do, what he might say and she's tired of it.

The bartender slides her full tray toward her and YN takes it, adjusting it before giving Harry one last polite, completely fake smile.

It was the time of the month when everything hurt a little too much. Your breasts were sore and the pain in your lower tummy made every mundane task sound like a nightmare, acne decorated your skin to the point where you couldn’t even look at yourself in the mirror and your emotions were like on a rollercoaster, making you cry over everything.

When you opened your eyes in the morning, you already knew the day wouldn’t be any good. An unbearable pain in your abdomen brought you to tears when you tried to turn on your other side, wanting to sleep for a bit longer since your first class wasn’t starting until 11 AM, but your body had other plans. Kicking the comforter away from your legs, you got up from your bed with a quiet whine that quickly turned into a huff full of frustration when you noticed a patch of blood on the bedsheets. Not even looking behind, you slowly shuffled into the bathroom and locked yourself in there.

Just when you sat down on the toilet and looked down between your legs at the ruined pair of underwear, the knob on the door wiggled a few times. Harry tried to get inside. “Sweetheart? Why did you lock the door?”

You’ve never really used the lock. Harry saw you already naked, sort of, and so you did him. It left you with no need to lock yourself there.

“Oh- sorry, didn’t mean to. Do you need something?” You lied. You didn’t want Harry to know that you got your period. Not that it was something you were ashamed of, you two were very open about this, but Harry sometimes got in the ‘mother hen’ role when he saw you in this state, and that was the last thing you wanted today. All you needed was some alone time, lots of ice cream and a good cry.

“Just brush my teeth, but I can wait. Take your time,” Harry said, leaving without any questions or suspicions, probably back in his bedroom, and you let out a relieved sigh.

You opted for a quick shower. It was the easiest way to get rid of the blood and the uncomfortable feeling lingering in your muscles and relieve cramping.

Sitting back at the toilet, ready to take care of the business, you noticed you were running out of tampons. I can stop in the shop later, you thought, there were still a few tampons left in the box. But the cramps contracting your muscles made you rethink your plans completely. Maybe not.

“You can go,” You called out from the kitchen after you were done. With sleepwear discarded in the hamper and switched for a pink fuzzy bathrobe and brushed teeth, you were making yourself a cup of chamomile tea. This mix of herbs was from Anne, a thoughtful gift you got from her one time when your period came unexpectedly while you were visiting. And even though it’s been ages since that happened, somehow you never ran out of it no matter how many times you made that tea.

Harry took a shower as well, not as quickly as he should have, his class was starting in half an hour, but coming late didn’t faze him. With a quick makeout and a touch of his abs in the teacher's office after class, everything was forgiven and forgotten.

“I’ll try to come on time next week, but I cannot promise you anything,” He always told them after he kissed them goodbye, but he never made good on his empty promises. No wonder Harry’s teachers tolerated his high absence. You would too.

A quiet hum of the falling water echoed through the apartment from the bathroom, where Harry didn’t even bother to close the door, and it mixed with quiet whistles of a kettle you put on the stove that signalled your water was boiling. An idyllic sound of morning.

“You good? I don’t like this frown,” Harry’s brows furrowed in concern when he noticed the deathly glare you were giving your tea. He always noticed everything. Taking a step closer, shirtless and with unbuttoned jeans, he gently cradled your face in his palm and pressed a soft kiss to your lips.

The simple affectionate gesture made the corners of your mouth turn slightly upwards, and Harry grinned in triumph, kissing you one more time to make the smile appear. “There she is.”

“You’re gonna be late, Harry,” You reluctantly pulled away from the kiss when Harry tried to prolong it, and ran your fingers through his hair instead in an attempt to give the wet strands some shape.

“I don’t care- Hey! That is my mug!” Harry looked over your shoulder at the white ceramics adorned with his mother’s handwriting in red colour. She made it for him at a ceramics class she attended with her friends.

“And now my tea’s in it,” You shrugged.

“Baby, it says mommy’s boy. Why are you drinking from it? You are not-“

“Oh, so are you mommy’s boy?” You raised your eyebrow at him with a teasing grin before you took a sip of the calming chamomile.

“I’m not,” He sulked but didn’t argue any further, he knew he lost this argument. He finished dressing up and reached for a chocolate-filled croissant that you bought the day before in your favourite bakery. At least his start of the day tasted sweet.

“I'd better be going. Pick you up after class?” Harry pressed the last kiss to your lips, leaving a smear of chocolate in the corner of your mouth after the first bite he took of the pastry.

“Uh not today. I’m probably gonna go grocery shopping,” You shook your head, dismissing his offer quickly with another lie. You already knew that after you sat down on a couch, you wouldn’t move from the spot.

“Oh yeah, I wouldn’t enjoy that,” And with that, he was out the door.

You thought about going to at least one of your classes. You weren’t exactly the type who’d skip school even with a fever, but after the two painkillers you took didn’t seem to help, you were more than content to stay cuddled up in blankets and watch a sad movie on the couch.

You ate the last croissant that was left and drank the rest of the tea, which was cold by the time you finished it. With sore muscles, you moved back into your bedroom to change into a pair of shorts and a hoodie, took off the dirty sheets from your bed and put them in the washing machine. The cramps started being even more unbearable the more you moved, and by the time you made it back into the living room, you completely gave up on the plans of changing your sheets and snuggled on the couch instead.

You wrapped yourself in the fluffiest blanket you owned and squeezed a big pillow to your chest to comfort yourself during sad scenes in the romantic movie you had on. The kind you saw a million times already, a few times with Harry too, but watched it over and over again because it felt safe to cry to it.

Everything reminded you of you and Harry, but you couldn't make yourself stop watching and turn the TV off. The sweet moments the main characters shared, the sleepless nights spent talking till the early morning, the intimate sex, the kisses full of love that were serious - you wanted it all with Harry. And that quiet realisation hit you hard, maybe more than the cramps that have been torturing you the whole morning. You didn’t know what name to give these feelings, nor what Harry carried in his heart, and whether it was close to the love the movie characters had. It all scared you so much you cried yourself to sleep.

“Baby? You’re already back home from the shop?” Harry's surprised tone brought you back from your dreams. You slowly blinked your eyes open. There was a share of romantic movie recommendations on the TV screen because the movie you were watching ended while you were asleep and Netflix wanted to lure you into seeing one more, and Harry stood next to the couch, observing you with a confused expression that was utterly characteristic of him.

“I didn’t go,” You mumbled, your voice still hoarse from your nap, but when you tried to stretch your stiff muscles, a sharp pain hit your abdomen, and you let out a quiet sob.

“Jesus, love. Are you okay?” Harry leaned down and pressed the back of his hand against your forehead to check if you didn’t have a fever. “What hurts?”

“Ugh I got my period.” You huffed and wrapped your arms tightly around your middle.

“Oh baby,” Harry cooed sympathetically and sat down next to you on the couch. He pulled you into his chest, wrapped one arm around your shoulders and pressed his free hand over your abdomen to ease the pain. He knew how uncomfortable your period cramps could get, and he always tried his hardest to make that time of the month as easy as it was possible for you.

“It hurts so bad,” You sniffled.

“I know, baby, I know. I wish I could take all the pain away,” He whispered as he started to rock you from side to side, pressing soft comforting kisses in your hair.

You were so exhausted from the pain and crying, and despite how much you wanted to be alone at first, being held by Harry soothed every tremor your body and heart have been going through. You didn’t even notice Harry typing on his phone behind your back until he set his device on the coffee table.

“Cuddle me?” You pouted and snuggled closer to his side.

“Sweetheart, I wish I could but- I have already plans with Maeve,” Harry admitted the name of his fling quietly. Maeve was one of the girls Harry had seen more than once or twice. She was his go-to contact when he needed a good fuck. A tall redhead with curls that fell in the middle of her back, with a lean body but prominent curves in the front and back and adorable freckles scattered over her nose and cheeks. Ever since you went on a date with the Jacob guy, Harry seemed to search her bed more often.

He cupped your cheek to make you look up at him and kissed your forehead when your eyes found his. You’ve never been able to point out what was swimming in the greenery of his eyes, not even now, and it frustrated you so much. “I’ll get you a heating pad and more painkillers, yeah?”

You sniffled but nodded at his offer and lay back in your pillow nest. You watched Harry go for your heating pad, pink with a plush cover so it wouldn’t burn your skin, and put it in a microwave for three minutes so it would be warm enough to help with your cramping. He came back a moment later, heating pad in one hand and a box of painkillers in the other one, and tugged your hoodie under your breasts so he could put the pad on your abdomen. “Here. It should help with the cramping, I promise.”

“Will you be back soon?” You whispered, suddenly feeling so small. You wanted Harry to stay, to hold you in his lap, kiss your lips or forehead, whatever he wanted, and whisper sweet nothings in your ear until all the pain would go away and remain just love.

“I will try,” He smiled at you softly and pressed a kiss to your lips. “Watch something nice hm? I think there should be a bit of vanilla ice cream left in the freezer too.”

And he was gone again. You couldn’t really blame him, if he had plans already, it would be selfish of you to want him to stay and cancel everything, but deep down you wished for it anyway.

You put on ‘The Big Bang Theory’, it was cosy enough, and with the rest of the ice cream you ate straight out of the box, there wasn’t any need for bowls and fancy utensils, you tried to relax. But even while watching Sheldon annoy everyone and Leonard be hopelessly in love with Penny, you caught yourself thinking about Harry with Maeve.

How he would kiss her, make her moan, watch her writhe in his grasp while he would finger her or eat her out, how he would pound into her in many different positions until she was a mess. You imagined it lively, his fingers tangled in her red hair and his hips pressed against hers, moans mixing in the space of her place. It brought you to tears again.

You curled on the couch, pulled the blanket up to your chin and squeezed the pillow a little tighter. The heating pad started to help with the cramps but you still could feel the pain linger in your muscles.

“I’m back!” Harry called from the hallways brightly. You were close to finishing the third episode of the series when a sound of the front door reached your ears.

“What?” You sat up quickly, not understanding what was happening. “Weren’t you supposed to be with Maeve?”

“Called it off. Someone has to take care of you,” Harry shrugged, “So I stopped in the shop since you didn’t.”

Harry appeared in the living room with two overflowing bags and a bouquet of flowers squeezed between his bicep and ribs. His hair was a little wet, the London weather was acting up again, but he was smiling nonetheless.

He set the bags down on the coffee table with a soft thud, making the content spill on the wooden surface, and handed you the bouquet of tulips. “Got you your favourite,”

“Harry,…” You whispered, not really sure what to say, and took the flowers with shaking hands. You were so confused, yet your heartbeat was closer to a cardiac arrest than to a normal pace. He chose you over Maeve.

“Got new ice cream,” Harry pulled out a tub of chocolate ice cream from your favourite fancy brand that you bought only for special occasions from the bag.

“Some chocolates and candy. I wasn’t sure what you were in the mood for so I bought a bit of everything,” He set down a bag of caramels, sour candy, dark and milk chocolate as well as some cookies.

“Harry,” You whispered again, “You didn’t have to cancel your date just because of me.”

“Shhh, baby, I didn’t finish,” Harry tutted in disapproval at your protest and pulled a bag of oranges, mango and a pack of strawberries next before he topped it with four boxes of tampons.

“I noticed we were running out of tampons, so I got some of these too,” He waved in the air with one box of tampons for regular flow. “I know you like to use these, but I thought since it’s your first day, these ones could be better for the bigger flow. Oh and I noticed we ran out of pads too, so I bought some just in case you’d prefer that right now.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks again, but this time it wasn’t from longing or sadness. You were overwhelmed by love. You would never expect yourself to cry over a haul of period products, but here you were.

“What’s wrong baby? What did I do wrong? You didn’t want these? Fuck, I knew I was supposed to take the ones with the wings,” Harry’s smile dropped at the sight of your tears and he rushed to your side to soothe you.

“No, Har- No-“ All that was leaving past your lips were quiet hiccups and you couldn’t form words nor put a proper sentence together.

“Shhhhh, it’s okay. Just take a deep breath. You’re gonna tell me in a minute whatever’s bothering this pretty mind, but now just breathe,” Harry pulled you in his lap, just how you wanted, and you let out a shuddered breath against his steadily heaving chest.

“That’s it, good girl. One more for me? There she is, that’s much better. Is it hormones? Or what brought my girl to tears?”

“You’re perfect,”

“Me? I don’t think so,” Harry grinned, trying to bring a smile on your lips as well.

“You- You hate shopping but you cancelled your plans and went shopping for me-“

“I bought myself some beer, don’t worry.”

“Harry you really didn’t have to,” You shook your head when you looked at everything Harry bought.

“I wanted to. And I bought you some face masks too.”

It were the little things that meant the most. The smallest details that no one paid attention to but Harry did. He always did. He knew how you liked your tea, what kind of shampoo was best for your hair, that you preferred showers in the morning rather than bubble baths in the evening, and that a good skincare product during your period was a key to your heart.

Before you could break down, though your eyes were already turning glassy, Harry started to press kisses all over your cheeks and forehead. “Oh the hormones,” He cooed, “Troubling my sweet love.”

You smiled a little when Harry reached your lips and started nibbling on your bottom lip, covering it in more kisses and playful bites.

“Can we order takeout please?” You asked shyly when Harry’s assault of kisses calmed down.

“You want to tell me I didn’t buy enough?” Harry gasped, feigning offence.

“No- No you did, I just-“

“I’m just messing with you, baby. Of course we can order takeout. Pick whatever you want for us, I’ll go put away the groceries,” Harry handed you his phone with the food delivery app already open and got up from the couch.

You were scrolling through the endless options, trying to decide between Thai and Chinese, before a notification of a new message stopped your thumb from moving.

Your brows furrowed when her name popped up on the screen. What were they texting? When did he text her? What was she reacting to? There were so many questions you wanted to know the answers to.

“What did you get me?” Harry came back with a can of beer and a cup of hot chamomile for you before he took a place next to you and pulled you gently in his side, careful not to jostle you too much.

“Uh… Thai?”

“Sounds good. Let me order it,” He took his phone back and paid for the food with his card before he switched it off, not even checking the new notifications that were now gnawing at your mind and threw it on the cushions next to him. “Are you comfy, sweetheart?”

“Mhm,”

“Don’t need more pillows? Reheat the pad? Painkillers?”

“I’m good like this.”

“That’s all I need to hear. The food should be here in half an hour,” Harry murmured in your ear. He tightened his arm around your shoulders and gave you a soft squeeze, before he slid his hand down to your lower back and started rubbing soothing circles over the fabric of your hoodie to ease some tension that found its home there.

You finished another episode of the series when the food arrived. You ate your dishes curled up on a couch in comfortable silence, cuddled under one blanket, enjoying the movie night in a changed up concept.

The food was gone, as well as one bag of candy, in no time. After a day of crying and napping, something more fulfilling than one croissant was just what you needed. Your body still ached, there was the uncomfortable feeling that never really left your body during these days, but Harry’s presence made everything feel less intense.

You lay back down, letting your body melt into the pillows, and Harry followed you quickly after, making himself a human blanket, and lay atop of you.

“Ouch, Harry-“ You whined when he set the full weight of his body down on yours, he was really heavy from all the working out, and pushed at his chest weakly to get him off you.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry, love. Where does it hurt?” Harry sat up, now straddling your hips, and gently ran his hands up and down your arms and shoulders.

“My boobs. They’re really sore,” You whimpered and covered your chest with a sniffle.

“More than usual, hm? Lemme check? Maybe I can help,” He squeezed your hand gently and with one more look at your face to be sure you were okay with it, he moved the fabric hoodie gently above your breasts.

It was the first time he saw your upper half completely bare. And you looked just like he imagined. Angelic. Soft breasts big just enough to cup in his palm with perky nipples framed by areolae in a darker shade of skin. Harry had to snap himself from staring. You were hurting and needed comfort, not him drooling over you.

“I know it’s not the best moment to say it, but you’re so beautiful,” Harry murmured in awe and slid his palms to your ribs. “So fucking pretty.”

Your cheeks turned a warmer shade of red at his compliment, and you had to bite your bottom lip to tame the wide smile that was spreading on your lips.

“This looks a bit red,” He hummed when he inspected from afar your reddened buds. Running his fingers over the underside of your breasts, he looked up and smiled. “Can I touch you?”

“Mhm yeah but- be careful please.”

“I always am with you, baby.”

Harry ran his thumb over your nipple, gauging your reaction. Every change in breathing, faster heartbeat, goosebumps rising on your skin, he noticed everything.

“Sensitive?” He murmured.

You nodded. That single touch made you arch your back away from the couch, chasing more than just a tip of his finger. It was something so simple, yet it left you craving more. “Harry, please, just, can you do something? It’s really achy.”

“Umhm we can try something sweetheart, if you would be up to it.”

“Please.”

“Okay, lemme just get more comfy for it, okay?”

Harry found his place between your legs and spread them just enough so he could lie down on his stomach between your thighs and hover his head above your chest. You felt his breath fanning your skin and your nipples perked even more at the new sensation.

“Tell me if you want to stop, or just take a break.”

Finally, Harry put his hands back on you. His left hand palmed your right breast, massaging the warm skin gently, while he focused on your left breast with his mouth. With an experimental flick of his tongue against the sensitive skin, he wrapped his lips around your nipple, making you let out a long sigh. Harry didn’t do much, or tried not to, feeling how fragile your whole body felt, but he accompanied the soft caresses with light sucks at least, earning a few quiet moans from you.

“This- this feels good.”

“Does it?” Harry let go of your nipple with a quiet ‘pop’ sound and circled it with his thumb to let his saliva soak in.

He pressed more kisses around the soft flesh, covering it with bites that you barely felt, it rather just scratched your skin.

“Can I give you a soft bite here? Just a tiny mark? For no one but me to see?” You felt Harry nuzzle his nose against the side of your boob, peppering it with kisses before you even responded.

“Please,” You bobbed your head up and down quickly and pressed your hand over his that was still kneading your other boob.

You were feeling a plethora of things. Need, relief, love, a bit of jealousy in the pit of your stomach. Harry was taking care of you in such a special way how no one else could, and you really didn’t even want anyone else. Harry was enough for you. Sure, he had flaws and more imperfections than you had fingers on your hands, but his heart was made of gold. For you. To anyone else it was less valuable metal.

Harry dug his teeth in your flesh and sucked until the skin beneath his lips started to bloom in every shade of red, purple and yellow. A mark of ownership, love, care. And only his. It was on the place where no one would see it and your bra would press on it, making the reminder of him more alive.

“Mhm perfect. And I can’t forget about the other tit, that would be a shame. Such a pretty little thing, big just enough for my hand. And these perky nipples… You were made for me sweetheart, weren’t you?”

“I’m yours,” You pouted. His words, dirty yet from the bottom of his heart, were messing with your hormones.

“Yes you are. All mine. My sweet sweet precious girl,” Harry wrapped his lips around your other nipple, giving it a few gentle sucks.

“Harry-“

“Shhhh, baby, it’s okay. I’m here, and all yours. I’m only yours to have.”

You reached blindly after Harry’s hand, the need to hold onto something twitching with your fingers, and he immediately gave your hand a squeeze. You felt more tears tethering to fall. His words, his lips, it overwhelmed you.

“I’m gonna make it all better,” He murmured against your skin.

You were completely lost in him. You weren’t sure how long he spent worshipping your chest, but when he pulled away with swollen lips and drool dripping down his chin, it must’ve been tens of minutes.

“Kiss me?” You whispered with a pout.

“Of course. Baby, come here,” A wide smile spread on his lips. You were adorable. He raised himself up on his forearms, just enough to hover above your chest so he wouldn't squish you or pressed on your tender breasts, and leaned in.

“Are the cramps better? And the boobs?” He mumbled between kisses. His voice was soft, honey-like, filled with care and something deeper. It was the tone that only you got to hear.

“Mhm,”

“It’s good it’s Saturday tomorrow. Means I can take care of you for the whole weekend. You won’t have to lift a finger,”

“Harry, the cramps will be better tomorrow. Just the first day always sucks,”

“Uhuh no discussion, I’m taking care of you.”

“Thank you,” Your hands find their way to his hair and you wrap unruly strands around your fingers, pulling him down to kiss you.

“Always. Do you want to get in bed?”

“No I uh-“ You bit on your bottom lip, suddenly feeling embarrassed you really didn’t got much done, and looked down at his cross pendant dangling between you. “I haven’t put new bedsheets on. I took off the dirty ones but didn’t really finish changing the bed.”

“It’s okay. We will sleep in mine tonight.”

“Are you gonna cuddle me?”

“Oh I’m definitely gonna cuddle you.”

“And kiss?”

“You’re gonna be sick of me by the morning.” Harry grinned, and to prove his point, he pressed a big smooch on your lips.

“Mhmm I should keep you forever.”

“I’m already all yours, sweetheart.”

She was definitely a shy thing at first. Comfortable, just a little self-conscious. It was mainly of her inexperience compared to him— an older, more mature man that had zero doubts in bed.

Harry soon helped her realize he did not care. He loved her for her, not for her abilities in bed. He’s definitely boosted her confidence a lot, and he’s really proud of that.

Plus, he really loved being able to teach her new things and explore them with her.

But there was one thing that clicked the second they tried it together. Something Harry’s become obsessed with.

Eating her out.

It’s pure heaven. He’s obviously done it before with other women in the past, but none have ever tasted anything like Y/N.

For one he loved the taste of her, but there was also nothing he loved more than pleasuring his favorite girl in the world. Watching her feel that euphoric feeling rush through her every time he makes her cum, the way her thighs tremble and tighten around his face, the gentle tugs on his hair when it gets too much.

There was just nothing better.

And today, he felt teased.

Y/N would simply be walking around the house in her underwear and a cute shirt, and his mouth would water.

Too pretty.

Which is how she ended up with her wrists tied to the headboard and his face between her thighs.

He’s absolutely relentless tonight.

The silk ties binding her wrists are tight, ensuring she stays exactly where he wants her. He knows she gets squirmy easily.

His tongue mapped between her slick folds on her most sensitive spot, designed to pleasure her.

She’s already orgasmed three times.

It’s the fact he does this simply for the love of the game. Not to receive the same treatment, but because he wants to take care of her. He wants to make her feel so good she’s shuddering at the end. He wants to know he’s the one making her feel this way.

Y/N yanks slightly at the ties, back arching off of the bed.

“Harry…” she cried, eyes watery from the pleasure alone.

His fingers are dug into her thighs, holding them firmly atop his shoulders.

“My sweet girl,” he murmured, lips wet and glistening from her juices. “You taste so fucking good. M’too obsessed with this pussy, you know that? Fuckin’ love it.”

He went back in, slower this time, licking a fat, heavy stripe from her entrance to her clit before wrapping his lips around the swollen bundle of nerves and sucking.

Y/N clenched, eyes rolling back.

“Oh my god, H,” she moaned. “Please. M’close.”

“Yeah? Gonna cum for me a third time, baby?” He prodded.

“Yes— Mmm— Please!”

Her hips began to rock slightly against his mouth.

Until he pulled back.

Harry pressed his thumb firmly against her clit, the perfect amount to keep her teetering.

She frowned deeply, looking down with glossy, desperate eyes. God, she was pretty.

The look on his face told her he wasn’t feeling as generous as he was the first couple orgasms.

“I dunno, bunny,” he shrugged. “Think you’re gonna get too sensitive, and then my fun will be over, won’t it?”

She shook her head. “No. Won’t be. Promise.”

His eyes narrowed. “Oh really?”

“Mhm.” Her voice was whiney.

Harry pressed a short kiss to her thigh, leaving some wetness behind on her skin. His lips were red and juicy and her eyes were dark, full of hunger.

And then he shoved two fingers inside of her.

Her back arched off the bed, a sharp cry leaving her throat, thighs tightening around his wrist. She was already a little sensitive from the three orgasms, and he knew that. She didn’t know what the hell she was saying— she just wanted to cum again.

“Say that to me again, and I’ll let you cum.” He ordered flatly.

Because he did not believe her. He knew she wasn’t capable of that. But if she said it again? Then he was really gonna test that out.

Y/N hesitated, still whimpering from the sudden intrusion.

“I promise. M’not gonna get sensitive.” She said shakily.

She surely was one stubborn girl.

“Okay, then, bunny. I’ll take your word for it.” Harry gave her a gentle smile, leaning forward to give her a small kiss.

One last soft gesture.

And then he buried himself back where he belonged— long, thick fingers curled inside of her pussy while he sucked hard on her clit, his cock throbbing at every desperate moan and cry.

Harry was relentless, eating her out as if his life depended on it. God, he just loved this pussy too fucking much.

Her fourth orgasm hit her hard, clenching his digits tighter than ever, creaming around them.

“Oh my— Harry!”

She quickly got overwhelmed when he did not stop, hips bucking against his mouth, unable to push him away due to the restraints.

“No, baby,” he murmured against her pussy. “You promised.”

His efforts doubled, stimulating her twice as much as before with both his mouth and fingers.

“H—Harry, s’too much,” she cried, tears spilling over her flushed cheeks.

“Poor girl,” he frowned, mocking sympathy.

Harry pulled his mouth away from her and navigated all of his effort to fingering her, her back arching wildly off of the bed.

It felt so good. Too good. Way too good.

His eyes were drawn to the sacred oasis between her legs. Her clit was swollen and her lips were puffy, his fingers plummeting in and out of the tight hole below the hooded nub, a sight he wishes he could capture permanently (which he has before).

“Mmmm,” she whimpered, high pitched and whiney, biting her lip while squirming relentlessly.

“What’s wrong, bunny? Thought you could handle it?” He teased.

She pouted, thighs shaking. She couldn’t even defend herself. Not like she was able to properly form a sentence anyway.

Y/N felt the familiar heated bubbling in her lower belly and it fueled the shaking of her thighs. Harry abruptly pulled his fingers out, causing a sad cry to leave her pouty lips.

Tears continued slipping down her cheeks, entirely overstimulated, though too stubborn to start begging just yet.

Harry hovered his mouth over her pussy, large hands spreading her thighs wide open before blowing hot air right onto her core, causing her to tremble miserably.

“Why are you torturing me?” She asked defeatedly.

“Because I love this pussy too much to stop, my love,” he murmured, pressing a small kiss to her clit, watching her hips stutter. “Just wanna play with her a little longer. Can’t get enough. You have your word, yeah?“

Y/N let out a quiet whimper before nodding.

Harry smiled again, smug and too fucking sexy. It made her clench.

AJ came over again and Harry reprised his role of acting like he was annoyed by him the whole time. 

(Y/N) could tell that he got even more bothered when she came fluttering down the stairs to say hi to him and only him. And then he asked for a recap of their week apart so she sat on the couch next to him and debriefed, not giving any details about Harry or the house at all really. Mainly because he’s his friend and because Harry is sitting ten feet away in the kitchen. 

She’s pretty sure he’s doing the shop’s number because he’s using the same notebook she saw him with weeks ago. 

She wished she were a little meaner because then she’d tell him about how Harry looked through her journal. But again, he’s right there and AJ seems like the type of person to not let him live down something like that.

“Any word from Lucas since Harry told him off?” AJ glanced over his shoulder at Harry and then hurriedly turned back when all he got in return was a glare. 

“Surprisingly, no. I don’t think he’ll call again though. Not after that.” (Y/N) hasn’t blocked his number yet either. Just because there is a tiny part of her afraid that she’ll have to go running back to him for a place to stay. The living situation now doesn’t seem sustainable, even if they occasionally do get along. She’s sure that Harry will want rid of her as soon as the lease expires at the beginning of next year.

She can look for other places in the meantime. Decide what area of town she wants to live in, what makes sense with her job and what life looks like by then. It seems like Harry only tolerates her most of the time so she’s sure he’s going to let her know that he doesn’t want to sign the lease with her again. Probably not in the kindest way either. 

Lucas wouldn’t even think twice about letting her come back. But that's the worst case scenario. Best case she never has to hear from or see him again. But that tiny part of her is still being cautious because things are afloat for now.

“I think I should get Harry to answer when the debt collector calls, damn. He’s mean as fuck.” AJ looked over his shoulder again, just to get a reaction, and Harry didn’t even budge. He just kept tapping away on the calculator and looking unbothered now. “So, anything fun coming up for you?” 

“Not really. I do want to try the new coffee shop that just opened. And I want to go to the bookstore next door, so I’ll probably do that this weekend. Nothing exciting right now.” That kind of stuff was exciting for (Y/N). Giving herself little things to look forward to, like trying the coffee at the coffee shop and maybe getting a pastry to go with it. She couldn’t really call it fun, but it just gave her something to do.

“That sounds cool. I think I know the one you’re talking about.”

“Want to go?” She spoke before thinking. She’d be going alone anyway, it wasn’t wrong to invite him. 

“I thought you’d never ask—”

“AJ.” Harry’s voice sounded before he could finish the rest of his sentence. He froze, looking over his shoulder. If looks could kill, AJ would be in a lot of trouble. 

“Sorry. My father said I can’t go. Have fun though. Let me know if the shop’s any good.” He rolled his eyes, shooting a glare of his own over his shoulder. “He doesn’t like to share, can you tell?” 

(Y/N) only smiled, not wanting to comment. It’d only piss him off and she hasn’t done much of that this week. And it all boils down to the skirt comment. She can actually feel her pulse hammering under her skin whenever she thinks about it. When she hung the skirt back in her closet after the wash, she almost collapsed in her room. It wasn’t even that nice of skirt and he didn’t have to say anything but he did. 

She’s been acting as normal as she can around him. She hasn’t fumbled over her words in front of him or done anything ridiculous, she’s actually been playing it really cool. 

AJ left not long after trying to rile Harry up again. He hugged her goodbye even. And then she disappeared in her room, not wanting to give him the time of day.

*****

Raven couldn’t go to the coffee shop so (Y/N) was stuck going by herself. 

She didn’t mind doing things on her own, sometimes she just preferred to be with someone else. Especially going to a new place, even though it’s only a coffee shop. New places intimidated her at times, but she was trying to get better at just doing things because she wanted to and not worrying about what she looked like doing it. She wanted to try out the new coffee shop, so she would. Alone or not, she was going. 

She decided on shorts and a tank top since it was sunny and warm today. And she needed a tote bag if she was going to the book store, so she stashed away her phone and wallet in the bag with a few other essentials before going downstairs to get her keys. 

Harry was at the table, tapping his foot, watching intently as she grabbed her keys and stopped for a beat to fix the tie on her shoe. 

“Where are you going?” 

She jumped like she hadn’t seen him sitting there and he tried to keep a smirk off his face. 

“Um, to the new coffee place and the bookstore.” She stood straight, shuffling awkwardly before speaking again. “What are you doing?” 

“Sitting here.” He shrugged, watching her run her eyes over the whole of him before nodding. He wasn’t in anything too extravagant. A pair of baggy jeans and a tee shirt but it was decent enough to go to a coffee shop or a bookstore. 

Harry doesn’t know why he did it, but he woke up this morning with every intent of inserting himself into her plans. He never gets out anymore and coffee sounded good. But he wasn’t sure what time she was leaving so he got up extra early just in case he missed her. 

Here she is now, just short of 11:30, tote bag over her shoulder and an outfit perfect for the weather today. He should just let her go and find something else to do, but he’d already made his mind up. 

“Do you want to go?” It was unexpected, her question. Though that’s exactly what he wanted her to say, he really wasn’t sure she would. 

“Hm. I don’t know. Kind of busy today.” A normal person would have said yes because he does want to go. But Harry isn’t normal. He has to play hard to get and nearly make her beg him to do something he wanted to do anyway. 

“Come on. Two hours tops. You can do whatever it is you’re doing later.” 

“Don’t know. I’ve got a lot to do.” He shrugged again, secretly enjoying the disappointed face she’s making. 

“Okay. Well, I’ll be—”

“Fine. I’ll drive.” He stood, keys already in hand, and didn’t stay to see her reaction. She joined him in the car a few moments after he got in and he started driving toward the center of town. 

“Wait, I need to give you directions.” She reached into her tote bag, feeling around for her phone he guessed. 

“Oh, right.” As if he hadn’t already scoured the internet to see where the newest and nearest coffee shop was that was also next to a bookstore. It wasn’t hard to find but he didn’t need her to know that he’d put so much effort into this. 

She told him what it was close to, again, like he didn’t know, and he only nodded. The ride was short but very quiet. From the corner of his eye he can see her just watching out the window. He knows she’s a talker so this is probably hell for her, to sit in silence for ten minutes. Not even the radio is playing. 

“What are you going to get?” He almost didn’t want to ask because then she’d go on a tangent about not knowing what she wanted and how she’s stuck between two drinks. And that’s exactly what she did. He just listened because there was nothing else to do. 

“I’m not sure I even want coffee. Maybe matcha. I don’t know. Maybe both just to try. Do you like matcha?” 

“Fuck no.” 

(Y/N) flinched at his tone of voice before laughing. Somehow she always found a time to laugh at him even when he didn’t do anything. 

“Seriously? Grow up, it’s so good.” She nudged his arm and it felt like his skin and everything underneath froze. Somehow he kept the wheel straight but from just the brush of her hand, his heart started racing all of a sudden. And he didn’t like that at all. He doesn’t think she noticed how it affected him because thankfully, she’s back to looking out the window. 

The coffee shop was nice enough. Nothing special. He followed her inside and looked over the menu while she started chatting away with the girl behind the counter. Of course. She can’t be quiet for more than three minutes at a time. 

“Order, Harry.” She waved him up next to her and begrudgingly, he stood beside her at the counter. He thinks he’ll just try a regular coffee. He knows (Y/N) will give him shit for it but it doesn’t take much more than a look for her to be quiet. 

Just as he thought, she turned to roll her eyes at him when he asked for a plain coffee. She ordered hers and then they stepped to the side to wait for their drinks. 

“Wow. You are really boring.” 

“I’m just here for a coffee. Nothing extravagant.” He leaned against the counter, turning his attention to the rest of the shop. It was small and the lighting was too dark for his taste but he could see it being a decent place for sitting in when you had nothing better to do. 

“What did you have planned before? I’m not taking you away from anything important, am I?” 

Harry was hoping she wouldn’t ask because there was no real answer. He didn’t have anything to do, he just had to make it seem like he wasn’t waiting up all morning for her. And he honestly wasn’t. It might have looked like that, but it wasn’t. He doesn’t know why he wanted to tag along in the first place. He just did. 

“Inventory at the shop.” Which he really should be doing. But it’s not urgent necessarily. He could probably even do it tomorrow. 

“Oh. Does that take a while?” 

“Depends.” Maybe if he stopped talking so much, she’d stop asking a question about everything he says. 

“Well, thanks for coming with me even though you were busy. Sometimes I just get a little nervous about going to new places alone.” So maybe her offer wasn’t completely selfless. She doesn’t like to do things on her own. He could’ve guessed that with how often she opens her mouth. No one to talk to when you’re by yourself. 

“Yeah. Hope I’m not late with the inventory.” Lie. Because he’d rather lie to her face than tell her that he might’ve wanted to go with her. Not specifically because she’d be there but that is a small part of it. But it’s not like he wanted to go just because she was going. That would be insane. 

Their drinks were done almost immediately after and she thanked the girl before turning to him. 

“Try.” She’d just stabbed the paper straw through the lid of her matcha and then basically demanded him to try it. 

“I’m good.” 

“Harry. You can’t not like matcha. That’s ugly and wrong. Try this one.” She extended her arm further toward him. 

“I’ll stick with this for now.” He took a step away from her, in the direction of the door, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm. Another electric touch that had him jerking away from her all together. She looked at him weird but didn’t comment. 

“Don’t make me beg you. Really? I’m just asking you to try, not trade or anything.” Somehow she closed in on him again and since he wasn’t too keen on causing a scene in the relatively empty coffee shop, he pushed through the door, knowing she’d follow. “Harry!” 

She followed, laughing, brushing her hand against his shoulder. Another zap of something he knew he had to forget about. He doesn’t know what it is or why it is but he’s not going to put any energy into it. If trying her drink is the way to get this to stop, he’ll do it. 

“Fine.” He spun around and snatched the cup out of her hand. His face soured when he tasted exactly what he knew he’d taste when he grabbed the cup. He’s not sure how to describe it, but not pleasant is definitely up there. “Not good. Like I said.” 

“You and your preconceived notions, Harry.” She shook her head at him as if she was playfully disappointed and took her cup back. She sipped away on the straw like she didn’t care any about his germs and then she hummed in what he thinks was delight. “Lovely. You should get out more.” 

(Y/N) waved her finger at him and started toward the door of the bookstore. This time he followed, taking the door from her as she stepped inside. 

He’s seen this store before. It’s been here for years. He’s never been in, he’s not much of a reader these days, but he likes the atmosphere of bookstores. At least the ones he has been in. 

He still doesn’t know why he’s here. He doesn’t have a reading list anymore and there really aren’t any books or genres he’s interested in, so he’s stuck with watching her browse the shelves and read the backs of romance novels. 

“That looks actually awful.” He wasn’t planning on commenting but the front cover of the book instantly told him what type of cheesy, unrealistic story it would be. He almost couldn’t help himself. 

“You don’t like friends to lovers?” She tilted her head at him, looking astonished. Like if he didn’t like friends to lovers the world might as well be over. So he rolled his eyes. 

“I don’t know what that means but look at the front of it. Shitty illustration. Should tell you what kind of book you’re spending your money on.” 

“Harry. How dare you judge a book by its cover. That’s so incredibly messed up, I’m actually so disappointed in you.” Her disappointment faded almost immediately into a laugh. She knocked her shoulder into his and he stumbled slightly. He didn’t know he was standing that close to her. 

“Get used to disappointment. It’s all there is.” Especially with him. He doesn’t say that but he knows he’s already thoroughly disappointed her just by being himself. Most people come to the realization sooner or later. 

“Mm, not really. I’m buying it and you can borrow it when I’m done.” She grinned at him before tucking the book under her arm and walking further down the aisle, all while working on the matcha he couldn’t believe she was still drinking. Part of him wants to call it performative because there’s no way anyone with tastebuds would willingly drink that. But she does. Until it’s ice and then she laments to herself about it being gone already. 

By the time Harry considers complaining about how long she’s taking, she has a stack of eight books that he’s holding. Along with her melting ice cup from the coffee shop. She didn’t even ask. She just started stacking them on his arm until he got the hint to take them from her. She’s pushy and he’s not exactly a fan of it. 

He finished his coffee about fifteen minutes ago and now much of his focus is on balancing the books so they don’t tip over and watching her hair sway every time she turns a corner or gets minimally excited about anything at all. And of course, his gaze does occasionally fall to her ass. But he never said he was a saint. 

He starts reciting scripture that was drilled into his head as a child whenever she bends over. It’s torture, but a torture he would probably allow himself again. He doesn’t make any part of it obvious. 

“I think you’re finished.” He hurried to say when she gasped again over a book with the same boring cover of two animated people standing in front of a predictable background. 

“Are you getting tired of holding my books?” Her lashes fluttered. She was gearing up for a tease and he was well aware but he couldn’t think of a single thing to say back. Her smile is pretty and he knows he’ll do something to ruin it today. It’s what he’s best at. 

“Yeah. Actually. I didn’t come to stand around and hold your shit.” 

“Why did you come?” She shot back, flipping through the pages of the book quickly before setting it on top of the pile he’s holding. 

“I don’t know.” He could’ve been mean, he could’ve said nothing, but he honestly didn’t know. Like he’d been pondering all morning. It wasn’t something he could answer, pathetically enough. 

“Cheer up. We’re having fun.” She turned again, continuing to scan the shelves for more books when she already had enough to last her the rest of the year and into next. He sighed, walking after her. He didn’t have anything better to do, he guessed. 

“Can we stop at the grocery? I can make something for dinner if you want.” She offered, turning to look at him when he stopped for a red light. He didn’t look back, trying to look busy while staring at the dashboard in front of him. 

It was nearing two thirty. She’d done all that searching just to do an elimination at the end. He had to watch her decide between books for thirty minutes. He wanted to tell her he’d just buy her all the fucking books if it got them out of there quicker but she managed to finish right before he really got fed up with waiting. 

She looked a little teary when she had to put one in particular back that she’d talked herself out of and he thought it was a little ridiculous but he didn’t comment. 

And now dinner. The thought of ending the day with a plate full of her lasagna sounded like a dream. He didn’t know how to communicate that exactly without sounding too enthused so he shrugged in response. 

“What can you make?” 

He listened as she listed off everything but the lasagna and he almost felt like crying. That should be number one and he shouldn’t have to say it for her to remember how good it is. If any of these other meals are as good as the lasagna, he might have a problem on his hands.

“And I also make a pretty good grilled cheese.” 

“Yeah, that’s not really dinner. What else?” He tried again and she sighed. 

“Well…I could make lasagna again but I feel like I make it too often—”

“Lasagna? Sounds easy enough, sure.” He cut in before she changed the subject. It would’ve taken another ten minutes to get her back on the subject of lasagna if he hadn’t said anything. 

“Oh. Sure, yeah. It comes together quick.” 

The grocery store was dead for a Saturday afternoon so they were able to get into every aisle smoothly and collect everything they needed. He paid extra attention to each ingredient because he didn’t want to have to do this again. If he could make the lasagna himself in secret, he might not have to act like this just to get her to make it for him. 

“Just ricotta now.” She handed him a jar of sauce and he placed it in the cart gently, feeling so at ease just at the mere thought of a warm home cooked meal. It was different when someone else made it for you, despite him having his own meals at home a lot. Plus, (Y/N)’s lasagna always put him right to sleep. In combination with the garlic bread she picked up a couple aisles ago, he knew he’d be full and satisfied tonight. “Should we get dessert or something?”

“Are you really asking me that?” He squinted at her. 

“What? You’re going to make me a pie then?” She put her hands on her hips, squinting right back at him. 

“There’s not time to make you a pie tonight. But we could—” Every thought in Harry’s brain turns to dust as soon as a man walks up behind her and grabs onto her arm more rough than he would’ve liked.

“(Y/N)?” As if he needed to touch her to call her name. It makes Harry feel queasy just watching his fingers dig into the skin of her upper arm. “What are you doing here?” 

(Y/N) looks to be in the same amount of shock as the man is so she doesn’t move from his grasp quite yet but she does as soon as it registers who he is. 

“Lucas? Uh, hi.” It takes too much effort for her to remove his hand and Harry can already feel a prickling up his spine. Lucas. The asshole who treated her like shit. He doesn’t deserve a stitch of her attention. 

“Making lasagna? That’s my favorite, you know.” He must have already analyzed the cart when he came up. And if he paid a little more attention, he’d see just who is attached to said cart. And he knows he doesn’t look happy. 

And yeah, Harry kind of hates that bit. The fact that Lucas was ever allowed any of her lasagna nauseates him but he doesn’t get to put a tremendous amount of thought into it before he’s busy with examining every one of Lucas’s movements again. 

“Yeah…just something….quick.” She fixed her bag on her shoulder and took another step away from him and closer to the other side of the cart. 

“What? You’re not going to invite me?” It was playful, but Harry could hear a slight shift in his tone that he also wasn’t too fond of. But he didn’t want to intervene quite yet. “Anyway. What happened the other night? Some guy answered your phone and wouldn’t let me talk to you. Who was that?” 

Finally, his eyes shot to Harry and his expression was exactly as he thought it’d be. 

“Is this him?” His voice was thick with accusation, like that was his place to even ask the question. Harry couldn’t help the smirk on his mouth. 

“Who’s this?” Harry doesn’t know why he does it, but he grabbed onto the belt loop of her jean shorts and dragged her next to him. She stumbled a bit but fell into him naturally. And he didn’t mind the heat of her standing directly beside him. 

“Oh. This is my ex, Lucas.” She answered Harry first. He wanted to stick his tongue out at him, but he thought that might be too childish. “You know. I told you about him.” She met eyes with Harry and gave him this look. Like,  go along with it. 

“This is Lucas?” He tried not to act overly surprised, he wasn’t, but anything to get under his skin. “He looks exactly like you described him.” His hand curled around her hip and he didn’t miss the way Lucas watched intensely, like he had the guts to say anything about it when Harry was standing right here. 

“Oh, so this is the guy you’re fucking while you ignore my phone calls? How mature.” His voice raised more than Harry would’ve liked so he decided it was time to wrap this up. He can cry about it to someone else. (Y/N) doesn’t owe him a second more of her time. 

“We sure do. Watch your call come through during and as soon as the screen goes black, she cums every single time.” Harry crossed the line on that one but seeing his face turn that red felt like accomplishment. 

“Harry.” (Y/N) pressed her nails lightly into his back but he kept his attention to Lucas who was preparing himself to say something completely uncalled for. 

“I thought I told you to fucking leave her alone.” He decided to speak up since Lucas seemed to be short circuiting at the thought of them together. He would leave him knocked out cold in the dairy section but (Y/N) might not be too excited about that.  

Harry doesn’t really want an assault charge either but it would certainly spice things up a little bit. Plus, he doesn’t think Lucas is dumb enough to press charges if he did hit him (he really, really wants to) because then he’d go find him and do it all over again, just worse the second time. He wouldn’t be able to lift a finger to call anyone after he was done with him. And Harry knows he knows that. 

“Who is this guy? Seriously. He’s not safe to be around, why don’t you come with me?”

“Lucas, just go. We’re trying to enjoy our night and you’re ruining it.” He felt her flinch when he squeezed at her hip again for good measure. He’s not sure where this confidence came from but if he can send Lucas on a spiral without doing too much, he’ll do it as many times as he likes. 

“She asked you nicely. But I’m not going to ask you to do anything. Last chance.” 

He hesitated like he wanted to try something else but ultimately, he just scoffed, waving them off. 

“You changed. I don’t even know who you are anymore.” He shook his head like he was so shocked by her behavior and walked off. Not without shooting Harry a glare that made him crack another obvious smile. 

“My god. What did you see in him?” One last pinch to her hip and he let her go in favor of grabbing the cart. Anything to steady his hands again. She was too warm and too real for him to have a normal reaction. He needed something to ground him for a second and the cart did a sufficient enough job. 

“Wow. That was so embarrassing. Let’s go.” She heaved a breath before walking off toward the registers. He made sure to grab the ricotta before following after her, checking the aisles to make sure Lucas wasn’t hiding somewhere so he could get anywhere near her again. 

(Y/N) was silent in line. She didn’t joke with him or smile at him, she just stared absently at the conveyor while deep in thought. 

Harry could grit his teeth. Lucas had ruined their day before he got the chance to.  And that was self-appointed his job. Now he has to try to make up for it before she makes him a sad lasagna. He knows it wouldn’t taste the same so he has to do something to fix it.

“What a loser.” 

She blinked at him and sighed. He was obviously talking about Lucas but she didn’t look like she understood him. 

“Aren’t I? That was the guy I spent so much time on, thinking he’d change for me. Just because I was so good to him.” 

“I meant him, sweetheart. You’re not a loser.” 

“Then why do I feel like one?” Her voice went down to a whisper and she faced forward again in line, her shoulders drooping like she was really taking it hard and contemplating. 

Harry wasn’t normally the encouraging type. If anyone else thought they were a loser, he’d probably agree with them to their face. But he couldn’t do that to (Y/N) when it wasn’t even close to the truth. 

She had already started loading their groceries on the conveyor, smiling fakely at the cashier but saying nothing when she normally would have gone off and complimented them for the hell of it. Just to be nice. She did none of that and instead stood there waiting for the total silently. 

“Hey.” She didn’t turn, didn’t react like she heard him at all. “(Y/N).” Nothing. So he grabbed onto her shoulder, facing her toward him now. Her attention was on him, for the most part, but he could still see her mind racing. Probably with lots and lots of regrets and what ifs. Like Harry subjects himself to almost constantly. (Y/N) doesn’t do that though and he’s not going to let her just because she saw her shitty ex in the grocery store. 

She’d do it for him in a heartbeat. 

“There’s a fresh key lime at the shop if you want to bring it home.” He knew the pie schedule. He didn’t want (Y/N) to know that was a thing because she’d laugh at him for being so meticulous about pie. 

“At your shop?” 

“Where else? We can drop by and get it on the way home.” If that would make the color come back to her face he’d do it. And probably more just so she’d stop acting so miserable. “I can even make some whipped cream to go with it.”

Her expression lifted the slightest and then she finally smiled. “Sounds good.” 

The shop was dead when he swung open the back door. No one was expecting him to come in at this time, but he knew that the staff on the clock always had things under control. 

She came in behind him, buzzing at the thought of going behind the scenes just to pick up a pie. They parked behind the building and when he got out, he knew she had so many questions she just hadn’t asked yet. He didn’t know why exactly but he figured she was still in her head a little bit.

He nodded at the shift manager that he barely sees because of her schedule now only has her weekends and evenings. He didn’t bother with a proper greeting because he was dead set on making sure (Y/N) had a good night still, despite Lucas’s appearance. 

The fridge was running a little low but there was still a fresh key lime sitting on the shelf. He grabbed it, shut the fridge, and turned to her. 

“Look good?” There was another if this one wasn’t to her liking. 

“So good.” She took it from his hands and her smile now made up for any hassle this might have been. (It wasn’t.)

They went home and (Y/N) got started on dinner and banished him to anywhere but the kitchen. His plan of watching her process was foiled almost instantly. He tried to argue but she wasn’t having it. So, he sat on the couch and ignored the tv playing in front of him. 

Today had been a lot but it felt…different. He thinks that spending time with (Y/N) isn’t so bad. So maybe next time she wants to eat in and do a puzzle, he doesn’t have to say no. She’s being nice and trying to include him. He should be grateful that anyone cared enough to. 

It scared him at first. That’s why seeing her outside the house was less pressure. There was much more to distract her. She didn’t have only him to look at and talk to. She didn’t have time to notice how terrible his people skills were if they were somewhere else. At home, he was all there was. And he knew she’d ask questions and have to look at him longer than a glance. It was intimidating. But he thinks he’d do a lot better now.

He had dinner together to get through. Their first dinner ever. It didn’t have to be weird. He’d just let her do the talking and bring up things she liked to discuss so he didn’t have to do much. She’d just talk away and he could nod along. 

“Your plate’s ready!” 

He didn’t need to be told twice. He was taking it from her a second later. It was full of lasagna, garlic bread, and a mix of greens with a dressing drizzled over top. 

Harry doesn’t remember the last time he ate a vegetable on purpose. 

He hesitated when she looked at him expectantly. 

“Well?”

“What?” 

“Are we eating on the couch or at the table?” She shot him a look. Apparently her question was obvious. 

“Couch.” He answered easily. The table felt too formal. At least he could look at the tv instead. 

(Y/N) sat a cushion away from him and didn’t say much while they ate. The only thing Harry was thinking about saying was how good the lasagna was but he didn’t want to give her any compliments just yet. 

But he couldn’t stop looking at her from the corner of his eye. Granted, he couldn’t see much from the angle but that didn’t stop him from doing it. 

“I can take your plate once you’re done.” She offered. It was the first thing she said after such a long stretch of silence. He was beginning to think she was replaying the grocery store and then she spoke up. 

“I’ll take yours actually. I have to start on the whipped cream anyway.” He brushed it off, trying not to act like it was such a big deal to take her plate and rinse it off. He could be considerate sometimes. 

He knew she’d follow him to the kitchen so he didn’t tell her not to. And she watched the process to the very end when he was scooping the whipped cream expertly onto the evenly sliced pie. She watched it all quietly and grinned at him as soon as he passed her the plate.  

“Thank you.” 

“No problem.” 

“I mean, thank you for today too. Lucas was being so….you know. You didn’t have to say anything but you did. So, thank you.” She kept her eyes on her pie that she still hadn’t tried yet. 

“Didn’t mind it. I wanted to hit him but I didn’t think you’d be too happy with me.” He tried to switch the conversation to a more lighthearted subject. Not her thanking him for telling off her terrible ex and how grateful she is. That was too much. Too personal. Harry just isn’t prepared for anything like that right now. 

“Next time, please do.” She chuckled. “I’m hoping there’s not a next time but…yeah. If there ever was. Be my guest.” 

“I’ll have to remember that.” Harry doesn’t know why he smiles but he does. Like he was enjoying the conversation. Like he had a good time today. Like he didn’t mind that he spent more than two minutes in the same room as her. He normally would’ve dropped his smile and distanced himself as soon as possible but he didn’t. 

He sat back on the couch with her with a plate of his own and tried to ignore the heat in his face when she praised his pie all over again, in addition to the freshly made whipped cream. 

“I think you’re the best roommate I ever had, Harry. I mean it.” (Y/N) muttered just as she started surrendering to sleep on the couch next to him. He thought about denying it as soon as she said it. 

It wasn’t true. Even if she thought it was, it wouldn’t be for long. Today might’ve been a good day but it didn’t mean anything had changed. 

(Y/N) was still a person he didn’t know much about and while she gave him glimpses in to see, often, he didn’t want to take it any further. 

*****

(Y/N) would give anything to be back in bed, but work felt pressing today. She’s pretty sure she’s running a fever along with bouts of chills every so often that came on at the worst time possible. 

She almost felt fine this morning. But somewhere a switch flipped and her nose was running like a faucet and her throat rubbed dry whenever she swallowed. It was hell and she knows she shouldn’t be here. 

Her coworker Desiree took one look at her and was halfway to the boss’s office before she could look up. 

“Work will be here when you get back, (Y/N). It’s important that you rest and stay hydrated or you’ll be worse off than you are now.” 

Any other time, (Y/N) would say she has the best boss in the world but right now it felt like too much. Sure, she doesn’t want to spread something around the office but in her defense it didn’t start until after she got there and started working. She felt normal only a few hours ago. 

It only took a little bit more convincing until (Y/N) was packing her things and starting the journey home. It was for the best, she knew, she just didn’t like getting behind at work. 

Harry’s car was in the driveway when she got home. But her plan was to hurry inside and not let him see her anyway. Because she felt awful and besides, she’d been on a self imposed break from Harry. Which really meant she was avoiding him at every turn. It felt ridiculous but that’s just how they handled things. 

He was nice to her the other day and ate dinner with her and stayed on the couch next to her until she was ready for bed and even said goodnight, all with an almost smile on his face. And if (Y/N) knows anything about Harry, he was going to draw away immediately. He always did. 

They had a decent time, but the next day they were like strangers all over again. He’d halfway joke with her one day and then not even give her a second glance the next. It was just how he was. And it’s fine. She just had to be the one to do it first. Make him wonder for once. 

It wasn’t her trying to be petty, she just knew if he did it to her like she knew he would, she’d think the worst. Like she often did whenever they had any kind of interaction. 

It felt dumb in hindsight but it’s exactly what he’d do to her. She just did it before he got the chance to. It felt easier, like she was beating him at his own game. Because that’s what it felt like, a game. 

So while he called her sweetheart and complimented her skirt and smiled at her like he wanted to be bothered by her, she knew that it didn’t stand for much. He’d get in another mood at the drop of a dime and look past her like she didn’t exist again. But at the end of the day, he’s still a man and she never wants to give one of those too much credit ever again. 

Somehow she managed to stumble to her room and shut the door behind her without bumping into him. She’s not even sure where he is in the house right now, she’s just glad she didn’t come face to face with him when she can’t see straight. 

It took five minutes total for her to change into something comfortable and crawl into bed. Sleep came so fast, she didn’t even have time to think about how awful she was feeling. She had all the time in the world for that when she woke back up. 

Which was sooner than she wanted it to be because Harry was standing at her bed and squinting at her. Well, at least that’s what it looked like through her hazy eyes. 

“What are you doing here?”

She decided not to answer him and turned over in bed instead. If he couldn’t tell she wasn’t feeling well, that’s his problem. And the last thing she wants to do right now is try to explain that to him. 

“Is everything okay?” 

“God, Harry. No.” She gave in. For someone who hates questions, he sure asks a lot of his own. “I’m sick so I came home from work early.” 

“Sick how?” 

“Fever sick. So leave before you get yourself sick.” She pulled the blankets further over her shoulder, waiting for him to leave so she’d have some peace again. 

“Oh. I’ll leave you then.” 

“Thank you.” It sounded impolite but she really meant it. (Y/N) is hoping sleep will quell most of what she’s feeling now, but she’s aware that isn’t always the case. Especially with a fever. She had already shut her eyes, and with how quiet it had gotten, she was sure he left and didn’t bother checking. Instead, she sank further into the bed and drifted off to sleep. 

*****

“(Y/N).” 

She doesn’t think she could guess how much time had passed since she fell asleep and now, Harry was waking her again. 

“What? I was sleeping, my head finally stopped hurting. Uh, what are you…?” (Y/N) actually couldn’t believe her eyes. She thinks the fever might be affecting her sense of reality because there’s no way that Harry is standing beside her bed with a bowl of what appears to be soup, steam rising from it and everything. He doesn’t look happy about it, of course, but he’s here. Standing right beside her bed, carefully holding the bowl like he was trying too hard not to make it spill. 

“Don’t look so shocked. Can you take this already, it’s hot.” He shot her a look, nodding toward her like he wanted her to take the bowl from him so he could just vanish and act like none of this ever happened. Like he’s never done a nice thing for her in his life. But nope. Even when sick, (Y/N) is going to milk this for every bit it’s worth. 

“I would but I’m so, so sleepy. I don’t think I can.” She fluttered her eyes like she was as tired as she said she was and he shifted, looking her over as if he couldn’t see right through her little act. 

“Okay. Well. Can I sit it here—”

“No, no, no. It’s too hot to sit there.” She hurried to interrupt him before he could sit it on the nightstand next to her. 

“Then what do you want me to do with it?” It only took him two seconds to regret asking. “You’re joking.” 

“Come on, Harry. It’d be so nice of you to help me out when I’m so under the weather. I didn’t even get to take my temperature yet.” 

“You didn’t take your temperature? What, is it your first time being sick or something? You should know that by now.” He almost looked mad at that fact on its own. More mad about that than her silent request to spoon feed her the soup. 

“I don’t have a thermometer. I was just going to let it happen.” 

He rolled his eyes. 

“Have you eaten? Had any water?” He pressed. 

“Well, no. I just came home from work and went right to bed.” 

“Christ’s sake. You’re eating this right now.” 

Somehow, with a bowl of hot soup in his hands, he kneed his way up on the bed beside her and held out the first spoonful. 

“What kind is it?” 

He scoffed. 

“The good kind. Eat. I don’t have to be doing this right now, you know.” 

“Then why are you?” She shot back. If he truly didn’t want to entertain her, why do it? She was completely capable of taking care of herself even when she didn’t feel well.

“Hush.” He tried again with the spoon and this time she just let it be. Even though she wanted to continue prodding about just why he felt like he had any reason to sit here with her when she was unwell. But she didn’t. Maybe he would explain himself eventually. 

The spoon feeding was a silent affair. He even wiped her mouth with a napkin after and he didn’t look too annoyed with her when he did. 

“Thank you, Harry. That was the good kind.” Her eyes were feeling heavy again, but she was trying to keep herself awake for a little longer. 

“I know. I made it.” 

(Y/N) couldn’t dwell on that properly because she was so sleepy all of a sudden. The soup was a good idea. Just filling enough to not be overwhelming. 

Her eyes shot back open when he placed the back of his hand to her forehead. He tsked. 

“We should really take your temperature. You feel really warm. Are you still cold?” He asked, moving his hand down to the side of her cheek. 

“A little. No chills anymore.” 

“Did you take medicine?” She didn’t even bother answering. “(Y/N). Do you do this every time you’re sick and suffer?” 

“I thought I just had to wait it out.” There really wasn’t much to do for a fever and she knew it wouldn’t last too long, they never usually do. He still shook his head at her. 

“So, when you were sick previously, no one has ever even tried to help you? Just a little bit? Medicine? Soup? Water?” 

“Uh, not that I can remember. I don’t really get sick a lot though.” She almost whined when he moved his cool hand away from her warm skin. 

She tried to think back to when she’s been this sick. Maybe once, a couple years ago. A flu went around the office and of course, she had to get stuck with it too. Lucas was more concerned with her staying away from him so he didn’t get sick to do anything productive. She can’t remember leaving the couch to do anything more than use the bathroom. And yeah. He made her sleep on the couch. But she doesn’t want to tell Harry that bit. He might fly off the handle. 

“That’s a shame then.” He grabbed the empty bowl and moved off her bed. “I’m going to run out and get you a few things. Try and get some rest.” 

“Oh, no need, Harry. I think I’m okay.” 

“You don’t look okay. I’ll just be a minute. Don’t move.” He disappeared a moment later and she sighed. Really feeling content now that her stomach was full. But she still felt shitty and achy and all the other things that come with a fever. As soon as the fever broke, she knew she’d feel much better. 

(Y/N) was in and out of sleep by the time Harry was back in her room with a bag full of things that he insisted she needed. A fever reducer, a thermometer that he opened as soon as he pulled it out of the bag, and he said something about popsicles down in the freezer but she didn’t really catch much of that because she was too concerned with the furrow in his brow. All because of her. 

He looked worried when he saw the temperature and shook his head at her. 

“If this fever isn’t gone by morning I should take you somewhere.” 

“I don’t think it’s that serious.” 

“(Y/N), trust me. You’re delirious because you can’t even see straight right now. I’m going to get you a glass of water and I want you to drink all of it.” 

(Y/N) did exactly as he said and he seemed happy with that as he told her to sleep again and that he’d be back soon to give her more water. 

Her fever broke sometime in the early morning. She didn’t bother checking a clock as she shoved all the blankets off and made her way to the bathroom. Her head was still pounding but the fever was gone she could tell and now a shower was in order. 

She had just started the shower when there was a knock on the door. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Yeah. My fever’s gone and now I’m all sweaty.” She’d have to change all her bed stuff and that was such a hassle just to think about, she might just go lay on the couch like old times. 

“Good. Don’t run the water too hot, alright? If you need something, just ask.” 

“Okay, thanks.” (Y/N) would bet ten whole dollars that he’s not going to move an inch from his spot outside the door the whole time she’s in the shower. 

The shower helped a lot. She felt less queasy and the headache had lessened some. She’d probably need another round of painkillers for that. She wrapped herself in a towel and was surprised that when she opened the door, Harry wasn’t waiting there for her. 

Instead, he was in her room, tucking fresh sheets around the bed and not looking her in the face while she stood there dripping wet. 

“You didn’t have to.” 

“I know. I’ll bring you more water once you’re dressed and back in bed.” 

She did exactly that. Maybe it was because she was exhausted and ready to go back to sleep that she didn’t fight him on it. Normally, she might’ve just told him to forget the water and that she’d be alright just going back to sleep. Or maybe it was the fact that he was kind of, sort of taking care of her. She hated to think like that when she knew he’d deny it, but it really did feel like it. Like he might feel bad that she’s under the weather and he wanted to help in his own way. It definitely was his own way because he still wasn’t the nicest about any of it, but she still appreciated every bit of it. 

Harry came back a few minutes after she settled back in bed and brought more water just like he said he would. He passed the glass off to her and looked as if he might just leave the room as quickly as he came, but she stopped him with another thank you, wanting to be sure that he heard her. 

He didn’t respond verbally, he just kind of looked her over, shrugged, and left the room. (Y/N) is betting that her thank yous are just too much for him to process. She’s not used to being taken care of and he’s not used to anyone being grateful for him. She could help that if only he allowed her to. 

That was a challenge for another time though. She set the water glass down and was back to sleep shortly after her head hit her freshly changed pillowcase. 

****

“I don’t think it’s supposed to look like that.” 

Harry said from over her shoulder. It was quite rude if she was honest because she’d tried her very best. 

She thought about turning around and giving him a dirty look, but he was standing far too close to her for her to do anything of the sort. 

Maybe it’s because he’s looking at her terrible rendition of what is supposed to be flan, but looks more like soup, on the plate in front of her. She doesn’t even know why she bothered trying to flip it out of one of Harry’s round pans. Because she could tell from the bottom that the consistency was off. 

She even asked him beforehand if he’d ever made flan and he just looked at her before turning back to the tv. She was secretly asking for advice and he ignored her which brought them to this. 

And now he wanted to criticize. 

“Shove off. I tried my best.” She felt her voice waiver the tiniest bit and she didn’t know why she was so upset about it, but she was.  

It was Raven’s birthday tomorrow and they planned to meet up and celebrate. (Y/N) wasn’t sure how yet, but she knew she wanted to make her something special. Flan is Raven’s favorite dessert. She’s mentioned it several times in passing and she knew as her best friend that she was responsible for getting some kind of treat for her birthday. Store bought wasn’t going to cut it this time. 

Harry seemed to know a lot of desserts but he must only want to make them when he’s not here because he barely does it. It’s annoying. He never brings home anything good even when he’s gone all day. 

But he was useless, of course. He had to come in right as she was flipping the pan. The way he tried to hide a smile made her sick. And honestly, it hurt her feelings very much. 

“I don’t think you cooked it for long enough.” 

“Well, I didn’t want it to burn!” (Y/N) threw her hand out and then took a deep breath. She’s getting far too emotional about this and Harry will only find humor in that. “I give up.” 

That alone took her three times as long to make. Never mind even putting it in the oven. All the prep, searching for the best recipe. And it was all for nothing and just a waste of time. 

“What’s this for again?” He watched her move around the kitchen to clean up the mess she made. 

“Raven’s birthday.” 

“Who’s that again?”

“My friend—my best friend. And I ruined it,” (Y/N) isn’t sure why she thought she’d be able to make it in the first place.  “She’s coming over tomorrow to pick me up for a night out and I wanted to have something ready for her birthday.” 

She might have slammed the pan in the sink too roughly because Harry shot her a look. 

“Don’t quit your day job, that’s for sure.” 

“You’re a dick. I was trying to ask for your help and you couldn’t be bothered with it.” (Y/N) wanted to apologize for name calling but instead she just let it simmer in the air with her arms crossed. 

“I won’t argue with you there.” He almost smiled at her. “You should’ve said something. I’ve made flan loads of times.” 

“Whatever. I’m going to bed. I don’t want to worry about it anymore.” 

(Y/N) left him in the kitchen to shut herself in her room. She would just have to find something else for Raven’s birthday. 

To her surprise, in the morning, Harry grabbed her by the front of her tee shirt and dragged her after him to the kitchen. 

And in the fridge a large pan, not flipped just yet, chilling since she’s not really sure. She looked up at him and felt herself frown, very overly done, and then she hugged him around the neck.

“Harry. You didn’t have to.”

“Someone had to. You’ve been pouting for the better half of the morning.” He didn’t try to pull away from her but his arms didn’t move.

“Well I didn’t expect you to make it yourself.” She finally let him go and then gently patted his cheek. “How sweet. I bet it’s really good.” 

“I made you a small one so you could try it first.” He reached back in the fridge and pulled out a ramekin. Her jaw dropped. 

“You did? Really?” 

“Just flip it and try it already.” His eyes rolled but he still looked very interested in her reaction. She grabbed a small plate and slid a knife around the edge of the flan, just like all the tips and tricks she’d read about flan said to do, and it came out perfectly intact. She gasped at the sight of it. 

“It’s breakfast time.” 

“So? Eat it.” 

(Y/N) did not need to be told twice. 

As soon as she closed her mouth around the spoon, she was swatting at him. 

“You’re unbelievable.” It was said like an insult, which that’s probably what made him laugh. It still shocked (Y/N) but she tried not to show it. 

“I can’t help it. I’m trained.” 

“Trained?” 

Then (Y/N) tried not to get too excited when asking questions about his time as a pastry chef. Professionally. 

“I just stick to pies now. It’s easy.” 

“Why are you just telling me this now?” She shoved another spoonful in her mouth and wanted to cry. Maybe they shouldn’t be roommates. This could be really bad for her. 

“It’s not something I like to talk about.” His entire demeanor changed when he answered and she let her smile that had been consistent for at least five full minutes fall flat. That was almost a record. 

“Oh. Well. Thanks. Raven will love this.”

He just raised his eyebrows at her and nodded. 

“Sure.” 

Raven came over around seven and hugged (Y/N) as soon as she stepped in the door. 

“I have something for you before we go.” 

Long story short, Raven loved the flan and hugged (Y/N) a bunch more before diving into her second piece. 

“Did you make this?” She pointed with the spoon. (Y/N) could take credit for it and Harry would never even bat an eye but there’s no need for that. Raven knows that she isn’t the best at baking. 

“No, Harry did.” She kept her voice low but Raven gasped and hurried from the kitchen to the living room where Harry was sitting on the couch. 

“Thank you for the flan, Harry. It’s amazing.” 

“You’re welcome. Happy birthday.” He half smiled and went back to the tv. (Y/N) was in disbelief for many reasons. At least three reasons. At the very least. The you’re welcome, the happy birthday, and definitely the barely there smile he never, ever offers her. Raven probably thinks he’s almost decent now. 

“Why aren’t you sleeping together again?” Raven whispered when she got back to her plate of half-eaten flan. 

“Because he hates my guts, maybe?” 

“I do think it’s something to do with your guts, but definitely not hating them.” She winked until (Y/N) waved her off. 

“Yeah, right. Are you ready?” She put both their plates in the sink and wrapped up the plate before placing it back in the fridge. She stopped by the door on the way following Raven outside and did one quick glance of herself in the mirror by the door.