⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ you can stay - part 1
summary: anne invites you over for easter and you click with a certain someone...
a/n: thank you my absolute angel @petrichorflz for the idea and everyone go say thank you rn or else. this was so fun but kinda scary cause ive never posted my oneshots before so please please leave me feedback!! and keep requesting things guys please love you all be gentle with this☹️ also i kinda left this on a cliffhanger kinda didnt but i can do a pt2 if anyone wants just let me know!!
By the end of most Thursdays, your hands ached slightly from shaping clay for two hours straight.
Not painfully. Just enough that you noticed it later when washing your hands at home. A small soreness settling into your knuckles while dried bits of clay clung stubbornly beneath your nails. You liked it.
Pottery hadn’t really been your thing before moving to London six months ago, but neither had spending every evening alone in your flat scrolling mindlessly through takeaway apps and half watching television until you fell asleep on the sofa.
So, you’d signed up for a beginner’s class on a random Tuesday night after seeing a flyer taped crookedly in the window of a café near your office.
That was how you met Anne. Or, technically, how Anne met you.
Because within ten minutes of arriving late and apologising too much, she’d smiled warmly and said, “You look terrified, love,” before sliding a spare apron across the table toward you.
Anne was unlike anyone you’d ever met before. Not in some dramatic, life changing way. Just quietly.
She remembered things. Tiny things. The kind most people let pass without thinking twice about.
How you took your coffee after class. The fact you hated olives. The way you always wore silver jewellery instead of gold. Once, three weeks after you’d mentioned it in passing, she’d turned up with a small hand cream because you’d complained the clay kept drying your skin out.
“Thought this might help,” she’d said simply.
You still weren’t entirely sure what to do with kindness like that. Especially not from someone who owed you absolutely nothing.
By month three of pottery classes, the two of you had developed something dangerously close to a routine.
Thursday evenings meant clay under your nails, Anne gossiping lightly about neighbours you’d never met, and coffees afterwards in the café across the road while your pieces dried in the studio overnight.
It became normal. Comfortable. The kind of thing you started building your week around without realising.
Which was probably why it slipped out so casually.
“So, what’re you doing for Easter then?” Anne asked one Thursday evening, carefully painting glaze across the rim of a bowl.
You shrugged lightly, focusing on cleaning your hands with a towel.
“Oh, nothing exciting. Probably just stay in.”
Anne glanced up immediately.
There was nothing invasive about the question. Nothing prying. Which somehow made the answer harder.
“They’re back up north,” you said vaguely. “We don’t really… do Easter.”
Anne hummed softly, though yuo could practically feel her noticing the way you avoided eye contact.
“Well,” she said after a moment, placing her brush down carefully, “that simply won’t do.”
You frowned slightly. “What won’t?”
“You being alone all weekend.”
“Oh no, honestly, I don’t mind—”
“Nonsense,” Anne interrupted instantly. “You’re coming to ours.”
You actually laughed a little at that, assuming she was joking. Anne didn’t laugh back.
The firmness in her voice caught you off guard slightly. “You shouldn’t spend holidays alone.”
Something uncomfortable twisted quietly in your chest at how easily she said it. Like it was obvious. Like you mattered enough for it to be obvious.
“I don’t want to intrude.”
“Still, I barely know your family.”
Anne smiled then. Soft. Knowing. “You know me,” she said simply. “That’s enough.”
You spent the next week trying not to regret saying yes.
Not because you didn’t want to go. That was the problem, actually. You did. Far more than you probably should have.
By Friday, Anne had already texted twice reminding you not to bring anything except yourself, which only made you more nervous somehow. Because now it wasn’t just a polite invitation thrown out casually in pottery class. It was real. And real things were harder. Especially things that looked suspiciously like being wanted.
You changed outfits three times Sunday afternoon before settling on a tank top, jeans and a faux fur coat, then immediately felt overdressed the second you stood outside Anne’s front door holding a bottle of wine you’d bought entirely out of panic.
The house itself looked warm. Not inthe aesthetic Pinterest way people always described places online. Warm in the real sense. Light spilling through windows. Music playing faintly somewhere inside. The blurry movement of people through frosted glass.
For one pathetic second, you considered pretending to be ill and going home.
Before you could properly overthink it, the front door opened.
And you almost dropped the wine.
Because standing there, wearing grey joggers and a faded navy hoodie with curls pushed messily off his forehead, was Harry Styles.
Not in the dramatic, starstruck way people probably usually did. More in genuine confusion.
Because somehow, impossibly, Anne had failed to mention that her son was Harry fucking Styles.
His expression mirrored yours for about half a second before something amused flickered across his face.
You stared at him blankly enough that he laughed softly. “Mum talks about you constantly.”
Heat crawled immediately into your face. “Oh my god.”
“No, seriously,” he continued, stepping aside to let you in. “I think I know more about your pottery projects than my own career at this point.”
You were still trying to process the situation while pulling your coat off awkwardly.
Anne appeared a second later, immediately pulling you into a hug before you could say anything coherent.
“You didn’t tell me your son was Harry Styles,” you whispered the second she pulled back.
Anne looked genuinely confused. “Oh,” she said. “I thought you knew.”
Harry laughed behind you.
You turned slightly to glare at him on instinct, only to catch him already looking at you with obvious amusement. And annoyingly enough, it settled something in you almost immediately.
Because despite the surrealness of the situation, despite the fact your brain was still catching up properly, Harry himself didn’t seem interested in making it weird. If anything, he looked just as curious about you.
“You alright?” he asked quietly while Anne disappeared back toward the kitchen.
“Just a bit shocked,” you admitted.
That made him grin properly. “Yeah, that’s fair.”
You followed him further into the house still feeling slightly detached from reality.
It smelled like rosemery and garlic and something sweet baking somewhere deeper in the kitchen. Music played quietly from a speaker near the dining room, something soft and old you didn’t recognise immediately.
The whole place felt lived in. Not pristine. Not staged.
A cardigan hung over the back of one chair. Half finished drinks sat abandoned on kitchen counters. Someone had left a pair of sunglasses beside a fruit bowl despite the fact it was raining outside. It felt warm in a way your family home never really had.
Harry took the wine from your hands before you could awkwardly continue clutching it.
“Mum’ll love you forever for bringing this,” he said, glancing at the label.
“I panicked in Tesco’s for twenty minutes choosing it.”
“That’s the correct amount of time, actually.”
You laughed softly despite yourself. Dangerous.
He was easy to talk to. Annoyingly easy.
“Oh my god!” Gemma appeared suddenly from the dining room, smiling brightly as she crossed over to hug you quickly. “Oh thank god. Another normal person.”
Harry looked offended immediately. “Excuse you?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like rude while Gemma laughed. And just like that, some of the tightness in your chest loosened slightly.
Because nobody was making you feel out of place. Nobody was acting like you didn’t belong there.
Anne reappeared carrying a tray of drinks before immediately fussing over whether you were hungry despite the fact dinner was apparently less than twenty minutes away.
“You absolutely can not,” Anne interrupted firmly. “You’re a guest.”
The word hit strangely. Guest. Not inconvenience. Not obligation. Guest.
You sat eventually after enough insisting, ending up beside Harry on the sofa mostly because it seemed like the only free space left.
“That’s my spot,” he informed you seriously the second you sat down.
You immediately started getting back up. “Oh my god, sorry—”
“I’m kidding.” His hand caught lightly around your wrist before you could stand properly, smiling when you glared at him. “Christ, you’re easy to wind up.”
You narrowed your eyes at him while he laughed quietly to himself.
From the kitchen, you caught Anne watching the interaction for half a second over the rim of her wine glass before Gemma physically nudged her shoulder.
Your suspicion grew immediately.
“You’ve spoken about me,” you accused quietly, turning toward Harry.
“Mum’s spoken about you,” he corrected easily.
“That’s not what I asked.”
He smiled into his drink.
Dinner happened slowly after that.
Not formally, either. Nobody really announced it. Anne just started bringing dishes to the table while Gemma stole roast potatoes directly off trays and Harry kept “accidentally” getting in everyone’s way in the kitchen until Anne threatened to throw him out entirely.
“You disappear for months and suddenly think this is your kitchen again,” she told him, swatting at his arm with a tea towel.
“It was your kitchen when you remembered to visit.”
Harry placed a dramatic hand over his chest like he’d been wounded deeply.
You laughed before you could stop yourself. His eye sflicked toward you instantly at the sound.
It was strange, noticing how attentive he was.
Not in an intense way. Just… present. Every time you spoke, he listened properly. Every time you laughed, his attention shifted toward you automatically like he couldn’t help it.
And embarrassingly enough, you noticed every single time.
By the time everyone finally sat down to eat, your nerves had faded into something softer. Warmer.
Conversation moved easily around the table. Anne telling stories from pottery classes that made you groan into your wine while Harry looked delighted the entire time.
“She nearly cried over a vase once,” Anne informed him happily.
Harry looked unconvinced. “You definitely cried.”
You pointed your fork at him accusingly. “You are having to much fun in this.”
“Well, yeah,” he admitted easily. “This is the most entertainment I’ve had in months.”
You rolled your eyes, though you were smiling despite yourself. It shouldn’t have felt this easy. That was the unsettling part.
You weren’t used to family dinners where people spoke over each other affectionately instead of carefully. Weren’t used to warmth that didn’t feel conditional somehow.
At one point, Harry reached over absentmindedly to refill your glass mid conversation without even asking first.
The gesture itself was tiny. Meaningless, probably. But something about it lodged painfully in your chest anyway.
Because you didn’t have to ask. You looked down quickly before anyone noticed the sudden sting behind your eyes.
Unfortunately, Harry noticed everything.
“You alright?” he asked quietly beside you.
You nodded too fast. “Fine.”
His expression said he didn’t entirely believe you, but thankfully he let it go. For now.
Later, after dinner dissolved into dessert and coffee and Gemma arguing with Harry over music choices in the kitchen, you found yourself standing alone briefly near the back garden doors, staring out at the rain tapping softly against the glass.
“You’ve gone quiet.” Harry’s voice appeared beside you a second before he did.
You glanced over slightly. “I’m fine.”
“That’s twice you’ve said that tonight.”
You huffed a small laugh. “And?”
“And usually when people say it that quickly, they’re lying.”
He leaned casually against the wall beside you, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie.
Up close like this, he looked different than he did publicly somehow. Softer around the edges. More tired. More real.
“You know,” he said after a moment, “mum was worried about you.”
You frowned immediately. “Why?”
“She said you always make jokes when people ask about your family.”
You stared at him for a second. “Has your entire family been psychoanalysing me behind my back?”
That made him laugh quietly. “No. Just her.” A pause. “She likes you.”
Something about the simplicity of that made your chest ache again. You looked back toward the rain quickly.
The way he said it was soft enough to almost miss entirely. Then, without a word, Harry stepped back and left you be.
Inside, you could hear Anne laughing loudly at something Gemma said. Plates clinking softly. Music still humming faintly through the house.
The thought arrived suddenly enough to almost knock the breath from you. Not your home. But somebody’s. And somehow, tonight, they’d made space for you inside it.
“You’re thinking too hard again.”
You blinked slightly, turning back toward Anne as she appeared beside you carrying two mugs of tea.
“I didn’t realise it was visible.”
“Oh, love.” She smiled softly, handing one over. “Everything’s visible on your face.”
Heat crept faintly into your cheeks as you accepted the mug. Anne followed your gaze briefly before looking back at you knowingly.
“It’s nice having you here,” she said simply.
The sincerity of it caught embarrasingly sharply somewhere in your chest. Because she meant it so casually. Like it was obvious. Like there wasn’t a possibility you’d ever been unwanted somewhere before.
You looked down into your tea quickly.
“I wasn’t sure if I should come.”
Anne frowned instantly. “Why on earth not?”
You shrugged lightly, though it felt tighter now somehow.
“I don’t know. Family things just aren’t really…” You searched briefly for the right word. “Normal for me.”
Anne’s expression softened immediately. Not pitying. Worse, somehow. Understanding.
“Well,” she said gently, reaching over to squeeze your hand once, “you can stay whenever you’d like.”
Something in you cracked slightly at that.
And across the kitchen, Harry looked up just in time to catch the expression on your face.
You stayed a little longer after that. Mostly because Anne kept finding reasons for you to.
Another cup of tea. Leftover dessert. A story Gemma absolutely needed to tell you involving Harry getting locked out barefoot once during lockdown.
“You promised never to speak about that again,” Harry groaned from the kitchen.
Gemma looked delighted. “And yet.”
It was easy to laugh with them. Easy to sit curled into the corner of Anne’s sofa while music hummed quietly through the house and conversation drifted lazily between rooms.
At some point, you realised you’d stopped checking the time altogether. Which felt more unsettling than anything else.
Because usually, during things like this, you were counting the minutes until you could politely leave.
But here? You kept catching yourself wanting to stay a little longer.
Wanting one more conversation. One more story. One more hour sitting inside all this warmth like maybe if you stayed long enough, some of it might settle permanently into you. Dangerous thought.
By the time you finally stood to leave, the house had softened into that late-evening quietness that only happened after good dinners.
Half empty glasses abandoned on tables. Slower conversations. Tired laughter from the kitchen.
Anne looked genuinely offended when you reached for your coat. “You’re leaving already?”
“It’s nearly midnight,” you laughed softly.
“Yeah, and?” Harry butted in, making you turn your head.
“Some of us aren’t internationally famous and unemployed at the moment.” Gemma piped up from the sofa, grinning.
Harry looked up immediately from where he was loading glasses into the dishwasher. “Unemployed is harsh.”
“You’ve been home for three months.”
Gemma snorted loudly into her drink.
Anne ignored both of them completely, already fussing with containers in the kitchen. “You’re taking leftovers.”
Five minutes later, you somehow ended up standing in the hallway holding your bag, your coat, and enough food to survive at least four business days.
“This is ridiculous,” you said through a laugh.
Anne waved dismissively at you before pulling you into another hug anyway.
And maybe it was pathetic how much that alone affected you. The casual affection of it. The certainty. Like she already expected you back.
“You text me when you get home, alright?” she said firmly.
You smiled despite the sudden tightness in your chest. “I will.”
Behind her, Harry reached for his own coat from the hook beside the door.
The answer came easy. Immediate. Like it wasn’t even a question.
Anne’s expression turned suspiciously smug behind him while Gemma outright grinned into her wine glass.
You pointed accusingly between them both. “Whatever this is, stop it.”
“Stop what?” Gemma asked innocently.
Harry muttered, “They’re unbearable,” while opening the front door for you. But he was smiling when he said it.
Cold air rushed lightly against your face the second you stepped outside.
The rain had eased into more of a mist now, the pavement still shining beneath streetlights while distant traffic hummed softly somewhere beyond the neighbourhood.
Harry stayed beside you as the door clicked shut behind him. For a moment, neither of you said anything. It wasn’t awkward, though. Just quiet. Comfortable in a way that surprised you slightly.
“You survived,” Harry said eventually as the two of you started down the path.
You glanced over at him. “Barely.”
“Yeah, mum can be intense once she decides she likes someone.”
The words settled warmly somewhere low in your chest. “She talks about you all the time too, you know.”
Harry groaned softly beside you.
“Oh god. Whats she telling people?”
“Pretty much everything other than the fact youre harry Styles.”
“And,” you added casually, “she might’ve shown me a video of you singing Tina Turner into a hairbrush when you were eight.”
He stopped walking immediately. “You’re joking.”
Harry stared at you in genuine betrayal while you laughed properly for the first time all evening.
“So you did know I was… well, who I am?”
“Yes, I know who Harry Styles is but I don't know what he looked like as a child. Think thats pretty weird.”
Still smiling, he shook his head lightly before the two of you continued walking.
You became aware then, suddenly, of how close he was. Not in a dramatic way. Just enough that every so often his shoulder brushed yours lightly as you walked side by side down the pavement.
“You know,” he said after a moment, quieter now, “mum was really happy you came tonight.”
You looked down briefly at the pavement. “I’m glad she invited me.”
“No,” Harry corrected softly. “I mean really happy.”
Something in his tone made you glance over. His expression had softened completely now, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie while he looked ahead thoughtfully.
“She worries,” he admitted after a second. “About people being alone, I think.”
You swallowed slightly. “She didn’t make me feel alone tonight.” The honesty slipped out before you could stop it.
Harry looked at you then properly. And for a second, there was something almost unfairly gentle in his expression.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I think that was the point.”
Your chest tightened embarrassingly fast. Good lord. Thankfully, your car came into view before you had to say anything else.
“Well,” you said softly, reaching into your bag for your keys, “thank you for not making tonight weird.”
Harry smiled immediately. “You really thought I was gonna make it weird?”
You laughed quietly, leaning against your car door for half a second longer than necessary. Neither of you moved.
The rain caught faintly in Harry’s curls again, soft beneath the orange glow of the streetlamp above him. And suddenly, painfully, you realised you didn’t really want the night to end.
“Can I have your number?”
The question came casually enough. Still, your stomach flipped instantly. Harry looked almost amused by your expression.
“I mean,” he added lightly, “mum probably already has it memorised at this point. But I’d quite like to have it myself.”
You smiled before you could stop yourself. “Smooth.”
He handed you his phone. Your fingers brushed briefly during the exchange, tiny enough that it should’ve meant nothing. It didnt feel like nothing.
When you handed the phone back, Harry glanced down at the contact for a second before smiling softly to himself.
You opened your car door mostly because suddenly standing this close to him felt a little dangerous.
“Text me when you get home,” Harry said.
You blinked at him. “I thought that was Anne’s line.”
“It is,” he admitted. “Still works though.”
You laughed quietly, shaking your head.
Then, softer. “Thanks. For tonight.”
Harry leaned slightly against the open car door, eyes still on you. “You can stay, y’know.”
Your breath caught slightly. “What?”
“At ours,” he clarified gently. “Anytime.” A tiny shrug. “Mum’d kill me if I didn’t say that.”
But something about the way he looked at you made it very obvious that wasn’t the only reason.
Warmth spread slowly through your chest. The kind that lingered.
And as you finally pulled away from the pavement a few minutes later, Harry still standing beneath the streetlight watching you leave, your phone buzzed softly against the passenger seat before you’d even reached the end of the road.
hope you like leftovers x
You smiled so suddenly it almost hurt.
tags!: @swag313gurl @lillrry @jocelynlovesharrystyles @harryscherrysuckr @sparklejumpropequeen1113 @petrichorflz
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