🖤

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “Thought I could do this, sorry, H.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you come over?

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

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

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

“Yeah…” He breathed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And now?”

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

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

“But you’re here.” You forced.

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

“But Harry—”

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

“But I—I’m—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But I love you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The house is quiet in that deep, settled way it only gets once both kids are properly asleep.

Not the kind of quiet where you’re waiting for someone to call out again, or a door to creak, or a glass of water to be requested with sudden urgency — but the kind where the night has fully taken hold. The monitors are low and steady on the bedside table, the hallway light left dim, and the whole place feels like it’s exhaled.

Nora is already in bed, propped up against the headboard with a magazine open in her lap that she hasn’t really been reading for the last five minutes. She’s in one of Harry’s old T-shirts, hair loose, legs tucked under the duvet, and every so often she flips a page like she’s keeping up appearances for herself more than anything else.

The bathroom door opens with a soft click. Harry steps out, still towelling his hair, wearing joggers low on his hips, water still catching at the lines of his shoulders. He doesn’t notice her looking at him straight away, he’s too busy rubbing the towel through his hair, but when he does glance up, he catches her.

Watching. And not subtly.

He pauses mid-motion and raises an eyebrow. “My eyes are up here, you know.”

Nora doesn’t even pretend to be embarrassed. She just tilts her head slightly, gaze still lingering like she’s making a point. “You’re my husband. I can look if I want to.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, dropping the towel onto the back of a chair. “That feels like a misuse of power.”

“Feels like you’re complaining about something you quite enjoy,” she replies, turning a page she hasn’t read.

He crosses the room slowly, like he’s in no rush at all, and climbs onto the bed beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight. “Not complaining,” he says, leaning over slightly to press a kiss to her shoulder. “Just keeping expectations realistic.”

“Mm,” she hums, still pretending to read. “I’ll lower them immediately.”

He smiles against her skin, then shifts back to sit properly, one leg stretched out, the other bent slightly. The room settles again, comfortable, familiar. He reaches for his phone for a second, checks something, then sets it face down on the bedside table.

Nora flips another page.

“Sadie says that spring layering is about texture and tone, not temperature,” she reads aloud, completely deadpan.

Harry blinks once. “Right.”

She nods thoughtfully, like she’s absorbing something important. “Sadie seems very sure of herself.”

“I’m glad Sadie’s doing well.”

There’s a pause. Then Nora says, casually, “Sadie would make a nice baby name.”

Harry makes a soft noise of acknowledgement, somewhere between listening and not. “Yeah. Maybe.”

She glances at him briefly, then back down at the page.

“What do you think about Esme?” she asks.

“Mm?” he hums.

“As a name.”

“For…?” he asks vaguely.

“For a baby,” she says, like that’s obvious.

He nods slowly. “Yeah. Nice. I like that.”

Another page turn.

“Leslie from down the road had her baby,” Nora says a moment later.

“Did she? I'll take flowers around tomorrow,” Harry replies, reaching back to scratch lightly at the nape of his neck.

“Mm. Called her Tilly.”

“That's cute.”

“It is cute,” Nora agrees. “Tilly.”

He nods again. “Yeah. Good name.”

There’s a small stretch of quiet. Then she says, again, a little more pointed this time, “I like Esme.”

Harry turns his head slightly toward her now, something in his expression shifting from half-distracted to more present.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “I’m listening.”

She keeps her eyes on the magazine as she shrugged her shoulders. “I just think it’s nice.”

“Right.”

Another pause. He studies her for a second longer, then exhales softly through his nose, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

“Alright,” he says, settling back against the headboard properly now. “I’ll bite.”

Nora doesn’t look up.

“Why are we talking about baby names?” he asks gently.

She presses her lips together, like she’s been caught but isn’t quite ready to admit it.

“I don’t know,” she says, too quickly. “I was just reading—”

“You were not reading,” he interrupts lightly.

She huffs a quiet breath. “I was reading.”

“You’ve turned the same page three times.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is,” he says, not unkindly. “I’ve been watching you do it.”

She finally looks at him then, a little sheepish, a little something else underneath it. “I don’t know why I’m making it weird,” she admits.

He softens immediately. “You’re not,” he says.

“I am,” she says, closing the magazine halfway but not fully committing to putting it down. “I’m… circling it.”

He nods slowly, like that makes sense.

“Okay,” he says after a second. “We can circle it.”

She lets out a small breath, relieved that he’s not pushing. There’s a beat. Then he says, lightly, “I’ve always liked Sawyer.”

Her head lifts a fraction. “Sawyer?”

“Yep.”

She considers it. “That’s nice.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says, softer now. “That’s really nice.”

He glances at her, watching her more carefully now.

“What else?” he asks.

She shifts slightly, tucking one leg under herself. “I like Esme,” she repeats.

“You’ve mentioned,” he smiles faintly.

“I have.”

“Any others?”

She thinks for a second. “Billie.”

“Billie's good.”

“Sandy,” she adds, a little more tentative.

He tilts his head. “Sandy?”

“Too much?” she asks.

“A little bit beach,” he admits.

She laughs quietly. “Okay, fair.”

“Marlowe,” he offers.

She nods slowly. “I like Marlowe.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Cleo?” she tries.

He winces slightly. “Too close to Leo.”

She groans softly. “Oh, it is.”

“Can’t be shouting ‘Leo’ and ‘Cleo’ across a playground,” he says.

“That’s true.”

They fall into it then, gently, the back and forth easy but with something underneath it, something they’re both aware of but not quite touching directly.

“Indie,” Nora says.

“Indie’s cute.”

“Hayes?”

“Nice.”

“Kit?”

He smiles. “You just want a tiny person called Kit.”

“I do,” she admits.

He watches her as she talks, the way her voice softens around certain names, the way she lingers just a second longer than necessary before moving on. After a while, the list slows. The space between them fills again.

Nora closes the magazine fully this time and sets it on the bedside table, smoothing her hands over it like she’s putting something away. Harry doesn’t speak straight away. He just leans slightly closer, pressing a soft kiss to her temple, then her forehead. She exhales quietly.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“Hey.”

He pulls back just enough to look at her properly.

“Whenever you’re ready to talk about it,” he says gently, “I’m here.”

She nods, small but certain.

“I know.”

He studies her face for a second longer, then nods back, like that’s enough for now. He reaches over and switches off the bedside lamp, the room slipping into darkness except for the low glow of the monitor.

Nora shifts down into the pillows, Harry following, his arm coming around her without thinking, settling at her waist. For a moment, neither of them speaks.

Then Nora, very quietly, says, “I liked Sawyer.”

He smiles into her hair. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” he murmurs.

It’s the kind of quiet that only exists in the middle of the night — heavy, still, almost suspended. Harry doesn’t know what time it is when he feels it first. Not a sound, not exactly. More like… movement. A shift in the room that doesn’t belong there. Then a whisper.

“Daddy.”

His eyes open immediately. He doesn’t bolt upright — he never does, not anymore — but he’s awake in a second, the kind of awake that comes from being a parent. He turns his head toward the side of the bed and sees her there, a small shape in the dim light, hair messy, Strawberry tucked under one arm.

“Rem?” he murmurs, voice low, careful not to wake Nora. “What’s going on, bug? You alright?”

Remy nods, but it’s not a confident nod. It’s a maybe nod.

“Well,” she says quietly, stepping a little closer to the bed, “first I needed some water.”

Harry pushes himself up onto his elbows, already scanning her face. “Okay.”

“And then I had to go to the toilet.”

“Alright.”

“And then I tried to go back to sleep,” she continues, climbing carefully onto the edge of the mattress now, “but I had a nightmare.”

Harry’s expression softens immediately. “Yeah?”

She nods, crawling closer. “It wasn’t very nice.”

“Come here,” he murmurs, lifting the duvet slightly so she can slide in.

She does, tucking herself against his side like she’s done her whole life, small and warm and familiar.

“And then,” she says, quieter now, voice dipping like she’s not sure how big this part is, “when I woke up, I could hear Leo crying.”

Harry goes still for half a second.

“And I think,” Remy adds, leaning closer to him, “he threw up.”

That’s enough. Harry’s already sitting up properly now, swinging his legs out of bed, careful not to jostle Nora. “Okay,” he says, keeping his voice calm, steady. “Alright.”

Remy watches him closely.

“Hey,” he says gently, reaching out to brush her hair back from her face. “You did exactly the right thing, yeah?”

She nods, but her eyes are still a little wide.

“I’m going to go check on him,” he says. “You stay here for a second.”

Remy hesitates. “I don’t want to stay here.”

He nods immediately. “Alright. Come with me then.”

She slides off the bed, grabbing Strawberry, and follows him out into the hallway. The house feels different at night. Bigger. Quieter in a way that makes every small sound feel louder.

Leo’s crying is soft but unmistakable now, a tired, upset whimper coming from his room. Harry pushes the door open gently. The smell hits him first.

“Yeah,” he murmurs under his breath. “Alright, mate.”

Leo is standing in his cot, hair damp, pyjama top twisted, clearly miserable. The sheets are… not salvageable.

“Dadda,” Leo says, voice wobbling, arms reaching out immediately. “Sick.”

“I can see that,” Harry says softly, already lifting him out, holding him away from his chest just enough to avoid making things worse. “It’s alright. I’ve got you.”

Leo clings to him, face pressing into his shoulder despite everything, small body still trembling slightly. Remy hovers in the doorway, watching.

“Is he okay?” she asks, whispering.

“He’s alright,” Harry says. “Just a bit poorly.”

Leo whimpers again. “Dadda.”

“I know, baby,” Harry murmurs, rubbing his back carefully. “I know. We’ll sort you out, yeah?”

He glances at Remy. “Can you grab me that towel?” he asks, nodding toward the back of the door.

Remy moves instantly, dragging the towel off the hook and handing it to him like it’s the most important job in the world.

“Thank you,” he says.

She nods, serious.

Harry works quickly but gently — wiping Leo down, stripping the worst of the mess, murmuring soft reassurances the whole time. Leo clings to him, upset but calmer now that he’s being held.

“Cold,” Leo mumbles.

“I know,” Harry says. “Just a minute.”

Remy shifts from foot to foot. “He looks sad.”

“He is sad,” Harry says. “Being sick isn’t very nice.”

“I don’t like being sick,” Remy adds.

“No one does.”

They get Leo cleaned up, into fresh pyjamas, the cot half-sorted for now — enough to make it usable later — but Leo isn’t letting go.

“Up,” he insists, tightening his grip.

Harry sighs softly, not in frustration, just acceptance. “Yeah. Come here.”

He glances at Remy. “How about we all go into your room for a bit, yeah? Until he settles.”

Remy nods immediately. “Okay.”

They move quietly down the hallway, Remy leading the way, pushing her door open with her foot. Her room is warm, soft, safe. She climbs into bed quickly, pulling the covers back.

“Here,” she says, patting the space beside her.

Harry hesitates for half a second — not because he doesn’t want to, but because he’s already calculating how much sleep anyone is going to get now — then shrugs it off and climbs in, Leo still tucked against him.

Remy immediately shuffles closer, pressing into his side.

“Is he going to be okay?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Harry says softly. “He just needs a bit of time.”

Leo sniffles, face buried in Harry’s chest now, breathing evening out slightly.

“Dadda,” he murmurs.

“I’m here,” Harry says.

Remy reaches out and very gently pats Leo’s arm. “It’s okay,” she whispers. “You’re just a bit sick, mate.”

Leo doesn’t respond properly, but he leans into Harry a little more, which is enough.

Harry shifts slightly so they’re all comfortable — or as comfortable as three people in a four-year-old’s bed can be — one arm around Remy, the other holding Leo.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Let’s try and get some sleep, yeah?”

Remy nods against his shoulder. For a while, there’s just the sound of breathing. The occasional sniffle from Leo. The small, steady presence of them all tucked together.

Harry stays awake longer than he wants to, listening, checking, making sure Leo’s settled properly. At some point, Leo’s grip loosens just slightly. Remy’s breathing evens out. And eventually, he drifts too.

The morning comes quietly. Nora wakes slowly, stretching instinctively across the bed and finding it empty. She frowns, still half-asleep, reaching out again like she might have just missed him.

Cold. Her eyes open properly. The room is still dim, early light filtering through the curtains. The monitor on the bedside table is silent. She pushes herself up, glancing at the clock.

7:32

Too early for Harry to have taken them out. Too quiet for everything to be fine without explanation. She sits there for a second, listening. Nothing. No small voices. No movement. No sound from Leo’s monitor.

“Harry?” she calls softly, but there’s no answer.

She swings her legs out of bed, pulling on a hoodie as she goes, and steps into the hallway. Leo’s door is slightly ajar. She pushes it open gently. The cot is empty. That’s enough to make her heart kick up just slightly.

“Harry?” she calls again, a little louder now, moving down the hall.

Then she passes Remy’s room. The door is open just enough to see inside. She stops. Because there they are. All three of them.

Harry is half on top of the duvet, clearly not where he meant to fall asleep, one arm stretched awkwardly around both kids. Leo is curled into his chest, small and tucked in, breathing softly now. Remy is pressed against Harry’s side, one leg thrown across his hip, Strawberry wedged somewhere between them.

It’s a mess. A warm, tangled, slightly ridiculous mess. Nora leans against the doorframe, something soft and aching blooming in her chest all at once. She takes her phone out quietly and snaps a picture. It feels like something she’ll want to keep. Then she just stands there for a moment, watching them breathe.

Watching Harry’s face, softer like this, unguarded. Watching the way his hand is still curved protectively around Leo even in sleep. The way Remy has somehow taken up most of the space despite being the smallest one there.

She exhales slowly. Then, carefully, she steps back, leaving them where they are. The house is still quiet as she moves downstairs, the early morning stretching out in front of her.

The rest of the day unfolds softly after the strange sweetness of the morning. Not exciting exactly, not memorable in any obvious way, but full in the way family days often are. The kind that exhaust you without ever really stopping.

Leo, thankfully, seems mostly recovered by lunchtime, though he’s clingier than usual, attached to Harry’s hip for most of the morning and periodically burying his damp little face into Nora’s neck like he needs to reassure himself she’s still there. Remy spends breakfast talking enough for three people, performing an increasingly elaborate retelling of the night before where she apparently “saved everyone” while Harry made toast one-handed with a sick toddler attached to him.

“That is not how it happened,” Harry says dryly as he cuts strawberries while Leo sits on the counter beside him kicking his feet against the cupboards.

“It basically is,” Remy insists from the table, entirely serious. “Daddy was doing all the cleaning and I was doing all the emotional support.”

Nora nearly chokes on her coffee. “Emotional support? What do you know about emotional support?”

“Yes,” Remy says, offended they aren’t following. “Leo was upset and Daddy looked tired so I was helping.”

Harry glances over at Nora, trying not to laugh. “Fair enough.”

Remy nods graciously, accepting the acknowledgment. “Thank you.”

By midday they end up walking through Hampstead Heath because the weather is too nice to stay indoors and because children with leftover energy are dangerous in enclosed spaces. Leo spends most of the walk insisting on being allowed out of the pram despite still wobbling dangerously every third step. Harry holds one hand while Leo stomps determinedly through patches of grass in tiny trainers, shouting “bird!” every time he sees literally anything move.

“That was a leaf,” Harry tells him at one point.

“Bird.”

“No, mate.”

“Bird.”

“Alright.”

Remy, meanwhile, has invented an entire film franchise during the walk. It starts as a game about princesses and somehow develops into a deeply complicated plot involving a dragon, two sisters, a magical dog called Bobby Boo Bat, and “a meany scene but not too scary because it’s for children younger than me.”

Nora listens to her explain all of this while holding her hand and trying not to laugh at the sheer confidence behind every ridiculous detail.

“And then,” Remy says breathlessly, “the dragon says, ‘You thought I was evil but actually I have no friends.’”

Harry glances over. “That’s… intense.”

“I know,” Remy replies solemnly. “It’s called cinema.”

Nora laughs softly beside her, but Harry catches it again then, that slight delay afterward. The way her smile fades half a second too early. The way her attention drifts sometimes when she thinks nobody’s looking.

It isn’t dramatic. If anything, it’s subtle enough that another person might miss it entirely. But Harry knows her too well now. Knows the shape of her moods, the rhythm of her thoughts. Something is sitting underneath her today. Not anger. Not sadness exactly. Just… heaviness. A pause where there usually isn’t one.

At one point while Remy runs ahead chasing pigeons and Leo is demanding to hold a stick “all by sewf,” Harry reaches for Nora’s hand properly and squeezes lightly.

“You alright?” he asks quietly.

She looks over immediately, almost too quickly. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Mm.” She leans briefly into his shoulder as they walk. “Just tired.”

And maybe she is. Maybe that’s even partially true. But Harry still feels something unsettled move through him.

The afternoon passes in fragments after that. Leo falls asleep in the pram on the walk home. Remy insists on helping Harry make grilled cheese for dinner and nearly sets her sleeve on fire leaning too enthusiastically near the hob. Nora folds washing while sitting cross-legged on the sofa, periodically being interrupted by Leo waddling over to hand her toys she does not want. At one point Remy performs an entire musical number from her invented dragon film in the living room while Harry plays percussion badly on the kitchen counter.

It is chaos. Loud and sticky and warm. It is home. And yet Harry keeps catching Nora watching all of it with this strange softness that feels almost painful around the edges. Like she’s trying to memorise something.

By the time both kids are finally asleep, the house feels wrung out. Leo went down easier than expected, exhausted from being ill. Remy needed approximately four extra conversations about dragons before settling. Harry closes her bedroom door quietly behind himself and finds Nora already heading toward their bathroom, tying her hair up loosely.

“Shower?” she asks.

“God, yes.”

It’s one of those routines that formed accidentally over the years and then stayed. Not every night. But enough that it belongs to them now. Fifteen quiet minutes at the end of the day where nobody needs anything from them.

The bathroom fills slowly with steam while they move around each other in the familiar choreography of marriage. Harry steps under the water first while Nora brushes her teeth at the sink. Then she joins him, warm skin and shampoo and sleepy intimacy.

It isn’t sexual. Not really. Though there are moments that could become that if life looked different.

Harry presses absent kisses against her shoulder while she rinses conditioner from her hair. Nora leans against his chest for a minute while warm water runs down both of them. He rubs circles into the small of her back without thinking about it.

Comfort more than anything else. Connection. Then, after a while, Nora steps out first, wrapping herself in a towel while Harry reaches for shampoo. She’s quieter again suddenly. Harry notices because he always notices.

Nora rubs at her wet hair with the towel for a second before saying carefully, “I think I want to go back to therapy for a bit.”

Harry freezes mid-motion and immediately gets shampoo directly in his eye.

“Ah, fuck—”

“Harry.”

“Sorry—Jesus Christ—”

He squeezes one eye shut, blindly reaching for water while Nora immediately steps back toward him, concern replacing whatever nerves she’d had about the conversation.

“Move,” she says, trying not to laugh now despite herself. “Tilt your head.”

“I am tilting it.”

“You’re making it worse.”

“Well, I’m panicking now, aren’t I?”

“That’s very obvious.”

She guides his face gently under the spray and he blinks furiously while she tries to rinse the soap away.

“This is not,” he says through clenched eyes, “how you should announce highly significant information.”

Nora actually laughs then, quiet and startled. “I realise that now.”

“My eye’s on fire.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“It’s in my cornea, Nora.”

“It’s shampoo.”

He finally manages to blink properly again, breathing out hard while Nora hands him a washcloth.

“You alright?” she asks, softer now.

Harry wipes his eye carefully before looking at her properly. And there it is again. That feeling.

“What’s going on?” he asks quietly.

Nora’s expression shifts immediately, like she’d prepared herself for this part but still doesn’t entirely know how to do it. “Nothing bad.”

“That’s not really an answer.”

“I know.” She leans back against the sink slightly, towel clutched tighter around herself. “I just… I think I need somewhere to untangle my thoughts a bit.”

Harry studies her face carefully. “About what?”

“The baby stuff.”

He goes still. “Nora—”

“No, not us,” she says quickly, stepping closer again immediately. “Not us. I swear.”

He exhales softly through his nose, but she can still see the way the word therapy has already tightened something in him. Because the last time they needed therapy, they were hurting each other without meaning to. The last time therapy entered the room, they were grieving and scared and barely speaking properly.

Nora reaches for his wrist gently. “Hey.”

Harry looks at her.

“This isn’t me saying something’s wrong between us.”

“Okay.”

“I just…” She searches for the words. “I don’t want the conversation about another baby to feel... radioactive.”

Harry looks down briefly, jaw shifting once.

“And right now,” she says softly, “it still does a little in my head.”

Harry nods slowly.

“I don’t know how to talk about it properly yet,” she admits. “Every time I think about it, it feels like ten different thoughts all shouting over each other. And I think if I try to explain it before I understand it myself, it’ll just come out messy.”

Harry stays quiet, listening.

“So I just…” She shrugs helplessly. “I think I need somewhere to say things out loud first. Somewhere to organise it all before I bring it to you properly.”

The bathroom is very quiet except for the shower still running behind him. Finally Harry says carefully, “Is it because of how I reacted?”

And there it is. The real fear underneath. Nora’s face softens instantly.

“Oh, baby.”

He looks away slightly. “I’m serious.”

“I know you are.”

“Because if there’s stuff I still need to fix—”

“No.” She steps fully into his space now, wet feet against tile, both hands moving to his arms automatically. “No, that’s not what this is.”

He watches her carefully anyway.

“There are parts of it connected to you,” she admits honestly. “Of course there are. We went through it together, but I think a lot of this is me.”

Harry says nothing.

“I think I’m scared of wanting it as much as I do,” she whispers finally.

That one hurts him. Not because it’s shocking. Because he understands it completely. Nora looks down briefly before continuing. “And I think… if I’m honest… part of me still feels like if wanting another baby hurt us that badly once, maybe wanting one again is stupid.”

Harry’s face shifts immediately.

“Hey,” he says firmly.

But she keeps going now that she’s started.

“I know logically that’s not true,” she says quickly. “I know that. But feelings aren’t logical. And I think before I can have a real conversation with you about trying again or not trying again or what any of this means, I need to understand why my brain keeps treating it like danger.”

Harry just stares at her for a second. At his wife. Standing barefoot in a towel. Trying so hard to be brave and articulate and careful with both of their hearts. Then he reaches forward and pulls her into him. Not graceful. Not cinematic. Just immediate.

Nora exhales hard against his chest the second his arms close around her. Wet skin and steam and tiredness and relief all tangled together.

“I love you so much,” she says quietly into his shoulder.

Harry closes his eyes briefly. “I love you too.”

“I love our family.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t want this to become a thing we can’t talk about.”

“It won’t,” he says immediately.

She nods once against him, but he can feel how tense she still is. Harry pulls back just enough to look at her properly. Water is still dripping from his hair into his eyelashes.

“You don’t need permission to go to therapy,” he says softly. “You know that, right?”

“I know.”

“And you don’t need to protect me from your thoughts.”

“I know.”

“But you want to figure them out first anyway.”

A tiny smile touches her mouth. “Unfortunately, yes.”

He huffs a soft laugh. “I’m here when you want to talk about it. Whenever that is.”

Nora’s eyes go glassy for half a second at that. Because that’s the thing, really. The thing underneath all of this. For a while she thought maybe the miscarriage and the fear and the grief had revealed some terrible weakness in them. Some fracture in their marriage she hadn’t seen before.

But standing here now, wrapped in Harry’s arms while he tries to reassure her even through his own fear, she feels something else entirely. Not fragility. Just love. So much of it that sometimes it terrifies them both.

She presses another kiss against his damp shoulder. “Thank you.”

Harry kisses the top of her wet hair. “Always.”

Then after a second he mutters, “My eye still really hurts, by the way.”

Nora laughs against his chest, full and genuine this time.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m injured.”

“It was lavender shampoo.”

“It really fucking hurt.”

She shakes her head fondly, and for the first time all day, some of the heaviness inside her loosens just slightly.

──────────────

A week and a half later, Nora stands in front of the hallway mirror putting on earrings she doesn’t need. She’s not dressed up exactly. Jeans, a simple t-shirt, her hair brushed but not styled, a little makeup because she wanted to feel like a person who had chosen the day instead of one being dragged through it. But the earrings are unnecessary. Small gold hoops she’s put in, taken out, and put back in twice now.

Harry notices, of course. He’s leaning against the kitchen doorway with Leo on his hip, watching her pretend not to be nervous. Leo has one sock on and one sock missing, his cheek pressed against Harry’s shoulder, half interested in Nora and half interested in chewing the collar of Harry’s T-shirt.

“You look nice,” Harry says.

Nora glances at him in the mirror. “I’m going to therapy, not a party.”

“Still.”

She makes a face at him, but it’s soft. “Thank you.”

Remy appears at the bottom of the stairs wearing a tutu over leggings. “Where are you going?”

Nora turns before Harry can answer, because Remy has a way of hearing only the most interesting part of any sentence and filling the rest in with whatever suits her. “I’ve got an appointment, bug.”

“What appointment?”

“Just a grown-up appointment.”

Remy narrows her eyes. “That’s doesn't explain anything.”

Harry hides a smile against Leo’s hair.

Nora sighs, amused despite everything. “It’s enough information.”

“Can I come?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Nora says, crouching slightly to smooth Remy’s hair where it’s already escaping one clip, “you have a fun day planned with Daddy.”

Remy looks suspiciously at Harry. “Do I?”

Harry lifts his eyebrows. “Wow. Enthusiastic.”

“What are we doing?”

“I was thinking,” he says, shifting Leo higher, “art shop.”

Remy’s whole face changes. “Art shop?”

“New paints. Maybe brushes. Maybe one of those fancy sketchbooks you keep touching and then pretending you weren’t.”

Remy gasps. “The ones with thick paper that doesn't bend?”

“The thick paper one.”

She turns back to Nora immediately. “Okay, you can go.”

Nora laughs. “Thank you for your permission.”

“And when you come home,” Remy continues, pointing at her like she’s making a contract, “we can paint.”

“Yes. When I come home later, we can paint.”

“Something beautiful.”

“Obviously.”

“Not like Daddy’s clouds.”

Harry straightens. “My clouds are improving.”

“Sometimes they look like mashed potato.”

Leo lifts his head at that. “Tato?”

“Yes,” Remy says seriously. “Daddy makes potato clouds, Leo.”

Nora’s laugh comes out easier than she expected, and for a second the morning is just that. Kids and missing socks and Remy’s brutal art criticism and Harry smiling at her across the hallway like he knows she needs the normality of it. Then the clock catches her eye.

“I need to go,” she says.

Harry’s expression shifts slightly, not enough for Remy to notice, but enough for Nora to feel it. He steps closer.

Remy hugs Nora first, quick and fierce around her waist. “Don’t be too long.”

“I won’t.”

“Bring your good ideas back.”

“I’ll try.”

Then Harry sets Leo down so he can toddle toward a toy abandoned near the doorway, and he reaches for Nora’s hand. “Good luck,” he says quietly.

She nods. “Thanks.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” Then, because his face tells her he knows when she’s smoothing something over, she adds, “A bit nervous.”

He squeezes her hand. “Makes sense.”

“It’s weird going back.”

“I know.”

She glances toward Remy, who is now explaining to Leo the art shop rules. Leo is hitting a wooden block against the wall, so the lesson is not landing.

Harry leans down and kisses Nora’s forehead. “You don’t have to come home with answers.”

That nearly undoes her before she’s even left the house.

She swallows and nods. “I know.”

“Just go. Talk. Come back. We’ll be here.”

Nora looks up at him. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

The therapist’s office looks exactly the same.

That shouldn’t surprise her, but it does. Same pale walls. Same two armchairs angled slightly toward each other. Same low table with tissues and a glass jug of water. Same window looking out onto a small courtyard where some plant Nora has never known the name of has grown fuller since the last time she was here.

It’s strange, returning to a room that has held some of the worst versions of you. Her therapist, Claire, greets her warmly but not too warmly. Nora appreciates that. No dramatic welcome back. No heavy pause that turns the doorway into a confession. Just a smile, a gentle hello, an invitation to sit.

“It’s good to see you, Nora.”

Nora sits, crossing one leg over the other, then uncrossing it immediately. “Yeah. You too.”

“How are you feeling being here?”

Nora lets out a small laugh. “Like I’m about to be asked that question.”

Claire smiles. “Fair.”

Nora looks down at her hands in her lap. “Nervous. A bit ridiculous. Like I should know how to do this by now.”

“How to do what?”

“Talk about things before they become massive.”

Claire gives her a moment. Nora looks around the room, then back at her. “I think I wanted to come before I knew what I wanted to say.”

“We can start wherever you would like to today, Nora. This is a safe space.”

There’s a silence then, but not the uncomfortable kind. The useful kind. The kind that waits without chasing.

Eventually, Nora inhales and says, “Harry and I have been talking around having another baby.”

Claire’s expression remains calm, open. She knows enough of the history for the words to carry weight.

“Talking around it,” she repeats gently.

Nora nods. “Not about it properly. Not yet. I sort of… throw things out. Baby names. Comments. Little stupid things. And he catches them. He always catches them. But I haven’t actually sat down and said, ‘This is what I want,’ because I don’t know if I’m allowed to want it.”

Claire leans back slightly. “Allowed by whom?”

Nora looks at her, then laughs once, without humour. “That’s annoying.”

Claire smiles faintly. “I know.”

Nora rubs a hand over her forehead. “Myself, I suppose. My body. The universe. I don’t know. It feels like tempting fate.”

“Because of the miscarriage?”

“Yes,” Nora says immediately, then pauses. “And no.”

Nora’s jaw tightens slightly as she looks toward the window. “The miscarriage is the obvious thing. It’s the thing everyone understands. I was pregnant, then I wasn’t. I wanted that baby, and then it was gone. And I know it was early and I know all the things people say, and some of them are even true, but it doesn’t really touch the part of you that already made space.”

Her voice thins slightly at the end, but she steadies it.

Claire nods. “You had already made space.”

“Yeah.” Nora swallows. “And the thing is, I don’t think I only lost the pregnancy. I think I lost the version of myself that still thought wanting another baby would be uncomplicated.”

“That sounds like it has been a lot to deal with.”

“It was.” Nora presses her lips together. “But then there’s Leo. His birth. Everything after.”

Claire’s face softens, but she doesn’t interrupt.

Nora breathes in slowly. “Everyone talks about Harry’s trauma because he was conscious for it in a different way. He saw the blood. He thought he was going to lose me. He thought he was going to lose Leo. And he carried that. Badly sometimes. But he carried it.” She pauses, throat working. “And I think I understood that so clearly that I didn’t fully look at what it did to me.”

“What did it do to you?”

Nora laughs again, quietly, like the question is too simple for something that large. “It made me scared of my own body. For a while. And then after Leo came, I wasn’t… right.”

She looks down at her hands.

“I loved him,” she says quickly, fiercely, like she has said this to herself a thousand times. “That was never the problem. I loved him so much it hurt. I loved Remy. I loved Harry. I knew I loved them. But I couldn’t feel like myself inside it.”

Claire’s voice is gentle. “Postpartum depression can feel very frightening.”

“It did,” Nora says. “And lonely. Which sounds unfair because Harry was there. My family was there. Anne was there. Everyone was helping. But I felt… sealed off. Like I was behind glass. Watching this beautiful family and knowing I should be grateful and happy and glowing, and instead I was just trying to get through the next feed, the next nap, the next person asking if I was alright.”

She wipes quickly under one eye, almost irritated by the tear.

“I think I minimised it,” she admits. “Because the birth was dramatic. So that became the story. Nora nearly died. Harry got scared. The baby was okay. Everyone recovered. But afterwards…” She trails off, then says more quietly, “Afterwards I think I disappeared for a bit.”

Claire gives the space for Nora to continue.

Nora exhales shakily. “And now I’m thinking about doing it again. On purpose. And there’s this part of me that thinks, what kind of idiot goes back toward something that nearly broke everyone?”

“Is that what you feel another pregnancy would be?”

“No,” Nora says, then shakes her head. “I don’t know. Maybe. Not the baby. The baby is…” Her face softens despite herself. “The thought of the baby is lovely. That’s the problem. It’s so lovely it scares me.”

“Because there’s emotional risk.”

“So much emotional risk.” Nora looks at Claire, eyes bright now. “I don’t want to have to survive another loss. I don’t want to watch Harry turn into that version of himself again. I don’t want Remy to sense everything and not understand it. I don’t want Leo to need me and for me to be mentally somewhere else. I don’t want to become depressed again. I don’t want to bleed. I don’t want to sit in another hospital room. I don’t want to want something so much that losing it changes the shape of us.”

There it is. Said. Not polished. Not organised. But out.

Claire’s voice is quiet. “You’re afraid of losing more than a pregnancy.”

Nora’s face crumples slightly. “Yes.”

“What are you most afraid of losing?”

Nora doesn’t answer immediately. Her first instinct is to say herself. Or the baby. Or control. But the real answer rises before she can make it neater. “Harry,” she says.

Claire nods once, like she expected that might be there.

Nora covers her mouth for a second, then drops her hand. “Not literally. I don’t think he’d leave me. I don’t think that. But he’s my person. He’s been my person for so long. And we have this beautiful family and this life that I love even when it’s exhausting, and I think…” She lets out a breath that sounds almost like defeat. “I think part of me is scared that wanting more means risking what we already have.”

Claire lets the sentence settle.

“And what does the part of you that wants another baby say?”

Nora closes her eyes briefly.

“That there’s still room,” she whispers.

When Nora gets home, the house is quieter than she expected. Not silent, never silent, but subdued. She lets herself in and pauses in the hallway, bag still on her shoulder, listening. Somewhere upstairs there’s the faint sound of Remy singing to herself. From the kitchen, the kettle clicks off. Harry appears a few seconds later, mug in hand, looking at her carefully in the way he’s clearly trying not to make too obvious.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

He crosses the hallway and kisses her cheek first, then her mouth, soft and brief. “How was it?”

Nora exhales through her nose, leaning into him for a second. “A lot.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She drops her forehead lightly against his chest. “I’m just really tired, I think.”

His hand comes up to the back of her head immediately. “Do you want me to draw you a bath?”

She shakes her head without lifting it. “I just want to melt into the couch, to be honest.”

Harry kisses the top of her head. “That can be done.”

She laughs faintly against him.

“Your son is having his midday nap,” he says, one hand still rubbing gently between her shoulder blades. “And your daughter is having quiet time in her room, which currently sounds like a one-woman musical, but technically she is in her room.”

Nora pulls back slightly. “Did the art shop happen?”

“Oh, the art shop happened. We now own every shade of blue ever manufactured.”

“Potato-cloud blue?”

“She specifically banned me from using that phrase.”

“Wise.”

Harry takes her bag from her shoulder without making a thing of it and hangs it up. Then he guides her into the living room with the same quiet care he’d use if she were physically bruised. She doesn’t feel bruised exactly, but she lets him anyway.

The sofa is soft and familiar when she sinks into it. Harry disappears for half a minute and returns with tea, a blanket, and one of Leo’s toy cars stuck inexplicably in the blanket folds.

Nora lifts it up. “For me?”

“Emotional support vehicle.”

She huffs a small laugh and sets it on the coffee table. Harry sits beside her, close but not crowding, one arm stretched along the back of the sofa. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Nora considers lying. Not really lying, just deferring. Saying not yet. Saying later. Saying maybe. But the session has left too many things loose in her chest, and Harry is right there, warm and careful and trying so hard not to press.

“Not all of it,” she says eventually.

“Okay.”

“Some of it was…” She looks down at her tea. “Hard.”

He nods.

“I talked about Leo. After Leo.”

Harry’s expression shifts. Not defensive or surprised. Just open in that painful way that means he’s ready to hear whatever she says, even if it hurts.

“And the miscarriage,” she adds.

“Yeah.”

“And you.”

He nods again, slower this time. “Okay.”

Nora glances over. “Not in a bad way.”

“You’re allowed to talk about me in a bad way if you need to.”

“I know.” She smiles faintly. “But I didn’t. Not really.”

They sit in quiet for a moment. Then she says, “I think I’m scared that if wanting another baby hurts that much again, it’ll take something from us.”

Harry’s eyes don’t leave her face.

“And I know logically that we’re stronger than that,” she continues. “But... fear doesn’t care what I know. It just keeps saying, don’t risk it. Don’t be greedy. You have two healthy children and a husband who loves you and a family that works. Why ask for more?”

Harry’s throat moves slightly. “Is that what it feels like? Greedy?”

“Sometimes,” she admits.

He shifts closer, not enough to crowd her, just enough that their knees touch. “Wanting isn’t greedy. It's just wanting.”

The simplicity of it nearly hurts more than if he’d said something profound. Nora looks back down, blinking once. “I know.”

Harry’s hand finds hers under the blanket. “Do you?”

She laughs a little. “Sometimes.”

They fall into a softer silence then. After a while, Nora rests her head against his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For this.” She gestures weakly at the room, at the tea, at him, at all of it. “For making it feel normal. Even with all the feelings involved.”

His thumb moves gently over her knuckles. “It is normal.”

“It doesn’t always feel normal.”

“I know.” He turns his head to press a kiss into her hair. “But feelings don’t make it abnormal. They just make it… ours.”

She closes her eyes for a second.

Harry continues quietly, “I don’t want to pressure you. Ever. I don’t want you to think I’m sitting here waiting for you to come home from therapy with a verdict.”

“I don’t.”

“Good.” His voice softens. “I’m here for all of it. The talking. The not talking. The circling. The changing your mind. Whatever.”

Nora laughs faintly. “That sounds like a terrible service.”

“Reviews are mixed.”

“I’d give you five stars.”

“You would not.”

“I’d give you... four and a half,” she concedes.

“There it is.”

She smiles against his shoulder. For a while, they talk about nothing. Proper nothing. The kind of nothing that saves you after a heavy conversation. Remy’s art shop haul. The ridiculous price of paintbrushes. Leo’s new obsession with putting socks into places socks do not belong. Whether Anne is right that their dishwasher is “temperamental” or if Harry has simply been loading it badly for years.

“She said that?” Harry asks, offended.

“She said it with love.”

“No, she didn’t.”

“She absolutely didn’t,” Nora agrees.

By the time Leo wakes, grumpy and warm from sleep, and Remy eventually emerges from quiet time wearing a paper crown she made herself, the house returns to its usual volume. But something has shifted in Nora. Nothing has been solved, but she feels less alone.

Later, when the afternoon begins tipping toward evening and the children are occupied in the living room — Remy painting a castle with “history and emotion,” Leo sitting beside her mostly painting his own hand — Harry stands in the kitchen doorway and looks at Nora.

“What?” she asks, looking up from where she’s wiping the counter.

“Do you want to make dinner together?”

She blinks. “We make dinner together all the time.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “I mean properly. From scratch. Like before we had tiny dictators.”

Nora leans her hip against the counter, amused. “What are you proposing?”

“Pasta.” She stares at him. “From scratch,” he adds.

“Harry.”

“What?”

“Do you remember the last time we tried to make pasta from scratch?”

A grin breaks across his face immediately. “Yes.”

“You broke the machine.”

“I did not break the machine.”

“You absolutely broke the machine.”

“It was old.”

“It was brand new.”

Nora laughs properly, the sound loose and bright in a way that makes Harry’s chest ease. “You nearly cried.”

“I did not.”

“You stood there holding a lump of dough and said, ‘Maybe Italy is wrong.’”

Harry points at her. “That was taken out of context.”

“There was no context that would help you.”

He moves closer, sliding his hands around her waist. “Come on. We’re older now. Wiser. Better equipped.”

“We have two children currently painting themselves in the other room.”

“Exactly. Stakes are lower. If it goes wrong, we feed them toast.”

Nora looks toward the living room, where Remy is now saying, “Leo, no, paint is not soup,” with weary authority. Then she looks back at Harry. “Alright,” she says. “Pasta.”

Harry smiles, leaning down to kiss her. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. But if you insult Italy again, I’m leaving you.”

“That is a reasonable request.”

They start after the kids are cleaned up, which takes longer than making the pasta probably will. Leo’s hand is blue. Remy has paint in her eyebrow and claims it is “to feel like the character.” Eventually they’re both bundled into the kitchen in clean clothes, Remy standing on a chair to supervise and Leo in his high chair with snacks. Harry pours flour onto the counter with entirely too much confidence.

Nora watches him. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I’ve watched a video.”

“Oh, God.”

“One video is enough.”

“It is absolutely not.”

Remy leans forward. “Are we making dinner or doing science?”

“Both,” Nora says.

Harry cracks eggs into the little well of flour. One immediately threatens to escape.

Nora gasps. “Get it!”

“I am getting it!”

“You are not!”

“Everything is fine!”

“It’s going rogue!”

Remy shrieks with laughter as egg starts sliding toward the edge of the counter and Harry lunges to catch it with a spoon.

Leo bangs his tray. “Go! Go!”

“Thank you everyone for your support,” Harry says.

Nora is laughing now, really laughing, and Harry looks up at her across the flour-covered counter with egg on his hand and this stupid, hopeful, boyish grin on his face.

“What?” she says, still smiling.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just like when we were twenty-five.”

She rolls her eyes affectionately. “When we were twenty-five, there was wine and no one was yelling ‘paint is not soup’ in the next room.”

“True.”

“And you were trying very hard to impress me.”

“I’m still trying to impress you.”

She softens despite herself. “You are?”

“Always.”

Remy groans loudly. “Are you going to kiss?”

Harry and Nora both look at her. “Yes,” they say together, leaning across the counter to kiss quickly.

Remy makes a face. “Are we going to have dinner soon?”

The pasta is not perfect. It’s too thick in places and too thin in others. Remy gets bored halfway through shaping pieces and starts making “pasta sculptures” instead. Leo eats a small piece of plain dough before anyone can stop him and then looks personally betrayed by the taste.

But by the time they sit down to eat, everything smells like butter and garlic and basil, and Nora feels something quiet settle inside her. The day had started with therapy and fear and words she didn’t know how to say. It ends with flour on Harry’s cheek, Remy telling them she might become a chef but only for fancy people, Leo smearing sauce across his chin, and Nora sitting in the middle of it all thinking, not for the first time and not without fear: There is so much love here. And maybe, someday, there could be room for more.

By bedtime, the house has tipped from warm chaos into the fragile, dangerous territory of everyone being just slightly too tired. Nora can hear it from Remy’s bedroom, Leo’s exhausted, angry crying down the hall, Harry’s voice low and patient beneath it.

“I know, mate. I know. It’s very hard being one and having a body. I get it.”

Remy, sitting cross-legged on her bed with her tracing workbook open in front of her, looks up with the solemnity of someone listening to a neighbour’s tragedy.

“He sounds like a police siren,” she says.

Nora, sitting beside her with one leg tucked under herself, smiles. “He does, doesn't he.”

“He gets very dramatic at night.”

“He gets that from your father.”

Down the hall Leo cries again, but this time it’s muffled, like Harry has managed to get him against his shoulder.

Nora taps the workbook gently. “Come on then. Finish this line.”

Remy looks back down at the page, tongue poking slightly between her teeth in concentration as she traces the letter M. Her small hand is still a little clumsy with the pencil, but she works slowly, determined to keep inside the dotted lines.

“M,” she says to herself. “For Mumma.”

“That’s right.”

“And Milo.”

“Yes.”

“And mashed potato clouds.”

Nora laughs softly. “That too.”

Remy grins, then carefully traces the next letter. “Can you do one?”

“It’s your workbook.”

“You can still do one. It's my workbook and I say so.”

“How generous of you.”

Nora takes the pencil and traces one neat letter beside Remy’s slightly wobbly ones. Remy watches, unimpressed.

“You’re better because you’re older.”

“That is generally how practice works.”

“I’ll be better when I’m five.”

“You probably will.”

Remy brightens at that immediately. “My birthday is soon.”

“It is.”

“Very soon.”

“Very soon.”

“I’m going to be five.”

Nora looks at her then. Really looks. Damp hair from the bath, cheeks still soft with childhood, pyjamas with little moons on them, Strawberry tucked under one knee. Five feels enormous suddenly. It feels impossible. It feels like she blinked and the tiny baby who used to curl against her chest became this bright, funny, emotionally precise little person who corrects grammar and asks devastating questions over breakfast. Her face must change, because Remy notices immediately.

“Mumma,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “Why do you look sad?”

Nora softens, brushing a strand of hair behind Remy’s ear. “I’m not sad, bug.”

“You look a bit sad.”

“I’m just… feeling things.”

Remy lowers her pencil. “About my birthday?”

“A little bit.”

Remy frowns, offended on behalf of the occasion. “Mumma, we get to celebrate me. You should be happy.”

Nora laughs, the sound catching slightly. “I am happy. I’m so happy we get to celebrate you.”

“Then why is your face doing that?”

“Because time goes quickly,” Nora says gently. “And sometimes when you love someone very much, you feel happy about them growing up and a little bit sad that they’re not tiny anymore at the same time.”

Remy absorbs that carefully. “That sounds confusing.”

“It is.”

“Is that a grown-up feeling?”

“Mostly.”

Remy nods like that explains everything. “What’s it called?”

“Nostalgic.”

Remy blinks. “Nosmagic?”

Nora smiles properly then. “Nos-tal-gic.”

“Nos-tal-gic,” Remy repeats slowly.

“That’s it.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means you’re thinking about something from before, and it makes you feel warm and happy, but also a little achey because you can’t go back to it.”

Remy looks deeply suspicious of this. “Why would anyone want that feeling?”

Nora laughs. “We don’t choose it. It just happens.”

Remy considers her for a long second, then sets the pencil down and leans against Nora’s side. “Were you nosmagic when I was a baby?”

“I’m nostalgic about when you were a baby,” Nora corrects softly, wrapping an arm around her.

“What was I like?”

“Oh, you were very serious.”

Remy lifts her head. “As a baby?”

“Very. You used to stare at people like you were judging their life.”

Remy looks delighted. “I still do that.”

“You loved being held. You hated being put down. You had the loudest little cry for someone so tiny. And you used to curl your hand right here.” Nora takes Remy’s fingers and places them against the collar of her shirt. “Like you were holding on to me.”

Remy’s expression softens. “Because you were my mumma.”

“Yeah,” Nora whispers. “Because I was your mumma.”

For a few seconds, they sit like that, tucked together in the warm little room while Leo’s crying down the hall fades into sniffles. Harry’s voice is still low, murmuring something Nora can’t quite catch. Then Remy says, casually enough that Nora almost doesn’t understand at first, “I liked when you had a baby in your belly.”

Nora stills. Not visibly enough to scare her. But everything inside her goes very quiet. Remy is looking at the workbook again, tracing her finger over the letters, unaware that the sentence has landed like a hand pressed to a bruise.

“Yeah?” Nora manages.

“I liked knowing there was a baby, even if I didn't know for long.” Remy looks up at her then, more curious than sad. “Could you feel the baby?”

“A little,” Nora says carefully. “Not kicking yet or moving. It was too early for that. But I knew the baby was there.”

Remy nods slowly, taking that in with the seriousness she brings to everything soft. “Did the baby know I was there?”

Nora has to look away for half a second. “I hope so,” she says.

Remy leans more heavily into her side. “I think it did.”

Nora closes her eyes briefly and presses a kiss to Remy’s hair. Before she has to answer, Harry appears quietly in the doorway, one hand on the frame, looking tired but successful.

“He’s asleep,” he says softly.

Nora looks up at him, grateful for the interruption and not grateful at all because he reads her face immediately. His eyes move from Nora to Remy and back again.

“Everything alright?”

Remy answers before Nora can. “Mumma is being nosmagic because I’m almost five.”

Harry’s mouth twitches. “Nosmagic...is she?”

“Yes. It’s when you feel happy and achey because time is mean.”

“That’s actually a very good explanation.”

“I know.”

“I’m gonna jump in the shower,” he says. “You two alright?”

“Yes,” Remy says. “We’re doing letters... and feelings.”

“Busy night.”

“Very.”

He comes in anyway, bends to kiss the top of Remy’s head, then Nora’s. His hand rests briefly on Nora’s shoulder, warm and grounding.

“I love you,” he murmurs, mostly to both of them.

“Love you,” Nora says.

“Love you, Daddy,” Remy replies, already picking up her pencil again.

Once he’s gone, Remy traces one more letter in silence. Nora watches her hand move carefully across the page, heart still tender from the baby conversation. After a minute, Remy says, “If there was another baby one day, would it sleep in Leo’s room?”

Nora breathes in slowly. “I don’t know, bug. Maybe when it's bigger. For the first few months the baby usually stays in Mummy and Daddy's room.”

“Would it be a girl?”

“We wouldn’t get to choose.”

“I would choose a girl.”

“I know you would.”

“Leo would choose a dinosaur.”

Nora laughs softly. “Probably.”

Remy smiles, then grows thoughtful again. “Would the baby get all your cuddles?”

There it is. Small. Honest. Almost hidden. Nora shifts so she can look at her properly. “The baby would need lots of cuddles,” she says gently. “Babies need help with everything. Like Leo still needs help with lots of things.”

Remy nods but doesn’t look fully convinced.

“But that wouldn’t mean you don’t get cuddles,” Nora continues. “You’re still my girl.”

“Your bestest girl.”

“My bestest girl,” Nora agrees immediately. “And love doesn’t run out,” Nora says. “It changes shape sometimes. Gets bigger, but it doesn't run out.”

Remy thinks about that for a while.

“So even if there was a baby, I’d still be your Remy?”

Nora’s heart gives a painful little squeeze. “Always. Nothing could ever make you not my Remy.”

Remy nods, apparently satisfied by that. “Okay. Good.”

Nora brushes her thumb over Remy’s cheek. “You know you can ask me things, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Even big things.”

“I know,” Remy says. Then, after a pause, “Sometimes I ask Daddy big things because you cry.”

Nora lets out a startled laugh, wiping quickly under one eye. “That’s fair enough.”

“But you’re good at crying,” Remy adds kindly.

“Thank you?”

“You do it quietly.”

Nora laughs again, helplessly this time, and pulls her close. “You are too much.”

“I’m nearly five,” Remy says into her shirt, as if that explains everything.

They finish the tracing page eventually, though Remy’s letters get wobblier as tiredness pulls at her. Nora helps her put the workbook on the bedside table, tucks Strawberry under her arm, and pulls the duvet up to her chin.

“Story?” Remy asks sleepily.

“One short one.”

“A medium short one.”

“One short one.”

“A short one with details.”

Nora smiles. “Fine.”

She reads softly, one hand moving through Remy’s hair as the words settle around them. By the end, Remy’s eyes are heavy, blinking slower and slower. Just before sleep takes her fully, she whispers, “Mumma?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“If there’s another baby one day… I want to say hello first.”

Nora’s throat tightens again, but this time the ache comes with something warmer. “We’ll see,” she whispers. “But I think the baby would be very lucky to hear your voice.”

Remy smiles faintly, already half gone. “I’m a good listener too.”

“You are.”

“And a good sister.”

“The best.”

That seems to be enough. Remy drifts off with one hand curled around Strawberry and the other resting against Nora’s wrist, like she’s still holding on even in sleep. Nora stays there for a few minutes after, sitting in the dim glow of the nightlight, listening to her daughter breathe. Happy and achey.

Nostalgic. Nosmagic.

──────────────

Two weeks later, Nora sits in the same armchair with her coat folded over her lap and one thumb hooked under the cuff of her jumper, rubbing lightly at the seam.

It’s her third session back, and the room feels less strange now. Not comfortable, exactly, because Nora isn’t sure therapy is meant to be comfortable, but familiar enough that her body no longer enters it like she’s walking into bad news. The plant near the window is still overgrown. The tissues are still placed too obviously on the little table between them. Claire still has the same calm, patient expression that somehow manages to be both warm and impossible to perform for.

Nora likes that about her. The not performing. It makes it harder to pretend.

“So,” Claire says after they’ve settled, “how have things been since we last spoke?”

Nora exhales slowly. “Alright. Strange. Not bad strange. Just… open.”

“Open?”

“Like I’ve started opening a cupboard I kept shut for a reason,” Nora says, then gives a small, self-conscious laugh. “Sorry. That sounded dramatic.”

“It sounded clear.”

Nora looks down at her hands. “Yeah. I suppose it is clear.”

“And how are the conversations going with Harry?”

There it is. Nora knew it was coming, obviously. That doesn’t stop her chest from tightening slightly. She nods once, more to herself than Claire. “In bits.”

“In bits?” Claire questions gently.

“Yeah. Little bits. Not the whole thing yet.” Nora looks up. “He knows. I mean, he knows what this is about. I told him I didn’t want the conversation about another baby to feel radioactive anymore.” Her mouth twists slightly. “Which was apparently the word I chose while standing in a towel after nearly blinding him with shampoo.”

Claire smiles faintly. “That sounds memorable.”

“It was very us,” Nora says, and for a second her smile is real. “Terrible timing, a lot of honesty, minor injury.”

“And how did he respond?”

“Beautifully,” Nora says, too quickly, then softens. “No, he did. He was… Harry. He was worried at first, I think. Therapy still makes him think something is wrong between us. But he listened. He didn’t push. He told me I didn’t need to protect him from my thoughts.”

Claire waits, letting her hear the sentence back.

Nora’s eyes lower again. “I know. It’s a good thing to say.”

“It is.”

“It’s also hard to believe sometimes.”

“Why?”

Nora rubs at the seam of her jumper again. “Because my thoughts feel… unkind. Not to him necessarily. Just messy. And I don’t want to hand him something messy and then make it his job to organise it.”

“Is that what you think he would feel he needed to do?”

“Maybe.” Nora pauses. “No. I don’t know. Harry likes fixing things when he’s scared. Or when I’m hurt. He’s better at not doing that now, but I know the instinct is there. And I think with this…” She trails off, eyes drifting briefly toward the window. “I think I needed to know what I was actually asking of him before I asked.”

Claire nods. “And do you know?”

Nora is quiet for a long moment.

“I think I’m getting closer.”

“What do you think you’re asking?”

Nora swallows. “Not for a baby. Not yet. That’s the thing.” She looks back at Claire, almost frustrated with herself. “I don’t think I’m walking into our bedroom tonight and saying, right, let’s start trying. I’m not there. Or maybe I am and I’m terrified. I can’t tell. But I think I’m ready to open the door properly. To talk about what it would mean. What we would need. What we’re afraid of. What happens if we try and it doesn’t work. What happens if we try and it does.”

Claire’s voice stays soft. “That sounds like a significant step.”

“It feels enormous.” Nora laughs once, quietly. “Which is annoying because it’s just talking.”

“Talking can be enormous when silence has been protective.”

That lands. Nora looks away because it feels too direct.

After a beat, she says, “I think I used not talking as proof I was fine.”

“How so?”

“If I didn’t bring it up, then I wasn’t wanting it. If I wasn’t wanting it, then I couldn’t lose it. If I couldn’t lose it, then I couldn’t fall apart again.” She presses her lips together. “Very mature.”

“Very human,” Claire corrects.

Nora’s eyes sting, but she nods.

Claire gives her a moment before asking, “You mentioned last time that the miscarriage is not the only piece of this. That Leo’s birth and the postpartum period still feel unresolved in places. Have you thought more about that?”

Nora lets out a breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding. “Yes.”

“And?”

“And I think I’m angry.”

The words come out before she can soften them.

Claire doesn’t flinch. “At whom?”

Nora shakes her head, the answer not simple enough to fit. “Not one person. Not Harry. Not really. Not Leo. God, not Leo.” She closes her eyes briefly. “At my body maybe. At how everyone survived and then expected survival to be the end of it. At how grateful I was meant to be. At how grateful I was, which somehow made it harder to admit I was still miserable.”

Claire nods slowly. “You can be grateful and traumatised at the same time.”

“I know that now.” Nora’s voice quiets. “I don’t know if I knew it then.”

“What did you know then?”

Nora thinks about it. Really thinks. The baby smell of Leo’s head. The soreness. The fear of standing up too quickly. Harry’s face too pale in hospital lighting. Remy, little and confused, climbing onto the bed so carefully because everyone kept saying gentle. The flowers. The cards. The messages telling her she was strong. The way she smiled at all of it because what else was she meant to do?

“I knew I was lucky,” she says finally. “I knew Leo was here. I knew I was alive. I knew Harry was terrified. I knew Remy needed me. I knew everyone wanted me to be okay.”

She pauses, throat tightening.

“But I don’t think I knew how to say I wasn’t.”

Claire’s expression softens. “So you didn’t.”

“No,” Nora says. “I got help. I did. Harry noticed enough to get me help. I saw someone. I went on medication. I got better.” She looks up. “I don’t want to make it sound like nobody helped me. They did. He did.”

“You’re allowed to acknowledge care and still acknowledge what remained untouched.”

Nora’s mouth wobbles slightly, and she hates that it does. “That’s the part I think I didn’t deal with. The untouched part.”

“What does that part say now?”

Nora looks down at her hands again. “That if I get pregnant again, I might disappear again.”

The room goes very still around that.

She goes on before she can stop herself. “And maybe everyone will be kind and helpful and loving and it still won’t reach me. Maybe I’ll look at this baby we wanted and feel trapped behind glass again. Maybe Remy will notice. She notices everything. Maybe Leo will need me and I’ll be… somewhere else. Maybe Harry will be scared and I’ll feel alone because he’s scared too. Maybe I’ll resent him for having trauma when I need him not to. Maybe he’ll resent me for wanting this when it frightens him. Maybe we’ll go through all that again and come out the other side, but not the same.”

Claire lets a few seconds pass. “What would ‘not the same’ mean?”

Nora’s answer is immediate and quiet. “Worse.”

“And is there a version where not the same means stronger?”

Nora looks up sharply, as if she hates the question and needs it at the same time.

Claire doesn’t push. “I’m not asking you to believe that fully. Just whether it exists.”

Nora sits with it. The room is silent except for some distant sound from outside, a car passing, a muffled voice in the hall. She thinks of Harry rinsing shampoo out of his eye while trying not to panic. Harry sitting beside her on the sofa with tea and a toy car. Harry saying wanting isn’t greedy. Harry asleep with both children tangled around him, one hand still curved protectively around Leo.

“Maybe,” she says eventually. “Maybe it exists.”

Claire nods. “What would make it more possible?”

Nora lets out a long, slow breath. “Talking. Before. During. Not waiting until one of us is drowning. Going back to couples therapy if I get pregnant. Having a plan with the hospital. Telling my midwife about the birth trauma and postpartum depression early, not after I’m already in pieces. Letting people help.” She gives a tiny, exhausted smile. “Which I hate.”

“Because help feels like what?”

“Proof I can’t cope.”

“And what else could it be?”

Nora looks at her, already annoyed because she knows the answer.

“Support,” she says.

Claire smiles faintly. “Possibly.”

Nora shakes her head, but there’s no real irritation in it. “You therapists are very fond of obvious truths.”

“We find people often avoid them.”

By the time the session ends, she isn’t fixed. That isn’t how it works. She doesn’t leave with a shining revelation or a neat decision tucked under her arm. But she does leave with something clearer than she arrived with. She isn’t ready because she isn’t afraid. She is ready to start talking because she is afraid and wants to stop letting fear do all the speaking.

While Nora is in therapy, Harry has both children at the park. It was meant to be a straightforward plan. Fresh air. Let them run. Coffee for him if the little kiosk is open. Maybe a pastry if Remy negotiates with enough emotional complexity. Then home before Leo gets too tired and starts treating gravity like a personal enemy.

Naturally, it becomes more complicated almost immediately. Leo wants to walk everywhere by himself now, which means Harry spends half the morning moving in a crouch behind him like a deeply anxious bodyguard while Leo waddles across grass with enormous confidence and very limited steering. Remy keeps running ahead and then circling back, inventing challenges for herself.

“Daddy, time me.”

“With what?”

“Your phone.”

“I’m not timing you climbing that.”

“It’s not climbing, it’s walking... up.”

“It’s a slide.”

“Yes. Walking up.”

Harry looks at her for a second. “You’ve been spending too much time with your mother.”

Remy grins and goes anyway, though she uses the steps, which Harry counts as a victory. Eventually Leo becomes briefly fascinated by a patch of daisies and sits down to poke them one by one, which gives Harry the rare opportunity to sit on a bench without immediately being needed. Remy climbs up beside him, cheeks pink from running, hair escaping one plait. For a minute, they just watch Leo. He picks a daisy, looks at it, then tries to put it back into the ground.

“That’s not how flowers work, mate,” Harry calls.

Leo ignores him and pats the grass very seriously.

Remy leans against Harry’s arm. “He’s funny.”

“He is.”

“He doesn’t know anything.”

Harry smiles. “He knows some things.”

“He knows ‘Mama’ and ‘Dada’ and ‘go’ and ‘no’ and ‘mine.’”

“Very important vocabulary.”

“And ‘snack.’”

“Vital.”

Remy nods, satisfied. Then she goes quiet in a way Harry has learned not to interrupt too quickly. She swings her legs under the bench, watching Leo with unusual seriousness.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah?”

“Will I ever have a baby brother or sister?”

Harry’s body stills before he can stop it. Only for a second. A tiny second. But Remy is perceptive, so he knows she probably notices anyway. He keeps his voice calm. “What made you ask that?”

She shrugs, eyes still on Leo. “I just thought it.”

“Yeah?”

“Mumma had a baby in her tummy before.”

Harry’s throat tightens.

“She did,” he says softly.

“And then the baby didn’t come.”

“No.”

Remy looks up at him then. “Would another baby come?”

Harry exhales slowly, choosing each word with care. He wishes, not for the first time, that parenthood came with a script for these moments. Something laminated and reliable. Something that tells you exactly how much truth a child can hold without dropping it.

“We don’t know,” he says gently. “Sometimes families decide to try for another baby. Sometimes it happens, and sometimes it doesn’t. And sometimes it takes a while.”

Remy thinks about that. “Would you want one?”

Harry looks at Leo again because it’s easier than looking directly at Remy while he answers. Leo has now abandoned the flowers and is attempting to stand up using only the power of determination.

“I think,” Harry says slowly, “I would love any baby that came into our family.”

“Would you still think of me and Leo?”

Harry turns toward her fully. “Bug.”

“I know you would,” she says quickly, like she wants to take the question back and also desperately wants the answer. “But babies need lots of things. Leo needed lots of things. And he was very loud.”

“He was.”

“And sometimes you and Mumma were tired and your faces were different.”

Harry’s chest aches at that. Not because she’s wrong. Because she remembers more than anyone wanted her to.

He reaches out, brushing a loose piece of hair from her cheek. “Did you feel like we didn’t love you as much when Leo came?”

Remy shakes her head immediately, then pauses. “No. Not exactly.”

“Not exactly?”

She looks down at Strawberry in her pocket. “It just changed. And change is scary.”

Harry’s expression softens. “Yeah. It is. A hundred percent.”

She looks relieved that he doesn’t argue with that. He leans back against the bench, thinking for a second. “Can I tell you something?”

“Is it a secret?”

“Not really.”

“Okay.”

“When you were born,” he says, “it was just me and Mumma and you. And we loved you so much that I genuinely thought there couldn’t possibly be any more love than that. Like I was full up with it.”

Remy listens, very still now.

“And then when Leo was coming, I worried about it a bit. Not because I didn’t want him. But because I didn’t understand how it would work. I thought, how can I love another baby the way I love Remy?”

Her face shifts at hearing her name in that sentence.

“And then he got here,” Harry continues, glancing at Leo, who has finally made it upright and is now clapping for himself, “and it was like… your body just makes more room. Your heart does something impossible. It doesn’t take love from one person and give it to someone else. It just grows.”

Remy frowns slightly, concentrating. “Like magic?”

“Sort of.”

“Like when my trousers are too small and Mumma buys bigger ones?”

Harry laughs softly. “Sure. Like heart trousers.”

Remy bursts into giggles. “Daddy.”

“What? You said it.”

“Heart trousers is weird.”

“It is. Let’s never say it again.”

She leans into him again, still smiling. But the seriousness hasn’t fully gone.

“So if there was another baby, your love trousers would get bigger.”

Harry closes his eyes briefly. “Yes.” Remy looks pleased with this. “But,” he adds, turning serious again, “the baby would need attention. A lot of attention. Babies can’t do anything by themselves. They can’t eat without help or sleep without help or tell us what they need with words. So sometimes Mumma or I would have to help the baby first. Not because we love the baby more. Because the baby is tiny and helpless.”

“Like Leo when he puts shoes on the wrong feet.”

“Exactly, but worse.”

Remy nods thoughtfully. “Leo is still quite helpless.”

“He is.”

“But I’m not.”

“No,” Harry says. “You’re very capable.”

“I can spell cat.”

“That alone could run a household.”

She smiles, proud. Harry reaches for her hand. “But being capable doesn’t mean you stop needing us. You still get to need us. You still get cuddles. You still get bedtime. You still get to be our Remy.”

“Your favourite?” she asks, eyes flicking up.

He gives her a look. “You know you are not allowed to ask me that question.”

There it is. The grin. Tiny, cheeky, victorious.

“So yes.”

Harry laughs, pulling her briefly into his side and kissing the top of her head. “You’re trouble.”

“I’m nearly five,” she says, like that explains everything.

“It explains a worrying amount.”

Leo starts shouting then, not upset, just furious that a small stick won’t do what he wants.

“Duty calls,” Harry says.

Remy slides off the bench after him, but before they reach Leo she slips her hand into Harry’s. “If there was another baby,” she says quietly, “I would love it a lot. And I would still love Leo.”

“I think any baby would be very lucky to have you as their big sister,” he says, squeezing her hand. Remy nods, satisfied, and runs ahead to rescue Leo from his argument with the stick.

That night, the house settles slowly.

Not peacefully — not immediately — but in stages.

Leo fights sleep like it’s a personal insult. Remy needs water twice, another hug once, and a deeply important clarification about whether dragons would technically be allowed at her birthday party if they promised not to burn the garden furniture. Harry handles bedtime with the kind of exhausted patience that only exists because he genuinely loves doing it, even when he’s tired enough to forget what day it is.

By the time he finally comes into their bedroom, the house has gone quiet in that full-bodied way it only does after children are deeply asleep.

Nora is already in bed.

Not reading this time. Not on her phone. Just sitting with her back against the headboard and her knees bent under the duvet, twisting her wedding ring slowly around her finger.

Harry notices immediately.

He always notices.

He pauses halfway through pulling his shirt off, eyes flicking toward her. “You alright?”

Nora nods automatically. “Yeah.”

He gives her a look over his shoulder as he tosses the shirt into the laundry basket. “That was a very quick answer.”

She huffs a small breath through her nose. “I am alright.”

“But?”

She watches him move around the room for a second — the familiar rhythm of him. Plugging his phone in. Pulling back the duvet on his side. Checking the monitor volume automatically without even looking at it properly.

Safe things. Ordinary things.

It makes this harder somehow.

Harry climbs into bed beside her, close enough that their legs brush immediately beneath the duvet. He doesn’t push again straight away. He just reaches for her hand and rubs his thumb slowly across her knuckles.

The silence stretches softly between them.

Then Nora says quietly, “I think I’m ready to talk about it properly.”

Harry stills.

Not dramatically. Not enough to make her panic. But she feels the slight shift in him anyway, the way his attention sharpens completely.

“Okay,” he says gently.

Nora nods once, but suddenly her throat feels tight.

Harry notices that too.

“Hey,” he murmurs, squeezing her hand once. “You don’t have to force it out.”

“I know.”

“You can take your time.”

She looks down at their hands tangled together in her lap. “I think that’s part of the problem.”

“What is?”

“I keep taking my time,” she says softly. “And then the thoughts get bigger because they stay in my head too long.”

Harry leans back slightly against the headboard, turning more fully toward her. “Alright,” he says quietly. “Then let’s make room for them out loud.”

Her eyes sting immediately at that, which is annoying because she hasn’t even started yet.

She laughs once under her breath and wipes quickly under one eye. “I hate how emotional this makes me.”

Harry’s expression softens instantly. “Baby.”

“No, I know,” she says quickly, already embarrassed by the tears. “I know it’s fine, I just—” She exhales shakily. “I feel ridiculous because we’re just talking.”

“We’re not just talking.”

She looks at him then.

“You’re talking about something important,” he says gently. “Something scary. That’s different.”

Nora nods faintly, lips pressed together.

For a few moments she just stares down at the duvet, gathering herself. Harry waits. Completely still. Not interrupting. Not trying to fix the silence.

Finally she says, very quietly, “I want another baby.”

The words land between them softly.

Not shocking. Not unexpected. But real in a way they haven’t been before.

Harry’s face changes immediately — not panic, not fear, not even relief exactly. Just something open. Tender.

He brushes his thumb across her hand again. “Okay.”

Nora lets out a breath that sounds almost painful. “And that feels… massive to say.”

“I know.”

“Because I don’t just mean I want another baby in some hypothetical way,” she says, voice trembling slightly now. “I mean I think about it all the time. I think about another little person in this house. I think about pregnancy. I think about names again and what the age gap would be and whether Remy would try and parent it and whether Leo would be jealous.” She laughs weakly through tears. “I think about stupid things, like where we’d put another highchair.”

Harry smiles faintly, eyes glassy already just listening to her.

“But every time I let myself think about it,” she whispers, “all the fear comes with it too.”

There it is.

The real thing underneath everything.

Harry stays quiet.

Nora wipes at her face again, frustrated now. “I’m scared to want it as much as I do.”

“Because of the miscarriage?”

“Yes,” she says immediately. Then softer, “And before that.”

Harry’s eyes lower briefly.

Nora takes another shaky breath. “I don’t think I really dealt with everything after Leo properly.”

He frowns slightly. “You mean the birth?”

“The birth. The postpartum depression. All of it.” She swallows hard. “I survived it. We survived it. And everyone sort of… moved forward because surviving felt like enough.”

Harry’s face tightens immediately. “Nora—”

“No, listen,” she says gently, squeezing his hand before he can spiral into apologising for something she isn’t accusing him of. “I’m not saying you didn’t help me. You did. You got me help before I even knew I needed it. You took care of me. You carried so much of it.”

His jaw flexes slightly anyway.

“But I think,” she says carefully, “I spent a lot of time trying to be grateful instead of honest.”

Harry’s eyes flick back to hers.

“I was grateful Leo was okay. Grateful I was okay. Grateful you loved me enough to notice I wasn’t myself. But underneath all that…” Her voice wobbles. “I was still drowning a little.”

The room goes quiet.

Harry looks devastated by that sentence in the quietest possible way.

Not defensive. Not guilty in an ugly way. Just heartbroken that she carried that feeling.

Nora sees it happen across his face and immediately shakes her head. “This is what I mean,” she says softly. “I don’t want you hearing this like you failed me.”

“I know,” he says quickly, though his voice is rough now too. “I know you’re not saying that.”

“You didn’t fail me.”

“But you still felt alone sometimes.”

Nora’s eyes fill again because there it is. The thing she was trying to say in one sentence.

“Yeah,” she whispers.

Harry looks down for a second, breathing slowly through it. Then he lifts their joined hands and presses a kiss against her knuckles.

“Thank you for telling me that.”

That nearly undoes her completely.

She lets out a shaky laugh. “Claire said you’d probably say something emotionally healthy and annoying.”

His mouth twitches despite himself. “I can be worse if you want.”

“No, this is awful enough.”

He smiles properly then, small and soft, and it lets some air back into the room.

Nora leans her head back against the headboard for a second, gathering herself again. “I think part of me thought…” She hesitates. “If wanting another baby hurt this much, maybe I shouldn’t want one.”

Harry’s expression immediately softens again.

“And then I kept thinking about the miscarriage,” she continues quietly. “And how bad that felt. And how scared I was. And how scared you were. And how after it happened I just thought, okay. Fine. We won’t do this again. I won’t put us through this again.”

Harry’s eyes close briefly.

“But the wanting never actually went away,” she whispers.

He opens his eyes again slowly.

“And I think I got scared that even talking about it would break us somehow.”

“Baby,” he says softly, immediately.

“No, I know logically that sounds dramatic.”

“It doesn’t.”

She looks at him then, properly. “It doesn’t?”

Harry shakes his head slowly. “No.” He exhales through his nose, gaze dropping briefly to their hands. “After Leo… after watching what happened to you… after thinking I might lose you…” His voice catches slightly. “Everything about this stopped feeling theoretical for me.”

Nora’s eyes sting again instantly.

“And then when you got pregnant again unexpectedly…” He swallows hard. “I was terrified.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean properly terrified,” he says quietly. “And I handled it badly because I thought if I let myself feel excited before I dealt with the fear, something terrible would happen. And instead what happened was you felt alone in it.”

Nora shakes her head immediately. “You weren’t awful, Harry.”

“I wasn’t good enough either.”

The honesty of it hurts more than defensiveness would have.

She shifts closer instinctively, reaching up to touch his face lightly. “You were scared.”

“So were you.”

“I know.”

His eyes search hers carefully. “I loved that baby.”

The words come out rough and immediate, like they’ve been waiting.

Nora’s breath catches.

“I know my reaction made it feel otherwise,” he says quietly. “But I did. I loved that baby. I was just…” He exhales shakily. “I was more scared of losing you than I knew how to say out loud.”

Nora’s face crumples slightly at that. And suddenly they’re both crying a little, which feels deeply unfair considering how calm they were trying to be about this.

Harry laughs weakly through it first. “Christ.”

“We’re a mess,” Nora whispers.

She leans forward then, forehead pressing against his shoulder while he wraps his arms around her automatically, holding her tightly against his chest. For a while neither of them speaks. The room is warm. Quiet. The monitor glows softly beside the bed. Somewhere in the distance, pipes hum faintly in the walls. Harry rubs slow circles against her back.

Finally Nora says quietly against his chest, “I don’t want us to lose each other in this.”

Harry’s arms tighten around her immediately.

“We won’t.”

“But what if pregnancy is awful again? What if I get depressed again? What if I miscarry again? What if something happens during the birth?” Her voice shakes harder now because these are the real fears, the ugly ones she keeps hidden in daylight. “What if we survive another hard thing but we don’t survive it well?”

Harry pulls back just enough to look at her properly.

“Nora.”

She wipes at her face again. “I know nobody can promise anything. I know that.”

“No,” he says softly. “I can’t promise nothing hard will happen.”

She nods once.

“But I can promise we won’t stop talking while it’s happening.”

That hits her hard.

Harry brushes damp hair back from her face carefully. “We know more now than we did before. About you. About me. About what trauma actually does when it sits too long without being spoken about.”

Nora watches him quietly.

“If we do this,” he says gently, “we do it differently. We do it honestly. We stay in therapy. We tell each other when we’re struggling before it turns into drowning. We let people help us. We make plans. We talk to doctors early. We don’t pretend survival is the same thing as being okay.”

Nora’s mouth trembles again.

“And if something goes wrong,” Harry says softly, voice roughening slightly now too, “then we grieve it together. Not beside each other. Together.”

Tears slide down her cheeks again immediately. Harry wipes one away with his thumb.

“You are my person,” he says quietly. “That’s the thing underneath all of this for me. Before another baby. Before fear. Before any of it. You.”

Nora lets out a small broken sound at that and presses closer to him again. They sit like that for a long time. No rushing toward conclusions. No dramatic decision made in the middle of the night. Just two people trying very carefully to hold the truth between them without letting fear snatch it away. Eventually Nora pulls back enough to look at him again, eyes swollen and tired now.

“I don’t know exactly when I’ll be ready,” she admits quietly.

Harry nods immediately. “Okay.”

“But I think I’m ready to talk about being ready.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He leans forward and kisses her forehead slowly. “Then we talk about it,” he murmurs.

''Emma's told me a lot about you,'' he said, voice measured, shaking your hand like you were an acquaintance from the country club instead of his daughter's best friend. His palm was warm, calloused from whatever project he'd been working on in the garage. ''Welcome.''

His wife, Claire, was the polar opposite. She swept you into a hug, smelled like expensive perfume and immediately declared you part of the family. ''Emma's been raving about you for months. I already feel like I have another daughter.'' She said it with a bright laugh, but you caught the way Harry's jaw tightened just slightly behind her.

That weekend set the tone for the next three years.

Claire invited you to everything: summers at the beach house, weekend trips up the coast, even the annual family ski week in the mountains. She bought you Christmas presents, stocked up on your favorite snacks before you visited, and told anyone who would listen that you were ''the daughter she'd always wished she had.'' You smiled and thanked her because it felt good to be wanted, but you noticed the way Emma's smile faltered every time her mother said it.

You also noticed the way Harry stayed a little more distant. He was polite, protective if need be, but never quite warm. He'd drive you both back to campus after breaks, hands steady on the wheel, asking questions about your classes while Emma chattered in the passenger seat. He never lingered too long. He was just... around.

Emma once confided in you during a whispered conversation on the beach house deck at 2 a.m., wine bottle between you. ''Dad's the one who actually shows up for me, you know? Mum just... picks a favorite and runs with it for a while.'' Her voice had gone flat. ''She can be cruel when she doesn't get what she wants.''

A year ago everything cracked open. The divorce was quiet on the outside, no screaming matches, at least, but Emma told you later that her mum had been chipping away at Harry for years. Cold comments, affairs she didn't even bother hiding, the way she'd pit Emma against him like it was some kind of game. When the papers were signed Emma didn't cry the way most daughters would. She looked relieved. ''I don't have to watch her hurt him anymore,'' she'd said, hugging you tight in the empty hallway of their old house. ''Or me.''

Harry kept the beach house in the settlement. It became the one place that still felt like home for both of them. And you kept getting invited, because Claire might be gone, but the habit of you being part of the family had stuck. Harry never objected. He just nodded when Emma asked if you could come for the summer again, eyes flicking to you for a beat longer than necessary before he looked away.

Which brings you to today.

Another summer, the same beach house with its wide wooden decks and floor-to-ceiling windows that lets the ocean breeze roll straight through the living room. You've been here three days, but Emma's already dragged you to more parties than you care to count.

She's been gushing about a guy she met on the beach yesterday morning, some surf instructor named Andy who's throwing a party at his parents' place further down the coast. She's spent the last hour in front of the mirror in her room, curling her hair and asking you for the third time if her top comes across as ''too eager''.

''You're sure you don't want to come?'' she asks, slipping on her shoes. ''Andy said there's going to be a bonfire and everything.''

You're sprawled on her bed in your bikini top and a pair of denim shorts, lazily scrolling on your phone. The thought of loud music and drunk strangers holds zero appeal tonight. ''I'm good. I've got a book and the pool chairs have my name on them. Go have fun.''

Emma grins, leaning down to kiss your cheek. ''You're the best. Text me if you get bored and I'll come rescue you.'' She pauses at the door. ''Dad's out on the deck if you need anything. He's real broody today, though.''

You nod, waving her off. The front door clicks shut behind her a minute later, and the house settles into that particular kind of quiet that only happens when Emma has left, taking all her chaotic energy with her.

You wander into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. Harry's there, standing at the island in black swim shorts and a faded T-shirt that clings to his shoulders and does absolutely nothing to conceal the way the fabric stretches across his chest. You've caught glimpses of the body he hides underneath, one morning last summer when he came back from a run shirtless, and the memory still makes your stomach flip. He's over forty now, silver threading through the curls at his temples, but the years have only sharpened him: stronger, stubbled jaw, rough hands, a quiet confidence that makes the air feel thicker when he's in a room.

He looks up when you enter, green eyes softening. ''Emma head out?''

''Yeah. She said something about a bonfire.''

He nods, wiping his hands on a dish towel. ''There's a new grill I picked up this morning. The old one finally gave up last week. I was going to set it up on the deck but the instructions are in about twelve languages and none of them make sense. You speak a couple, right? Any chance I can bribe you with a cold drink to help me figure it out?''

You smile before you can stop yourself. ''Only if the bribe includes one of those fancy lemonades you make.''

''Deal.''

The two of you carry the big cardboard box out to the deck together, though Harry does most of the heavy lifting, the late afternoon sun warm on your skin. He's careful to keep a respectable distance, the way he always has, but when you crouch down beside him on the wooden planks, your hands brush once by accident, and you shiver.

You spend the next twenty minutes sorting metal parts and reading badly translated instructions while he tries to keep up. Conversation flows easy at first: your final year of uni, the internship you're hoping to land, how Emma's thinking about taking a year off to travel.

He's quiet for a long moment, turning a bolt between his fingers. ''She seems happy tonight,'' he says, not looking at you. ''That Andy guy... you met him?''

''Briefly. Seems nice.''

Harry hums, unconvinced. ''She's been different since the divorce. Lighter. But I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. I can't help it.'' He glances sideways at you. ''You've been good for her, though.''

The compliment lands warm in your chest. You shrug, suddenly shy. ''She's been good for me too.''

He sets the wrench down, sitting back on his heels. His T-shirt rides up just enough to show a strip of tanned skin above his shorts. You look away fast.

''You know,'' he says, voice lower, ''Claire used to say you were the daughter she wished she had.'' He sounds bitter. ''Emma hated it. I hated it. Not because it's not true— you're great— but she made everything a competition. Truth be told, I think Emma feels like she was never enough for her mother.''

You swallow. ''I know. Emma's told me.''

He nods, eyes on the half-assembled grill. ''Guts me, y'know? To think I let my little girl feel that way for so long. I should've left sooner.''

You reach out without thinking, resting your hand lightly on his forearm. His skin is warm from the sun. ''You shouldn't beat yourself up over that, Harry. She's okay. She's happier. And she's got you.''

He looks up at you then, green eyes searching your face like he's trying to decide whether to believe you. The late afternoon light catches the silver at his temples and the faint lines around his eyes. For a moment the air feels heavier, the ocean sounds dampened.

''I just didn't want her to come from a broken home,'' he admits. He flinches almost immediately, realizing what he's said. Emma's told him that your parents had a messy, ugly divorce when you were twelve, and that you still don't talk about much.

''Shit,'' he mutters, rubbing a hand over his jaw. ''That was insensitive. I'm sorry.''

You shake your head, offering a small smile. ''It's okay. Really. I understand. And I really do think Emma's better off. She doesn't have to walk on eggshells anymore. Neither do you.''

He holds your gaze a second longer, then nods once, slow. Something in his shoulders loosens. The two of you go back to the grill in companionable silence for a while, passing tools, reading instructions, occasionally brushing fingers when you hand him a bolt. Every small touch feels bigger than it should. By the time the last piece clicks into place, the sun has lowered, painting the deck in warm gold.

Harry steps back, wiping his hands on his shorts, and surveys the finished grill with a satisfied nod. ''Not bad.''

You laugh softly. ''We make a decent team.''

His eyes flick to you, something unreadable flickering across his face before he clears his throat. ''I owe you that lemonade.''

Inside the kitchen the air is cooler. You perch on one of the tall barstools at the island counter, stretching your sore back.

Harry moves around the space with easy familiarity, pulling lemons from the bowl, slicing them with quick, precise strokes. You watch the way his arms flex under the thin white T-shirt, the way the fabric shifts across his shoulders when he reaches for the sugar.

He catches you staring.

For a beat his hands still on the cutting board. His eyes meet yours across the counter, dark and knowing. He doesn't say anything. Just holds the look for a second too long before going back to squeezing lemons into the pitcher. The silence stretches, thick and charged.

When he finally slides the glass toward you, condensation beading on the sides, you just take it with a quiet ''thank you.'' Your fingers brush.

You lift the glass. ''To... beach houses and finished grills.''

He clinks his own glass against yours, the sound bright in the quiet kitchen. ''To finished grills,'' he huffs, a reluctant smile pulling at his lips.

You both sip. The lemonade is perfect, tart, sweet, ice-cold. But the air between you feels anything but refreshing. Harry leans against the opposite counter, watching you over the rim of his glass. The space between you feels smaller than it ever has.

''Your birthday's soon, isn't it?'' he asks eventually, voice low.

Your heart stutters. ''Yeah. I usually celebrate with Emma at the beach, but she might be too preoccupied with Andy this year.''

Harry hums, reaching past you for the pitcher of lemonade he'd set on the counter earlier. His arm brushes your shoulder as he does it, innocent, accidental, but for a second you're trapped in that small pocket of space between his body and the island, the scent of sunscreen and salt and him filling your lungs.

You're close enough to see the way his throat works when he swallows, the way his eyes flick down to your mouth subconciously.

The silence stretches, thick and heavy.

You lean in imperceptibly closer. ''Harry...''

He exhales sharply, like the sound of his name on your lips hurts him.

But he doesn't move away.

So you rise up on your toes and kiss him.

For one terrible second he stays completely still. Then a low, broken sound escapes him and he kisses you back, hungry, desperate, like he's been holding it in for years. His hands finally leave the counter to grip your waist, pulling you flush against him. The kiss turns messy fast: tongues sliding, teeth grazing, breaths shared in short, ragged gasps.

He pulls away as if your lips burned him, and steps back until his hips hit the opposite counter, hands coming up between you like he's trying to physically hold the distance. ''You're a beautiful woman,'' he says, voice rough and strained. ''God, you are. But I can't do this. You're Emma's best friend. My daughter's best friend. I can't—''

''I know,'' you whisper, stepping into the space he just tried to create. ''I didn't even know you felt... You've been avoiding me for years.''

He laughs once, short, almost frustrated. ''Because I feel it. This is exactly why I've always steered clear of you. Every time you walked into the house, every summer, every time you visited... I had to keep my distance. Because if I let myself look at you the way I wanted to—''

The confession hangs between you, raw and desperate. His chest rises and falls faster now, restraint visibly fraying.

You reach up slowly, fingers brushing his jaw. ''Would it really be so terrible?''

He catches your wrist, but doesn't pull your hand away. ''We can't. This is wrong. Emma trusts me. She trusts you. I'm her father, for fuck's sake.''

''I know it's wrong,'' you breathe, leaning in until your lips are inches from his. ''But I can't pretend anymore. And neither can you.''

He makes a low, pained sound, and then his restraint finally snaps.

He kisses you like he's starving.

It's not soft. It's hungry, aggressive, years of carefully buried want crashing out all at once. His mouth claims yours, tongue sliding deep, teeth nipping at your bottom lip hard enough to make you gasp. His hands drop to your waist, gripping hard as he walks you backward until your back hits the island counter. You moan into his mouth and he swallows it greedily, one hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, the other yanking your denim shorts down your legs in one rough motion.

''Fuck,'' he groans against your lips, barely pulling back enough to speak. ''We shouldn't be doing this. Not here. Not like this.''

But he doesn't stop.

You shove his T-shirt up and he rips it off in one impatient movement, tossing it somewhere behind him. Your hands roam over his chest, nails dragging down his stomach as he yanks your bikini top loose. The moment your breasts are bare he groans, mouth descending to suck one nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing, tongue flicking until you're arching against him with a broken whimper.

''Harry, please.''

He curses again, pained and wrecked, but his hands are already desperately pushing your bikini bottoms down your legs. The fabric pools on the floor. He lifts you onto the counter in one smooth motion, stepping between your spread thighs, then reaches between you to shove his own shorts down just enough.

He's hard, thick, flushed dark at the tip. You reach for him but he catches your wrist, breathing ragged.

''Condom,'' he rasps. ''In my wallet.''

His wallet is on the counter barely two feet away from you, and you fish a condom out of it with shaking fingers. He rolls it on quickly, jaw tight, eyes never leaving your face. When he lines himself up at your entrance he pauses, forehead pressed to yours.

''Last chance,'' he rasps, voice wrecked. ''Tell me to stop. Tell me this is a mistake.''

You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer. ''It's a big fucking mistake. But don't you dare stop.''

''Fuck it,'' he breathes out and thrusts into you in one hard, deep stroke.

The stretch is intense, bordering on too much, but the burn feels perfect. He buries his face in your neck with a guttural groan, hips already snapping forward in rough, desperate thrusts that rock the barstool. One hand grips the counter behind you for leverage, the other digs into your hip, holding you exactly where he needs you.

''God, you're so fucking wet,'' he pants against your skin. ''My daughter's best friend and you're dripping down my cock. What the hell are we doing?''

You moan loudly; he slaps a hand over your mouth, eyes flashing with panic and lust.

''Quiet,'' he hisses, rutting into you. ''Do you want the entire beach to know you're getting fucked by your best friend's father?''

The words only make you clench harder around him. He fucks you faster, deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin loud in the quiet kitchen. The barstool you'd been sitting on earlier gets kicked over in the frenzy, clattering to the floor, but he doesn't even slow down.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes wild. ''This is so wrong. Emma will never forgive us if she finds out.''

''I know,'' you gasp against his palm, tears of overwhelming pleasure pricking your eyes. ''But it feels so good. Don't fucking stop.''

He curses viciously, hips slamming into you harder, the force making the counter creak. He fucks you like he's punishing both of you for wanting this, for finally giving in.

You come first, hard and sudden, walls fluttering around him as pleasure crashes through you in waves. You cry out against his hand, and he follows right after with a choked, broken groan, burying himself deep as he spills into the condom, hips jerking through every pulse.

For several long seconds you stay locked together, panting, foreheads pressed together, his cock still twitching inside you.

''We can't ever do that again,'' he whispers.

Neither of you believes it, but you nod anyway, even as your fingers stay curled in his hair.

Then headlights sweep across the front windows.

A car pulls into the driveway.

''Shit. Emma,'' you whisper, panic slicing through the haze.

Harry pulls out quickly, both of you moving in frantic, uncoordinated bursts. He yanks his shorts up, disposes of the condom in the bin under the sink, and grabs his T-shirt from the floor. You slide off the counter on shaky legs, pulling your bikini top back into place and scrambling for your shorts and bottoms. You both smooth your hair, wipe sweat from your skin, and try to look normal.

Harry puts some distance between you just as the front door opens.

Emma bursts in, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with excitement, completely oblivious.

''Oh my god, you guys missed the best party!'' she exclaims, kicking off her shoes. ''Andy's so funny. You should've heard his stories tonight!'' She pauses, tilting her head. ''Why is there a barstool on the ground?''

You and Harry share a look, the reality of what just happened settling over both of you like cold water, and you subtly shake your head.

Never again.

...

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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Work had been hectic this week and all you wanted to do that weekend was chill out at your boyfriend’s place and watch a movie while you both traded off giving each other head. Except, Harry sprung on you Friday that he had to attend a party Saturday night, some unavoidable work event that his manager informed him of at the last minute. You could’ve sat this party out, stayed at his place and ate all his fancy imported snacks by yourself, but, selfishly, you wanted to spend some time with your boyfriend before being dragged back into the office on Monday. But now, you’ve been stuck at a stupid party at some gaudy high rise for several hours, arms crossed tightly across your chest, your mouth quirked to the side in annoyance while Harry laughed with a group of people you didn’t know, debating the validity of the most recent celebrity gossip you couldn’t bring yourself to care about.

The first time you asked if you could go home, barely an hour into the night, leaning in close so no one else could hear, Harry chuckled, kissing the top of your head while he whispered, “Soon, my love, just a little while longer.”

Your definition of soon apparently didn’t align with Harry’s because the second time you asked, almost twenty minutes later, not even whispering this time, he once again said, “Soon, don’t worry. Do you want a refill?”

That’s when the attitude started. “No, I want to go home.”

Harry just shook his head, wandering off to get more drinks, assuming the alcohol would temper your increasingly bad mood. Instead, you don’t touch the drink, leaving it on the table, condensation dripping down the sides, despite Harry’s insistence to “use a coaster, love.”

It didn’t help that you were mind-numbingly horny, yet another thing Harry had put off, stating he’d rather put it off until you got home. The longer the night continued, the longer you went without the taste of Harry’s cock in your mouth. Was it really so wrong for a girl to want to suck on her boyfriend’s dick? But Harry was more concerned about getting to the party on time, about making a good impression, so he declined your offer, promising you could blow him later that night, after the party was over.

So, when there’s a lull in the conversation, you take the opportunity. Running your finger up and down Harry’s forearm, dragging your nail over the art imbedded into his skin, your eyelids fluttered in the exact way you've practiced, your lip jutting out just so as you ask in your most sickly sweet voice, “Can we go soon?”

Someone next to Harry snickered, and a couple people raised their eyebrows at your brash question. Harry gave you an incredulous look, his annoyance simmering just beneath the surface. “We’ll leave soon, I promise, princess.” The nickname is a tell, a warning to keep you in line. If he had pulled it out the second time you asked, you probably would’ve complied, but it was too late for that now.

Dropping the act, you remove your hand from him. “You said that three hours ago.” Behind you, someone was failing to cover up their laughter.

“And I said we’re not leaving yet.” The tension between you two was seeping into nearby conversations, tempted by the brewing drama.

“Fine, you can suck your own dick then! God forbid a woman wants to pleasure her man.” As you stand up and head towards the front door, a murmured chorus of chuckles and snorts trailed behind you, your outburst capturing the attention of half the party, it seemed. You didn’t have the capacity to be embarrassed about it, too sexually frustrated to stop, even when you heard someone call out your name.

Stomping down the hallway, you made your way to the elevators, tapping the call button with such ferocity, as if the elevator would reach the 28th floor faster the more you clicked it. Music from the party pumped through the walls while you waited, growing louder then softening again when someone else left the party, the door clicking shut behind them. You keep your gaze fixed to the numbers above the elevator, tracking its gradual progress, even as someone sidled up next to you. From the vanilla scent mixed with warm sandalwood, you knew it was Harry. His silence is enough for you to know how upset he is, though you refuse to acknowledge him, and he’s content to do the same.

When the elevator dinged, opening in front of you, you stormed right in, claiming the far corner for yourself, crossing your arms and legs as a protective barrier. Harry entered behind you, and through the mirrored walls, you watched as he pressed the garage button, a tick in his jaw. Just as he looked over at you, you diverted your gaze quickly, finding the patterned tile on the floor much more interesting than your annoying boyfriend.

“Are you proud of the way you acted back there?” Harry asked once the door closed, his voice low and restrained. “Do you feel good about causing a scene in front of everybody?”

All you offered in response is a shrug, rolling your lips into your mouth as you kept up your silent pouting.

“Do you even know who was at that party?”

“I didn’t know anyone at that party so, no.”

“Max Martin, the music producer-”

Sarcasm dripped from your words as you rolled your eyes. “Whoop-dee-fucking-doo.”

“-who has worked with people like Britney Spears, Ariana Grande, Taylor Swift-”

“And now you’re bringing up your ex, great.”

Harry let out a mirthless laugh. “What the hell is your problem tonight?”

“I think I was pretty clear about what I wanted back there.”

Finally, the elevator stopped its descent, opening up into the parking garage and you’re quick to exit. Harry’s long legs meant you didn’t get far before he’s beside you, grabbing onto your upper arm and pulling you towards the Audi he had rented for the night. You don’t even fight the way he manhandled you, relieved to be returning home at last.

Still the polite gentleman, Harry opened the passenger door for you, muttering between clenched teeth, “Get in.” Shrugging off his grip, you ducked down into the car, settling in the seat. Before you could grab the seatbelt, Harry snatched your hand, reaching across you to grab the other one, holding both your wrists in just one of his hands.

“What the fuck, Harry?” you cried, trying to wriggle your hands free but his strength overpowered your agility.

Single-handedly, Harry undoes his belt, tugging it loose from his pants. Wrapping it around your wrists, he then felt around the car ceiling, pulling down the grab handle so he could loop the belt through it. He gives your hands a couple of tugs, making sure the belt is secure before letting go. You put up less and less of a fight as you realized what he was doing, rubbing your thighs together in anticipation when he unzipped his pants. Now, you would get what you had been wanting all night.

Harry’s cock is only partially erect, the head of him blush pink when he pulled it out, licking his palm before he started rubbing himself. He groaned through his strokes, huffing out a breath as he grew in his own hand.

Eagerly, you opened your mouth, your tongue lolling out and glistening with your saliva. Straining against your restraints, you tried to dip your shoulder and lean out the car in a weak attempt to get closer to his crotch. The air of the parking garage dried out your tongue as you waited, looking up at Harry with pinched eyebrows as he kept stroking himself, slowly retracting your tongue back into your mouth.

“Oh, is princess upset she’s not getting her way?” Harry mocked you, shaking his head back and forth as he smiled down at you darkly, his hand passing lazily over his now fully hard dick. “You think you deserve my cock after how you acted back there?”

Consequences? For your actions?

Desperately, you wrestled with the belt wrapped around your wrists, uselessly trying to loosen it. “C’mon, Harry, please,” you whined, “I only wanted to make you feel good.”

“By causing a scene? By embarrassing me in front of everyone?” His grasp on himself tightened as he described your ill behavior, his dick deepening from pink to red.

“Why is it embarrassing?” you argued. “Most men would love to have someone begging to suck on their dick.” A drop of precome slipped out of his slit, temptingly delicious, a peek of what you’d been fantasizing about all night. Harry collected it into his palm as he swiped over his tip, smearing it over him, wasting it. You stamped your feet against the car floorboards. “Please, Harry, I want your come so bad.”

He breathed out a short laugh. “Oh I’ll give it to you, don’t worry.” Leaning his head back, he released a sigh, biting his lip as his strokes speed up. His cock remained firmly erect as he let himself go, wetting his palm some more before he grabbed his cock and started fondling himself again, his balls clenching at his touch. A growl rumbled in his chest and his hand grew sloppier as he rubbed over himself.

It’s only when he started to pant through his nose that you realized just how close he was, how quickly he was trying to reach the end, speedrunning through his pleasure like it was a nuisance. You were insulted that he’d rather race through his ejaculation than let you lavish him, slathering him in your spit, worshipping the ridged vein on the underside of his cock with your tongue. If he let you have your way, you would’ve taken your time but now you’re forced to watch him twitch closer to his rushed release.

“Harry, please, I wanna taste you, please let me, I’ll be good, I swear,” you babbled. “Please!”

His hand wrapped around your throat, pressing you back against the seat. “Stop talking,” he ordered, his hips thrusting into his hand as he neared his climax.

In a last stitch effort, you complied, silently opening your mouth, letting your tongue droop out. He said he’d give you his come, and you figured if he wasn’t going to let you suck his dick, he’d at least let you swallow his release. Surely, you’d been good enough for a little taste.

After a few more flicks of his wrist, Harry whimpered as his cock spurted, leaking semen onto your dress with each squeeze.

“Hey, what the fuck?!”

He ignored your cries, continuing to stroke his cock until nothing more came out, depositing his load over your body with a relieved sigh. The semen seeped into your dress, staining the black fabric. Harry released a wavering breath before tucking himself back into his pants, tugging the zipper back up.

“Do you know how much this dress cost?” you chastised him.

“I mean, I bought it so, yeah I do.” Harry checked the belt and the red lines splotched across your wrists, making sure they weren’t pinching your skin too tightly.

“Yeah, well you can also pay the dry cleaning bill! I can’t believe you just jizzed all over a silk dress!”

A mischievous glint sparkled in his eyes before he stood back up, reaching back for the door. “Ok, you seem comfy. I’ll see you in an hour.”

“What?!” you shrieked, making Harry pause when he went to shut the door.

With a shrug, Harry pointed back towards the elevators. “I’m going to go back to the party. See if I can still meet Max, maybe grab his number.”

“You’re just going to leave me here?!”

“Think of it as a time out,” Harry clicked his tongue, letting his eyes travel across your ruined dress. “You can think about your behavior while I’m upstairs.”

“Hey, wai-” you called out, but the door slammed shut anyway, prohibiting the rest of your complaint from reaching Harry’s ears. But that doesn’t stop your screams. “Are you serious? You’re leaving me in here?” The car beeped, the locks clicking shut. “Did you just lock me in? I can’t even use my hands, you fucking jerk!” Harry keeps marching over to the elevators, oblivious to your protests. “I’ll get you back for this, Harry Styles!” you continued to yell, your throat getting scratchy with the excessive use. “I will make you pay for this, I swear to God!”

Once Harry’s inside the elevator, he finally looked back at you, waving his hand condescendingly as the doors slid shut, leaving you in his car, covered in his semen, waiting for his return.

Tag list:

You pushed up from the edge of the dock where you'd been sunning, and sauntered toward the table, just shy of the zone where your dad would bark. On your way to the cooler, you gave Harry a small, private smile, then bent for a beer and let him have the view. Tits, ass, whatever he chose to take. You just needed his eyes on you.

The first swallow of cold ale carved a clean line down your throat as you stood right where Harry could watch. He glanced, but not too long. You tossed him another look, then drifted toward the cedar-and-stone house, slipped through the sliding doors, and let the air-conditioning lift the heat from your skin.

Even as your sweat began to dry, you were still heated from all the inappropriate thoughts about Harry. His arms were strong and tattooed, his shoulders were broad, he was tall, big hands… There wasn't a single thing you could find about him that wasn't appealing. He was even a little bit boorish, which you loved. You wouldn't call him mean, but he definitely wasn't nice. He'd never been rude to you, but you'd let him if he wanted.

And best of all, you were positive he had a huge cock. You'd seen the bulky line of him after pulling himself out of the lake, the way he plucked his shorts away from the heavy lump that swayed in his navy swim shorts. Plus, there was no way a man like that wasn't nicely endowed. You wanted to see it for yourself, though.

You took another drink of your beer, your forearms pressed over the granite kitchen island, just as Mark walked in and set his dark eyes all over your skin before he walked behind you. Rolling your eyes, you took another swig and turned around, propping your elbows on the island behind yourself to look at him. "Like the color green. Or you just like my ass?"

He laughed and reached into the fridge to grab out a few more of the special beers. The ones that didn't go in the cooler because they were too expensive to sit amongst the common lagers and ales that sat drowning in water and ice in the Igloo cooler. "You got some mouth on you, Y/n."

"I saw you lookin'. Don't pretend you weren't. If Darius finds out, he'd probably kill you, though."

"If your dad finds out what?" Harry's voice cut through from the sliding door as he stepped inside, eyes on Mark. There was tension.

"Nothin'."

"He was looking at my ass," you smirked and then took another drink of your beer.

"She's right. Darius'll kill you. So will I. Go back outside, Mark."

Mark scoffed and gestured toward you. "I wasn't looking at her ass, Harry. She's just a kid. Why would—"

"I'm 23. Full-grown woman," you corrected.

Both Harry and Mark looked at you and laughed. You rolled your eyes. Harry kept his sight on you as he spoke. "Go outside, Mark, before you do anything stupid."

You licked your lips and grinned at Harry, swaying your hips just a little as you shifted. His eyes grazed your thighs before he stepped in front of you, jaw set hard.

"Don't be playin' with Mark. He's going through a lot right now."

"I know. Poor thing," you mock-pouted. "Heard his wife left him. Probably desperate to get laid. That's why he was staring at me."

"You need to behave, Y/n. You're lookin' for trouble." Harry glanced out the window then back at you.

You fluttered, your lashes innocently. "Hmm… Not looking for trouble. Honest. Not from Mark anyway."

He shook his head and sucked at the front of his teeth like what you'd said was unbelievable. But you think he got the hint. "God help me."

And just like that, he walked away. Left you standing there in the air-conditioned kitchen as he stepped back out to the patio with his friends. All boring older men his age who he knew couldn't entertain him the way you could if he just let you.

.

The wifi sucked at the lakehouse. That was one of the only things you hated about the place. The rest was kind of magical. You sat on the balcony off of your room, a joint perched between your fingers as you watched the sun slip down, and one by one, your dad and his friends began to come inside. Bedtime for the old men. But that meant go-time for you.

Patting out your joint, you stepped back inside your room and checked yourself in the mirror. Your button-up shirt was unbuttoned, nothing underneath. You grinned and felt your nerves ramp up as you tiptoed from your room, down the hallway to the one off the shared bathroom. Harry's room.

None of the men had made it upstairs yet. You could hear them all down in the kitchen still. Once again, the thrill of doing something you knew you shouldn't was too big to pull back from. Just one night with Harry would cure you. Definitely.

His room was dark when you stepped inside and closed the door behind yourself. The rush of what you were doing made your heart race as you climbed into his bed and pulled the shirt off, dropping it onto the floor next. You turned your head to inhale the pillow he'd used the night before.

It was like a dopamine hit to your brain. Harry always smelled good, and now, lying in the bed, he'd soon be coming to… your insides were churning, and your skin was prickling with heat.

Look, you knew you were ridiculous. You knew it was dumb. But you really didn't care. You should have cared. You should have gone to therapy instead of going to older, unavailable men to fill in the gaps of whatever it was that was missing in you. But for you, rational thought rarely won. For better or worse. You were a walking disaster.

When footsteps began to hit the stairs and deep voices laughed and lulled, doors opened, and then closed, you pulled his blankets over your head and bit your lip in anticipation. You had a feeling he was going to kick you out of his room. Tell you that you needed help and that you were barking up the wrong tree or something like that.

The moment his door opened, you held your breath. You heard his footsteps, the door closing behind him, then locking. When the light came on, you could see it slip through the edges of the blanket, and then everything went silent. You slowly inhaled and blinked your eyes against the dark of the blankets over you and tried to listen for any single noise, but there was nothing. Not a footstep, nor a breath. Was he playing a game? There was no way he didn't notice the clear outline of your body under his blankets, and there was no way he didn't know it was you.

Just before you were about to pull the covers from your face to find out what was going on, all of the blankets were suddenly ripped from you and pulled to the floor, cold air hitting your bare skin. You gasped and sat up to see him standing at the end of the bed, an unreadable expression on his face as he trailed his eyes down your nude figure sitting right in the spot he would be sleeping.

He pressed his lips together tight and nodded before he crossed to the side of the bed to casually plug his cellphone in to charge it. You blinked, confused, and shifted to sit with your legs tucked under your thighs as you watched him. Why wasn't he giving you some kind of reaction?

"Um…" You said thinly. "You gonna say something?"

He slid his gaze to yours, and he sniffed before he sat at the edge of the bed and began to remove his shoes. "What do you want me to say?"

Shaking your head, you frowned. "I don't know. I thought it'd be funny. Maybe make you laugh."

He pushed out a laugh, but it was missing its edge of humor. "Funny? This is you being funny, Y/n?"

"Well…" You looked down at your lap and suddenly felt like escaping. You could just grab your shirt and dash back to your room, pretend you'd never done it.

"Well, what?"

"I don't know. I don't know why I did it."

"Not every day a man steps into his room to find a naked girl in his bed. Worse when it's his friend's daughter."

Biting your lip hard, you lifted an arm to cover your breasts and hook your fingers over your upper arm, suddenly not feeling like your usual bold self. Harry's reaction had not been what you'd expected at all. You were used to an extreme response. But this?

He brought a hand up and pulled at your lip, voice soft. "Don't bite it. Make yourself bleed."

You blinked slowly, eyes on his as you parted your lips where he pulled and grabbed his wrist, pushing your lips over his thumb and sucking around it. It was automatic when you did it. He didn't pull away.

"Fuck me," he muttered under his breath. But it came out sounding less like a man excited and more like a man with a conundrum.

You laved your tongue all around and moaned softly, pushing and then pulling your lips over his digit as he watched you. Shifting your hips, you scooted closer to him, his thumb still in your mouth. And you thought maybe it was just that easy. Show him how nasty you could be right off and he'd give in.

But he moved away and stood, your hand falling to your lap. He bent and grabbed the blankets, tossing them back over the bottom of the mattress. You watched him pull his wallet from his back pocket and place it on the dresser, with his back to you. You had no idea what was going on. But he wasn't kicking you out. Yet.

You were honestly used to one of two reactions from men when you pulled this kind of shit—not that you'd done this exact thing before, but still.

Men would either respond with a lot of enthusiasm in favor of getting to fuck you, or they'd freak out and leave (or tell you to leave).

Of course, your actual "body count" was not nearly as high as that makes it seem. You were no virgin, but you were also not really a "bop" either. Well, maybe you were a little bit, but you preferred thinking of yourself as a lover girl, really. Just a girl looking to be loved. Looking for something real, but probably in all the wrong places.

He turned to face you, bracing his hands against the edge of the dresser behind him. "Why are you here?"

You tipped your chin up to make it look like you had more confidence than you did, given that you were naked, in his bed, uninvited.

"I just wanted to see what would happen."

"To see what would happen," he repeated. You watched him nod and drag his eyes down your body to where your feet were tucked under your bottom.

"I think I already know what you want. But I need you to tell me first. Otherwise, you'll return to your room. This isn't a game. Tell me why you're here."

You swallowed and put your palms on your knees. "To see if I could get you to..."

He waited to let you finish your thought but when you didn't, he did it for you. "To see if you could get me to… what? Look at you? Pay attention to you?"

You nodded, your throat tightening. "Yeah. I wanted you to like me."

He huffed a quiet laugh. "You think I don't like you?"

Right then, you really wished you had some clothes on. "Hard to really tell."

He shook his head and looked up at the ceiling. "If I didn't like you, you would not be sitting here right now."

It was pathetic but the edge of your lip nudged upward at that admission. So he did like you. At least enough to keep you sitting on his bed, naked.

"Tell me why you're here."

God, you were so out of your depth with Harry. You slowly inhaled and sank your nails into the skin on the outside of your knee. "I wanted attention. Your attention specifically."

"Attention. Okay. Well, you got it. You realize I'm not much younger than your dad."

"I know. I just… like you."

He laughed and pushed away from the dresser, stepping next to the bed closer to you. "I can see that. Not very wise, though. Is it?"

You shook your head, looking up at him through your lashes.

"No, it's not." He blew out a slow breath. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Nothing since dinner. I’m not even tipsy. Well, I smoked a half joint before I came in here.”

His eyes stayed on yours long enough to make you feel naked in a different way. “A joint? And now you're sitting here without any clothes on in my bed? Your dad would be very disappointed in you.” He glanced at the door, then back to you.

Your heart thudded as you let out a humorless laugh. “He won't ever know unless you say something. Besides, he doesn't care about me anyway. Mom either.”

Harry reached down and took your chin between his thumb and middle finger, palm cradling the underside. "Darius doesn't give you enough attention? Is that what this is? You're desperate for someone to take care of you?"

You nodded, chin padded by his palm as you rounded your eyes on his. You reached up to grab his forearm, but he tsk'd at you and moved his hand away. "Hands back in your lap. You want attention from me, then we're doing this my way. Is that clear?"

"Yes," you spoke in a whisper.

"Good." His mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile he didn’t want to have, but you saw it. "Few rules first." He stepped away, moving toward the door to double-check that he'd locked it before he returned to your side next to the bed.

"You'll listen to me. You keep your voice down. If I say stop, you stop. That door stays locked until I unlock it. You'll go back to your room when I say. And in the morning, you are polite and distant, and you don’t make me a liar in front of your dad."

You nodded too fast, blinking your eyes as you swallowed.

“Understood?”

“Yes,” you said, throat tight. “I can do that.”

He lifted a hand toward your face, and you leaned into it. His knuckles skimmed your jaw, the heat of his palm cupping your cheek. The careful way he touched you made your bravado feel small and your want feel enormous.

“There can be no loud noises coming from you, much as I'd like to hear it,” he said. “Are you able to keep yourself quiet?”

“Yes,” you said plainly. You hoped you could.

"Good, because one peep too loud and you're out of here. I'm not risking my relationship with your dad so some spoiled, bored girl can get her kicks and play out her twisted fantasy on an older man. We're both adults here, Y/n. Let's call it what it is."

You frowned, brows pinching together.

"What? Did you think this was gonna turn into a love story? Honey, this is what you get when you play around with people you shouldn't."

You turned your gaze toward the edge of the room, your heart thundering so loud you could hear it in your ears. You just wanted to find a man to love you at the end of the day, but you knew the way you went about it was all wrong. The kind of men you went after weren't fit for that. Harry wasn't going to be your knight in shining armour and sweep you away to his city penthouse and take care of every want and need you had.

"I know," you said, your voice hollow like the space inside of you that you so desperately wanted filled.

The bed dipped when he sat down. "Hey. Look at me, Y/n."

Blinking, you shifted your gaze back to his. His clear rules were making you confront yourself in a way you didn't usually need to, and you felt very outmatched for it.

"Where'd all your sass go? Hm? Don't tell me you're this easy to break."

"I don't… Most men don't care about rules. I'm used to just…" You shook your head, picking at your nails in your lap.

"Most men? How many?"

"What?"

He raised his brows. "How often do you do shit like this?"

"Well, not like… all the time. Like a few."

"You usually go for older men?"

You nodded.

"Right. So this is a pattern. You could have picked any of the guys here this weekend, and you'd have been satisfied. Mark would probably already be fucking you if you'd picked his room."

"No. I didn't want anyone else. That's why I came here."

"And you're used to men not giving a damn about the consequences. Thought I'd be easy to seduce, didn't you?"

Shaking your head quickly, you spoke. "No. I honestly thought you'd just kick me out."

He tilted his head, a slow grin pulling at his lips. "You did all this thinking I was just gonna send you out of here? You like being humiliated, Y/n?"

You shrugged. "Just for attention. Even if you just yelled at me and told me to get out, that would've been fine. Take what I can get."

He blinked, eyes shifting between yours. "That's kind of fucked up. You realize that, right?"

You pushed out a breath of a laugh, embarrassed, and looked back down at your lap. "I know. I have issues that I should probably work out in therapy."

He slid his palm over your knee, and you flicked your gaze back to his. "Probably? Baby, this is a whole shit sandwich you got goin' on here."

You laughed, a little too loud, and covered your mouth quickly, eyes wide.

"Shh…" he smiled, shaking his head in disbelief. "Get on your tummy. Tush up."

Your face went hot immediately, and every inch of flesh burned as your vision went bleary from the sudden shift in his demeanor and the drop in his voice. But you quickly did as he said, moving to your side and then lowering your tummy to the mattress. You kept your neck turned so you could see him in your peripheral. He didn't move at first, but you could hear his breath.

It felt like minutes that he sat there and just stared at your backside. Like he needed to make sure he was ready for it himself. But when he finally touched you, a big hand pressing at your low back and tracing upward along your spine, you smiled and sighed a soft moan.

"Jesus, Y/n." His hand paused at your shoulder blade. "Acting like you never get touched. Need it that bad?"

You breathed out and nodded into the crook of your arm. You didn't want him to stop touching you. However he wanted to do it, you'd be happy. You just needed it.

He shifted, his hands pressing flat into the mattress on either side of your waist as he leaned over you, his voice next to your ear. "Bet you like to be spanked, don't you? Like to get smacked around just to feel a man's hands on you? Like it rough?"

You nodded, your eyes pressing toward the limn of your vision so you could see the outline of his face over you.

"Not happening tonight. Too much noise. Understood?"

You nodded again. "Mmhm."

When he pushed away, he didn't move far. He pulled your hands down and placed them on your tailbone. "Keep these here."

You threaded your fingers together to hold your hands still as he moved behind you. A shift of fabric, the bed tipped under his weight and then lifted when he stood. He was taking off his shirt. Maybe everything, you weren't sure.

He turned on the lamp on the side table and then walked across the room to shut off the overhead light. Then you saw him grab his cellphone. A few moments passed before you heard the sound of white noise coming from his phone. The pulse of waves and the soft lapping of water receding from a shoreline. The constant, gentle drone of sound that could drown out small noises while putting someone to sleep. Only tonight, the white noise wasn't for sleeping. It would serve as a disguise.

With your hands still exactly where he put them, you turned your head to see him walking toward a small suitcase on the other side of the bed. He'd removed his shirt and his jeans, but was still wearing a pair of black boxer briefs that hugged his thighs and glutes tightly. He pulled something from his suitcase that you couldn't see before he stepped around to the bedside table, and you turned your head again to watch as he laid down two condoms. Two.

"I'm on birth control," you said, your eyes following his movements.

"Oh, I'm sure you are, honey."

And that was all he said before he was kneeing back up onto the bed behind you, his hands moving up the backs of your thighs and pressing them apart. You squeezed your eyes closed, feeling more exposed and naked than you ever had.

Then he was touching you with purpose. His hands sliding over your skin and around the curve of your ass before he squeezed and pulled. You could hear his breath as he went. The warm span of his palm and fingers wrapped your sides and then he pinched gently. You rocked your hips and moaned softly.

"You let men fuck you without condoms?"

You swallowed. "Sometimes. Not usually."

"Is that why you told me you're on birth control? Want my cock bare?"

You nodded and lifted your head to look back at him, but your hands, being where they were, made it difficult to turn. "I'd let you."

"Lie down."

You lay back into the position you'd been in and waited. He took your hips and lifted gently and you heard him inhale through his teeth before his thumbs found your labia and he pulled. "Looks pretty. Would love to fuck you raw, but I don't think that's a good idea tonight."

Tonight. There it was again. Your heart beat picked up faster at just the idea. Not tonight, but perhaps another. Not that that was what he meant, but the way he said it…

His fingers prodded and pulled at your folds slowly. It was strange to be scrutinized so closely like that. You felt cool air hit your skin before his lips pressed against your pussy and you moaned, turning your mouth down into the blankets to muffle the sound.

"Good girl. You do know how to listen." He squeezed your ass again and yanked you up further, bottom higher in the air, knees digging into the mattress, before he shifted and you felt his thighs line up with the back of yours. You immediately rocked back against him and felt the line of him pressing into you.

He let you rub yourself against him, your hips pressing, swaying against him as you whimpered like an idiot into the blanket. His hands were light on your hips as you moved, like he enjoyed watching you do it. And given how hard he was under his briefs, you figured he did.

He pushed out something that could have been considered a moan when he tightened his grip on you and then rutted forward, his big dick pressing harder against your ass. But then he pulled back, and you felt his fingers on your crease again, sliding them through, up and down.

"Knew this ass would be cute."

The sudden press of two of his fingers inside of you had you gasping as you rolled against him. He groaned quietly and began to finger you with one of his hands, his other holding your hip loosely so you could still push back onto his digits.

"There you go. Fuck my fingers, honey."

You arched harder, letting your body rear back and shift forward so you could keep sinking down onto his fingers. The white noise coming from his phone did a good job of covering up the gushy, wet sounds your pussy made as you rocked. But then he moved again, his fingers were gone, and the mattress dipped.

"Sit up."

You released your hands and scrambled up quickly to face him, and he laughed at how obedient you were. He stepped onto the floor to the edge of the bed and pointed. "On your back, head at the edge here."

You moved right away, scooting your bottom until you were where he wanted you, head slightly hanging from the mattress, throat exposed. You looked up at him and just saw his tall frame, upside down, standing over you as he pulled his cock from his briefs. Long and thick… just like you knew it would be. You reached for him, but he swatted your hand away.

"Hands down by your side for now."

You pressed your arms to your sides and balled your fists tight as he grabbed your throat and bent enough that he could smear his tip against your chin and then your lips. You opened your mouth wide, and he huffed a quiet laugh.

"Love the enthusiasm. Stick out your tongue."

You jutted your tongue out as he reached over you, and his hands found your breasts for a quick squeeze before he took his cock in one palm and tapped it to your tongue. He ran his dick along your tongue and passed your lips a few times, wetting himself with your saliva.

He started off slow like that. Gently pushing in, not too far, and dragging himself back. He held his base as he went, working into you until you felt more relaxed with the angle and his girth before he snapped his hips down and thrust in past your gag reflex.

He chuckled darkly when he did it again, and you gurgled. His crown curved into your throat as he gasped and you swallowed around him with a quiet sputter. But you were determined to give him what he wanted and be the best you could be. Only when he moaned and reached forward to squeeze your nipples did you feel like it was a job well done. He liked it. You were making him feel good.

You'd had a couple of men fuck your face before and do it rough. You didn't mind because it felt like a reward when someone was enjoying your body. If he was having a good time, then so were you. And the small gasps coming from Harry, the salty precome dripping down your throat, the pulse in his thick vein, the way he was pinching your nipples… You felt like you were on your way to winning first prize.

"Fuck… That's it…"

Your face was numb, your throat was raw, saliva dripped down your temples and into your ears and hair, your eyes were blurry, and you could hardly breathe… But you were being enjoyed and that's all you wanted. It turned you on more than anything else.

Harry pulled out, his chest was heaving and he cursed under his breath. "Goddamn, Y/n."

You blinked tears from your eyes and moved your head to look up at him, still upside down from your vantage point. He walked around to the other side of the bed and you followed with your eyes as far as you could until you felt his hands on your ankles, pulling you to lie lengthwise on the bed before he climbed between your legs and pulled your thighs over his shoulders.

"Fuck, baby…"

Then his mouth was on you, soft, hot, wet… His tongue drew silent lines up and down your center before he sucked at your clit. You lifted your hips sharply with a gasp, throwing your arm across your mouth to keep as quiet as possible.

He moaned into your pussy and pressed in harder with his lips and tongue. But it was the way he slid the tip of his tongue quickly back and forth on your bud that made it hard to stop the noises from falling out of your mouth.

You reached down to stuff your fingers into his thick hair and rolled your hips up against his mouth. He didn't let up, and he didn't make you put your hands down. It was heaven being eaten out by Harry. It was like being loved on, which was something you craved constantly. Most men skipped foreplay with you because they figured you were just a slut who didn't need that kind of thing. But of course, you never asked for it because you figured they were at least partly right.

"Mmmm…" you moaned, mouth closed as your spine bowed from the bed. Harry pulled away and spat over your pussy and then looked up at you.

"Never seen a girl get this wet before," he said as he slid three fingers flat on your clit to rub his saliva in with your slick arousal. He kept his eyes on you as he rubbed your pussy, and then he reached up to your tit, wiping your wetness on your nipple and then then thumbing over your peak. He pushed his mouth against your hip and moaned before he sat back, pressing the insides of your knees further apart, pupils drawing through the space of your pussy and everything between your legs.

You moaned quietly and blinked up at him, your hands drifting up to your breasts as you lifted your hips in a silent plea.

"Shit." He shook his head and sighed. "Gonna want more of this." He traced his palms up your thigh and to your hips. "Which is dangerous. But I need to hear you beg til you're crying." He smoothed his hands around to your hips and then under to your ass as he squeezed. "Wanna take you over my knee and spank you when you make a mistake, when you mouth off. Can't do any of that here, can we?"

You swallowed and shook your head, a whisper of a no coming out as you lifted your hips again, impatient.

"Fuck. Hold on."

He reached over you, his strong arm stretching to the bedside table where he grabbed his phone and a condom. He laid the condom on your tummy and fiddled with his phone until you heard it ringing, speaker phone on. He put his finger up to his lips to signal for you to be quiet the moment a woman answered.

"Hi, handsome."

"Hey. Got a sec?"

"Sure, what's up?"

You blinked and pushed yourself up by your elbows as Harry laid the phone down next to your hip, glancing at you before he plucked up the condom and tore it open.

"Hate to do this on the phone, but it couldn't wait." He laid the rubber over his tip and began to roll it down as he continued speaking. "Can't see you anymore. Something came up and wouldn't be right to drag this out any longer. Really sorry."

"Wait. You're breaking up with me? What happened?"

"What happened is that something came up. I really am sorry. I just wanted to let you know before we took it any further. Okay?"

When the condom was rolled down as far as it could reach, he scooted closer to you and lay his cock over your tummy.

"Harry, I don't get it."

"Nothing to get. No hard feelings. I wish you luck."

He reached down and ended the call, the white noise returning with a soft crashing wave, and then he looked down at you, your brows pinched together.

"You had a girlfriend? I thought you were single?"

"She wasn't a girlfriend. Just someone I was seeing casually. Wasn't serious."

"So, why'd you end it with her if it was casual?" Your heart was racing.

He pushed out a laugh and dragged his hands to the underside of your thighs. "It was a courtesy. Was gonna break it off anyway. Least I could do was be a gentleman about it and break up with her before I fuck someone else. Shoulda done it before I laid my hands on you, but kinda forgot she existed there for a bit."

You smiled, a small laugh puffing from your lips. "You could've just texted. That's usually all the courtesy I get from men, and then they block me so I can't call back. Woulda made that a lot easier."

He stared at you blankly and ran his hands up your thighs to your hips. "You haven't been getting treated right, Y/n. Breaking up over text is for cowards. Not my style."

You bit your lip and ran your palms over your tits, pressing them together gently. It made you feel special that he broke up with some woman while he was there with you, sliding a condom onto his dick, fucked up as it was. "You're a lot nicer than I thought you'd be."

The smirk that worked its way up on his mouth was almost villainous as he brushed his tip through your crease and pressed it just to your opening. "Is that what that was? Nice?"

"Well… yeah. Wasn't it?"

He breathed out a laugh and shook his head. "Was it nice of me when I made you choke on my cock before the call?"

You opened your mouth, but your response was cut off when he pushed himself in past your tight muscle, your insides opening up for his cock as he went. Inhaling sharply, you reached to close your hands around his biceps as he nudged deep into you.

"But you liked it. That's all that matters to you, isn't it? Like taking men from other women. Spoiled brat behavior."

You whined quietly, your mouth still opened wide as he forced himself in further, taking the back of your knees and pushing your legs apart for him.

"Think she'd agree it's nice that I'm fucking a cute young thing with a pretty, wet pussy just minutes after breaking it off with her?" He spoke low, rocking into you. "Feels really fucking nice," he moaned under his breath. "But this is far from nice, Y/n."

You puffed out a breath, and he reached down, taking your breast into his palm, squeezing. "She loves nice guys, but you? You don't want a nice guy, do you?"

You blinked, shaking your head, the breath of a no falling out of your mouth as he pushed himself in and dragged back, your insides splitting apart for him when he drilled down into you. It was hard to answer the question when he was plunging in the way he was, when he had you bent in half under him, one hand gripping tight under your knee and the other over your tit to hold you in place.

"Hm? Tell me. You want a nice guy, Y/n? Or are you lookin' for someone to sort you out? Someone to fix you?" He spoke quietly as he fucked into you, pushing his dick to the hilt every time he bottomed out.

"Hnnhh—" You wobbled out some kind of noise and gasped. "Yes… Fff… Need to be fixed."

He moaned, hips pumping into you harder, making the bed creak under your back. He slowed his thrusts, and the mattress springs went silent again. You watched his eyes flutter shut and his mouth drop open as he released your breast and placed his hand back to the underside of your knee, holding your legs apart. He dipped his hips shallowly, and you were so wet that the sound of his cock dragging in and out of you couldn't be disguised by the white noise coming from his phone. But he kept going.

When he opened his eyes again and looked down at you, the expression on his face was tight, pained. You'd seen that look on men before. When they were getting lost in lust. Lost in the way you felt around them. He panted a breath as he pushed his big dick deep into your tummy and ground down on your pelvis. You both inhaled, your body clinging snugly around him.

"Oh, baby. Shame I can't fuck your brains out like you need me to. Hear all those pathetic noises you want to make, turn you into a slobbering little mess on your knees for me."

"I want it, please…" You moaned, stretching your neck out as you gushed around his thrusting dick. Suddenly, his palm was on your mouth, stopping the noise from escaping further. He rutted into you hard, your body jolting.

"What did I say? You want to go back to your room?"

You shook your head, eyes wide on him, his hand still covering your entire mouth.

"No? If you want to stay here, then you need to be good and keep quiet. Let me work, and you just lie here for me. Should be really easy for you."

Easy? You'd hardly call it easy. Harry's girth pushing into your guts, his strong, solid body, tattooed arms and chest, wicked green eyes, the way he was speaking to you… You pinched your eyes closed and moaned, damp, into his palm when he drove in deep.

Then you felt him squeezing at your cheeks, and you opened your eyes to look up at him just as he slid his thumb past your lips. You sucked around it as he pumped his cock into you slowly, being careful not to move too fast or make too much noise.

"Know how hard this is for me? Having to be gentle with you like this…"

You laved your tongue over his thumb and moaned, his dick nudging to your end. You wanted his lips on yours. You wanted to know what he'd be like with his tongue against your mouth, sliding softly over you. One kiss from him and you'd never ask for anything else again.

"Knowing you like it a little rough, just like I do. Knowing you need something I can't give you right now."

You whimpered around his thumb and he hissed when he bottomed out, stuffing his entire length into you and feeling the tight squeeze of you pulling him in. "Sucking my thumb like a proper baby, aren't you?"

There was a time when he just thought you were an innocent young woman. It had been easy to ignore how cute you were when he met you just after you turned 20 years old, his friend's daughter with sweet eyes and a nice ass under your jeans. He wasn't interested in innocent and cute, especially not when you were Darius's daughter. And especially not when you were so damn young.

But then, as time went on, he started to notice your attitude. The comments you'd make when he'd stop by to see his friend. The way Darius would yell at you and you'd roll your eyes at him but then smile at Harry with a kind of sultry smirk that had blood rushing through his veins. Eventually, it became clear that you weren't so innocent. You were seeking something risky, and Harry certainly couldn't get involved with any of that. So he kept his distance.

Until that night when he walked into his room and saw you naked in his bed… pretty tits, soft hips, dirty grin on your face. He should have kicked you out, like you thought he'd do. He should have sent you on your way and pretended it never happened. But there was something about you that he needed to uncover, and right then, as he was balls deep inside of your warm pussy, he knew he was fucked cause he was thinking with his dick and not his head.

It was a terrible idea to give in to you, but he couldn't seem to help himself. You'd been a bratty temptress earlier, and now here you were all pliable and submissive, needy. You had something he'd been missing in the women he'd dated over the last few years. It wasn't easy to find a woman who liked what he did. A little punishment. A little guidance. He'd pretty much given up, resigning himself to vanilla sex, which was still fun, but didn't fulfill his deeper desires.

"Christ. What am I gonna do with you, hm?" He drilled down into you, hips pasted to yours as you sucked his thumb into your mouth with a whine.

Suddenly, he pulled out, rearing back, and pressed both of his hands down on the bed by your hips, your legs falling flat. You watched him drop his head, shoulders rising and falling heavy like he was trying to recharge himself. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to yours, green irises nearly hidden under blown-out pupils.

He sat back and grabbed your calf, lifting your leg, and used his opposite hand to squeeze your ass, fingers pinching into your skin with a painful bite. You pressed your lips flat to stop the yelp from falling into the room, and he smiled at your restraint.

"Good fucking girl."

Good fucking girl… You would have purred if it were possible. He'd been mixing in little drops of praise between scolding words. You rolled your eyes to the back of your head at the praise and moaned, mouth still closed. Then he let go and his hands were on your hips and then your breasts, fingers pinching your nipples, rolling them between the pads of his fingers and you arched your back from the bed with a gasp.

When he moved over you, he ran his tongue along the edge of a nipple before he pulled it into his mouth, a hand on your other one, pinching. He sucked your bud softly, wetting, tongue swirling, and then you felt the sharp nip. You wiggled, and your hands flew to his hair.

"Harry, fuck…" You breathed his name into the room, focusing really hard to keep your voice quiet.

He moaned against your breast and went harder before he moved his mouth to the other side. The room was spinning as he pinched and sucked. But every time you felt his teeth graze your nipple, everything halted, and your vision blurred.

You couldn't stop rolling your hips up into him. It was involuntary, the way you needed more and more. Little whimpers bubbled from your mouth when he lifted his lips and began to dot wet kisses up to your clavicle, along the column of your neck and then… oh god… when his lips pressed over yours, you grasped onto the back of his neck with both hands and wrapped your thighs around his waist to get him closer.

He grunted, tongue sliding against yours as he closed his mouth over your lips softly. When he plunged his cock back into you, thick head bullying its way through your little opening, it felt different than before with his lips on yours. Like everything you needed. He thrusted in, pelvis grinding against your clit, and you moaned into his mouth.

"Oh, you like that, don't you?" He murmured against your mouth with a smile as he buried in as far as he could go. "God… You just need someone to take care of you."

You nodded, lips brushing his, still clinging tight to him as your thighs began to shake. He lifted his face to look down at you. "This is a disaster in the making," he said, shaking his head. "Open your mouth, Y/n."

When you opened your mouth and stuck your tongue out for him, he groaned softly at your obedience. He grinned and dipped down, licking your tongue, before you felt his saliva sliding into your mouth. Then he was kissing you again, making you swallow his spit.

You felt one of his hands smooth down your side to your hip and squeeze to hold you still, his other sliding under your neck as he worked his mouth against yours. He felt so good on you like that… his body pressed to yours, cock slid deep, pelvis pressed to your clit, lips smearing against yours…

Your insides were twisting, pulsing, gushing with every dip, every lap of his tongue. The muscles in your body began to tense as your orgasm slowly swelled in your tummy. And Harry seemed to notice it. He kept his pace and moaned, the bed squeaking quietly under the weight of his thrusts. But he didn't stop because your grip felt so good around him, tightly squeezing in little pulses that were making his cock throb.

And then your body gave in completely, limbs shaking, loud moan that he captured with his mouth, pussy shuddering and spasming around him with every wave of pleasure that leaked through your guts. Your nails carved the smallest little half moons into the nape of his neck as he pumped his hips, working you through it all the way until you went limp.

When it was safe, he pulled away to look down at your face, eyes closed, lips parted. He moved his hand around to brush his knuckles on your cheek. "Did good for me, Y/n. Gonna flip you over, okay?"

You knocked your head up and down, fluttering your eyes opened slowly as he moved, cock slipping out of you, his warm body lifting away. It felt so gentle the way he helped you to your tummy, hands gripping at your hips and waist and carefully laying you down flat as he whispered to you how pretty you were when you were coming, how good you'd done. Your heart was kicking hard in your chest at his words and the way his hands were holding you.

Then he squeezed the round of your ass and pulled you apart before you felt his cock dragging into you with a tight push. He inhaled as he went, lifting your hips up just enough that he could angle himself down into you properly and fuck into you a little harder. The plap of his skin against yours filled the room, and his moans were slowly getting deeper, breathier. You felt him faltering, hips jerking, breaths jagged.

He pressed a hand to the back of your neck and worked into you in deep, languid strokes. "Fuck baby… I'm coming… fuck…"

He slid his hand around to the front of your throat, lowered his chest to your back, and pressed his lips to the curve of where your neck and shoulder met as he pumped into his condom, cock throbbing heavy against your walls. You moaned into the blanket, a smile on your face. His release was your prize.

When he relaxed over you, he slowly kissed the skin at the back of your neck, and the weight of him pressed you hard into the mattress. You sighed, content. The sound of white noise from his phone filled the room again as you both quieted.

You could feel his heart pounding against your back, your own heartbeat racing with his. Your body felt like melty, gooey happiness as you closed your eyes and felt him lift off of you. He didn't kick you out of his bed and send you back to your room like you thought he might, which would have been totally fine given the circumstances. Instead, he slowly flipped you over, hands sliding over your skin before he wiped a clean t-shirt between your legs and then shut off the bedside lamp, pulled you into his arms, and let you drift off to sleep against his chest.

.

"Y/n. Wake up, honey."

You blinked your eyes open slowly and saw the shadow of Harry just above you. The room was still dark, and you had no idea what time it was or what time you'd fallen asleep as he shifted next to you.

"Gotta get you back to your room. Before Darius wakes up. Come on. Sit up."

You nodded, eyes fluttering shut and then open. He pulled your shirt over your back, helping you slide your arms inside, and then buttoned up the front for you. You were pulled to your feet, an arm sweeping around your low back to hold you upright before he walked you to your room quietly.

When he lowered you to your bed, you held tight to his forearms. "Gotta let go, Y/n. Can't have anyone seeing us."

You blinked up at him in the dark, suddenly aware that this was probably the last time you'd ever get to see him like that, and you sat up. "Harry, don't leave."

He sat down next to you. "I have to. You promised me you'd be good. Now let go."

"This is it, isn't it? Got what you wanted and now you're done with me."

"I shouldn't have even touched you, Y/n. But I did." He reached up to your face, thumb running gently over your cheekbone as you kept your hand gripped on his forearm. "And I should end it here. But I don't think I'm done with you yet."

You lifted to your knees, hands reaching up to his face. "Really? Don't lie to me."

He placed his big hands on your thighs and slid them up under your shirt to your hips. "Really, Y/n. Trust me. We'll talk about this later, okay? But your dad gets up early, and if he sees me in here with you, then there will be no later for us."

You wrapped your arms around his neck and grinned so wide your cheeks started to hurt when he had to peel you off with a huff. He gave your bottom the softest swat and spoke quietly into your ear, be good, before he got up and walked out of your room, closing the door behind him.

.

You rolled over to see the bright sun shining through your balcony doors and stretched your limbs. It was after 11 am so you were positive all the men were already up. You sat up and grinned, squealing quietly to yourself, throwing your body back down to the bed as you kicked your feet when you remembered Harry's promise of "later".

But you also remembered your promise to him—And in the morning, you are polite and distant, and you don’t make me a liar in front of your dad.

When you finally made your way downstairs in your little pink bikini, you could hear their voices in the kitchen. Taking a breath, you stepped in, eyes sweeping over everyone before you opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of orange juice to pour a glass for yourself.

"It's almost noon, Y/n. Do you really have nothing better to do than sleep the day away?" Your dad spoke.

You took a long drink of orange juice and put the carton away before you turned to look at your dad and sighed dramatically. "No. I don't. You guys are all boring, and WiFi barely works. My choices are limited to sleeping, drinking, and lying out by the lake."

"Just like your mother," his words cut through to your bones, and he laughed, looking at the other men.

Everyone laughed. Except Harry. You glanced at him quickly before quietly putting your glass into the sink and stepping past them to go outside.

“Beer's in the cooler, ready to go if you want one now. Or... later,” Harry said, casual. But nothing about it was casual. You understood it was an attempt to quell your dad's harsh words for you.

With your fingers on the sliding door handle, you turned to look at him and blinked, flicking your gaze to the other men and then back to Harry.

“Later,” you said, a small smile pulling at your mouth. “I’ll come grab it when I’m thirsty.”

You slid the door open and stepped into the wash of sun, the men’s voices dissolving into background noise. Outside, it was only the lake and the heat on your skin, but your insides churned with the sound of his voice. Later. It was a promise you were already restless to keep.

. .

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“I am, Styles. There is one thing I take very seriously and that’s injuries. As someone who lost his whole career to one, I’m not letting my players do the same.”

He looks to the side, disappointment all over his face, but it’s towards himself this time. 

“Coach, I’m fine, it’s been over a month, I promise I can play.”

“Do me a favor and don’t lie to me.” The seriousness is back on his face as he leans back in his chair. “I can tell just from the way you sat down that your knee is still throbbing. You are not going on that field anytime before Christmas.”

“And what am I supposed to do this semester? Just sit and wait?” he snaps, now seeing red. 

“I’m glad you asked, because I know what you’ll be doing. You’re gonna attend Math tutoring.”

“What?” his eyes widen. “I’m not failing.”

“No, but you’re very close. You’re gonna use this time to train yourself here,” he taps on the side of his head. “So when you return you won’t have to worry about your grades. I already talked to Professor Callaway, she is gonna assign you one of her top students to help. And don’t even try to think about trying to get out of it. I will keep close tabs on you and if I see that you’re slacking, you can forget about stepping on that field ever again even when your knee is heeled.”

Harry wants to protest. He wants to shout and stand up for himself, but he knows there’s no need. If Coach Greene makes up his mind about something then it’s set in stone. A tiny, hidden part of him also knows it’s for the best, but he is too proud to admit that he made the wrong choice when he didn’t tell his football coach about his injury.

“How did you even find out about it?” he asks, finally accepting defeat. 

“Don’t worry about that. Let this be a lesson that I have eyes and ears everywhere.”

Harry’s jaw clenches as he grabs his backpack from the floor and steps to the door. He stops and looks back at the coach one last time, as if he is hoping he might change his mind, but Coach Greene doesn’t even look up at him, so he walks out, fuming and burning from the anger. 

On his way back to his dormitory his mind is racing, mostly about how Coach could have found out about it. He made sure to keep it a secret from everyone, not even his closest friends on the team knew about it and he doubts his mother called in to tell on him. He tries to rake his mind about any detail that might give away who was the snitch and when he walks past the cafeteria he spots a group of girls at one of the outdoor tables, books laid out in front of them, but they are busy talking and laughing. There are four girls and he instantly recognizes one of them. 

Y/N is sitting there with crossed legs, wearing a sundress since it’s still quite warm, typing something on her phone while listening to her friends. His first thought is that she must be texting that asshole Wade, the guy who has been Harry’s rival probably since their teams played a game in sophomore year and the dude couldn’t accept that they lost. He now goes to another nearby college and he still wastes an awful amount of energy to try to drag Harry down. 

And then something clicks in him.

Y/N is Wade’s girlfriend, they’ve been dating for a while now and someone mentioned before that her mom is a nurse, in the same hospital where Harry was operated after his injury. So she must have told Wade about it who gave the info away to Coach Greene, resulting in his benching.

His anger flames up again as he stands in the middle of the walkway, staring in the direction of the girl. As if she senses his gaze, she looks up and her eyes settle on him. Her smile falls and a grimace takes its place along with a dirty look before she turns away and he just knows.

He knows she was the culprit of it all. 

***

“Wait what? The whole semester?”

Niall, his roommate practically shouts when Harry tells him what happened with Coach. 

“The whole fucking semester,” Harry groans, staring up at the ceiling from his bed while Niall paces the floor by his desk as if he could come up with anything that could help. “And there’s more. Instead of practice, I have to take math tutoring to get my grades up.”

“Are you failing?” Niall stops, looking at his friend.

“No… I mean, not yet,” he mumbles.

“Damn Styles, you’re screwed.”

“I know,” he sighs, closing his eyes. It still hasn’t settled that he has to go an entire semester without football, the conversation with Coach feels like a bad dream.

He hears Niall shuffle around the room and then sit on his own bed, staying quiet for a while before he speaks up.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I just told you, did you want me to call you as soon as I was out of Coach–”

“No, I mean about the injury.”

Harry’s stomach drops. In his calculations, he would have never faced this question because no one found out about it, but now he has to deal with not just the humiliation of almost destroying his whole athlete career, but he has to defend himself for keeping it to himself. 

He sighs and opens his eyes, but only looks at the ceiling, not Niall. 

“I don’t know, I thought I would be over it fast and I don’t even have to think about it.”

The lie doesn’t come easy, but the truth would be even harder to share. Niall just nods and doesn’t dig deeper. 

“Alright. I’m sorry, man. At least it’s just one semester. Could have been worse.”

“But could have been better,” he mumbles. 

“It’s gonna be alright. I gotta run now, but I hope you’re not gonna turn all emo now.”

Harry looks at Niall who is not standing at the door, backpack over his shoulder.

“Can’t promise anything.”

Niall just chuckles and leaves as Harry continues to silently spiral. 

***

It’s already past three when Harry walks into the library’s building and heads towards the study rooms, but he doesn’t bother hurrying his steps, he is moving lazily, maybe even slowing his steps. 

Professor Callaway emailed him the details for his first tutoring session, well, at least the time and date of the session and when Harry wrote back with additional questions, he got no answer. 

His teammates are probably getting ready for training, but he tries to get rid of that thought. If he keeps thinking about it he will go crazy in just a few weeks. 

He spots room 605 and walks in without even knocking, only to freeze the moment he steps inside. 

Because Y/N is sitting by the table. 

“Oh hell no.” It comes from her, though he thinks the exact same thing. Y/N shuts her book and stands so fast her chair almost flies back. 

“You’re my tutor?” Harry asks with a frown. 

“And you’re the football player who is failing math?” she shoots right back. 

“I’m not failing,” he protests instantly, then adds: “Yet.”

“I’m gonna tell Professor Callaway and tell her to find you someone else.” She is packing her stuff, pushing everything into her totebag she always carries around. 

His first instinct is to just let her walk away, he doesn’t need another problem to deal with, but as he watches her finish packing he realizes he can’t let her go. If Coach Greene finds out he chased away his tutor in the first two minutes of his first session, he might never let him go back to the field. 

“Wait.” He stands in the doorway and doesn’t let her walk out. She stops right in front of him, a wisp of her perfume fills his nose. Coconut. “Let’s think this through again, okay?”

She looks up at him slowly, eyes hard and unimpressed.

“And why would I do that?”

Harry clenches his jaw. She is just as annoying as he imagined, but this arrogance goes well with his boyfriend’s character. They must be quite the pair.

“I don’t want you here either,” he says bluntly. “Trust me. But if you leave, I’m screwed.”

She scoffs, folding her arms over her chest. “Cry me a river. I think I’ll get over it.”

She tries to walk past him, but he just steps in front of her, guarding the door and the irritation on her face makes up for the situation a bit. His knee throbs, like it’s mocking him or maybe it’s a reminder that he really needs her to stay. 

“Look,” he sighs. “I happen to know that if someone wants to be a TA Professor Callaway expects them to tutor at least three students in the year before. I’m throwing out a wild guess, but I think you want that position, which means you need me too. Sign-ups for tutoring ended a week ago, you won’t get a new student for the semester. If you walk out now, you’re walking away from that TA position.”

“How do you know I want it?” she challenges him, but he just arches an eyebrow and when she rolls her eyes he knows he hit the nail on the head. 

“It’s just two times a week, we don’t have to talk about anything else other than math and we can both walk away with what we want. You’ll have your headcount and I can go back to the field.”

She studies him for a long moment, eyes flicking over his face like she’s weighing him, measuring whether he’s worth the inconvenience. The silence stretches, thick enough that Harry almost fills it with another argument, but then she exhales through her nose.

“Fine,” she mutters and turning around she walks back to her seat. Relief washes over Harry as he steps to the seat across her at the small table, dropping his backpack to the floor. “But don’t be late again. And don’t do anything that might make this harder than it already is.”

He lets out a humorless laugh. “You think I’m the one who’s gonna make this hard?”

She meets his gaze, not blinking. “I know you are.”

As he sits down, his knee protests sharply and he has to clench his teeth to keep his face neutral.Y/N notices anyway. Her eyes flick down for half a second before she opens her notebook, she doesn’t ask about it though.

“Alright,” she says coolly. “Let’s see how bad the damage is. What are you struggling with?”

Harry leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Depends. How patient are you?”

“Not very,” she replies blankly. As she starts flipping through her notes, Harry has the sinking realization that this isn’t just going to be a semester of missed games and bruised pride.

This is going to be straight up torture, because Y/N so easily pulls out his worst side, but he’ll have to bite back everything and not stretch her already thin patience with him.

Because if she walks out, Harry is not walking back to the field. 

***

Harry doesn’t know why he even came. He was definitely not in the mood for a party.

The music is too loud, the house too crowded and he feels like everyone is looking at him and judging him for being benched. He lingers near the kitchen with a red cup he hasn’t touched, watching his teammates laugh and shove each other like it’s any other Friday night, joking about things that happened at practice, things Harry doesn’t know about, because he wasn’t there. 

His eyes sweep the place and he spots the girls he usually sees Y/N on campus with, but she is nowhere in sight and for a split second he wonders where she is spending her Friday night, but he shuts it down quickly. It doesn’t matter. It’s not like he is here for her. 

He’s still standing there, frowning into his cup, when someone brushes past him a little too deliberately.

“Didn’t think you’d still be showing your face around parties.”

He doesn’t have to look up to know who it is. 

Wade is leaning against the counter like he owns the place. Smugness is dripping from him and just one look at him makes Harry want to punch him in the face. 

“Why is that?” he simply asks. 

“Heard about your little time off.” The smirk that tugs on his lips makes his blood boil, especially because even though Harry has no proof, he’s convinced Wade is behind that very convenient tip Coach Greene got about his injury. 

“I’m just giving your team a chance. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

“I will enjoy it when you never return to the field.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Harry forces a smile out, but it has no kindness behind it. 

“Must be rough,” Wade continues, voice smooth. “Watching from the sidelines. Guess everyone peaks eventually.”

Harry steps closer, facing him fully with his body. He gets a wisp of his strong cologne that almost makes him gag. 

“At least I didn’t need to switch schools to feel relevant.”

Wade’s smile sharpens, but he doesn’t let his facade fall, though Harry knows his hit landed right where he wanted it to. 

“Congrats for becoming the official bench warmer for the team,” he grimaces before walking away, disappearing into the crowd. 

Harry wills himself to take a few deep breaths, repeating his mantra that Wade is not worth the energy. But he just always knows how to get under his skin no matter how hard he tries to keep his calm. 

Then he wonders how Y/N could put up with him. Even with her icy behavior and snarky comments, she is undoubtedly a smart girl, so why is she wasting time on someone as rotten as Wade?

Momentarily, Harry manages to get rid of the thought of Wade as he is pulled into some kind of game someone invented on the spot. It’s chaotic, everyone is arguing about the rules that are being established as the game goes on and at one point Harry completely loses track of what’s going on. 

He goes on a quest to find Niall somewhere, but gets sidetracked quite fast when he spots Wade through the backdoor making out with…

A girl who is definitely not Y/N. 

Anger tightens its grip around his chest as he watches his nemesis practically eat the face of another girl, they are getting all handsy, making everyone around them uncomfortable, but it’s not the indecency that has Harry almost gagging, but the fact that Wade seems to be cheating on Y/N quite openly. 

For a second he thinks he will march out there and call him out. He even takes a step towards the door, but then he halts. This is none of his business. He doesn’t even like Y/N, she is constantly mean to him and if he’s right she is the reason he was benched for the semester. 

Hesitantly, but he turns his back towards the door and talks himself out of interfering, reminding himself he has no reason to care as the night carries on.

***

After the party Harry managed to wipe Wade and what he saw him doing from his mind, but when the next week he walks into his tutoring session with Y/N and she is already sitting at the table, it all comes back to him. 

She has her massive notebook open in front of her, tapping on it with her pen as she seemingly focuses on something in the open textbook that’s on the side. She doesn’t look up when he enters, just gestures to the chair across from her.

“You’re late,” she says.

“Two minutes,” he replies, dropping into the seat. “Barely counts.”

“It counts,” she says flatly, finally lifting her gaze to him. “Open your book.”

He does and bites back a retort. They pick up right where they left off the last time, equations and formulas start filling his head and he thinks about just how good she is at this. Annoyingly good. Even if she is sitting with a blank face and never drops her usual icy act, when she explains something it always lands, like she just knows how to phrase something so he understands it on first try. She is patient without being gentle and clear without dumbing things down. He hates how much it actually works.

Still, his focus keeps slipping.

The scene at the party replays in his mind, Wade kissing that girl, hands all over each other without even caring who might see them. 

“Styles.” Her voice snaps him out of his thoughts.

He blinks. “What?”

“You’ve been staring at the same equation for thirty seconds.”

“Right,” he mutters. “Sorry.”

She watches him for a beat longer than necessary before turning back to her notes. 

“Where did you get stuck?”

He answers automatically, but the question that’s been hovering on his tongue all session finally slips out instead.

“Didn’t see you at the party on Friday.”

Her pen stills.

For half a second, he thinks she might snap at him, tell him it’s none of his business, which would be entirely true. But instead, she just finishes writing and answers without looking at him.

“Excellent observation.”

He rolls his eyes at her reply, leaning back in his seat. What now? She doesn’t seem to be willing to talk, but his conscience just can’t let it go, he feels like he should tell her what he saw. He clears his throat, hesitates for a second, but then speaks up. 

“You might want to know that I saw Wade making out with some girl.”

She stills again, then starts fumbling with her pen, like the topic makes her uncomfortable. 

“Interesting,” is all she says and keeps her gaze on her notebook, but he can tell she is not actually reading anything. 

The lack of reaction shocks him. It seems like she doesn’t care, or at least pretends not to care about what Wade was doing at the party with another girl and it just raises more questions in him. 

“Y/N, he was clearly making out with someone who wasn’t you.”

“Why are you talking about something other than math?”

“Your boyfriend cheated on you!” he blurts out now, his frustration bubbling the words out of him. Finally, she looks up at him and sighs.

“He is not my boyfriend.”

His eyes widen just for a second before he masks his obvious shock. Since when? Who ended it? Why did they break up? All the questions start racing in his mind, but he just stares back at her silently. 

Y/N shifts in her seat and drops her pen, leaning back in her seat. 

“I’m–”

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” she cuts him off instantly. “I don’t need your sympathy.”

He clenches his jaw at her hostile reaction even to his kindness. His first instinct is to snap back, but his curiosity is stronger.

“What happened?”

“Wouldn’t you want to know?” she flashes an almost wicked smile. “If you think I’ll give away something you can use against him, you’re wrong.”

“For your information, I’m not keen on ruining his life. It’s the other way around.”

“Sure thing,” she nods, but he knows she doesn’t believe him and it just heightens his irritation. The way she closed off and how she still seems to be defending Wade even though they are not together anymore. 

“Let’s get back to work,” she suggests, but it’s more like an order and he feels like he pushed her boundaries too much, so he bites back whatever retort is on his tongue and nodding he turns his focus back on the equation in front of him. 

***

It’s another practice Harry spends sitting on the bleachers. The first few times he avoided the field, but he misses football and feels like he is getting a million miles away from his own team, so now he comes and just sits, watching them. 

“Hey there!”

A sweet, chirpy voice comes from the side and turning his head he sees Emily, she’s a gymnast and psychology major, usually moves in the same circles as Harry. They have flirted before, she’s cute and smart. 

“Hi Emily,” Harry smiles at her. She has a gym bag thrown over her shoulder, their practice usually starts while the football team is on the field. She sits beside him, watching the guys for a bit.

“How is your knee?” she asks then.

“Pretty good. If it was for me, I would be down there already,” he sighs, following Niall running across the field, wishing he could be there beside him. He misses the adrenaline, the sweet ache in his muscles after a game that’s proof he gave his all.

“It’s just one semester, you’ll be back before you notice.” She smiles sympathetically.

Though all Harry feels is disappointment, but this time it’s not about his injury. 

Y/N would’ve snorted at that. Would’ve raised an eyebrow and said something dry like If it isn’t the consequences of your own actions, Styles. 

The thought hits him out of nowhere. He almost turns his head, half-expecting to see her there, but she’s not. The sarcasm, the edge, the tension, it’s not there either, but he finds himself longing for them. 

“Yeah, sure,” he mumbles under his breath. 

He can tell she wants them to talk more, maybe flirt a little like they always do, but it’s not happening this time. She stands from her seat and offers another friendly smile to him.

“Well, see you around. Bye Harry!”

“Bye,” he nods and watches her walk away.

Suddenly, he doesn’t feel like he ever wants to flirt with her, she might be a sweet girl, but…

She is not Y/N.

The thought intrudes his mind and it sets off an alarm, confusion washes over him and the realization sets off something sharp and uneasy in his chest. Why is he comparing someone to Y/N? Why is he looking for traits she has? He scoffs under his breath.

Insanity, it must be insanity, he decides as he shoves the thought to the very back of his mind and locks it there, even as it keeps rattling around, refusing to stay quiet.

***

Y/N never runs. She is not the type to feel the need to go for a run, but today when she woke up she pulled her running shoes on and practically shoots out once she steps out of the dorm. It’s still early, or at least early enough for the campus to feel empty, only a few students linger around and the air still has that morning spice in it and Y/N welcomes it this time. It’s sobering and that’s exactly what she needs right now after the night she had, or to be precise, the dream she had. 

A dream about Harry. 

But it was not just any kind of dream, this was one that had her toes curling, chest heaving once she woke up and realized that she was not in fact messing around with Harry in the study room. 

For some reason her consciousness chose to have a wet dream about the one person she was expecting the least to appear while she sleeps and even the thought heats her cheeks thinking back how real it felt and how good it felt. 

She must be losing her mind, she thinks, that’s the only explanation and she must get her control back, that’s why she decided to go for a run this time. She must have way too much energy and she must need to find something to burn it with, so her mind has none left to make up such outrageous dreams.

She runs around the campus once, then twice, uses the time to think through her day, what needs to be done, what classes she has and what topics she plans to cover with Harry in today's session.

Harry.

He creeps back into her thoughts and her dream comes back in a flash. 

“Fuck,” she gasps for air when she almost trips. She looks at her phone and realizes how long she’s been running. She is only now realizing how badly her muscles are aching and she could drink a gallon of water at once. 

She heads back to the dorm and starts getting ready for the day after a cold shower, though that doesn’t help with her racing thoughts either. 

“What’s gotten into you?”

Y/N practically jumps when her roommate questions her frenzy act. Lottie is still in bed while Y/N is making a mess looking for a textbook she needs. 

“Uh, nothing. Just can’t find that–Ah, got it,” she groans finally finding the book and stuffing it into her bag.

“Did you drink too much coffee?” Lottie yawns, sitting up in her bed. 

“Didn’t sleep well,” Y/N mutters. “I gotta run. See you later.”

And before Lottie could get another word out, she charges out of the room. 

The day feels like a rollercoaster, she works hard to forget about those explicit scenes that taint her mind, sometimes she succeeds, but then in the most random moments they creep back and throw her off completely. 

By the time she heads to the library she is a mess, a shadow of her usual calm and collected self. When she walks into room 605 she tells herself she’s relieved Harry is not there yet, but she has to work to swallow down the disappointment. 

As usual, she spreads out her things, claims the table like territory and gives herself some time to settle, which is much more needed this time. 

She’s halfway through organizing her notes when the door opens. Harry walks in like he always does, unhurried, shoulders tense, jaw set like he’s bracing for impact. He doesn’t look at her right away, but she still feels it, the shift in the room, the sudden awareness that makes her skin prickle.

Out of all the sessions, he is early today. 

“Hello,” she says, keeping her voice neutral, professional. She hates that it comes out a little breathless anyway. “You’re early.”

He glances up at her, eyebrows lifting slightly. “Are you complaining?”

A cheeky, boyish smirk tugs on his lips as he drops his backpack and sits across from her. 

“Nope,” she shrugs, keeping her eyes on her notes in front of her. He stretches his legs out lazily and leans back, making himself comfortable. 

“Didn’t feel like being late this time.”

She knows that normally she would snap back something at that, but today nothing comes. She is just sitting there stiffly, willing herself to keep her dream out of her thoughts while the star of it sits right across from her. But still, her mind betrays her instantly. A flash of his hands, his mouth, a memory that isn’t even real but feels far too vivid.

She clears her throat sharply and flips open her textbook. “Let’s just get started.”

Harry watches her for a second too long before leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table. 

“You okay?”

The question catches her off guard.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” she asks quickly, maybe too quickly. He shrugs again, but his eyes stay on her face. 

“You seem… off.”

She snaps her pen down harder than necessary. “I didn’t realize we were doing personality assessments now.”

The corner of his mouth curls up and he tilts his head to the side, even narrows his eyes at her slightly.

“I’m just making conversation.”

“Well, don’t,” she snaps, chest heaving and that’s when Harry realizes that he must have crossed a line. He has never seen her get so worked up, it’s a quite new version of her. 

“Alright, sorry,” he clears his throat, straightening up in his seat. 

They start working, but the energy has shifted. Y/N is even more closed off than she usually is and the session lacks their usual wit. 

“Did I say something I shouldn’t have?” he asks, breaking the almost awkward silence that has thickened the air in the room. Her stomach flips.

“No,” she says too fast. “This is not about you.”

He leans back, hands lifting in surrender. “Alright. Just asking.”

She forces herself to breathe, to focus on the numbers in front of her instead of the way his voice sounds closer than it should, warmer than she wants it to be.

“Okay,” she says, softer now. “Let’s start with integrals. You said last time that’s where you get stuck.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “Figures.”

She starts explaining, pointing things out, slipping back into the familiar rhythm of teaching, but she’s hyper-aware of him now. Of how close his knee is to hers and how he smells faintly like soap and something else she can’t place.

At some point he leans closer and shows something in her notes, his hand brushing against hers for a split second, it’s barely anything, but she freezes like she was struck by lightning. 

Harry notices immediately. “Sorry,” he says, shifting back. “Didn’t mean to–”

“It’s fine,” she interrupts, heart pounding. “Let’s just move on.”

He nods, but she does everything but move on. His touch lingers and her dream comes back to her again. When their session is over for the first time she is the first one to leave the room. 

***

Harry practically bursts into the cafeteria. The lunch rush is already over, most of the tables are empty, so he easily spots Y/N, leaning over a sandwich while reading something on her phone. He crosses the space and stops right at her table. She doesn’t look up right away, too focused on whatever she is reading, until something slides across the table and stops right next to her tray.

The piece of paper sits there, a math quiz, with a red B written on the top next to the name.

Harry Edward Styles.

“Edward? That’s your middle name?” she teases him right away.

He sits with the most annoyingly proud grin on his face.

“Yes, but that’s not the point, do you see that? That big fat B on the paper?”

Of course she saw it and she can’t deny the pride that swells in her chest, but she is not about to give it away to him so easily. She lifts one eyebrow, eyes flicking from the quiz to his face. 

“You’re celebrating a B now? I thought athletes always aim for the maximum.”

He leans back in the chair like he’s just won a championship. 

“I started this semester barely scraping by. This?” He taps the paper with his finger. “This is a victory.”

“Careful. If you keep improving like this, you might actually start listening to me,” she smirks. 

“Let’s not get carried away,” he says, but his grin softens as he watches her look at the quiz again, pushing her tray to the side. “But I guess thanks for the help.”

She shrugs, skimming over his answers. “That’s literally my job.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t have to be good at it,” he counters. “You could’ve just done the bare minimum and let me drown.”

She looks up, dramatically gasping at him. “Was that a compliment?” Harry’s eyes widen for a second, like he just realised what he said, but he quickly puts his usual confident mask back. “Anyways, I don’t let people drown. Even when they’re annoying.”

“Huh, thanks for the praise,” he chuckles.

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips now. “I’m serious. You actually put in effort. That counts for something.”

“And that was surely a compliment,” he retorts grinning and she doesn’t deny it, just slides the paper back to him. “Are you proud of me?”

“Let’s just say you didn’t embarrass yourself.”

He laughs, low and surprised, and the sound does something to her, loosens her shoulders, tunes out the noises of the cafeteria.

They talk while she finishes eating, about the quiz, about how ridiculous it is that athletes have to maintain perfect GPAs while juggling practice. About a professor they both can’t stand. At some point, she forgets to watch the clock and he forgets why this ever felt like a bad idea.

And that’s when it hits her.

The way she doesn’t feel guarded and how much she likes that he sought her out just to show her this. The way she wants to hear about the next quiz and now looks forward to their next session. 

“I—uh,” she says, already reaching for her bag. “I should get going.

”Harry blinks. “Now?”

“Yeah. I have stuff to do.” She gestures vaguely, not meeting his eyes. “But good job. Really.”

Before he can respond, she’s standing, throwing her bag over her shoulder. “See you at the next session.”

And then she’s gone.

Harry stays seated, staring at the abandoned space across from him, the quiz still on the table between his hands. The cafeteria noise slowly filters back in, but the moment doesn’t fade with it. For the first time since being benched, the grade feels secondary. What lingers instead is the strange, unwelcome ache in his chest she caused, but he can’t determine just yet.

He just knows something has changed.

***

Harry walks into room 605 five minutes early this time, proud of himself for making it on time. He half-expects her to be sitting there already with that look on her face she gets when she’s waiting for him, sharp, but a little playful, because Harry thinks she actually enjoys telling him off.

And she is in fact there, but the look is nowhere.

Y/N is seated straight-backed at the table, notebook open, pen aligned perfectly along the margin. She doesn’t even look up when he steps inside.

“Sit,” she orders.

“Wow,” Harry says lightly, dropping into the chair across from her. “Hello to you too.”

She finally lifts her eyes, flat and unreadable. “Open your textbook. Chapter seven.”

He blinks. “…Okay. Damn.”

He does as she said, slowly, watching her the whole time. She launches into the material immediately, explaining formulas with the same calm, precise tone she used at the very first session. No playful teasing when he gets something wrong. No smile when he gets something right. Just checkmarks and page numbers and next problem.

After ten minutes, the irritation crawls up his spine and can’t take it any longer.

“So,” he says, leaning back in his chair, pen tapping against the table, “what’s your problem today?”

Her pen stills.

“I don’t have a problem,” she says without looking at him.

“Right,” he scoffs. “Because this-” he gestures between them “-is totally normal. The other day in the cafeteria we were having a quite pleasant conversation and today you won’t even look at me.”

She finally looks up, eyes sharper than ever. 

“That was just a momentary mistake.”

Her words land harsh, his jaw tightens. “A mistake.”

“Yes.” She sits back, folding her hands together. “Just because you got a B doesn’t mean we’re suddenly best friends, Harry.”

“I didn’t say we were,” he shoots back. “But don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it too.”

She laughs, sharp and humorless. “You don’t know anything about what I enjoy.”

“I know you’re being fake as hell right now.”

“And I know exactly the kind of person you are,” she fires back. “I’ve heard enough.”

He stills, that sounded intriguing. “Oh?”

“Yeah. You think I don’t know about you? About how you act? The arrogance, the attitude, the way you treat people when you think you’re better than them?”

“Ah, I see. And do you happen to know all that from Wade?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. Her lips press together, then opens her mouth but closes it almost instantly. 

“He’s been trying to ruin my life since sophomore year in high school,” Harry continues, the words spilling out before he can stop them. “And suddenly my coach knows about my knee. Suddenly I’m benched for a semester. Funny timing, don’t you think?”

Her face drains of color.

“So tell me,” he says, anger and hurt tangled tight in his chest, “who’s the villain here, Y/N? Me? Or the guy you have trusted without ever questioning his true intentions?”

For a second, she just stares at him and then something cracks, not loudly, but enough that he sees it. Her composure slips, her eyes shine with something raw and furious and hurt.

“Don’t,” she whispers. Then louder, sharper: “Don’t you dare put this on me.”

She stands abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. 

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says, voice trembling despite her effort to keep it steady as she throws her stuff into her bag in a frenzy. “And you don’t get to accuse me of things you don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me,” he says, standing too. “Because from where I’m standing–”

“I’m done.” She shoves her notebook into her bag. “Session’s over.”

“Y/N–”

She brushes past him and for a second he feels the urge to reach for her, to grab her arm and pull her back, to make her stay, but she is already out the door before he could act. 

And she doesn’t look back as she storms away. 

The door slams shut behind her, leaving Harry alone in the study room, heart pounding and the awful, sinking realization that whatever he felt in the cafeteria, that hope and warmth, it’s gone now. 

***

Another practice is over and Harry watches his teammates walk off the field as he stands from his usual spot on the bleachers that he’s been taking every time the team was training. 

Without him. 

The past few days have been rough, but he feels like he has made his mind up. Nothing changes, he decides.

It was just tutoring. She’s just a means to an end. Once the semester is over, she’s gone from his life. 

Niall is still on the field when Harry walks over to him, the rest of the team gone. He passes Coach Greene, who offers him a short nod.

“Heard about that B in math.Good job.”

“Thanks, coach.” Pride swells in his chest, but then it just reminds him of Y/N again and it turns into a stab into his chest. 

“Maybe we should put your name on that seat, you’ve pretty much claimed it,” Niall grins at his friend, throwing the ball he’s been holding towards Harry, who catches it with ease. He can’t even tell when he held a ball the last time and now he realizes just how much he misses. He spins the ball in his hands, the familiar weight grounding and cruel all at once. For a moment he imagines stepping back onto the field, lining up, the crowd chanting and cheering. The image dissolves almost instantly.

“Coach says you’re doing better,” Niall continues, stretching his arms over his head. “Tutoring must be working miracles.”

“Yeah,” Harry says quickly. “It’s whatever.”

Though in his mind it’s definitely not whatever. It’s Y/N with her sharp look, snarky comments and spicy attitude. 

Niall hums, unconvinced, but lets it go. “You coming to dinner? Some of the guys want to get a burger.”

“In a bit,” Harry shrugs, already backing away. “I think I’m gonna go for a walk, my legs need the work.”

Niall nods and heads off, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts. He starts pacing the field, just walking back and forth the length he usually runs down in a matter of seconds during games. He tells himself he’s thinking about football, about drills, about how to come back stronger, but somehow his thoughts drift to the cafeteria and the study room, a version of him and Y/N that almost felt friendly and welcome. 

He exhales sharply through his nose and wonders if he’ll ever get rid of the thought of her. It seems like she keeps haunting him even after the way she snapped at him at the last session. He didn’t mean to upset her, but he also couldn’t just ignore the sudden change in her. She’s been quite inconsistent, he never knows which version he gets when he sees her next. 

When he heads back to his dorm he gets an email from the school’s administration office, letting him know that his tutoring session for tomorrow was cancelled. He stops and reads it again, but there’s not much information, the slot for any comments is empty, no reason was given. He pulls up his text messages and opens a new thread with Y/N. She gave him her number at the first session strictly for emergencies.

HARRY: Why did you cancel?

She reads the message almost instantly and the three little dots appear a few times, like she keeps typing something in, then deletes it. At last her reply arrives.

Y/N: Something came up.

That’s it, nothing more. No further explanation, no see you next time, nothing. Just coldness and distance. 

He clenches his jaw, his thumbs hovering over the screen, but then he decides to leave it unanswered. She’s been making it awfully clear that their relationship doesn’t run farther than their tutoring sessions and there’s nothing he can do about that.

Even if he is now craving for more. 

More sessions.

More snarky comments.

More laughs and jokes.

More of her. 

***

Tonight all Harry wants to do is let loose and forget about everything that’s been weighing on his shoulders all week, forget about school, about the tutoring sessions, about Y/N. Though he thinks that might be impossible, because she hasn’t left his thoughts all week. 

Music bleeds through the walls in the frathouse tonight’s party is held in. The air is thick with sweat and the smell of cheap alcohol, everything is given for a great night. 

He is in the living room with Niall and a few other players, red solo cups in everyone’s hand as they argue about the plot of a movie they all went to see just a few days ago. Harry is more just a listener, enjoying the show, his gaze occasionally sweeps over the room and he tells himself it’s nothing, that he isn’t looking for anyone particular, but deep down he knows he is searching for a certain icy look. 

And then he spots her. 

She is by the stairs with a few girls, but her icy look is gone now. She seems loose and happy as she laughs at something, then she takes a sip of her drink and licks her lips, Harry’s eyes instantly follow the movement, feelings and thoughts jumping right out of that box he’s been trying to keep them in. 

She looks so pretty. Annoyingly beautiful. She’s not wearing anything flashy, but it suits her perfectly. 

His chest tightens. She doesn’t look at him, she probably hasn't even noticed him because if she did, she would be leaving probably, judging from how she’s been actively avoiding him these past few days. 

“Hey Styles,” one of his teammates, Eric pokes his side, pulling his attention away from Y/N. “Have you heard of Wade?”

“What about him?” he asks, taking a sip of his drink. 

Eric leans closer and lowers his voice, like he is about to serve him the gossip of the year.

“The dude cheated on Y/N with one of her girlfriends.”

Harry freezes, processing the information. Wade cheated on Y/N with a friend of hers. That’s disgusting, even from him. 

“That’s why they broke up?” Harry asks, his mouth going dry, so he takes another sip, though it doesn’t help much.

“Surely. I heard he is now with that girl actually. What an absolute asshole,” Eric scoffs and then someone calls out for him so he moves away, leaving Harry very much hung up on that piece of information. 

It puts her in an entirely different light, along with their last conversation. When did it all happen? And how did it happen? How did she find out? He has a million questions, but seeing how distant she’s been acting, he fears he’ll never get answers. 

With a sigh he looks in the direction he last saw her, but she’s not there anymore. 

Y/N knows these parties are not for her, but she let her friends drag her along. It’s the first time she came out this semester, since the breakup she hasn’t been quite in the mood to parade around and risk running into Wade or Tammy. 

She got pulled into a round of beerpong which she miraculously won and she and her girlfriends stayed lingering around for the next few games. 

Now she feels like it might be time to find a bathroom, so she hands her drink over to Lottie and lets her know she’ll be back. 

She vaguely remembers being here once last year and finding a less crowded bathroom upstairs, so that’s where she tries to head, but she has to cross the kitchen to reach the stairs and that’s where things go downhill. 

She spots Wade before he sees her, his arm slung around Tammy’s shoulders, a smug smirk on his face as he fistbumps someone with his free hand. Tammy looks like she just won the lottery, she is enjoying the attention she is getting for showing up with Wade. 

Y/N’s stomach turns, blood drains from her face and wishes she could just disappear. She knew she shouldn’t have come, she’s not ready to face either of them, let alone both of them, the humiliation and anger is still eating her away on the inside. 

She tries to duck to the left and maybe leave the room unnoticed, but she’s out of luck. Someone pushes her from behind and she pretty much ends up in front of the couple. Wade is turned away, doesn’t notice her, but Tammy is not looking her straight in the eyes. 

“Oh, hi Y/N,” Tammy tries to smile, but it comes out more like a frown. 

“Hi,” she huffs, looking away from her.

“Didn’t know you’d be here,” Tammy says, but she doesn’t mean it like If I knew you’d be here we wouldn’t have come, it’s more like Surprised to see you showing your face here, which gets her blood boiling.

“Well, I could say the same. Wasn’t expecting to see the cheater and the liar,” she smiles, but it definitely doesn’t meet her eyes as her anger finally brings her confidence back. 

“Y/N, just accept defeat,” Tammy arches an eyebrow, hands on her hips.

“Defeat? I wouldn’t call it defeat. It’s more like a disgusting betrayal,” she scoffs, folding her arms over her chest. 

“I know it must be tough, accepting that you didn’t only lose him, but you will never find anyone like him. Or anyone at all.”

Y/N’s blood is boiling, she is seconds away from slapping her across the face and she tries to recall how she could ever call Tammy her friend. But she also dated Wade, so maybe her superpower is finding the biggest assholes. 

She is about to snap back, curse her out and throw her composure out the window, when an arm curls around her shoulders and suddenly she is pulled against a tall figure. She looks up, but she already knows who it is before she sees it. 

Harry is lazily tugging her to his side, looking at Tammy with a seemingly friendly expression, but Y/N knows there’s a lot more behind that. 

“Good thing she is not looking for someone like Wade anymore. And already found someone. Right, babe?”

He looks down at her, his eyes sending a clear message: play along.

And she does. In a second her arms find their way around his waist as she settles against him, shooting a proud smile to Tammy. Just then, Wade turns back, it takes him a second to process what’s happening, but Y/N doesn’t miss the shock on his face. 

And then he starts laughing. 

“Is this a joke?” he asks, one arm coming around Tammy, pulling  or more like yanking her closer, pointing at Y/N and Harry with his other hand. 

Harry’s jaw tightens, but he remains calm.

“No,” he says calmly. “Why would it be?”

Wade snorts, eyes flicking over Harry like he’s something stuck to his shoe. “You’re kidding me. Him? You really downgraded, Y/N.”

Y/N feels Harry stiffen beside her, the hand at her shoulder tightening just a fraction. She opens her mouth, ready to defend herself, to snap back, but Harry beats her to it.

“Careful,” he says, voice still even, still polite. “Your reaction might make people think you’re jealous.”

Tammy scoffs. “Please. This is obviously fake. You’re just trying to make Wade jealous.”

Harry hums softly, like he’s considering it, then he looks down at Y/N. Their eyes meet and Y/N’s breath hitches in her throat from the intensity of his gaze. Something shifts between them, her thoughts are racing and her heart is pounding so wildly in her chest she’s afraid they all can hear it even through the music. 

Before anyone can say another word, Harry’s hand slides from her shoulder to her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek as he tilts her face up to his. Y/N barely has time to gasp before his lips crash into hers.

It’s not gentle or tentative, he is claiming her. The noise of the party melts away as her senses overload, his warmth, the taste of beer on his lips, the way his body shields hers effortlessly. For half a heartbeat she’s frozen, shock coursing through her veins, but then she kisses him back. 

She grabs a fistful of his shirt at first, but then her arms move up and around his neck, like she is clinging to him, locking him in so the moment never ends. She moans into his mouth when his tongue pushes against hers, their lips move so perfectly as if it wasn’t the first time they met, as if they’ve been doing this every day.

Not too willingly, but Harry pulls back, making her already crave more of him. He rests his forehead against hers, breath warm against her skin.

“You okay?” he murmurs, so quietly only she can hear. She nods, but her heart is still hammering against her ribs. 

“You’re insane,” she whispers. The corners of his mouth curl up.

“Maybe.”

Wade’s harsh laugh breaks the last bits of their shared moment. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Harry straightens, arm still firm around Y/N’s waist as he finally looks back at him.

“No,” he says again. “But you should probably move on. She already has.”

“I left her!” he practically shouts. “I’m the one who moved on!”

“Your face and act says otherwise,” Harry points out and Wade’s face twists, anger flashing across it, but there are too many eyes on him now. Too many whispers. Too much humiliation.

He mutters something under his breath and storms off, dragging Tammy along with him. Y/N can’t even recover from what happened before Harry takes her hand and pulls her towards the backdoor. They move past the beerpong tables and don’t stop until they are under the big oak tree, away from the noise and crowd, hidden in the dark. Harry grabs her by her arms, turning her to face him. 

“I’m sorry, I just saw you talking to Tammy, then I heard her and I wanted to hel–”

Y/N grabs him by his face and kisses him again. This time there’s no audience, no facade to put on, it’s just them. And Harry kisses her back instantly. 

They pick up right where they left off just moments ago inside, the passion, the want, it’s all back and melting them together with ease. Her hands tangle in his hair and his fingers dig into her waist, then her ass, pulling her closer, a moan slipping from her mouth into his. 

They both clearly want to carry on, but then realisation settles, that they are at a party and they should probably talk about a few things before getting tangled even more. 

Harry slows the kiss, pecks her lips a few more times then pulls back with a deep breath. 

“Want to get out of here?” he asks, brushing her hair out of her forehead. She nods, biting her bottom lip. He takes her hand, steals another quick kiss and then they are on their way. 

Twenty minutes later they are in Harry’s dorm, but he is not taking her to his room. 

“Is this the part where you murder me?” Y/N asks, still clutching Harry’s hand as they just keep going up on the stairs until they reach the very top. 

“No, not yet,” Harry chuckles and lets go of her hand just to push the heavy door open, revealing the rooftop of the building. 

The whole campus can be seen from up there. It obviously shouldn’t be open to the students, but Y/N is not surprised Harry knows the place even exists. Near the edge, from where the view is the best there are a few plastic chairs, a makeshift hangout spot Y/N assumes is often used to smoke probably. 

“Do you come here often?” Y/N asks as they walk over to the chairs and sit next to each other. 

“When I need some quiet. Just a few people know about this place.”

For a few minutes, they let the silence wrap around them, just watching the night lights of the campus and the stars blinking in the night sky. Y/N is the first one to speak up first.

“I didn’t tell Wade about your injury.”

Harry shifts his gaze at her, but she keeps her eyes ahead as she continues. 

“I uh…” She takes a deep breath and looks down at her lap. “Tammy and I were good friends. She volunteered in the hospital this summer and apparently, Wade had been cheating on me with her all summer. She was the one who told him about you. Then when Wade told me he sent an anonymous email to Coach Greene I asked him how he found out about it. That’s when he messed up. He wasn’t thinking through what he was saying and admitted that Tammy told him. I questioned why he was talking to Tammy and… He was begging me to forgive him,” she chuckles bitterly, shaking her head at the memory. “He said it meant nothing, that he loved only me, but luckily I didn’t listen to him.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N.” Harry reaches out and takes her hand again, the warmth of his palm feels comfortable against her slightly cold skin. 

“Don’t be, I’m glad I’m free from his shackles,” she flashes a tired smile.

“I’m not sorry about that,” Harry shakes his head. “I’m sorry for accusing you. I was convinced your mom told you about me and you told Wade.”

“I would have thought the same. Quite logical,” she shrugs. “I’m sorry too.”

“About what exactly?” Harry tilts his head. 

“I’m sorry for being such a bitch to you,” she admits with a sigh. “Wade always told me you’re this entitled, arrogant asshole who only wants to use people.”

“That sounds exactly like something Wade would say about me,” he chuckles. 

“I shouldn’t have believed him blindly.”

“It’s okay. I kind of judged you too for dating him,” he confesses. “I had no idea what you saw in him and thought that only a person similar to him would put up with him.”

With another sigh she thinks to herself and then shrugs. “I have no idea what I saw in him either.”

They both laugh, the moment finally easing, like the last bits of Wade has finally vanished from their relationship. 

“And what do you see in me?” Harry then asks with a cheeky smile. Y/N huffs out a laugh.

“Hmm, I see frustration and annoyance and–”

“Fuck I missed that attitude,” he cuts her off grinning, pulling on her hand so they meet in the middle, lips crashing together. 

***

The crowd is roaring. 

Harry barely hears it as the final whistle cuts through the night air, the scoreboard glowing with a number he’s replayed in his head for months. They did it. They beat them. Wade’s team falls apart across the field while Harry’s explodes into celebration.

His head snaps around, eyes searching for only her. Y/N is standing at the edge of the stands, hands clasped over her mouth, eyes bright with pride. The widest smile cracks across his face as he runs for her.

He tosses his helmet aside, adrenaline is burning through his veins, as he crosses the field ignoring the shouting, the screaming, the absolute chaos. She barely has time to react before he reaches her, hands framing her face as he kisses her, hard, breathless, victorious, claiming her like the prize he just won, though she’s been his for a while now. 

“You officially have something to brag about,” she laughs against his lips, voice shaking.

He presses his forehead to hers, grinning like he just conquered the world. “Oh how I love this attitude.”

They both laugh before he kisses her again shortly, then turn their head back to the field where Wade is completely losing his shit, throwing a tantrum like a child. His teammates are trying to calm him down, but he is blowing up, cursing Harry and Y/N out before rushing off the field. 

But the two of them couldn’t care less about him. They have moved on.

Together.

She moved silently through the darkened room, gathering her scattered clothing, the cat costume that now seemed ridiculous in hindsight, and her purse with her phone and keys. She slipped into the bathroom to change, avoiding her reflection in the mirror as she peeled off Harry's t-shirt and pulled on her dress. The fabric felt cool against her skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of his borrowed clothing.

For a brief moment, she considered leaving a note. What would she even say? 'Thanks for the orgasms, but I found another woman's things in your bathroom so I'm leaving'? There were no words that could adequately convey the complicated mess of emotions churning inside her. A strange sense of loss for something that had barely begun.

In the end, she left without writing anything. Let him wonder. Let him wake to an empty bed and figure it out himself. It was petty, perhaps, but it was all the dignity she could salvage from the situation.

The house was eerily quiet as she made her way through it, moonlight streaming through the large windows to guide her path. Everything looked different in the dark. The modern architecture that had seemed so impressive earlier now felt cold and impersonal, much like the man sleeping upstairs.

At the front door, Y/N paused, glancing back toward the stairs that led to Harry's bedroom. A part of her, a foolish hopeful part, wanted him to appear at the top of those stairs, to call her name and offer an explanation that would make everything okay. But the house remained silent, and after a moment, she turned the handle and stepped out into the cool night air.

The door closed behind her with a soft click that felt oddly final. Standing on Harry's doorstep at nearly four in the morning, Y/N felt a strange sense of déjà vu. Like she was joining the ranks of women who had stood in this exact spot before her, making the same shameful exit after falling for Harry Styles' charm.

She pulled out her phone, ordering an Uber with trembling fingers. The app informed her it would be seven minutes. Seven more minutes in this place that now felt tainted by her discovery. She moved down the driveway to wait at the street, unwilling to linger on his property any longer than necessary.

As she waited, Y/N hugged herself against the chill, the thin material of her costume offering little protection against the night air. Her mind replayed fragments of the evening. Harry's hands on her body, his mouth against her skin, the intensity in his eyes as he'd watched her come apart beneath him. How could something that had felt so right turn so quickly to something that felt so wrong?

The headlights of the approaching Uber cut through her thoughts, bringing her back to the present moment. She climbed into the back seat, mumbling her greeting to the driver before sinking into silence for the duration of the ride.

She climbed the stairs to her third-floor apartment, let herself in, and immediately headed for the shower. She needed to wash away the evidence of the night. Wash away the lingering scent of Harry's cologne on her skin and the slight ache between her thighs that served as a reminder.

Under the hot spray, Y/N finally allowed herself to cry. Not dramatic sobs, just quiet tears that mixed with the water and disappeared down the drain. She'd been so stupid, letting three months of tension cloud her judgment, ignoring every red flag in favor of finally scratching an itch that had become impossible to ignore.

Monday suddenly seemed impossibly far away and far too close all at once. Two days to figure out how to face Harry at work, how to pretend nothing had happened, how to rebuild the professional distance she'd so spectacularly demolished.

Two days to convince herself that walking away had been the right choice. Two days to stop wondering what explanation he might have offered if she'd stayed long enough to ask.

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

Monday morning arrived with the unwelcome persistence of an alarm clock that Y/N had already hit snooze on three times. She finally dragged herself out of bed, her body still carrying the evidence of Friday night in ways that made her stomach twist with a complicated mixture of desire and regret.

Standing in front of her bathroom mirror, Y/N assessed the damage with growing frustration. The bruises Harry had left on her neck were darker than she'd anticipated with deep purple marks that told a story she had no intention of sharing with their coworkers. She'd found more scattered across her body: her collarbone, the curve of her breast, her inner thighs. Each one a reminder of how he'd marked her and how completely she'd surrendered to him.

"Bastard," she muttered, reaching for her concealer. The first layer barely made a dent in covering the most prominent hickey at the base of her throat. She added another layer, then another, blending carefully until the mark was mostly hidden beneath a thick coat of makeup.

The process took twenty minutes longer than her usual routine, and even then, she wasn't entirely satisfied with the results. In certain lighting, the bruises were still faintly visible. There was a shadow beneath the makeup that anyone looking closely enough might notice.

Y/N chose her outfit with strategic care: a cream-colored turtleneck sweater despite the mild weather, paired with tailored black trousers. The high neck covered what makeup couldn't, though it also made her look like she was trying too hard. Better that than fielding questions about her weekend activities.

As she drove to the office, her anxiety mounted with each passing mile. She'd spent the entire weekend alternating between anger at Harry for not mentioning he was involved with someone, and anger at herself for not asking. The rational part of her brain knew she bore equal responsibility for what had happened. She'd been a willing participant in every moment of that encounter.

But rationality did little to ease the knot in her stomach as she pulled into the parking garage.

The elevator ride to their floor felt interminable. Y/N checked her reflection in the mirrored walls one final time, adjusting her turtleneck to ensure maximum coverage. Her hands were trembling slightly, but whether from nerves or residual anger, she couldn't quite tell.

The office was already bustling when she arrived, the Monday morning energy of people catching up on weekend gossip and preparing for the week ahead. Y/N kept her head down as she made her way to her desk, hoping to avoid unnecessary conversations until she'd had at least one cup of coffee.

She'd barely set her bag down when she felt it. That familiar prickle of awareness that told her Harry was nearby. Her entire body tensed, her fingers tightening around the strap of her purse as she forced herself not to turn around.

But she didn't need to turn around to know he was watching her. She could feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch, could sense him approaching before she heard his footsteps.

Y/N took a deep breath, steeling herself for the inevitable confrontation. Two days hadn't been nearly enough time to prepare for this moment.

Harry's footsteps stopped just behind her desk, close enough that she could smell his cologne. The same scent that had clung to the t-shirt she'd borrowed Friday night. Y/N forced herself to turn around, keeping her expression carefully neutral as she met his gaze.

"Morning," Harry said, his tone casual, though his green eyes held an intensity that suggested anything but casual interest. "Have a good weekend?"

The question was innocuous enough, the kind of small talk that filled office spaces every Monday morning. But coming from him, knowing what they'd done just days ago, it felt loaded with subtext.

"Fine," Y/N replied, her voice clipped as she turned back to her computer, booting it up with more focus than the task required. "You?"

She could feel him studying her, his gaze tracking over her face before settling on her neck. The turtleneck suddenly felt suffocating, the fabric too tight against her throat. When she glanced up at him again, there was a tightness around his mouth, a slight furrow between his brows.

He looked...dissatisfied. As if the concealer and high-necked sweater were a personal offender.

"Yeah, it was alright," Harry said slowly, his eyes still fixed on her neck. "Quiet. Woke up Saturday morning and the house felt a bit empty, actually."

Y/N's fingers stilled on her keyboard. So he was going there. She'd hoped, foolishly perhaps, that they might maintain some semblance of professionalism, at least during work hours.

"How unfortunate," she said, her tone deliberately flat. "I'm sure you managed to entertain yourself."

Harry's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but before he could respond, another coworker, James from accounting, approached with a question about last quarter's reports. Harry turned to address him, and Y/N seized the opportunity to focus on her computer screen, pulling up her email with hands that still trembled slightly.

She tried to concentrate on work, but her attention kept drifting to Harry's conversation with James. His voice carried across the open office space, that distinctive rasp that had whispered such filthy things in her ear just days ago.

"...honestly can't stand when people just disappear without a word," Harry was saying, his tone conversational but with an edge that made Y/N's shoulders tense. "It's fucking rude, isn't it? You're having a perfectly good time with someone, think everything's fine, and then they just vanish. No explanation, no goodbye, nothing."

James laughed, clearly thinking Harry was talking about a night out with friends or perhaps a casual date. "Yeah, mate, that's the worst. At least have the decency to say you're leaving, right?"

"Exactly," Harry agreed, and Y/N could hear the pointed emphasis in his voice, could feel his gaze burning into the back of her head even though she refused to turn around. "Shows a real lack of character, if you ask me. Like they can't handle a simple conversation like an adult."

Y/N pushed back from her desk abruptly, the legs of her chair scraping against the floor with a harsh sound that made several heads turn. She couldn't sit there another second, couldn't listen to Harry's passive-aggressive commentary disguised as casual conversation.

Without a word to anyone, she grabbed her phone and headed for the bathroom, her heels clicking sharply against the tile floor. The door swung shut behind her, muffling the office noise and providing a momentary sanctuary from Harry's pointed barbs.

She braced her hands against the sink, taking several deep breaths as she stared at her reflection. The turtleneck had been a good choice. The the makeup alone wouldn't have held up under the fluorescent office lighting. She could see the faint shadow of bruising at the very edge of the fabric, a reminder of teeth and tongue and—

The bathroom door opened, interrupting her spiral. Samantha, Harry's assistant, walked in, her phone in hand and a distracted smile on her face. When she looked up and saw Y/N, her expression brightened.

"Oh, hey!" Sam said warmly. They'd developed a friendly rapport over the past few months, bonding over shared frustrations with office politics and a mutual appreciation for good coffee. "How was your weekend?"

Before Y/N could answer, Sam's eyes dropped to her own chest, and she gestured to the neckline of her blouse with a rueful laugh.

"Please tell me I covered these well enough," she said, tugging at her collar to reveal the faint edge of a bruise. "I swear I used half a bottle of concealer this morning."

Y/N felt her stomach flip, but forced herself to laugh, keeping her tone light and teasing.

"Someone had an interesting weekend," she said, raising an eyebrow. "Do tell. Who's the lucky guy?"

Sam grinned, moving to the mirror to check her makeup. "Just this thing I've had going for a while. Nothing serious, you know? More of a...casual arrangement."

She applied a fresh coat of lipstick as she spoke, her tone conversational and unbothered.

"We usually get together once or twice a month when we're both free. It works, you know? No strings, no drama. Just good sex and then back to our regular lives."

Y/N nodded, her smile feeling increasingly brittle. She told herself it didn't matter, that whoever Sam was seeing had nothing to do with her.

"Sounds ideal," she managed. "So did you see him this weekend?"

"Yesterday, actually," Sam said, capping her lipstick and dropping it back into her purse. "Sunday afternoon. I swear, the man has stamina for days. We were at it for hours."

She laughed, a light, carefree sound that made Y/N's chest tighten.

"He's got this thing about marking me up," Sam continued, seemingly oblivious to how Y/N's smile had frozen in place. "Always leaves these ridiculous hickeys everywhere. I keep telling Harry he needs to tone it down, but—"

The bathroom suddenly felt too small, too hot, the air too thick to breathe properly.

"Harry?" she heard herself say, her voice sounding distant and strange to her own ears. "As in...our Harry? Harry Styles?"

Sam glanced at her, a slight flush coloring her cheeks.

"Oh, shit. I probably shouldn't have said that at work," she said, though she didn't seem particularly concerned. "But yeah. We've been hooking up for like six months now. It's super casual though, we're both seeing other people. No expectations, you know?"

Y/N felt like she'd been slapped. The feminine products in the bathroom. Sunday afternoon. Six months.

Her mind raced, trying to reconcile what she was hearing with what had happened Friday night. Harry had been with her, had made her come three times, had held her as she fell asleep. And then less than 48 hours later, he'd been with Sam. Doing the exact same things. Leaving the exact same marks.

"You okay?" Sam asked, her brow furrowing slightly. "You look a little pale."

Y/N forced herself to breathe, to paste on a smile that felt like it might crack her face in half.

"Yeah, fine," she said, her voice barely steady. "Just...surprised, I guess. I didn't realize you two were..."

"It's not a big deal," Sam assured her with a shrug. "Like I said, super casual. He's got his life, I've got mine. We just happen to have really good chemistry in bed."

She checked her reflection one more time, smoothing down her hair.

"Anyway, I should get back. Harry's got that meeting with the investors at ten and he'll need the files I prepared."

Sam headed for the door, pausing to flash Y/N another smile.

"See you later!"

The door swung shut, leaving Y/N alone in the bathroom. She stared at her reflection, at the turtleneck hiding Harry's marks on her skin, and felt something cold and hard settle in her chest.

Six months. He'd been sleeping with Sam for six months. Casual, no strings, just good sex.

And she'd been stupid enough to think Friday night meant something.

She took a moment to compose herself in the bathroom, splashing cold water on her wrists and taking several steadying breaths. When she finally emerged, her expression was carefully neutral, a practiced smile fixed in place as she made her way through the office.

Sam's desk was positioned just outside Harry's office. A strategic location that gave her easy access to him throughout the day. The thought made Y/N's stomach turn, but she pushed the feeling down, maintaining her pleasant facade as she approached.

"Hey Sam," she said, leaning casually against the edge of the desk. "Sorry to bother you, but I had kind of a weird question."

Sam looked up from her computer, her expression open and friendly.

"Sure, what's up?"

Y/N tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, affecting an air of casual curiosity.

"So I've also been seeing this guy," she began, watching Sam's face carefully. "Nothing serious, just casual like what you were talking about. But I was wondering...is it weird if I left some stuff at his place? Like toiletries and things? I don't want to seem clingy or like I'm trying to make it more than it is, you know?"

Sam's face lit up with understanding, clearly pleased to be consulted on matters of casual dating etiquette.

"Oh my god, no, totally normal," she said enthusiastically. "I've got a whole drawer at Harry's place. Tampons, makeup, body wash, the works. It's just practical, right? Like, if you're going to be spending the night occasionally, you might as well have the basics there."

She leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice slightly.

"Harry actually suggested it first. Said it was annoying when I'd have to leave early in the morning because I needed to go home and shower before work. So he cleared out some space in his bathroom for me. Super convenient."

Y/N felt her throat tighten, but maintained her smile.

"That's…really thoughtful of him," she managed, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. "So he doesn't mind? Having your stuff there permanently?"

"Not at all," Sam said with a shrug. "I think he actually prefers it. Makes things easier when we hook up spontaneously. Like yesterday, I texted him around noon, he said come over, and I didn't have to worry about packing an overnight bag or anything. Just showed up and everything I needed was already there."

She turned back to her computer, pulling up a calendar.

"Honestly, if your guy is cool with it, I'd say go for it. It takes the pressure off and makes the whole casual thing flow more smoothly. No awkward morning-after scrambles."

Y/N nodded slowly, processing this information. The pink razor. The specific brand of tampons. The makeup bag. All of it belonged to Sam, who had been casually sleeping with Harry for six months, who had her own designated space in his bathroom, who had been there just yesterday afternoon.

"Thanks," Y/N said, pushing off from the desk. "That's really helpful."

"Anytime!" Sam replied cheerfully, already refocusing on her work.

Y/N turned away, her fake smile finally dropping as she made her way back toward her own desk. The office suddenly felt suffocating, the fluorescent lights too bright, the ambient noise of keyboards and conversations too loud.

She could see Harry through open door of  his office, on a phone call, his free hand gesturing as he spoke. He looked completely unbothered, completely at ease. Why wouldn't he be? He had a perfect arrangement: Sam on Sunday afternoons, Y/N on Friday nights, probably others scattered throughout the week.

The casual arrangement Sam had described so enthusiastically. No strings, no drama, just good sex.

Y/N sank into her desk chair, staring blankly at her computer screen. She'd left his house at four in the morning feeling like she'd made a mistake, like she'd been the other woman. But the reality was somehow worse. She wasn't the other woman. She was just another woman. One in a rotation that Harry maintained with the same efficiency he brought to his work.

And the most humiliating part? Sam had no idea. She'd shared all of this openly, happily, because from her perspective there was nothing wrong with the arrangement. She and Harry had established boundaries, expectations. It worked for both of them.

Y/N was the only one who'd apparently missed the memo that this was how things operated in Harry Styles' world.

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

Y/N had barely settled back at her desk when her phone buzzed with a message notification.

Come to my office. Now.

Her jaw clenched as she stared at the text from Harry. Of course he couldn't just let it go. Of course he needed to assert some kind of control after she'd had the audacity to walk away from him Friday night.

She took her time standing, gathering a random file folder to make it look work-related, and crossed the office floor with deliberate slowness. Several coworkers glanced up as she passed, but she kept her expression blank, professional.

The moment she stepped through his office door and closed it behind her, Harry moved. He was on her in seconds, his hand wrapping around her wrist as he pulled her away from the door and pressed her back against the wall beside his bookshelf, out of view from the glass windows that looked out onto the main office floor.

"I don't like your attitude today," he said, his voice low and dangerous, his body caging hers against the wall.

Y/N met his gaze unflinchingly, anger finally overriding the hurt that had been churning in her stomach since her conversation with Sam.

"Well I don't like you at all," she shot back, her voice sharp despite the proximity.

Harry's eyes narrowed, his free hand coming up to grip the edge of her turtleneck. Before she could protest, he tugged it aside, his thumb swiping across her skin and coming away with a smudge of concealer.

"Ha! I knew I left some marks on ya," he said, satisfaction evident in his smirk as he examined the revealed bruise. "Thought you could hide them from me? I know exactly where every single one is, love."

The endearment made something snap inside Y/N. She shoved at his chest, creating enough space to yank her turtleneck back into place.

"Don't call me that," she hissed, keeping her voice low enough that it wouldn't carry beyond his office. "And get off me."

Harry didn't move, his eyebrows raising at her vehemence.

"What's crawled up your arse?" he asked, though there was a calculating look in his eyes that suggested he knew exactly what had upset her. "You're the one who disappeared Saturday morning without so much as a fucking note. I wake up to an empty bed and you think you get to be pissy with me?"

Y/N let out a harsh laugh, the sound bitter and humorless.

"Right, because you were so devastated by my absence," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm sure you recovered just fine by Sunday afternoon."

Understanding flickered across Harry's features, followed quickly by annoyance.

"You talked to Sam," he said flatly.

"She talked to me, actually," Y/N corrected, her anger building with each word. "Very enthusiastically about her weekend. About her casual arrangement. About her drawer in your bathroom."

She pushed at his chest again, harder this time, and he finally stepped back.

"The pink razor was a nice touch, by the way," she continued, straightening her turtleneck with sharp, jerky movements. "Really made me feel special when I found it that night."

Harry ran a hand through his hair, his expression shifting between irritation and something that might have been guilt if she didn't know better.

"It's not like that," he started, but Y/N cut him off with a sharp gesture.

"It's exactly like that," she said. "You've got a nice little rotation going. Sam on Sundays, me on Fridays apparently, probably someone else scattered throughout the week. Very efficient, Harry. Very organized."

Harry crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back against his desk with an air of casual defiance. His green eyes studied her face, searching for weakness, perhaps, or confirmation of what he already suspected.

"So what?" he said, his tone deliberately provocative. "Does this mean you won't sleep with me anymore?"

The audacity of the question left Y/N momentarily speechless. Not an apology. Not an explanation. Just a straightforward inquiry about whether his roster had just decreased by one.

She stared at him, genuinely trying to understand how someone could be so completely disconnected from basic human decency. This was the same man who had whispered filthy promises in her ear, who had held her close as he slept, who had made her feel, however briefly, like she was the only person in the world who mattered to him.

"Are you serious right now?" she finally managed, her voice tight with barely controlled fury. "That's your response? Not 'I should have told you' or 'I can see why you're upset', just concern about whether you still have access to my body?"

Harry shrugged, the gesture maddeningly nonchalant.

"I mean, yeah," he said, as if it were the most reasonable question in the world. "We're both adults. Sam knows I see other people. I assumed you understood this wasn't exclusive. We never discussed being anything more than what it was."

He pushed off from the desk, taking a step toward her.

"Friday was fucking incredible," he continued, his voice dropping lower. "Best sex I've had in months, if I'm being honest. You were perfect. Responsive, eager, absolutely gorgeous when you came apart for me. Why would I want to give that up?"

Y/N felt heat rise in her cheeks, though whether from anger or the visceral memory his words evoked, she couldn't say.

"Because I'm not interested in being part of your rotation," she said firmly. "I'm not Sam. I don't want a drawer in your bathroom and scheduled hookups between your other appointments."

Harry tilted his head, genuine confusion crossing his features.

"Why not?" he asked. "It works. No complications, no expectations beyond what we both want in the moment. You get incredible orgasms, I get to fuck someone who actually drives me mental with how much I want them. Everyone wins."

He reached out, his fingers grazing the edge of her turtleneck again.

"And don't pretend you didn't enjoy every second of it," he murmured. "I felt how wet you were, heard those pretty sounds you made. Your body doesn't lie, love, even if your mouth does."

Y/N slapped his hand away, her eyes blazing.

"My body's response doesn't mean I'm okay with being one of many," she snapped. "I thought—" She stopped herself, hating how vulnerable the admission would make her. "It doesn't matter what I thought. Clearly I was wrong."

Harry's jaw tightened slightly, the first real crack in his casual demeanor.

"You left," he said, and there was an edge to his voice now. "You snuck out in the middle of the night like what we did was something to be ashamed of. So forgive me if I didn't think you were looking for hearts and flowers."

He stepped closer again, crowding her space despite her earlier rejection.

"Tell me honestly," he said, his voice rough. "If you'd known about Sam before Friday, would you still have let me take you home? Would you still have spread your legs for me and begged so sweetly?"

The question hung between them, sharp and cutting. Y/N's mind raced, trying to answer honestly even as anger clouded her thoughts. Would she have gone home with him if she'd known? Would the knowledge of Sam, of the drawer full of toiletries, of the casual rotation he maintained, have been enough to override the tension that had finally exploded Friday night?

She didn't know. And that uncertainty made her feel worse than anything else.

But it was the way he'd phrased it. With the crude reduction of what had happened between them to something transactional and vulgar that made her stomach turn. 'Spread your legs' and 'begged so sweetly' like she was just another conquest, another notch on his bedpost.

"Don't talk to me like that," she said, her voice cold. "Like I'm just some desperate girl who couldn't help herself. You barely spoke to me for three months, Harry. You were cold, distant, professional to the point of being rude. And then suddenly Friday night you're all over me, and I'm supposed to what—assume you've got a whole roster of women you're rotating through?"

Harry said it firmly, like he was stating an irrefutable fact. "Well I do. I'm a guy who knows what he likes. And what I like is you, Y/N."

He said it like it was supposed to be flattering. Like being one item on his menu of preferences should make her feel special. The sheer arrogance of it left her momentarily breathless.

She stared at him, trying to find words adequate to express how fundamentally he'd missed the point. How could someone be so intelligent in every other aspect of their life yet so utterly clueless about basic human emotion?

"You like me," she repeated slowly, her tone flat. "You like me the same way you like Sam. The same way you probably like whoever else is in your rotation. Congratulations, Harry. I'm honored to be included in your collection."

The sarcasm dripped from every word, but Harry seemed genuinely perplexed by her reaction. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in the gesture.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked. "That I'll stop seeing other people? We had sex once, Y/N. One night. That doesn't exactly warrant exclusivity."

He moved closer again, his voice dropping to that low register that had worked so effectively on her that night.

"But I meant what I said. I do like you. You're smart, funny, gorgeous. You challenge me in ways most people don't bother to. And the chemistry between us?" He shook his head. "That's not something I find often. So yeah, I want to keep sleeping with you. Is that really so terrible?"

Y/N felt the fight draining out of her, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion. This conversation was going nowhere. They were speaking entirely different languages. He saw a practical arrangement, she saw something that made her feel cheap and disposable.

"It's terrible because you don't see anything wrong with it," she said quietly. "You genuinely think this is a compliment. That I should be grateful you want to add me to your schedule between Sam and whoever else."

She straightened her turtleneck one final time, making sure every mark was covered.

"I need to get back to work," she said, moving toward the door. "Was there actually something work-related you needed, or did you just call me in here to negotiate terms for future hookups?"

Harry's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath his skin.

"Don't do that," he said. "Don't act like I'm the villain here when you're the one who ran away without a word. You don't get to make me feel like shit for being honest about what I want."

Y/N paused with her hand on the door handle, looking back at him over her shoulder.

"I'm not trying to make you feel like shit, Harry," she said, and for the first time since entering his office, her voice held genuine sadness rather than anger. "I'm just trying to make you understand that what you want and what I'm willing to accept are two very different things."

She pulled open the door, the sounds of the office flooding back in—phones ringing, keyboards clicking, the mundane soundtrack of a Monday morning that felt surreal after the intensity of their conversation.

"And to answer your original question," she added, not looking at him, "No. I won't be sleeping with you anymore."

Harry was across the room in three strides, his hand shooting out to catch the door before she could leave. He slammed it shut again, the sound sharp enough that a few heads probably turned outside, but he didn't seem to care.

"Bullshit," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You're really going to stand there and tell me you don't want this? That you don't think about Friday night? About how good it felt when I was inside you?"

His other hand came up to brace against the door beside her head, effectively trapping her.

"I can see it in your eyes, Y/N. You're pissed off, yeah, but you're also turned on. Your pupils are dilated, your breathing's changed. Your body remembers exactly what I did to it."

Y/N's hands clenched into fists at her sides, hating that he was partially right, hating her body's traitorous response to his proximity.

"Physical attraction and self-respect aren't mutually exclusive," she said through gritted teeth. "Yes, the sex was good. Great, even. But I'm not willing to compromise my dignity for orgasms, no matter how impressive they were."

Harry's eyes narrowed, his face inches from hers.

"This is because of what I said, isn't it? The way I worded things. You're being precious about language when we both know the truth of what happened."

"The language matters," Y/N shot back. "It shows how you actually see me. How you see all of this. And I don't like what it reveals."

For a long moment, they stood there in tense silence, the air between them crackling with unresolved tension. Finally, Harry stepped back, releasing the door but not moving far enough away to be comfortable.

"Fine," he said, his tone clipped. "If that's how you want to play it. But don't come crying to me in a few weeks when you realize what you're giving up."

The dismissiveness in his voice, the absolute certainty that she'd change her mind, made Y/N's anger flare fresh and hot.

"I won't," she said coldly. "Because unlike you, I actually value myself as more than just a warm body."

She pulled the door open again, and this time he let her go.

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

The bass thrummed through Y/N's body as she pressed back against the club wall, her fingers threading through dark curls as lips worked against her neck. The cool metal of rings bit into her thigh where his hand gripped her, possessive and demanding.

"You're so fucking gorgeous," the voice murmured against her skin, British accent thick and rough with desire. "Been watching you all night, love."

Y/N kept her eyes firmly shut, letting the darkness behind her eyelids paint a different picture. If she didn't look, if she just focused on the sensation, the scrape of teeth, the pressure of fingers, the timbre of that accent, she could pretend. She could imagine it was Harry's mouth on her throat, Harry's hands sliding higher beneath her short dress, Harry's body pinning her to the wall.

Two months. Two months of maintaining icy professionalism at work, of avoiding eye contact during meetings, of feeling his gaze burn into her across conference rooms. Two months of lying awake remembering how he'd made her feel, hating herself for missing it.

The stranger's—Marcus? Matthew? She couldn't quite remember what he'd said his name was—lips moved higher, finding the spot just below her ear that made her breath catch.

"Come home with me," he whispered, his hand sliding further up her thigh. "Let me make you feel good."

For a moment, Y/N let herself sink into the fantasy. Let herself imagine it was Harry asking, Harry's fingers teasing at the edge of her underwear, Harry's voice promising pleasure. Her head tipped back against the wall, a soft sound escaping her throat.

But then the stranger shifted, his other hand coming up to cup her face, and she made the mistake of opening her eyes.

Brown eyes stared back at her. Not green. Not the sharp, knowing gaze that had haunted her for months. Just a reasonably attractive guy with dark hair and a nice smile who happened to have an accent and wore rings.

The illusion shattered.

Y/N's hands came up to his chest, gently but firmly pushing him back.

"I can't," she said, her voice barely audible over the pounding music. "I'm sorry, I thought I could, but I can't."

Confusion crossed the stranger's features, followed by disappointment.

"Did I do something wrong?" he asked, stepping back to give her space. "We were having a good time, yeah?"

"You didn't do anything wrong," Y/N assured him, smoothing down her dress with shaking hands. "I just...I'm not in the right headspace for this. I'm sorry."

She didn't wait for his response, pushing away from the wall and weaving through the crowded dance floor toward the bar. Her best friend Yazmin was there, laughing with a group of people, but her smile faded when she caught sight of Y/N's expression.

"What happened?" Yazmin asked, abandoning her conversation to pull Y/N aside. "I saw you with that guy. He seemed into you."

"He was," Y/N said, flagging down the bartender and ordering a shot of tequila. "That's not the problem."

Yazmin's eyes narrowed knowingly.

"Harry," she said flatly. It wasn't a question.

Y/N downed the shot when it arrived, welcoming the burn.

"I kept my eyes closed," she admitted, hating how pathetic it sounded. "Tried to pretend it was him. But it wasn't, and I just...I can't do this."

Yazmin sighed, wrapping an arm around Y/N's shoulders.

"Babe, you need to either talk to him or actually move on. This middle ground where you're torturing yourself isn't healthy."

"There's nothing to talk about," Y/N said, ordering another shot. "He made his position very clear. I'm just another option in his rotation. I said no to that, and I meant it."

"But you're not over him," Yazmin pointed out gently.

"No," Y/N agreed, her voice small. "I'm really not."

She'd tried. God, she'd tried so hard to forget that Friday night, to erase the memory of Harry's hands on her body, his voice in her ear, the way he'd made her feel like she was the center of his universe even if it had been a lie. She'd thrown herself into work, gone on dates with other men, downloaded every dating app her friends recommended.

Nothing worked. Every touch felt wrong, every kiss a poor imitation, every accent a cruel reminder of what she actually wanted.

The bartender slid another shot across to her, and she raised it to her lips just as a familiar voice cut through the noise behind her.

"Didn't take you for a tequila girl, Y/N."

She froze, the glass halfway to her mouth, every muscle in her body going rigid. Slowly, she turned around.

Harry stood there in dark jeans and a partially unbuttoned shirt, his hair slightly disheveled and his green eyes locked on her face with an intensity that made her stomach flip. He wasn't alone. Two of his investors flanked him, along with Sam, who was laughing at something one of them had said.

Of course. Of course he would be here tonight. Of course the universe would be this cruel.

Y/N forced herself to down the shot, using the moment to compose her features into something resembling indifference. When she set the glass down, she met Harry's gaze with what she hoped was cool detachment.

"Lots of things you don't know about me," she said, her voice steady despite the way her heart was hammering against her ribs.

Harry's eyes tracked over her short black dress that hugged every curve, the heels that made her legs look endless, the slightly smudged lipstick that was evidence of her failed attempt at moving on. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

"Apparently," he said, his tone carefully neutral. "Didn't expect to see you here."

One of the investors, Richard, she remembered from meetings, stepped forward with a friendly smile.

"You work with Harry, don't you? Y/N, right? We met last quarter during the presentation."

"That's right," Y/N confirmed, grateful for the distraction. "Good to see you again, Richard."

Sam appeared at Harry's elbow, sliding her arm through his with easy familiarity.

"Small world," she said brightly. "Are you here with friends?"

Before Y/N could answer, Yazmin materialized beside her, clearly having picked up on the tension.

"She's with me," Yazmin said, extending her hand to the group with practiced social grace. "Yazmin. And yes, very small world. We were just about to head to another club actually. This one's getting a bit crowded."

It was a lie, a transparent exit strategy, but Y/N seized it gratefully.

"Right," she agreed. "We should get going."

Harry's hand shot out, catching her wrist before she could turn away. The touch sent electricity racing up her arm, her body responding instantly to the contact it had been craving for two months.

"Can I talk to you for a minute?" he asked, his voice low enough that only she could hear over the music. "Alone?"

Y/N glanced at Sam, who was chatting animatedly with the investors, oblivious to the tension crackling between Harry and Y/N.

"I don't think that's a good idea," she said quietly.

"Please," Harry said, and there was something in his expression that she hadn't seen since that night in his bed. "Just five minutes."

Yazmin squeezed her shoulder supportively, a silent 'your call' in the gesture.

Y/N knew she should say no. Knew that nothing good could come from being alone with Harry when she was already emotionally compromised, when she'd just been pressed against a wall trying to pretend another man was him.

But she found herself nodding anyway.

"Five minutes," she agreed.

Harry's relief was visible. He turned to Sam and the investors with an easy smile.

"I'm going to step outside for some air. Too loud in here. You lot get the next round. On me."

He didn't wait for a response, his hand still wrapped around Y/N's wrist as he guided her through the crowd toward the club's back exit. Yazmin shot her a concerned look, but Y/N shook her head slightly. She needed to do this, whatever 'this' turned out to be.

The cool night air hit them as they stepped into the alley behind the club. The bass was muffled here, the sudden quiet almost jarring after the chaos inside. Harry finally released her wrist, running both hands through his hair in a gesture she recognized as frustration.

"Who was he?" Harry asked abruptly, turning to face her.

Y/N blinked, thrown by the question.

"Who was who?"

"The guy you were with," Harry said, his voice tight. "Against the wall. The one with his hands all over you."

Heat flooded Y/N's cheeks. He'd seen that. Of course he'd seen that.

"None of your business," she said defensively. "You made it very clear two months ago that we're not exclusive. That I'm free to see whoever I want."

"I know what I said," Harry bit out. "Doesn't mean I liked watching some random bloke put his hands on you."

The hypocrisy was staggering.

"You're here with Sam," Y/N pointed out, gesturing back toward the club. "Your arm candy for the evening. But I'm not allowed to let someone kiss me?"

"That's different," Harry said.

"How?" Y/N demanded. "How is it different, Harry? Because from where I'm standing, it looks exactly the same. You have your rotation, I'm trying to move on. What's the problem?"

Harry stepped closer, his eyes blazing in the dim light from the streetlamp.

"The problem is that I can't stop thinking about you," he said, his voice rough. "The problem is that I haven't touched Sam or anyone else since that day because every time I try, all I can think about is you. The problem is that watching you with someone else made me want to rip his fucking hands off."

Y/N's breath caught, her mind struggling to process what he was saying.

"You...what?"

Harry let out a self-deprecating chuckle, running a hand over his face. "Come on, love. Don't make me repeat myself. It was embarrassing enough the first time."

Y/N stared at him, her heart pounding so hard she was certain he could hear it. Two months. Two months of silence, of cold professionalism, of watching him maintain his carefully curated distance. And now he was standing here telling her he hadn't been with anyone else?

"I don't understand," she said slowly. "You were so adamant that what we had was casual. That I was just one of many. That's what you wanted."

Harry's jaw clenched, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

"Yeah, well, turns out I'm a fucking idiot," he said. "Because that night with you...it wasn't casual for me. Not even close. And I've spent two months trying to convince myself otherwise, trying to go back to how things were before, but I can't."

He took another step closer, close enough that she could smell his cologne, see the tension in his shoulders.

"I tried with Sam," he admitted. "She came over three weeks ago, same as always. Got as far as the bedroom before I had to stop. Couldn't do it. All I could think about was you. How you felt, how you sounded, the way you looked at me."

Y/N's throat felt tight, emotions warring inside her. One, anger at how long he'd waited to say this. Two, hope that maybe she hadn't been alone in feeling this way. And finally, hurt that he'd let her suffer for two months thinking she meant nothing.

"So what?" she asked, her voice sharper than intended. "You expect me to just...what? Be grateful that you've decided I'm worth more than a scheduled hookup?"

Harry flinched slightly at her tone.

"No," he said quietly. "I expect you to be angry. You have every right to be. I handled everything wrong. The way I talked to you in my office, the things I said. I was defensive and cruel because you scared the shit out of me."

"I scared you?" Y/N repeated incredulously.

"Yes," Harry said firmly. "You made me feel things I haven't let myself feel in years. Real things. Complicated things. And instead of dealing with that like an adult, I tried to shove you into the same box as everyone else. Tried to convince myself you were just another casual thing."

He reached out slowly, giving her time to pull away, and when she didn't, his fingers brushed against her cheek.

"But you're not," he continued, his voice dropping lower. "You never were. And watching you with that guy tonight made me realize I can't keep pretending otherwise."

Y/N closed her eyes, trying to maintain her composure even as his touch sent warmth spreading through her.

"You hurt me," she said, opening her eyes to meet his gaze. "You made me feel cheap and disposable. Like I was just a body you wanted access to."

"I know," Harry said, and there was genuine remorse in his expression. "And I'm sorry. Truly. I was so focused on protecting myself that I didn't stop to think about what I was doing to you."

Y/N wanted to believe him. God, she wanted to so badly. But two months of pain and loneliness had built walls around her heart that wouldn't crumble just because he'd finally said the right words.

"What about Sam?" she asked. "She's in there right now, thinking you're coming back. Does she know you've ended things?"

Harry nodded.

"Told her last week. She took it better than I expected, honestly. Said she'd been wondering when I'd finally admit I had feelings for someone else."

He stepped even closer, his other hand coming up to frame her face.

"I want to try this properly," he said. "No rotation, no casual arrangement. Just you and me, figuring out what this is together. If you'll give me another chance."

Y/N's resolve wavered, her body leaning into his touch despite her mind's protests.

"I don't know if I can trust you," she admitted. "You were so certain about what you wanted. How do I know you won't change your mind again?"

"You don't," Harry said honestly. "All I can do is show you. Every day. That you're not just another option to me. You're the only one I want."

His thumb traced along her cheekbone, his eyes searching hers.

"Tell me you don't feel it too," he murmured. "Tell me that guy in there made you feel even a fraction of what I do, and I'll walk away right now."

Y/N's breath hitched. She couldn't tell him that. They both knew it would be a lie.

"That's not fair," she whispered.

"I know," Harry agreed. "But I'm done playing fair. I'm done pretending I don't want you so much it keeps me up at night. I'm done watching you from across conference rooms and pretending I don't remember exactly how you taste."

Heat pooled low in Y/N's stomach, her body responding to his words even as her mind tried to maintain distance.

"Harry..."

"I miss you," he said simply. "I miss talking to you, making you laugh, arguing with you about stupid shit. I miss everything, not just the sex. Although—" a hint of his usual smirk appeared "—I definitely miss that too."

Despite everything, Y/N felt her lips twitch toward a smile.

"You're an asshole," she said, but there was less heat in it than before.

"I am," Harry agreed readily. "A complete and utter asshole who doesn't deserve another chance but is asking for one anyway."

Y/N stood there, torn between self-preservation and the desperate want that had driven her to close her eyes and pretend another man was him. She'd spent two months trying to move on, and it had gotten her nowhere except pressed against a club wall, using a stranger as a poor substitute.

"If I say yes," she began slowly, "and that's a big if, things have to be different. No more Sam, no more anyone else. And you have to actually communicate with me instead of going cold and distant when things get complicated."

Hope flickered across Harry's features.

"Done," he said immediately. "Anything you want."

"And you have to clear out that drawer in your bathroom," Y/N added, a slight edge to her voice. "I don't want any reminders of your rotation."

"Already did it," Harry admitted. "Weeks ago. Couldn't stand looking at it."

Y/N studied his face, searching for any sign of insincerity. But all she saw was honest vulnerability. An expression she'd never seen him wear before.

"This is a terrible idea," she said finally.

"Probably," Harry agreed, his hands still cradling her face. "But I'm willing to risk it if you are."

For a long moment, they stood there in the alley, the muffled bass from the club providing a soundtrack to their standoff. Then, slowly, Y/N reached up and covered his hands with hers.

"One chance," she said firmly. "You fuck this up, there won't be another."

The smile that broke across Harry's face was brilliant and genuine, transforming his features.

"One chance is all I need," he said.

Then he was kissing her, and it felt like coming home after a long journey. His lips moved against hers with desperate hunger, two months of pent-up longing pouring into the contact. Y/N melted into him, her hands sliding up to tangle in his hair as she kissed him back with equal intensity.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Harry rested his forehead against hers.

"Come home with me," he murmured. "Let me show you how sorry I am. Let me make it up to you properly."

Y/N pulled back slightly, meeting his eyes.

"Not tonight," she said, and when disappointment flickered across his face, she continued, "If we're doing this right, we're not rushing back into bed. Take me on a proper date first. Court me like you actually mean it."

Harry's expression shifted to something like admiration.

"You're really going to make me work for it, aren't you?"

"Absolutely," Y/N confirmed. "You said you wanted to do this properly. So let's do it properly."

Harry groaned, but there was affection in it.

"You're killing me, love."

"Good," Y/N said with a small smile. "Consider it the beginning of your penance."

Y/N pressed a quick kiss to Harry's lips before pulling away, ignoring his attempt to deepen it.

"I need to find Yazmin and let her know I'm okay," she said, stepping back toward the club entrance. "Text me about that date."

Harry caught her hand, bringing it to his lips.

"Tomorrow night," he said. "I'm not waiting any longer than that."

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress her smile as she slipped back inside.

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

a/n: I wanted to smack him…and maybe kiss him

Then your phone buzzed again, and you lazily stretched to reach for it, barely taking your eyes off the TV as you fumbled across the cold surface. When you brought the phone to your face, you squinted at the bright screen and read:

Grace: Girl! You’ll never guess who just showed up at this freaking party, Dude!!!!

Y/N: Who?

You watched as three dots appeared, then disappeared, and appeared again.

Grace: Harry fucking Styles

As you read the text, the name sent a bolt of lightning sparking through your limbs, and you sat up, grabbing at your chest like your heart had forgotten how to beat or something, like it had stopped, and stuttered back to life, then thrashed against your ribs like it was trying to escape, and you reread the name just to make sure you read that right. 

Grace: Soooo…I guess you might want to rethink staying in…

Suddenly, you couldn’t think; you just stared at the message—Harry was back? After almost three years of silence, and him only existing when you stalked his Instagram, your heart desperate in those hopeless moments at 2 in the morning, most times just to see what he was up to, to see if he was taken, like your life hadn’t become you masquerading through your life since him, pretending like you had forgotten all those memorable moments—like the way he looked above you, all those times you had been beneath him, the way his eyes would catch yours right before he pushed inside you, and god, after all this time, you had yet to match that feeling. Ever.

Y/N: I’m already in pajamas.

Grace: Bitch don’t lie. Get your ass over here!!!

She was right, of course. Because you were already standing, already mentally rifling through your closet, while simultaneously trying to talk yourself out of it. It wasn’t like you cared what you looked like. It wasn’t like that. Because it had never been like that, except for all the ways it had actually been exactly like that, and now, it was even more different, because you had changed, and you were guessing he had too. So, did that mean you would actually have to try this time around?

When you got to the party, it was already in full swing, and you started working your way through the familiar chaos of shitty beer and loud music blaring through the creaky off-campus house. Your hands were shaking as you maneuvered through the entryway of bodies, and you shoved them in your jacket pockets, trying to look like someone who hadn’t just spent twenty minutes changing outfits and another twenty trying to talk yourself out of coming at all.

Around you, the air was thick with the heat of too many bodies, and the lack of air was already starting to suffocate you. You scanned the crowd, trying to appear subtle, but the truth was, your eyes were hunting. It was ridiculous, the way you had to remind yourself to breathe, and how every tall figure seemed to make your pulse spike, as you waited for even the slightest hint of a British accent to cut through the noise. But he was nowhere to be found as you made your way to Grace.

“Thank god you’re here,” Grace said, pulling you closer and pressing a red solo cup into your hand. “I saw you looking…he’s in the kitchen. Or he was… but he was with some blonde girl—I think—I don’t know, I’m a little drunk.”

As your eyes met hers, you took a long drink, suddenly wishing you had something stronger than the cheap beer filling your cup. “That’s cool…good for him.” You told her, trying to shrug off the hint of jealousy already inching up your spine, though you had no right to be.

She gave you a look then, arching her eyebrow at you—that sly look that said she remembered everything: the mess you were when he was gone, all the times she had knelt beside you on the bathroom floor, holding your hair back while you drunkenly cried those first few months after he left. How many times had you tried to convince her you were fine? That it wasn’t a big deal, that you always knew it would be temporary—the classic friends with benefits situation—but how were you supposed to know that you would get attached like that? That you wouldn’t get over him, even now that the feeling was fresh again.

“I’m fine,” you lied.

“Sure you are.” She countered, right before some guy was snagging her attention from across the room, signaling her over, “Come on, that’s Chase from my Eco class, I’ve been trying to bag him all night, you can be my wingman.”

You laughed, ready to lie straight through your teeth, “Actually, I might go look for something stronger than this…” You answered, downing the rest of your drink in your cup, and she shrugged, rolling her eyes.

“Ugh, fine, but if you see him, come find me…” And she gave you a knowing look, as if she could already see past your bullshit, then turned, and you watched her walk over to Chase, the two of them sharing a smirk, and you knew she wouldn’t have needed your help even if you went.

It had been a lie, yes, and as you wandered through the party, slyly searching for the guy who once held your heart, you found yourself talking to people you knew when they stopped you, effortlessly playing your part and laughing at jokes you couldn’t quite hear, all while your body stayed on high alert. Every room you entered, you scanned with your eyes first—starting with the kitchen, but he was gone. Then, the living room, still no Harry, and almost hesitantly, you checked the back porch where the smokers gathered, hoping he wasn’t a smoker now, yet still no Harry.

After a while, you thought maybe he had left, that maybe Grace had been wrong. Maybe that was until…

And then you saw him—randomly leaning against the wall near the stairs, and yes, there was a blonde girl with him—Kayla—from your English Lit class. And damn, even though you didn’t have a problem with her, you knew she was the kind of girl who was pretty in that effortless way some girls are, you know, the ones who usually get the guys, with annoyingly long legs and perfect teeth, always flashing a perfect smile. You watched as she laughed at something he said, moving her hand to his arm, while he smiled down at her with that easy charm that you could never forget—because even as you stood there, you could feel yourself about to get pulled in, and you were all the way across the room.

Because fuck, three years had been good to him. His hair was longer now, and you stood there googly-eyed watching him push it back from his face and off to the side, in wavy strands that made your fingers itch, because it wasn’t just the hair—he had filled out, too, his shoulders broader under his plain white t-shirt, and as you took in his stance, his body language was etched with the kind of casual confidence that only came from growing into yourself with time away, as he shoved a hand into his pocket, so cool, still so fucking attractive. 

You had to force yourself to look away before he could catch you staring, your heart hammering in your chest. For a moment, you thought, this was fine—you had seen him, and now you could check that box. Now you could have a few drinks, stay an appropriate amount of time, and leave this place; it was simple.

But just as you were starting to believe your own plan, and move forward with it, you felt it—that prickle at the back of your neck that felt like you were being watched, and you risked one more glance over your shoulder, and when you turned, there he was, looking right at you, making your heart stop in your chest for the second time that night.

Then you watched as the recognition hit his face in stages: First surprise, then something fainter, then that goddamn grin. The one with the dimples that used to make your brain so fucking silly. Then he did something that nearly made you faint—he raised his cup in a silent toast, and you, on autopilot, raised yours back, trying to ignore the tremor racing to the tips of your fingers.

That’s when Kayla turned to follow his gaze, and she waved, brows furrowing in confusion as her own recognition kicked in, and you quickly looked away, busying yourself with a conversation you weren’t even part of, while trying with all your heart to pretend like he didn’t exist behind you.

But that was easier said than done, because that only made the hour that followed pure fucking torture. It was like he was planting himself in your vision, the way you kept catching glimpses of him, whether it was getting another drink or laughing with a group of guys you vaguely recognized—Kayla always hovering nearby like she had just set her hands on her prize for the night, and hell, maybe she had, but even so, without fail, every time you looked his way, he was looking back—the two of you playing this weird game of cat and mouse, both of you circling each other, yet, neither willing to make the first move, as you both pretended that you weren’t hyperconscious of where the other was at any given moment—because the eye contact was saying it all.

“We need two more for beer pong!” Jake’s voice boomed from across the room, and then he called your name. It’s not like you guys, we’re good friends or anything, but for some reason, he liked to pick on you, and that’s when you found yourself being dragged toward the table that had been cleared for the game, as Jake smiled, already resetting the cups, “Come on, you’re good at this…I’ve seen you in action.”

This made you laugh, because you weren’t particularly good at any game, but you let yourself be pulled along anyway, just for the distraction. “Ok! fine…But I need a partner!” you yelled over the music.

“I’ll play.”

And the voice that sounded from behind you hit your ear with a British drawl. You didn’t even need to turn around to know who it was—because there was something about that slow, careful way he always spoke, his accent now thicker after years of being back in London, that rasp. You had it memorized and could play it over and over in your mind like a broken record.

“Harry…right? We met in the kitchen…” Jake said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Perfect, Man. You two against me and Marcus. Sound good?”

As he nodded, you finally looked over at him, taking in his perfect features up close, seeing the changes more clearly, all the new tattoos that he had added to his arm, some hidden under the sleeve, only hinting that they were there, or the thin scar on his eyebrow that hadn’t been there before. But through all the changes, his eyes were the same, still that same seafoam green under the lights, eyes that had always seen you through all your safeguards.

“Hi,” he said softly, just for you.

“Hey.” You forced, taking your positions at the opposite end of your opponents, trying to ignore how aware you were of him and his every move. As Jake finished setting up their cups, Harry moved closer, and you caught his scent, something different than before, but underneath it, still him, still the guy you had pressed yourself to, your bodies flesh to flesh all those nights without a care in the world—Was he still the same in any way? What did he think of you now?

And just as you were feeling the sudden wave of insecurity trying to take way, he leaned in, pushing a warm breath against your ear, and said, “Finally.”

For a second, you forgot what you were doing or where you were, that single word sending a shiver down your fucking spine—Finally, like he too, been waiting—Finally, as if these three years had been just a pause this whole time, not an ending you thought you had to endure.

Then he sent you a quick wink, nudged your shoulder, and handed you your ball, all in time for the game to start, and suddenly it was like no time had passed at all, the way you both seemed to fall into that easy rhythm—him setting you up for your shots, the way you both were trash-talking the other team with such ease, or the two of you laughing when Marcus completely missed the table. All these little inside jokes rose to the surface over time, making it feel so easy, so right.

“Wow—someone’s gotten worse at this,” you told him after he missed his second shot.

“Or you’ve just gotten better…” he shot back, watching you sink another cup.

“I mean—I’ve had plenty of practice...”

“Yeah?” he questioned, trying to sound casual, but as you looked him in the eye, you caught the faint edge of something else, as his eyes searched your face.“I’d love for you to show me who you’ve been practicing with?”

You shrugged, lining up your next shot, loving the hint of jealousy peeking through his tone. “I don’t know…just people...”

He laughed as the ball arced perfectly into the cup you were aiming for, and Jake groaned. “Damn, guys! How are you two so good together?”

Fuck—Together, you repeated in your mind, the word now hanging in the narrow space between your bodies, as Harry’s hand brushed yours when he reached for the ball, and you nearly jumped out of your freaking skin, because if he only knew…

“Sorry mate—” Harry shouted, making another cup, and then he looked at you, and added, “we’ve always been a good team,” his voice only loud enough for you to hear with that last line, and you knew he wasn’t talking about the game.

Before long, the game was nearing its end, your mind racing as the tension grew, adrenaline flowing through you as you and Harry got closer. That’s when Jake and Marcus rallied, pushing the game to a near tie. Suddenly, everything was at stake—not just the game, but this moment with Harry, like there was another ending coming—because you kept wondering what would happen next. As the small crowd that had gathered kept cheering and placing bets, the pressing thoughts loomed, all the tiny touches making it worse, all the laughter—your entire body caught up in the competition and the familiarity that Harry brought—the way he made you feel like the old pieces of yourself you thought you had lost. It was all so fucking much.

“Shit—fuck—Last cup. I have to make this!” you blurted, the ball feeling light in your hand. “No pressure...at all…”

“You’ve totally got this,” Harry encouraged, moving behind you to get a better view of your shot, as the tips of his fingers grazed over your waist, his body so close now that you could feel the heat of him. “Just like that time at Bryan’s graduation party…” He whispered, leaning in closer.

Then he was stirring a memory you almost forgot, and you remembered how you had made the same shot then, winning the game, and Harry had picked you up and spun you around, both of you dizzy from all the cheap vodka, and the high you guys were both still tangled in—when you were both so wrapped up in each other that you couldn’t see the ground beneath your feet.

Then, the ball left your hand, arcing through the air, and landed perfectly in the last cup—just like that night. As the room erupted, you both yelled out. Harry’s hand reached for your elbow, and before you could think, you turned and leaped into Harry’s arms as they wrapped around you, lifting you off the ground. Like muscle memory, your arms went around his neck, and he spun you just like before, both of you laughing.

Except it was nothing like before…

Because his body was different now—stronger, more manly, holding you with a strength that made you feel like you weighed nothing, like he could hold every piece of you that had ached for him since the day he left, as your mind ran over every point where your bodies touched, basking in the solid warmth of him, the way your heart was ready to beat its way out of your fucking chest, because you couldn’t believe this was happening, couldn’t believe how dizzying it all was, as the booze finally caught up with all the excitement.

Yet, as he started to set you down slowly, the world seemed to slow down too, as if you suddenly weren’t sure if there would be a ground to hit, as your body slid against his. Then, they were actually hitting the floor—your hands still on his shoulders, his on your waist—and for a moment, you just looked at each other—your whole history flashing across your mind, friends to lovers, lovers to friends, to strangers—and all you could think about was that last time, that night in his room—clothes on the floor, his sheets tangled around your bodies for the last time—the night before he left for London. The way he held you so close, so tight, hands silently tracing the planes of your body and the features of your face, as if he was already trying to remember the shapes and curves of you, and all the while, you had been doing the same. Yet neither of you were brave enough to say it then—Could this be your second chance? Was this what the universe was handing you right in the palm of your hands? 

This boy, this guy—This man, and as he gazed back into your eyes, you swore you saw it in his, like he was remembering too.

“Harry!” Kayla gushed, appearing at his elbow, all smiles as she anchored a possessive hand on his arm. “That was amazing! You two make such a good team.”

Feeling awkward, you both dropped your hands as the moment shattered, and you stepped back, forcing a smile. “Yeah…good game,” you told him, feeling proud that your voice hadn’t betrayed you.

“Yeah…” Harry said, as Kayla tugged at his arm, but his eyes were still on you. “Good game.” And you watched as the two of them walked off, Harry ripping his eyes from yours, as your heart sank. As they rounded the corner to the kitchen, he looked over his shoulder, and you forced yourself to look away, knowing that your chance was gone. Because she was going to get your guy, because you had come too late and missed your chance.

After that letdown, you only lasted another fifteen minutes. Because you knew as soon as they walked back in the room, you wouldn’t be able to watch Kayla continue to hang on Harry’s every word. You wouldn’t be able to pretend you were having a great time with people you hadn’t even wanted to be around in the first place. This was stupid. You were stupid. What had you expected? That he would see you and realize he had been waiting for you all this time? That what? Those three years would just disappear? Yeah right. That wasn’t how life worked.

As you were saying your goodbyes, you found Grace in the kitchen. “I’m heading out.” You told her.

“What? No! Did you talk to him?”

“I mean—We played beer pong.”

“And?”

“And nothing. We didn’t really get a chance to talk. He’s here with someone. It’s fine. I’m fine, you know. Things change.”

Grace looked like she was ready to argue, but you were already moving, weaving through the crowd toward the front door. You just needed to get out, to get air, to get home, back to your blanket and your show, and your life where Harry didn’t show up and make you feel like you were eighteen and confused again—back to that time when you still had more questions than answers, when you were completely lost.

As you pushed through the door, the biting chill of the night hit you like a slap across the face, and you realized you had forgotten your jacket, but you weren’t going back for it. It didn’t seem worth it in this moment, not when your apartment was only a few blocks away. You could make it. So you bounded down the steps, trying to move fast, and just as you headed in the direction of your apartment, you heard the door crash open, and someone yell your name—

“Hey! Wait!”

When you turned, it was Harry running down the steps, no jacket either, his breath visible in the cold night air as he shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Hey... are you going already?” He asked, finally catching up to you, because it wasn’t like you had gotten far, but he was nearly out of breath when he reached you, and you watched a puff of vapor dissipate between you.

“Yeah… I’m trying to beat traffic,” you joked, gesturing at the completely empty street, trying to hold back your smile, as your mind muttled with the fact that he was standing here before you, when he should have been inside with Kayla.

You listened to the raspy laugh slip past those heart-shaped lips, a soft sound you had tried so hard to forget. “I was kind of hoping I’d get a chance to catch up with you, but you left…and you didn’t even say goodbye…”

His words left you stunned as you stood under the streetlight, both of you shivering slightly while the strange feeling of this whole situation swarmed your mind. Because this was fucking surreal—who was this guy? Because even in the dim light, you could see every change, see the man he had grown into—more certain with every move, more solid, but still with that sweet underlying current of something gentle, and you realized you had to stop trying to force the guy you once knew into the mold of the man standing before you, because you would never get that back, the time lost, but you had right now, you had this moment, and that had to matter more. 

You shook your head, trying to shake the racing thoughts from your mind. “I mean... I don’t know…this was kind of weird…and you kind of seemed occupied,” you confessed, looking down at your feet, hating how jealous you sounded.

“God... her?” He breathed, running a hand through his hair. “Umm…to be honest, I can’t even remember her name. She told me right before I saw you... And my mind kind of went blank. I’ve been trying to fake it all night…which for some reason only made it harder to get away cause I was trying to be polite… because all I’ve wanted was to get you alone.”

You turned away then, biting your lip to suppress the smile that was quickly taking over your face, but Harry caught your arm gently, turning you back.

“The truth is...” He paused, and for a moment, you caught a glimpse of his old self as he gathered courage, “I’m nervous, and I’ve missed you, and it’s all been really confusing…coming back, but more than anything, right now, I just really want to kiss you.”

“Yeah?” You swallowed hard, then you took a step closer, your heart hammering in your chest.

“Yeah.” He answered, closing the distance between you, until you could see the gold flecks in his green eyes, so close that you could count the freckles and moles scattered across his beautiful face.

“Then what are you waiting for…kiss me,” you said, as your hands found the front of his shirt, and you gripped hard as if you already needed the stability of his strong body to hold you up.

That’s when his gentle hands came up to cup your face, so fucking gentle, you could have cried. He took his time, and you let him, his thumb skimming across the delicate skin of your cheek, his eyes searching yours for something, for permission, maybe, or just for the hope of the same want to be reflected back at him—and when his lips finally met yours, he made the softest groan that hummed across your lips, and you whimpered, the sound so faint it died behind your sealed lips as he kissed you like he had been thinking about this very moment for the last three years.

Because god, it was nothing like the kisses before he had left—the ones that had been tinged with endings, and marked the bitter taste of goodbye. This was different—This was all new, all hunger and hope, as his hands found your hair and you felt your whole body come alive in ways you had forgotten he could spark.

Then, suddenly, you were the one shifting the energy, your body pressing closer, harder, as you opened your mouth against his, testing your tongue across his upper lip, teasing him, and he followed your lead immediately, as his hands slid down to your waist, pulling you flush to him. You could feel how much he wanted this too, feel it in the way he held you, could feel it in the composure that was barely hanging on as he kissed you back—and when you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard, breaths ragged in the cold air, as you stared at one another—

“I—um—only live a couple blocks away,” you huffed out, your voice not quite steady yet. “And my roommate is out of town.”

You both smiled then, knowing exactly what this meant. “God, you still know how to get me, don’t you? He grinned at you, “Lead the way, Darling.” Then he reached for your hand, and you both rushed off.

When you got to your apartment, you barely made it through your door before his hands were on you again, his body pressing you against the wall, his mouth hot on yours, as you fumbled for the light switch and missed, then decided you didn’t care, and you started walking backward toward where you thought your bedroom was.

“Wait,” you laughed against his mouth as you nearly tripped over your coffee table. “I think I just forgot the layout of my own apartment…Fuck—”

“Your mind always did get a little fuzzy before sex—” he teased, his voice rough, his hands shaking as they found the hem of your shirt.

“Shut up—That’s not true…that was you.” you shot back, then pulled him down for another kiss, walking sideways now, as one hand used the wall as a guide.

Your shirt hit the floor somewhere near the kitchen. His shirt followed, tossed vaguely toward the bathroom, and by the time you reached your bedroom door, you had no idea where the rest went. All you could remember was how he had walked you into a few walls along the way, knocking a frame to the floor that you would have to deal with later—both of you laughing between the sloppy kisses, hands everywhere—trying to touch and undress and navigate in the messy storm of need. 

“Smooth,” you said as he accidentally kicked your laundry basket.

“Um…I thought you were the one leading,” he pointed out, then crashed into your dresser. “Ow.”

“Oh my god—” you laughed, pulling him further into your room. “We’re a fucking disaster.”

“I think we’ve always been a bit of a disaster, yeah? That’s nothing new, love,” he quipped, looking down at your body, and then you weren’t laughing anymore, because his hands were on your skin, and his mouth moved to your neck, and everything slowed as the realization of him standing in your room, nearly naked, hit.

All you had was the moonlight streaming through your window, but it was perfect, the way it was catching the planes of his face, and turned his skin silver-pale, and you stood there in the middle of your room, both of you down to your underwear, so in awe of one another, that all you could do was just look at each other.

“You’re different,” you said softly, your hands tracing the new tattoos, then the broader lines of him.

“So are you,” he said, as his fingers ghosted over the filled curves of your body. “More... yourself, I guess if that makes sense...”

And you knew what he meant. Because you were nothing like your eighteen-year-old self. She would have fought the figure filled out before him. But now, who you were today, you felt settled in your own skin, even as it hummed under his touch, because this, you knew now, was the power you had been gifted—you knew how to use this body, how to yield to or control the pleasure you sought. You knew that once you had him in that bed, what you could offer, and this was the side of you that he didn’t know—the parts of you that you had noticed in him now, that were so sure and certain, you also had in you.

“I was hoping this was where I would end up tonight,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “With you...”

“Harry,” you breathed, and he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, walking you backward until your legs hit the bed, and he laid you back with a gentle ease, like he was ready to take his time with you, and in the silver moonlight with his eyes on yours, you finally let yourself believe that maybe you would finally get your chance to say all the things you wish you had.

But instead of the frantic rush as before, it started with you both laughing, tripping over the edge of your mattress, as your bodies collided and came together—his knee catching awkwardly between your thighs, his chest pinning you gently, and the two of you pressed nose-to-nose, totally breathless as you took stock of where you landed and realized, holy fuck, this was really happening, and it was him and you and it was so much worse and so much better than you remembered.

Because in the glow of moonlight, with his naked body on full display, what looked different before, now seemed familiar, the feeling... Because, yes, he was more of a man now, naturally, his body larger. But as you blinked up at him, touching his hair, his face, running your hands down his arms and over the swell of his chest, all the new muscles, there was still the old Harry there in some ways, even if every part of him was stretched out and magnified. 

But before it got serious, it got silly fast, the two of you bumping foreheads, muttering “shit, sorry” as your underwear came off, and then laughing so hard your whole bodies shook the bed. his cock was already hard, so fucking hard, that the outline nudged your thigh, making you both gasp and fumble your kiss, like you were still those drunk kids again, trying to get away with something in the dark, except now he was this, everything and more—and you were…well, you were everything better than before, your intentions more sure than ever, body and curves more appetizing, and he was eating it up, hands greedy on your tits, squeezing, then thumbing your nipples until you shuddered, until your chest was burning for more.

“Since when…” he breathed, eyes awestruck and hungry, as your bra came off, his focus now on the boobs spilling out, “Damn—love, when did you get these?” You could tell he was already obsessed, the second his mouth started drowning in your cleavage, and before long, his tongue and teeth were making a moaning mess of your tits, as your body arched greedily to meet his, like every nerve in your body was coming alive again, like fucking fireworks bursting through your body, and you needed more, needed his hands everywhere, needed his dick—

“Wait—Harry, I think you’re bigger, like I don’t remember you being this big,” you blurted, as your hand gripped around the girth of his dick, thoroughly shocked as you took note of his size. You wanted to see what you were dealing with, wanted to remember, and he groaned, proud, already jutting his hips forward like he was starved for your touch—and god, maybe you should have been embarrassed by how wet you were, how desperate your body had become for his, but it was impossible to feel anything but triumph, knowing you had gotten him here, and as you took him in your hand, reveling in the weight and heat of him, you stroked his thick cock, watching as his eyes fluttered and his jaw tensed, like he couldn’t believe how easily you were handling him. 

“Christ,” he rasped, voice ragged as your hand glided down his dick softly, then back up, “You really don’t remember taking this much, darling? Fuck—that feels so good already. Do you think you’ll be able to take me? You were always one for a challenge…”

Nervous, you swallowed hard, shaking your head, as you both giggled like idiots trying to laugh off the nerves, and your laughter grew muffled as you kissed down his chest, letting your tongue trail over some of the new tattoos—the salt of his body washing over your taste buds. That’s when you decided to take charge, not hesitating for another second, and you climbed on top, straddling him, your wet pussy hitting his pulsing dick as it pulsed against your soaked entrance—the gesture filthy and natural, as if you had never been apart at all.

Except now he was thicker and throbbing in your hand as you guided him in, your whole body needy for it, deprived in a way that nostalgia couldn’t touch. Because you wanted it so bad, and when you sank down on the tip, the stretch snatched the breath from your lungs, the pure shock of it. Because you were already feeling it in that first insatiable drag, the way his dick was splitting you open, ready to stretch and fill you—and god, it was even better than before, you thought, as his groan ran through your body and you trembled, desperate to take all of him—inch by slow stretching inch, the burn so sweet, so painful it punched right through your fucking chest, and all you could say was, “Fuck, Harry, you’re huge… I can’t believe this dick was ever inside me…” every word rolling out on a moan, as your head tilted to the ceiling, trying to find focus through all the sensations, and your eyes flitted closed, letting yourself get lost in it for a second.

When your eyes finally met his again, he was staring, completely bewitched, both hands braced on your hips as you worked him deeper, then they moved to your breast as they spilled into his large palms, his grasp firm, his cheeks already flushed—everything so much more than last time—as compliment after compliment rolled off his british tongue—sweet, filthy praises that only spurred you on, as his thumbs teased your nipples, and you rocked your hips, gasping out, “You gonna break me open, yeah? You know no one’s ever fucked me like you…I want you to make this pussy remember.”

Without warning, he bucked his hips up, forcing his dick completely inside you, making you cry out his name—a single word puncturing every motion you both were making in unison, as your hips ground down against him, ready to take your pleasure. “Harry…baby, fuck, it’s—I don’t even know how to—I mean shit, it’s already so good…” and then you were laughing through the pain and pleasure, your desperation possibly awkward, but honest, because your past selves had never been this vocal—this part was new and it only seem to amplify everything that was already happening inside you—all the emotions, all the confusion, all of the fucking disire that had never left your bones, and here was his voice awakening it all as he said—

“I want you to take it all—you’re taking this dick so good—such a fucking good girl. Just like that…” 

Your entire body was singing with pleasure, aching with a want to have it all, torn with the shock of missing something so good, because Jesus, you were barely moving, Yet, the whole of him was slowly stretching you open with every difficult thrust, making your cunt clench at every drag, the tension making your jaw tight as the sensation moved through you, the feeling so delectable and bright, that you knew there was no way of playing it cool, nor did you want to, fuck, you wanted him to know. 

So you kept telling him, “God, I need you to break me in, I swear, nothing has felt this good since you,” and Harry leaned up then, rasping a light laugh into your ear, his body curving under your hands, and they slid up to his shoulders, and you circled your arms around his neck, as he thrusted uppward, forcing his dick deeper, and he wrapped his arms around your middle, pressing your body to his—and in one smooth motion he was pulling you down hard to meet his next thrust, your bodies quickly finding a rhythmn each time he slammed into you.

 “Good—fuck—want you to remember—want you to feel it for days—god, baby, you look so fucking hot taking this dick, love.

That’s when the pace picked up, as that familiar tingle climbed up your spine, that knot steadily coiling deep in your belly, because everything about this moment, about him, about this—about the two of you was already bringing you to that edge, and you weren’t sure how long you would last if you both kept saying exactly what you wanted, taking each other exactly like you had dreamed about if this moment were to come to fruition and here it was, perfect—because it had been so long since you had been this turned on. 

“Love, this pussy is so tight for me… I don’t know how long I’ll last.” He told you, pushing the words into your shoulder, as your fingers tangled in his long hair. 

You moaned out a laugh, taking his next thrust up like a champion, his dick so deep it had you gritting your teeth, and the pleasure ripped through you like a bolt of lightening, making you cling to him with all your might, already frantic not to lose hold of him, as your pussy flexed on instinct with each push and pull, taking him each time his hips rolled back up, and he had to fight against the tightness of your cunt. It was insane, pure insanity, just how good it was. You swore you were seeing stars, real, actual, spinning stardust, bursting behind your eyes from the stunning wonderment of it all—because it was all so fucking much, this frenzied wanting and the way he was forcing himself inside you, or the way you met him in return, your pussy wet and sliding, the friction dizzy as you raked your nails across his skin for more. 

Skin, and sweat was all you knew in those moments, your entire body pleading with every gasp for air, with every whimpered moan begging for every inch he gave, moving your hips each time to meet his, always trying to steal another, taunting him with dirty, shameless whining, “God, baby, just like that, I need it, fuck me like you used to, til’ I can’t think straight…I’m yours.” 

And you meant it; meant every plea that you forced with a sense of urgency—the need raw and animalistic, the stretch so addictive your body seemed to vibrate with the growing pride of taking it, the pleasure, because nothing had ever matched this, not even close. Because you had craved him, had yearned for his praises, had even begged the universe at one point for the hot, filthy string of them—for his large hands to be touching you just like this, for his mouth to be bruising your tits, leaving marks that would echo the same sentiment as the words “I was here.” To be so enveloped in him that you didn’t know where your body ended, and his began.

That was all it took, because then you were there, right at the ledge, as the feeling of your encroaching climax swelled so deep that your whole body went rigid, “Harry don’t stop, please—fuck—”

“I’m going to—” You bellowed out.

“Fuck, me too—” 

“Yes! Please, just like that—please!” You screamed.

The second the final plea flew from your mouth, he slammed you down on his dick to meet his bucking thrust up, forcing his name from your mouth and, holy fuck, the crest that swormed your body was so unadulterated, and so stupidly earth shattering—that you cried out for him, your voice breaking right as the rush of pleasure flooded your entire body, your rushing orgasm sharper than any you could remember, ragged and ripping through you unrestrained, as you lost your mind with it—so good you thought you might cry.

It was consuming you whole, everything in you seizing and fluttering, as your body clenched tight around his cock, milking it, every inch of you selfish for everything he had. As he moaned your name, loud and deep, fighting to hold on, you felt it—felt the last frantic roll of his hips, the way his grip ached over your skin as his fingers dug into your flesh. One last time was all it took for him, as he fucked up into your dripping pussy, and he broke. 

It was all happening so fast, that momentary second of silence, of realization, of coming undone—only the sound of your hard breaths, eyes locked, as Harry spilled inside you, forcing himself deeper, only amplifying the stretch—the heat and the slick all crashing together, and this time, when he tried to move, you scraped your nails down his arms and said, “Don’t pull out of me yet…not unless you plan on fucking me again,” and the hoarseness in your voice made his pupils blow wide, as his own pleasure seized through him, your cunt still fluttering so tight around his cock that his next moan was nothing but a broken, feral sound. 

You couldn’t let him go, and even though you were partly joking, you just kept clinging to him, taking all of it, slowly rocking your hips as he stilled beneath you, your body still moving with every intent to wring out every last drop of pleasure the universe would let you take—and then he was stilling your hips, sinking his face into your neck as your arms wrapped around him tighter.

 His dick was still pulsing inside you when he pushed his lips to your neck, and there was something about it, a tenderness that had always felt so fragile in the past. This was the moment when you would always hold your breath, wishing that it would last forever, this feeling of being one—that delicate moment that always seemed to blur the line between friend and lover, but you were old enough now to know he was never just your friend, that what you had was never casual, and while it still felt delicate, you knew better, and you could feel the words budding at the knot forming in your throat.

“Harry…” You forced, feeling the sting of tears already burning in your eyes.

“Yeah…” he whispered into the shell of your ear, and as his reply lingered in the silence, you thought for a second that you could swallow it, fight what was pressing at your chest, that you could breathe around the stinging tightness building inside you, because as you were crashing back to earth with him—skin to sweat-slick skin, still full of his cock, your own pulse pounding fearfully in your ears. You just sat there, not sure if you could trust your own voice, or if you could keep yourself from weeping all over him, right then and there—if it was even okay for you to say what you wanted, now that the madness of nostalgia was over. 

All you could do was hold him tighter, press your cheek to his shoulder, letting his heartbeat race against yours, trying to find the strength. But the sadness of losing him all over again was slowly creeping in as if you were going to let it steal this moment—Because it was scary, because every fiber of your being had missed him, had needed him, just like this, and for the first time in forever, you felt like you had your whole self back again—like you finally had hold of the pieces you had splintered off and let go, three years ago.

But then he shifted beneath you, wrapping you up tighter, tucking you in close, his jaw rough with stubble as he pressed a hard kiss to your temple, so soft it almost didn’t feel real, and you couldn’t hold it in anymore, the words clawing like wildfire up your throat, “Harry, I missed you,” you blurted, and you flinched, hating how desperate and messy it sounded, but then he nodded, and his grip tightened, so fucking tight, like maybe if he just gripped you tight enough he could anchor you both to this very minute if he tried.

“I’ve missed you, too,” he whispered, and it was the first time you heard his voice like that, truly devastated, bleeding with an honesty that felt safe, that felt completely sure, not holding anything back, like he was admitting something he hadn’t even let himself feel until he said it out loud. 

Fuck, you wanted to hold that feeling forever, wanted to crawl inside it, wanted to wrap yourself inside every word, and bury every old ache in that sound. Yet, it still wasn’t enough, and as your body shook against his, you lifted your eyes to his and said, “No, I mean, I really fucking missed you—not just the sex, not just the way this feels, but you, all of it, your dumb jokes… the way you always listened to my silly stories, and—I don’t know, you were my best friend, you know? I guess I always thought the friendship would outweigh everything else.”

His eyes widened then, and you saw it, all the hurt, all the longing, yet the softness of the past was still there, and he shook his head, his lips barely moving, “I’m sorry,” he breathed, as the apology vibrated against your chest, “I’m sorry I just stopped calling, or texting, or I don’t know… everything. I thought it would be easier that way, you know, less painful…”

“Yeah, well,” you huffed, half-laughing through the ache of the truth, “I think it just made it even worse, like not hearing your voice, not having the friend anymore. I mean, the hookups were fun, but then it got confusing, and then I just wanted my friend back, and god, I don’t know, then I realized maybe all I really wanted was all of you… like, I wanted to be yours. I wanted you to want me, because maybe if I would have been yours, you would have been too afraid to let me go… to afraid to lose me.”

And as the final words left your mouth, you realized that you had just told him everything you had been pressing to say since the day he left. For a minute, there was just your shared breaths, your hearts thumping wild and exposed, your pussy still trying to cling to him, your bodies fused tighter than you ever thought possible.

But even in his lack of words, you found yourself questioning everything, wondering if you were the only one who ever wondered. So you let it go, let it slip right out of your mouth before you lost the nerve, “Did you ever think we could have been more?” 

As soon as it left your lips, the question hung there in the silence, your truths no longer disguised, these fragile, delicate morsels, cracking open in the space between you like the crumbs you were always desperate to gather in the past, the tears welling in your eyes, the feeling utterly ridiculous, yet you couldn’t stop the hurt swelling beneath your ribs, all the years of never asking, never saying, all the goddamn aching that had split you open over and over, all because you had been so sure that he could never want this as much as you did.

Then, maybe, just for a second, you wanted to take it back, wanted to bury it somewhere he would never find it again, tell him you were young and dumb then, tell him you didn’t know what you were talking about. But before you could even move, he was already reaching for your face, those big hands so gentle, thumbs brushing the tears away, as his voice cracked, and he finally answered— 

“I’m sorry I hurt you like that, because god, love, you have no idea how much I’ve thought of you… and of us. All the time, I swear.” And that’s when you lost it, that dam of fear breaking wide, and all you could do was cry, blinking through the tears at this boy who used to know everything about you, and at the man who was holding you like he never wanted to let you go.

“You did?” You asked, barely able to get the words out, every syllable trembling, as you searched his face for any sign that he was bluffing, that this wasn’t real, that you hadn’t just poured out your entire fucking soul and doomed yourself to become a punchline.

But no, you knew that wouldn’t happen, because he was watching you, now, with those sea-glass eyes, his stare unwavering, his gaze so fucking sincere it made everything hurt more, “I did for a really long time…” and his words were so quiet you had to guide his face to your ear, then you hugged your arms around his neck, squeezing him flush to your body, as your body trembled with silent sobs—and you sat there, vibrating with the kind of hope you had sworn off years ago, the tears only a silent relief to everything unfolding.

 You sniffled, lifting your mouth to his ear, your voice taking on that same needy plea from earlier, “And now?” You asked, knowing you had nothing else to lose.

And you listened as Harry took a deep breath, chest slowly rising and falling against your heated skin, your cheeks warming, the two of you still wrapped up in one another, as the naked truth plummeted through the pit of your stomach, knowing that you were literally connected in every way possible—two desperate hearts still beating as one, and yet somehow, there was still room for that fucking distance that you both had been holding onto, right up until that very second, then you heard him clear his throat—

“Now? I think I’d really like to stick around and try… if that’s okay with you?” he finally breathed. And you could see the terror on his face, as if he had never meant anything more, as if you were dangling him over the same cliff he had unknowingly kept you on for years, and god, wasn’t that the most beautiful, frightening thing about all of this? To have taken any risk at all?

And as you pulled back, eyes roaming over his face, taking in this beautiful man, you thought, there’s no one else you would rather risk this terrifying leap of faith with, and you leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his, while gripping a handful of hair at the nape of his neck, “Harry… there’s nothing I want more…and the truth is…I think I’m in love with you…” you confessed, knowing there would be no going back.

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She turns her attention back to the book, moving onto the next chapter just as she notices a figure approaching her table, then the chair across her scrapes the floor. Y/N looks up, but she already knows who it’s going to be.

“Really?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. “All these empty tables, and you pick this one?”

Harry grins, shrugging, and drops his backpack onto the floor. 

“Closest to the history section,” he says smoothly, nodding toward the shelves right next to her. “I like to minimize steps. Efficiency.”

“What a sports man,” she grumbles, looking down at her notebook. “Can’t walk an extra three meters.”

“Need to save my energy for practice,” he says in all seriousness as he sits. “And this table has the best view,” he then adds, gesturing towards the window, but Y/N just rolls her eyes, that breaks his act, a pleased smile stretching across his face as he grabs his own notebook from his backpack. And Y/N is bracing herself to try her best to ignore his presence. 

Which is quite hard. Harry Styles is anything but ignorable. He is tall, cheeky, popular and liked by practically everyone. Captain of the football team, because of course he needs to be the cliché he started to turn into in high school. Y/N witnessed it all, they were classmates all through high school and somewhere along their journey of turning from teens to young adults, they clashed. Maybe it’s because all they kept hearing growing up was comparison.

Y/N, let loose a little, be more fun, like Harry.

Harry, you should learn to be more organized from Y/N.

Y/N, sports are just as important as good grades, look at Harry! He is doing them both!

Harry, you need to decide where your head is at. Like Y/N did.

They practically set them up to be sworn enemies without any real confrontation and when they found out they would be coming to the same college, they carried their dynamic with themselves. 

For a little while they tolerate each other’s presence, but then slowly and not surprisingly, Harry starts to get on Y/N’s nerves. With the way he clicks his pen, taps on the table, turns the pages or keeps clearing his throat when he obviously doesn’t have to. 

“Are you on crack or something?” she whispers at him when he has changed his position for the millionth time, making her lose her train of thoughts.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Am I bothering you?” he asks, pretending to be concerned. Y/N narrows her eyes at him, her whisper sharper than she intends.

“Yeah. Yeah, you are.”

Harry leans back, hands behind his head, looking completely innocent or at least he’s selling it perfectly. 

“Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “I had no idea I was such a menace. Should I stop breathing too?”

She gives him a not at all friendly smile.

“Thanks for suggesting. That would be great.”

He grins, unbothered, and reaches over to tap the edge of her notebook with a finger, just enough to make confused about what he is onto.

“I’m actually just keeping you alert so you don’t fall asleep on your neat little notebook.”

“How noble of you,” she frowns and then goes back to reading or at least pretending, because it’s hard to focus when Harry is still in his peripheral vision, slowly crawling into her thoughts. 

His phone buzzes and Y/N’s gaze flicks up as he pulls it out of his pocket and reads a text. Then he closes the book in front of him and stands from the table.

“That was a short study session,” she mumbles under her breath. Harry puts the book back on the shelf, grabbing his backpack from the floor.

“Aw, are you worried about my grades?” He slings his backpack over his shoulder, looking down at her with a pleased smirk that just irks her even more. “Don’t worry. I’m still good, better than you.”

“You wish,” she scoffs.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Y/N,” he chuckles and then walks away before she could retort. 

***

By the end of September the weather gradually cooled down and the true autumn vibes have settled over the campus. It’s a gloomy Thursday morning when Y/N is sitting in the lecture hall, her eyes roaming over her notes from last week. 

Harry strolls in two minutes before class starts, casual as ever, a grin thrown to someone across the room. He drops into the seat beside Y/N like he owns it. Even though they don’t share a major, they ended up taking the same psychology class for extra credit.

“Really?” she mutters, not even looking at him. “You couldn’t sit literally anywhere else?”

“This is a sweet spot,” he replies easily, pulling out his notebook. “Close enough to hear, far enough not to look desperate.” 

“Have you missed all the other open seats in the row?”

“Oh, I don’t miss anything, ever,” he grins at her just when the professor walks in and the lecture starts. 

They are actually interested in Professor Gautier’s class, so their bickering is paused and they both give their undivided attention to today’s topic.

“So, who can explain the significance of this concept in real-world applications?” the professor questions.

Y/N’s hand shoots up immediately. But at the exact same moment, Harry answers out loud without waiting to be called on.

“It’s about adaptability,” he says. “Theory is useless unless you can apply it to actual situations.”

“Yes, exactly,” the professor nods. 

“You didn’t even raise your hand,” Y/N complains quietly.

“Didn’t need to.” He smirks. “Got the answer right though, didn’t I?”

“Barely,” she snaps, raising her hand again. “Actually, if you look at it from a structural perspective–”

And just like that, they’re in a back-and-forth game again, building on and undermining each other’s points while the rest of the class watches in amusement.

Finally, the professor cuts in with a chuckle. 

“Well, I think we’ve just witnessed a live debate. Thank you both. Perhaps I should pair you together next time. It seems you bring… passion out of each other in arguments.”

The class laughs. Y/N wants to sink into the floor but Harry just leans back in his chair, satisfied, whispering: “See? We make a great team.”

“Over my dead body,” she hisses back.

Harry chuckles at how easily he can get a rise out of her. Then the class continues and Y/N ignores his presence until it’s over. She packs her stuff, feeling his amused gaze on her and then marches out of the room without even sparing him a look. 

***

The house is packed, music pounding through the walls, the smell of beer and sweat in the air. Y/N is already regretting saying yes the moment she squeezes through the front door.

“How long are you planning to stay?” she asks her roommate, Tilda, who's been bugging her for weeks now to join her for a party, but Y/N did everything she could to get her out of it, until yesterday when Tilda practically cornered her and forced her to say she would come. 

“We barely just got here. Relax, try to enjoy it!”

“I don’t know if you noticed, but this is not my style of relaxation.”

“Okay then we’ll do your version tomorrow, but today, we are letting loose!”

Unwillingly, but she tries her best to at least give it a go, not wanting to be the miserable party pooper. They grab a drink, look around, meet up with people they know from different classes and lectures and slowly Y/N eases into the whole party thing. 

Then her peace is flipped over by Harry.

He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, red cup in hand, surrounded by people who are laughing at something one of his friends just said. When his eyes land on her, his grin shifts, sharp and smug, like he’s been handed a gift. He pushes through the crowd easily, towering over everyone until he’s right in front of her. 

“Well, this is a surprise,” he says, voice raised just enough to be heard over the music. “Did someone lose a bet?”

Y/N crosses her arms over her chest. 

“I don’t need a bet to come to a party,” she scoffs, keeping the tiny detail to herself that she was practically dragged here by Tilda.

“Ah, or maybe you just wanted to see me!” His grin widens even more.

“Not everything has to be about you.”

“But when it comes to you, I know your world revolves around me. It’s okay, I get it that you want to be like me, academically and athletically gifted, I’m the whole package.”

“A package I want to return to the sender,” she grimaces at him, but her retort just makes him laugh. 

“Someone is in a bitter mood. I would bet a great amount that you’ll be leaving in an hour.”

“Maybe you should go to therapy about your gambling addiction. And that’s not happening. I’m here to have fun.”

“I don’t think you can do that. Not here, in a frat party,” he keeps teasing her, taking a sip from his drink. 

“Really? You must know me so well then,” she gives him a sharp look. “Want to actually bet?” she suddenly challenges him and that brings a glint into his eyes.

“Alright, what do you have in your mind?”

“I bet you I will stay for at least two hours and actually let loose.”

“Make it three.”

“Okay, then three,” she agrees with an eyeroll.

“What does the winner get?” he cocks his head to the side. Y/N thinks to herself for a moment before answering. 

“If I win you leave me alone at Professor Gautier’s lecture for the rest of the semester. You can’t sit next to me, can’t talk to me.”

Harry smirks, leaning closer so she has to tilt her chin up to keep eye contact. 

“Fine. And when I win–”

“You mean if,” she cuts in.

“When,” he repeats firmly, eyes glinting, “you have to come to every party I go to for the rest of the semester.”

Y/N scoffs, but her pulse jumps, she wasn’t expecting that. 

“Why would you want that?”

Harry shrugs. “Guess I just want to make you suffer.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Scared you’ll lose?” His grin turns mischievous, knowing he’s cornered her.

She narrows her eyes. “I’m not scared of you, Styles.”

“Then it’s settled.” He clinks his red cup lightly against hers like they’ve just signed a contract, before backing away into the crowd, still smirking.

Y/N glares at his retreating figure, the crowd swallowing him back up like he owns the place. She takes a long sip of her drink, muttering under her breath, “Arrogant son of a bitch.”

But her heart is racing faster than it should be.

Three hours. That’s all she has to last and then she can rub it into Harry’s face until the end of time. 

It’s been maybe forty minutes, though it feels like an eternity of shouting over music, dodging spilled drinks, and politely refusing to play beer pong, when Y/N feels a presence at her side. 

“Still alive?” Harry’s voice cuts through the noise, smooth and teasing. He leans against the wall next to her, casual in that way that makes her want to roll her eyes and… maybe stare a little too long.

“I’m thriving, actually,” she shoots back, tightening her grip on her cup. “You’re going to lose this bet. I can already see you sitting across the room in class.”

Harry’s lips curl into a smirk as his eyes scan her in a way that makes her shift uncomfortably. 

“You call standing in the corner thriving? Hate to break it to you, but you look about two seconds from bolting.”

“I’m just having a break, thinking about whether I should play beer pong or join the never have I ever circle.”

She works hard not to sound sarcastic, she really does, but she is not fooling Harry.

“Really? Because I think I heard them needing one more person for the next beer pong match. Come on, you can join them!”

Her eyes widen and she replies out of instinct. “Absolutely not.”

Harry raises a brow, his grin spreading slow and wicked. 

“What happened to letting loose? You’re already halfway to losing, sweetheart.”

“I’m not your sweetheart.”

“Fine. Darling. Take your pick,” he teases, and when she opens her mouth to snap back, he suddenly takes her hand before she can protest.

“Harry–” she hisses, but he’s already steering her through the crowd toward the beer pong table.

“Relax,” he says over his shoulder, fully unfazed by the glares from people they squeeze past. “You might even be good at it. All that precision you’ve got from underlining every single word in your textbooks…”

“I do not underline every word.”

“Sure,” he smirks, stopping at the table and nodding at the guys waiting to start. “Got you a partner.”

The group cheers, and before Y/N could object, someone shoves a ping pong ball into her hand. Harry leans down, his mouth just inches from her ear.

“Show me what you’ve got, Darling.”

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” she narrows her eyes at him, giving him a sharp look over her shoulder.

“Maybe,” he says simply, leaning back with that infuriating grin.

And with that, he steps aside, folding his arms to watch her like it’s the most entertaining thing he’s seen all night.

Y/N narrows her eyes at the table of red cups lined up like little soldiers. She’s never touched a beer pong ball in her life, but she refuses to let Harry see her squirm.

She takes aim, tongue poking through her lips in concentration, and lets the ball fly. It lands cleanly in the very first cup.

The table erupts with cheers, and Harry’s brows shoot up in mock surprise, while Y/N is actually shocked she made it with her first throw.

“You’re a natural, Y/N,” he teases her. She smirks with a shrug.

“Beginner’s luck.”

The game goes on, and to her own shock, she’s not terrible. Every miss makes her groan and every hit earns her a triumphant grin. Each time her team loses a round, she takes her turn drinking the foamy beer. It’s not good, kinda lukewarm, tastes cheap but after the second cup she can feel the effect.

By the fourth round, she’s laughing, genuinely laughing, shoulders looser than they’ve been in weeks. Her head is spinning just a little, but it actually feels nice. 

Harry, of course, doesn’t miss a thing. He leans against the table, arms crossed, watching her like she’s a puzzle finally clicking into place. 

“Look at you,” he says, grinning. “Didn’t think I’d see the day when Y/N Y/L/N is getting drunk at a frat party and actually enjoys it.”

“Shut up,” she laughs, brushing past him to retrieve a ball. “I’m still winning this bet.”

“Sure you are,” he chuckles softly.

Y/N and her partner end up winning the game. Following a bathroom break she reunites with Tilda, who welcomes this loosened up, carefree version of Y/N and the two of them join a bigger group outside. 

Next time Y/N checks her phone she almost chokes on her drink. Three hours. Exactly three hours.

She did it.

She instantly rushes inside and pushes through the crowd, looking for Harry. She finds him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with some of his teammates. He looks effortlessly at home here, tall and commanding, but when his eyes flick across the room and land on her, his grin shifts. Turns sharper, like it was meant only for her.

She squares her shoulders and marches over, ignoring the flutter in her chest.

“Three hours,” she declares, holding her phone up like it’s evidence in a courtroom. “I win.”

Harry takes one look at her phone, then at her flushed face.

“Hm, you’re right.”

“Yes,” she says firmly, even though her voice wavers just a bit. “I stayed, I had fun, I even played beer pong–”

“And laughed,” he cuts in smoothly, stepping closer. “Don’t forget that part.” She glares at him, but ignores his comment.

“So, we’re done, right?”

He tilts his head, that infuriating smirk back in place.

“The deal was you let loose. You sure you weren’t just… pretending to prove me wrong?”

Her jaw drops. “Are you seriously trying to cheat your way out of this?”

“Not at all.” His voice dips lower. “I just want you to admit you had a good time. Otherwise I win and then I can enjoy your company at every party until the end of the semester.”

“You’re being unfair,” she argues, heat crawling up her neck. Maybe it’s from the alcohol, maybe it’s from Harry’s closeness, she can’t tell.

“It’s okay, you can admit you actually want me to win so you can spend more time with me.”

“You’re delusional,” she fires back. “Why would I ever want that?”

Harry just grins, unbothered. “Because deep down, you like me.”

She lets out a sharp laugh, a little too high-pitched to be convincing.

“I tolerate you. Barely. Don’t twist that into some kind of fantasy where I’m desperate to hang out with you.”

“Mm.” He leans back slightly, sipping his drink, eyes still fixed on her. “So you stayed three whole hours at a frat party, putting up with the crowd, the noise, the drunk people, and it had nothing to do with me.”

“Exactly,” she says quickly. Maybe too quickly. “I can have fun without you, Styles.”

“Then why are you so red right now?” he teases, leaning in again, his grin straight up devilish.

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out and that just gets her even more flustered.

“You’re an asshole,” is all she says before turning around and marching through the people, towards the front door. 

She doesn’t have to stay any longer. She doesn’t want to. Not if Harry will just keep making her feel uncomfortable. 

“Y/N, wait!”

She’s halfway down the front steps when she hears him call out behind her. She doesn’t stop, but his longer strides catch up easily.

“Go away, Harry.”

“Come on,” he says, a little out of breath as he moves in front of her, blocking her path. The cocky grin is gone now, replaced by something softer. “I didn’t mean to push too far.”

She crosses her arms, staring him down. “You always push too far.”

He exhales, running a hand through his hair, frustration flashing across his face.

“Alright, fine. Maybe I do. But that’s because…” He hesitates, then looks at her, really looks at her. “Because we have… something. You feel it too, don’t even try to deny it.”

Her stomach flips violently, but she scoffs, stepping to the side.

“You are out of your mind. There’s nothing between us except mutual annoyance.”

Harry shifts, moving with her, refusing to let her dodge the conversation. His voice lowers, more serious than she’s ever heard from him.

“If that’s true, then why do we always end up here? Why do you always get so worked up when I tease you? Why do you even care what I think?”

“I don’t!” she snaps, though the heat rising in her chest betrays her.

His eyes linger on her, searching, almost pleading for her to admit it. But when she doesn’t, when she just presses her lips together stubbornly, he huffs out a humorless laugh and steps back.

“Fine,” he says, jaw tightening. “Keep lying to yourself.”

And with that, he turns and walks back toward the party, leaving Y/N standing in the cool night air, pulse racing, his words echoing in her head long after he disappears inside.

***

Harry has lost his mind. Y/N is sure of that.

Why would he ever think they have anything between them? That is absolutely ridiculous. They are sworn enemies. They hate each other, with passion, have always hated each other. 

There’s no other explanation to what he said other than that he is going crazy.

She is lying in her bed awake when Tilda arrives sometime around two am.

“Hey, you’re still up? Thought you’d already be snoring,” she jokes, kicking her shoes off as Y/N sits up.

“No, can’t sleep.”

“When did you leave?” she asks. Y/N texted her when she was already in the dorm just so she wouldn’t look for her.

“After like one, maybe?”

“That’s great! Did you have fun?”

“I guess,” Y/N shrugs. Tilda sits on the edge of her bed, examining her curiously.

“Then why do you look like you’re about to combust?”

Y/N presses her palms to her face, muffling her groan.

“Because Harry Styles is the most infuriating human being alive.”

“Ohhh.” Tilda leans forward, eyes glinting with interest. “What did he do this time? Tease you about your color-coded notes again? Try to get you to dance?”

Y/N drops her hands and glares.

“He implied that there’s… something between us.”

Tilda blinks back at her like she sees no problem at all about that.

“But… there is,” she points it out.

“No, there isn’t!” Y/N insists, grabbing a pillow and throwing it at her. Tilda catches it with a laugh. “We’ve hated each other since high school. He thrives on having the upper hand, and I–” she gestures vaguely at herself, still breathless from the memory of him standing so close “--I’m not falling for it, unlike everyone else.”

Tilda smiles at her, but it screams that she doesn’t believe her bullshit.

“You only get this worked up about him. Tell me, if it’s really just hate, why do you let him get under your skin so much?”

Y/N groans again, flopping back against her bed. 

“Because he’s everywhere! Same classes, same campus, and now apparently determined to make my life hell at parties.”

“Mmhm,” Tilda hums knowingly. “Sounds more like chemistry than hell.”

“Stop.” Y/N throws her arm over her face. “It’s not chemistry. It’s… static. Annoying, buzzing static. The kind you want to shut off.”

Tilda just grins, clearly unconvinced. “If you say so.”

But when the room falls quiet again, Y/N can’t stop hearing Harry’s voice in her head, low and certain: You feel it too, don’t even try to deny it.

She rolls over, determined to push it away. Except her racing pulse refuses to settle.

***

Next Thursday, Y/N is already settled in her usual seat, notebook open, pen lined up neatly along the margin, today’s date already written on top of the page. It’s been almost a week since the party and also since she has talked to Harry.

So when he walks in, she feels her gaze pulled towards him like he is a magnet. 

Harry strolls in just a few minutes before the start as usual. He does look at her. Briefly. His gaze brushes hers for half a second before he heads straight for a seat three rows back, nowhere near her.

Exactly like she told him to during the bet.

She should feel relieved. She should be happy he’s finally giving her space, that he’s not sitting down right beside her to annoy her by tapping his pen on his notebook or kicking her feet under the table just to throw her off. But instead, her stomach twists uncomfortably.

It sinks in a little heavier, the things he told her that she hasn’t been able to get out of her head ever since. It’s been probably the longest they went without any interaction. No smirks in the hallway, no sarcastic remarks in class, not even an accidental run-in in the library.

But this is exactly what she wanted, right? To have some peace. So then why does it feel like something’s missing? 

Her eyes flick back to him against her better judgment. He’s slouched in his chair, pen spinning lazily between his fingers, focused on anything but her. Like she doesn’t exist.

It bothers her. Way more than it should.

Y/N forces herself to look down at her notes again just when Professor Gautier walks in. 

She’s not hurt. Not at all. This is what she wanted. So then why does it feel like she’s losing a game she never agreed to play?

***

There are several coffee places on and near campus, but the one next to the pilates studio is the best in Y/N’s opinion. Or maybe she is just biased, because after a killer class she likes to treat herself to a coffee and the place next door is the closest. It has become her Sunday ritual to attend the ten am class and then grab the coffee of the week from Chestnut Corner and either sit outside if the weather is nice enough or read a little inside before heading home. 

By now she is a regular, so when she strolls in, wearing yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt, the barista, Alex is greeting him with a smile while already making her order. 

“How was class?” he asks her as she walks up to the counter.

“Tiring, but good,” she chuckles. “What’s this week’s drink?” she asks, peering over the counter so she could see what he puts into it.

“Pumpkin Chai Cappuccino,” Alex announces as he places the mug in front of her.

“Wow, this smells amazing,” she hums as she taps her phone on the terminal, then digs into her bag and grabs a bit of change, dropping it into the tip jar.

“Reserved a table for you outside,” Alex nods at her with a warm smile.

“Thank you,” she returns the smile and taking her drink she heads outside. 

It’s a warm noon, a little windy, but not too much, it’s even nice after sweating for an entire hour in class. She settles by the table Alex claimed as hers, rolls the sleeves of her sweatshirt up and just enjoys the sunshine while sipping on her drink, mentally trying to note what else she needs to get done today. 

She is halfway done with her drink when Alex appears, wiping his hands on his apron.

“Mind if I sit for a sec?” he asks, already pulling out the chair opposite her.

“Sure,” she says with a shrug, though it surprises her. Alex has always been nice, but he usually just sticks to his role behind the counter.

“So,” he leans forward, elbows on the table, “I was thinking… You come here every Sunday, and we always talk a little, but maybe we should actually hang out? Dinner sometime?”

Y/N blinks, caught off guard, her fingers tightening around the warm mug. Alex is cute, charming, definitely the type plenty of girls would say yes to without hesitation. She opens her mouth, still trying to decide what’s about to come out, when Alex spots someone approaching somewhere behind her, so he nods their way.

“Hi there! I’ll be inside in a minute.”

Y/N turns and sees Harry walking up to the café, he is in sweats, hair damp, he is carrying a big sports bag so he must be coming from practice. Their eyes meet for a second and while her breath hitches, he appears completely unbothered and neutral about her presence. 

“It’s alright, I’m in no rush. What’s up?” he asks, stopping by the table.

“Just trying to chat Y/N up,” Alex chuckles. “Asked her out to dinner.”

“Huh, that’s nice,” is all he says, but he doesn’t even look at her. That annoys her. His reaction and the lack of interest on his face. 

“I would love to go out with you,” she then says, maybe a little too enthusiastically, but Alex’s face brightens at her answer.

“Really? That’s great! How about Wednesday?”

“Sure, that’s great,” she nods and keeps glancing at Harry, who is now on his phone, looking like he is not even paying attention to them.

She hates how infuriating that makes her.

Alex asks for her number to work the details out over text and hands her his phone. She quickly types her number in and then gives it back to him as he stands from the table.

“Amazing. I’ll text you then. Harry, your americano is coming right up,” he points at Harry, who finally looks up from his phone, nodding.

“Thanks.”

Alex jogs back inside, practically jumping in happiness and Harry is about to head after him, but Y/N stops him suddenly.

“Wait.”

Harry pauses, one eyebrow lifting as he shifts the strap of his sports bag higher on his shoulder.

“Yeah?”

Y/N swallows, suddenly very aware of how ridiculous she must sound, but the words tumble out anyway. “That’s it? No comment, no… nothing?”

His brow furrows, like he has no idea what she’s talking about. 

“About what?”

“You just heard him ask me out.” Her voice drops, sharper than she intends. “And you’re acting like you don’t care.”

“I don’t,” he says simply, but there’s a flicker in his eyes she doesn’t miss, something quick and guarded. “Why would I? You can go out with whoever you want, Y/N.”

“Yeah but… Not even a joke?” she asks with her last sliver of hope.

Harry sighs, looks away, then back at her.

“No,” is all he says and walks inside, leaving Y/N stunned and at a loss for words. 

Her thoughts are racing and her mind is blank at the same time. She can’t decide what to think of it, of his nonchalant act, the lack of interest towards… her. 

She is still in a bit of a shock when Harry walks out with his coffee in hand. He walks straight past her and then starts walking towards the campus. Before she could even think twice, she jumps to her feet, her drink abandoned and she rushes to catch up with him.

“Styles! What was that?” she asks once she falls into steps with him. 

“What do you mean?” he asks in an even tone, taking a sip from his coffee, not looking her way.

“You’re ignoring my existence, what the Hell?”

“I’m not ignoring your existence, Y/N. I’m giving you your much wanted peace. Isn’t it what you wanted?”

“That’s not– I don’t…” 

Harry stops and finally looks at her.

“You want me to make a joke, tease you, pick a fight, because that’s safer than me actually saying what’s on my mind.” He shakes his head, a humorless laugh slipping out. “And the second I don’t play along, you freak out.”

Her heart hammers against her ribs. 

“That’s not true.”

His eyes soften, but there’s something raw there too. “Isn’t it?”

She opens her mouth, but no words come. Because deep down, she knows he’s not entirely wrong. Harry lets out a breath, his jaw flexing as he starts to turn away again. 

“Enjoy your date, Y/N.”

And before she can find her voice, he’s walking off again, leaving her standing on the sidewalk with her pulse racing and her chest aching like she’s the one who just lost a bet.

***

The restaurant Alex picks is cute, a small Italian place a few blocks from campus. Candles on every table, low music, the kind of place Y/N would usually find charming. 

Alex is… fine. He’s attentive, asks about her classes, tells her funny stories about ridiculous customer orders at the café. He’s polite, his smile soft and friendly and she keeps telling herself this is nice. Normal. What she should want.

And yet…

She laughs at one of his jokes, but even as the sound leaves her mouth, she hears Harry’s laugh echoing in her head. The way he’d lean back, eyes sparkling, like he knew he was ridiculous and dared her not to find him funny. That would make her laugh even more, enjoying the banter she complains so much about.

She shakes the thought away, takes another sip of her lemonade.

“So,” Alex says, leaning forward slightly, “are you from around here originally, or did you move for school?”

“Moved,” she answers automatically, launching into the story she’s told dozens of times. He listens, nods, asks a follow-up question. Perfect date behavior.

And still, it feels like something’s missing. Like there’s a spark she’s waiting for that never comes.

When the waiter clears their table and Alex pays, strictly refusing to let Y/N cover her half, he gives her an easy smile over the dancing flame of the candle.

I’m really glad you said yes. Been wanting to ask you for a while.”

Her stomach twists, not unpleasantly, but not the way she wants, either. She forces a smile. 

“It was nice.”

He offers to walk her to her dorm. She lets him, because it’s sweet, and when they stop at the steps, there’s a beat of silence. He shifts, looking nervous but hopeful.

“Can I… kiss you goodnight?”

Y/N hesitates for a second, but then nods at last.

The kiss is soft, a little too bland for her taste. Nice. But that’s all, it’s just nice. When they part, Alex looks pleased and she manages another smile before saying goodnight and heading inside.

The second the door closes behind her, her heart sinks. Because instead of replaying the kiss in her head, she’s thinking about a smirk, green eyes, and a voice that always manages to get under her skin.

***

Y/N slips into the library late in the afternoon, already stressed about the mountain of readings she needs to get through. She heads straight to her favorite table and just as she sets her bag down, unpacking her notebooks and pens, she spots an all too familiar figure a few tables away.

Harry is hunched over the table, curls messy, his feet gently shaking underneath the table. And he is not alone.

Y/N has seen Mila around, they had a couple of classes together last year, but she doesn’t actually know her. Only knows that she moves in the same circles as Harry, but seeing them right now, she realizes they might be closer than she thought.

Mila sits beside him, their chairs pushed close, a heavy textbook sprawled between them. They’re both leaning over it, Harry pointing something out with his pen, Mila smiling as she nods along.

Y/N doesn’t miss the way her stomach tightens.

She sits and finds the chapter she left off, but no matter how badly she tries to focus on the words in front of her, her gaze always ends up slipping over to them. 

Every time Mila leans in, Y/N’s pen stills in her hand. Every time Harry grins at something she says, heat creeps up Y/N’s neck. It’s ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. She tells herself it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t care who Harry studies with. She doesn’t care if Mila laughs at his stupid jokes, or if Harry lets her sit closer than strictly necessary.

But the tightness in her chest doesn’t budge.

At some point, Harry leans back in his chair, stretching, and his eyes flick across the room. For one split second, they land on her. Y/N freezes, like a deer caught in headlights. She expects him to smirk, or wave, or toss out some teasing remark like always. Instead, he just blinks, expression unreadable, and then turns back to Mila without a word.

It’s a knife in her stomach.

She forces her attention back to her notes, but the pen doesn’t move in her hand, she just stares ahead of her, the words blurring into one big mess. Then she hears Mila’s muffled giggle and it’s the last straw.

She packs up in a hurry, shoves everything into her bag, not even caring if she rumples the pages and then bolts towards the exit, almost tripping in her own feet. When she reaches the heavy doors of the library she stops just for a short second, eyes jumping back to him, only to find him looking at her already. 

The blandness is gone from his eyes, but she can’t read them. There’s something in them, something beyond the nonchalantness she’s been getting from him, but it’s not loud enough for her to make it out. 

She breaks her gaze away and pushes the door open, fleeing from the library that felt more like Hell this time. On her way back to the dorm she can’t stop recalling the feeling in her gut the sight of Harry and Mila caused and she always ends up with the same conclusion, one she chooses not to acknowledge just yet.

***

Y/N steps out of building D with a heavy sigh. This study session for her economy class stretched way too long, group projects where they can’t find common ground are too draining, she thinks to herself as she starts walking towards the dorm. 

On her right the doors to the gym open and Harry walks out, hair damp, drinking from his water bottle and he heads down the pavement that meets the one she is walking on. They lock eyes for a second, but she is quick to look away and set the tone for their encounter, which is going to be quiet, just like everything else between them lately.

The rain starts without warning, fat drops smacking against the pavement, then a full-on downpour. Y/N curses under her breath, pulling her bag tighter to her side as she starts jogging. Beside her, Harry does the same, his long strides catching up easily. Neither of them says a word, just racing down the pavement  until they spot the small gazebo near the fountain.

They duck under the roof at the same time, breathless, Y/N shaking the water out of her hair while Harry drops his sports bag to the ground with a thud. For a moment, the only sound is the rain hammering against the wood and concrete.

“Great,” Y/N mutters, brushing at her damp sweatshirt. “Just what I needed.”

Harry smirks, leaning against one of the posts, his curls plastered to his forehead.

“What, are you afraid of thunder?”

She shoots him a glare.  “You’re not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.” He chuckles softly, then tilts his head at her. “What are you doing out this late anyway? Thought you were the type to be in bed by ten with chamomile tea.”

“Group project study session,” she answers. “Every student’s nightmare,” she adds then quietly.

“Mm. And here I thought you ace everything school related without breaking a sweat.”

“No one is good enough to make up for others’ stupidity,” she scoffs and it actually makes Harry huff out a laugh. It throws her off for a second, it’s the most interaction they’ve had since the party and just the sound of his laugh spreads warmth in his chest.

She walks over to the small bench in the middle and sits, dropping her bag to the floor, staring out into the pouring rain that hasn’t eased at all. Harry watches her for a long moment before pushing off the post and sitting beside her, leaving just enough space for the air between them to feel charged. He leans back, stretching his legs out, the damp fabric of his sweats clinging to him. 

“Group projects really that bad?” Harry asks, playfully bumping his shoulder against hers. Y/N sighs.

“Worse. I have a guy in my group who thinks Freud is a painter.”

Harry barks out a laugh, head tipping back. “No way.”

“Yes way,” she smirks, unable to stop herself from joining his laughter. “And another girl spent half the time asking me if I could ‘just do her part too’ because she was tired.”

“Sounds like you’re carrying the whole thing.”

“Story of my life,” she mutters, but her lips are curved.

“Maybe you should let them fail.”

“That means I would have to fail as well,” she gives him a sharp, but playful look.

“Right. We can’t have that. You have a reputation to keep up” he smirks back. 

“Says the guy who is literally the popular guy with the most cliché reputation.”

Harry places a hand over his heart, faking to be hurt by her words. 

“What?! You’re saying I'm just another popular guy who will end up with crushed dreams and no achievements once he is out of school?”

“You said that, I didn’t,” she raises her eyebrows at him, but he just chuckles, shaking his head. 

“You’re so cruel, Y/N.”

“And you’re an idiot,” she retorts instantly and it feels like something was just clicked back into place.

Harry’s grin softens into something lighter, easier. 

“Maybe. But at least I’m entertaining you.”

For a beat, neither of them says anything, just listening to the rain hammering around them, the air between them warmer than it’s been in weeks. Y/N realizes her shoulders don’t feel as heavy as they did a few minutes ago.

Then Harry stands, grabbing his bag. 

“Come on, if we wait for the rain to stop completely, we’ll be here all night.”

“It’s still raining pretty heavily. You’re just gonna run for it?”

“Why not? Worst case, I catch a cold. Then you’ll feel guilty.” He flashes her a crooked grin that makes her heart squeeze unexpectedly. Before she can reply, he jogs out into the downpour, water splashing around his sneakers, curls bouncing as he disappears into the storm.

Y/N sits frozen for a moment, then bites down on a smile she can’t quite fight. For the first time in a while, she doesn’t feel like she’s losing.

***

Normally Y/N would be questioning her sanity now as she and Tilda are walking into yet another party, but she has done a lot of thinking lately so it’s not that big of a surprise she is here, not if we mention that Harry is here tonight as well.

They grab a drink, mingle a little, but Y/N keeps checking the room for one specific person. Then he finally appears.

Harry is across the room, red cup in hand, a few people orbiting around him like always. Mila leans in close to say something, her hand brushing his arm and Y/N feels a stab of something sharp and ugly in her chest. The kind of jealousy she can’t deny anymore.

Before she can overthink it, Harry’s eyes find hers. For a split second, his face goes neutral and then he smirks, like he knows exactly what she’s thinking. He doesn’t come to her right away. He lets her stew, lets her feel it, until eventually he peels away from his little circle and strolls over, curls falling into his eyes, confidence radiating off him as always.

“Well, look who made it through the door without a bet this time,” he teases her, stopping in front of her.

“Very funny,” she shoots back, though her lips twitch. “Shouldn’t you be busy entertaining your fan club? Keeping up the popular guy reputation?”

He glances back at where Mila is still standing, watching, before leaning closer to Y/N. 

“If I didn’t know you better I would think you’re jealous.”

She scoffs, even though her pulse spikes. 

“Of what? Please.”

He grins knowingly, sipping from his cup. 

“That sounded a lot like denial.” He sings that last word and that just strengthens the urge in Y/N to smile, but she bites it back at last. She narrows her eyes at him, but the heat in her cheeks betrays her. 

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late. Already did.” He tilts his head, eyes gleaming.

She feels that this is the moment when she should take a step closer, open up the door she previously shut in his face, but just when she opens her mouth someone calls out his name and he waves back at them.

“I’ll see you later. That is, if you stay longer,” he smirks at her teasingly and she just rolls her eyes at him before he disappears in the crowd.

Y/N does stay. Longer than she planned. Long enough that she’s finished her drink and is leaning against the wall in the hallway, trying to decide whether she should find Tilda or just head out, when Harry reappears out of the crowd.

“Told you I’d see you later,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Wow. A man of his word.” Her tone is dry, but the way her lips twitch gives her away.

He nods toward the back door. “Come on. Too loud in here. Let’s have some fresh air.”

She hesitates, but curiosity and the flutter in her stomach makes the decision for her. She follows him outside, where the music dulls to a distant thrum and the cool night air brushes against her skin. They find a quiet spot on the porch steps, just far enough from the crowd.

For a moment, it’s silent, except for the muffled bass inside and the faint sound of crickets. Then Harry glances sideways at her, the corners of his lips curling up.

“So, how was your date?”

Her brows knit. “What?”

“Alex.” He says it casually, but there’s a tightness in his jaw he doesn’t quite hide. “Mr. Pumpkin Chai himself. I’m guessing it went well, since you were so… enthusiastic when you said yes.”

Y/N blinks at him, then laughs softly. 

“You’re actually jealous.”

“Not jealous,” he says quickly, too quickly. “Just curious.”

“Uh-huh.” She lets the silence linger, enjoying the way his shoulders tense. “For your information, there was never a second date.”

That makes him look at her properly. “Why not?”

She shrugs, pretending to examine the rim of her cup. 

“No spark.” She simply says, then she tilts her head, watching his expression shift. “You know what that’s like, right? When you’re talking to someone and you can tell it’s just… not there.”

His eyes darken, and this time there’s no mask of indifference. He leans closer, voice dropping.

“Yeah. I know exactly what you mean.”

The air between them goes heavy, electric, like it always does. Y/N’s pulse hammers in her ears, and she knows she’s not in denial anymore, hasn’t been for a while.

“You know, if you weren’t there when he asked me out, I don’t think I would have said yes,” she admits, heat crawling up her neck as she speaks the truth without playing games.

“What?” Harry laughs in disbelief.

“I was so mad that you were acting so… distant and nonchalant, I just wanted to get a reaction out of you. Which I didn’t get,” she adds with a chuckle.

“I was fighting for my life, actually,” Harry admits, joining in on sharing the truth. 

“Really?” Y/N’s eyes widen as she turns to him. “Didn’t seem like that.”

“I was very close to turning into a mean little kid and mock him or something for asking you out. Not my proudest moment.”

“Well, none of that was showing. I’m surprised my ears were not steaming from the anger.”

They share a quiet laugh, then Y/N asks: “And what about Mila?”

Seeing Harry’s smirk she expects him to come back with some teasing, but then his features soften.

“Nothing. We’re just friends. She is actually crushing on one of my teammates, I’ve been wingmaning her.”

“Oh.”

Harry studies her, like he’s waiting for her to say something else and when she doesn’t, his lips twitch into the faintest smirk. 

“So maybe we stop wasting time pretending.”

She purses her lips, pretending to think about it, but the smile that’s tugging on the corners of her mouth gives her away.

“Hmm. I don’t know, I like this dynamic, I like roasting you.”

“Oh sweetheart, you are giving yourself way too much credit,” he barks out a laugh.

“Hey!” she protests, bumping her shoulder against him, but then Harry’s arm comes up to curl around her, keeping her close this time. Suddenly, she doesn’t feel sassy anymore, not when his gaze flickers down to her lips and hers do the same. The air has shifted quickly, her heart is pounding in her chest and when Harry leans in, she doesn’t pull back. Instead, she meets him halfway and the kiss is all heat and inevitability, the weeks of tension between them finally snapping.

All of her denial unravels as his lips move against hers, the heat of his hand sliding up to the back of her neck gives her shivers.

Y/N makes a quiet sound in her throat she didn’t mean to let slip and Harry grins against her mouth, deepening the kiss just enough to steal her breath. She fists the front of his sweatshirt, dragging him closer, like she can’t stand the idea of space between them.

When they pull apart he curls an arm around her waist, the other one moving to her legs and he pulls them until they are across his, hand resting on her thigh.

“Look at you, kissing your sworn enemy,” he teases her.

“What if I told you I was dared to?”

His face falls and she can’t hold back her laughter.

“See, I think I’m pretty good at roasting you,” she grins triumphantly as Harry realizes she was just messing with him. 

“Oh, you’re gonna pay for this.”

“Yeah?” she keeps smirking.

“Absolutely.” He nods and he is already leaning in, capturing her lips in a passionate kiss and she thinks about how this is a price she would happily pay any day. 

They met at a mutual friend’s house. Casual night. Music low, people drinking wine out of mismatched glasses, shoes kicked off at the door. She was curled up on the couch in an oversized hoodie, half-listening to a story someone was telling, when she heard the door open and that unmistakable voice carry through the hallway.

“Sorry I’m late. Got caught up.”

That was all he said. But heads turned. People smiled. One girl laughed in that too-excited-to-be-casual way.

He didn’t look famous. Not in that overdone, trying-too-hard way. Just a little tired, like he’d come from something long and wanted to be somewhere quiet. He wore a loose cream button-down and dark trousers. Nothing dramatic. But when he stepped into the room, it felt like he brought the energy down to a hush without saying a word.

Their eyes met quickly, in that casual accidental way. She looked up just as he was glancing around. He smiled. Just for a second. And then someone was pulling him into conversation.

She looked back down at her drink and told herself not to care.

“Do you know him?” her friend whispered beside her, nudging her leg.

She shook her head. “No. Why would I?”

Her friend grinned. “You will.”

She did. Later that night, after most people had cleared out, she wandered into the kitchen for water and found him there, barefoot and leaning against the counter, eating the last bite of someone’s forgotten piece of cake.

He looked up when she walked in.

“Caught me,” he said through a smile, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Bit desperate, I know.”

She opened a cabinet, searching for a glass. “It’s not desperate. It’s sugar.”

He laughed softly. “You always this nonjudgmental with cake thieves?”

She found a cup and filled it. “Depends on the thief.”

Something shifted then. The kind of pause that felt aware. Like they’d both stopped mid-thought.

“I’m Harry,” he said.

“I know.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Ah. That kind of meeting.”

She set the cup down and shrugged. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to ask for a selfie or recite your discography.”

“Shame. That was my one party trick,” he teased.

And it should have ended there. A brief chat. Polite and forgettable. But she didn’t leave. And he didn’t pretend to be tired. Instead, they talked. About stupid things at first. Cake. People at the party. The weird playlist someone had queued. Then about music. Tour life. What it meant to feel lonely in rooms full of people.

She told him she was studying creative writing and bartending to get by. He asked what she wrote. She said, “Fiction, mostly,” and he said, “That makes sense,” and didn’t explain what he meant, and she liked that.

It was two in the morning when he finally checked his phone.

“I should probably head out,” he said, but he didn’t move.

“Probably,” she agreed.

Neither of them said goodbye.

He had gotten her number from a mutual friend and texted her the next day. Said something dumb like cake’s not as good when you’re not around to make fun of me for it.

And she smiled way too hard for someone who barely knew him.

It wasn’t just that they became close.

It was the way it built slowly, in pieces that didn’t look like much from the outside. The kind of friendship that crept in quietly and then refused to leave.

It started with walks. He liked the air. She liked the silence between them. Sometimes they’d talk for hours. Sometimes they didn’t say much at all. She liked that about him. That he didn’t feel the need to fill every moment.

One night, a few weeks after they met, they passed a little used bookstore that was still open. He pulled her inside without asking. Bought a poetry collection she mentioned she liked, then forgot he’d bought it and left it in her bag. She kept it on her nightstand. Still did.

He showed up at her door when she was sick. Not just a text asking if she was okay. An actual knock. Arms full of lemon tea, cold medicine, and a Tupperware container with soup he admitted he didn’t make himself. She let him in, pale and sniffling, and he spent the whole day sitting cross-legged on her bedroom floor reading to her in a low, warm voice that scratched a little at the edges.

She fell asleep to it. When she woke up, he was asleep too, curled up beside her bed like he belonged there.

They watched movies together every Sunday he was free. That was his idea. Groceries, dinner, and two movies, no matter what city they were in. Sometimes it was over FaceTime. Sometimes he’d fly in unexpectedly. Once she looked up from stirring pasta to find him in her doorway, suitcase still in hand.

He brought her flowers when they fought. Usually something ridiculous, like sunflowers the size of her head or a tiny bouquet from the corner store wrapped in napkins. He’d say, “Can we not be stupid anymore?” and she’d nod like she hadn’t cried the night before.

He told her she was one of the only people who made him feel like himself.

She told him he made her feel seen.

And they never touched that truth directly. They never called it love. Never said the word want.

But they kept finding each other in small, undeniable ways.

When he went on tour, she flew out for a few dates. Always told people it was just for fun. He put her name on the list without asking. She stood side stage, always just out of the light, and watched him become something bigger than anyone could touch.

After the shows, he would find her. Sometimes sweaty and breathless, sometimes quiet and unsure. And she would say things like, “You were brilliant,” and he would say, “Only because you were there.”

Once, after a long stretch apart, he hugged her in the middle of an airport terminal and held her like he didn’t want to let go. She buried her face in his neck and pretended her eyes weren’t burning.

Neither of them ever crossed the line.

But they sat on top of it.

Sometimes she’d wake up thinking about the way his hand felt on her knee during long car rides. Or how his voice sounded just before he fell asleep, half whispering into the phone.

Sometimes he would look at her for too long when she laughed.

And both of them held it in. Tucked it behind careful smiles and late night calls and safe conversations.

Always almost something.

Everything between them had lived in soft moments and borrowed time, but the night of the event shifted the air, like all that quiet closeness had finally reached its edge.

The invite had come through three days earlier.

A muted notification in a group chat she barely checked anymore. The usual mix of industry people she befriend through Harry over the years. A few stylists, two photographers, a publicist who always used too many emojis. Someone had dropped a flyer for a gallery event and said it would be chill. Low pressure. A soft launch for an artist friend. Wine, art, good lighting.

She’d scrolled right past it. Saved it. Forgot about it.

Harry was the one who brought it back up.

He texted her mid-afternoon on a slow Wednesday. harry: have you seen the invite for thursday

She sat with the message for a moment, then typed back. y/n: yeah wasn’t sure if i was going

There was a small pause. Then, harry: i was thinking about it might be nice only if youre going though

She rolled her eyes but smiled. y/n: so im your deciding factor now

harry: obviously i dont want to make awkward small talk with strangers alone

harry: you could come with me

That made her fingers hesitate for just a second. Then: y/n: yeah we can meet outside

harry: perfect ill text you before i leave

The night of the event, she took longer than usual to get ready. She changed outfits twice. Sat on the edge of her bed in silence for almost ten minutes. At one point she reapplied her lip gloss and tied her hair up just to untie it again.

At 7:32, her phone lit up.

harry: on my way you ready

y/n: almost give me five

harry: you always say that

y/n: and you always wait

harry: course i do

She stepped out into the cold evening air with her coat draped over one arm. When she reached the gallery, Harry was already there. Leaning against the brick just outside the entrance, scrolling something on his phone, wearing a black coat and loose curls tucked behind one ear. He looked up as she approached.

“There she is,” he said.

“Sorry. Took a second to find parking.”

“You look good.”

“So do you.”

He opened the door for her. She stepped inside.

They didn’t walk in holding hands, but they walked in close. Their shoulders brushed once, and neither of them pulled away.

Some time had passed and the gallery was full now. Not packed, but buzzing.

The energy had shifted since they arrived. Conversations layered over each other like background noise in a film. Glasses clinked gently between fingers. The soft beat of ambient music hummed through the space. Someone near the back laughed too loudly, and a small ripple of polite curiosity passed through the room.

Y/N stood close to Harry, their shoulders nearly touching as they talked with a group gathered around a tall piece of mixed media work. She recognized a few faces from other events. People she had spoken to in dressing rooms and backstage lounges. Others she only knew through stories Harry had told in passing. The circle ebbed and flowed as people drifted in and out. Small talk about the exhibit turned into jokes about press appearances and whose plus ones had already wandered off for free drinks.

Y/N glanced at Harry now and then, always just a second too long. He looked good tonight. Relaxed. Sharp in black. His sleeves were rolled just past his wrists, the edge of a tattoo peeking out when he lifted his glass. When he laughed at something someone said, his hand landed briefly on the back of her arm. Warm. Familiar. Thoughtless.

She could still feel it after he let go.

Her friend, Addy, slid into the group beside her, holding a fresh drink. She leaned toward Y/N and said quietly, “You two always look like you’re about to disappear into a corner together.”

Y/N laughed under her breath. “We really don’t.”

Addy raised her brows. “You really do.”

Before Y/N could respond, she felt the shift.

Someone new stepped into the circle. A presence that changed the balance of the room. She turned just as a woman moved up beside Harry. Tall. Polished. Effortlessly beautiful in a way that felt practiced but natural. She wore a loose silk blouse tucked into soft denim, hair falling in easy waves over her shoulders.

“Hey,” the woman said softly as she leaned in. Her arm slid around Harry’s waist like it had done so before.

Harry’s smile widened when he saw her. “You made it.”

“Traffic was awful,” she replied. “Almost didn’t come.”

“I’m glad you did.”

The exchange only lasted seconds, but it settled heavy in Y/N’s chest.

Harry turned toward the group, his hand still resting at the woman’s back. His eyes found Y/N immediately.

“Y/N,” he said, “this is Natalie.”

There it was. The name. Clean and simple and suddenly impossible to ignore.

Natalie extended her hand with an easy smile. “Hi. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Y/N took her hand automatically. Her own smile stayed steady. “Nice to meet you.”

Harry gestured lightly between them. “We’ve been seeing each other a little. Nothing serious. Just hanging out.”

Y/N nodded once. The room felt warmer. Not uncomfortable. Just close.

“You said you didn’t want to come alone,” she said quietly. Not accusing. Just confused.

Harry tilted his head slightly. “I didn’t.”

The answer lingered between them. She did not ask the question that followed. If he did not want to come alone and she was standing right here, what did that make this?

Natalie was pulled into another conversation a moment later. Her fingers brushed Harry’s wrist as she stepped away.

Y/N smiled like nothing had shifted. “I’m going to grab another drink.”

She did not wait for him to answer.

She found Addy again near the far wall, standing in front of a large canvas washed in shades of gray and black. The title placard read Grasp. Y/N did not really look at it.

“Hey,” she said, stepping closer.

Addy glanced over. “What’s going on with your face.”

“My face.”

“You have that smiling but not actually fine look.”

Y/N let out a small laugh. “I’m fine.”

Addy did not buy it.

“Just a weird night,” Y/N added, softer.

Addy’s eyes flicked across the room, then back. “Weird because he brought you and introduced you to the girl he’s casually seeing like that was normal.”

Y/N took a slow breath. “I don’t think he knew she’d actually come.”

Addy tilted her head. “And does that make it better.”

“I don’t know,” Y/N said. “Not really.”

Addy took a sip of her drink. Her voice dropped lower. “So are you pretending it doesn’t hurt because it doesn’t, or because you wish it did.”

Y/N didn’t answer right away.

Across the room, Harry was still standing in the same spot. His drink was in one hand. The other was tucked into the front of his jacket. He wasn’t talking now. He wasn’t smiling either.

Her gaze lingered.

“I think,” she said quietly, “I stopped being able to tell the difference a while ago.”

Addy leaned her shoulder gently into Y/N’s. “Maybe he did too.”

Y/N didn’t look away from him.

She wasn’t ready to leave. But she wasn’t sure she could stay either.

Y/N stayed where she was longer than she needed to. Just enough to appear calm. She laughed softly at something Addy said, nodded along to a conversation she wasn’t really listening to, and took a sip of her drink even though it had gone warm. She wasn’t ready to move, but she could feel something inside her already beginning to retreat.

She glanced toward the front entrance. Then back to Harry.

He was still in the same spot. Still talking. Still relaxed in a way that made her stomach twist.

She turned to Addy. “I think I’m gonna head out.”

Addy raised a brow. “Already?”

“I’m not feeling great. Stomach’s off.”

Addy studied her face for a long moment. Her expression didn’t shift. She didn’t argue. She just nodded once and stepped forward to hug her.

“Text me when you get home,” she said, her voice quiet.

“I will.”

Y/N forced a small smile and gave her one last squeeze before stepping away. She took her time walking across the gallery. Her heels made soft clicks against the concrete floor. The sound seemed too loud in her ears.

Harry turned just before she reached him. Like he felt her coming.

His expression changed the second he saw her. “You leaving?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I think I’m gonna head out.”

“Everything okay?”

She gave a quiet laugh, more breath than sound. “Yeah. I just feel a little off. Like I’m coming down with something.”

He stepped in a little closer. His voice lowered. “Do you want me to walk you out?”

“No,” she said quickly, before catching herself. “It’s okay. I’ll call an Uber.”

“Y/N.” His tone had changed now. More serious. “I can come with you. At least wait with you outside.”

“I’m fine.”

His eyes searched her face like he didn’t believe her. “Let me come out. Just for a minute.”

She hesitated. Her throat tightened. Then she shook her head.

“You should stay.”

The words tasted like regret. Like the start of something she couldn’t take back.

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say more, but she stepped back before he could. Just enough space to end the conversation.

“I’ll text you when I get home,” she said gently.

Then she turned and walked away before he could offer another word.

Outside, the air hit her hard. Colder than she expected. It pressed into her chest and burned down her throat as she inhaled. She didn’t stop walking until she reached the opposite side of the street. Her fingers moved automatically as she unlocked her phone and opened the rideshare app.

Seven minutes.

She let out a shaky breath and leaned back against the brick wall, her arms folded loosely across her chest. The street was mostly quiet. A few other people passed by on the sidewalk, voices low, coats pulled tight against the chill.

She wasn’t going to look. That was the plan. Just wait for the car. Keep her eyes forward. Let the night end without adding more weight to it.

But her gaze drifted anyway.

Across the street, the gallery’s large windows spilled soft yellow light onto the sidewalk. The glass reflected streaks of city neon, but inside was still clear enough to see.

Harry was still there.

She could make out the silhouette of his profile, the slow turn of his head as he leaned in to listen to someone speak. His stance was easy, posture relaxed, one hand still holding a half-full glass. He was smiling again.

She watched as the woman stepped back into frame.

She didn’t catch what was said, but she saw the shift. The way his eyes crinkled a little. The way her fingers reached up and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, just for something to do. She leaned into him, close enough that there was no space between their hands anymore.

Y/N’s breath caught.

The woman laughed at something he said. Then lifted her hand, slow and familiar, and brushed her thumb across his jaw.

Harry didn’t flinch. Didn’t move away.

Then came the kiss.

Soft. Easy. A lean-in. Nothing dramatic. Just a small, natural press of mouths that told her more than anything else could have.

It wasn’t a beginning. It was a continuation.

He had kissed her before.

Y/N looked down at her shoes. The pavement blurred slightly beneath her.

She blinked fast, jaw tight.

The kiss didn’t last long. When they pulled apart, the woman smiled again, eyes crinkled. She said something else and rested her forehead against Harry’s chest. His hand came up and settled gently at her back.

Y/N didn’t realize how hard she was holding her phone until her fingers started to ache.

She made herself look away.

Her car was one minute away.

She took a step closer to the curb, arms still folded. She didn’t want to cry. Not here. Not over this.

She told herself it didn’t mean anything. Reminded herself that he had said casually. That he had introduced her without hesitation. That he had chosen what version of the night he wanted.

Still, it hurt.

Headlights turned the corner. Her phone buzzed.

Driver arrived.

She climbed into the back seat without glancing over her shoulder. Gave the address to the driver, voice even. Settled into the cold silence as the city lights passed through the window.

She looked down once.

Harry’s name was on her screen.

One new message.

She locked it without reading.

Not yet.

The apartment is dark when she gets home.

She toes her shoes off by the door and leaves them there. Her coat slides from her shoulders and lands over the back of the chair. The silence is louder than the gallery ever was. No music. No voices. Just the low hum of the fridge and the distant sound of traffic outside her window.

She stands there for a moment with her keys still in her hand.

Then she exhales and finally lets herself move.

She walks into the kitchen, pours a glass of water she barely drinks, and leans her hip against the counter. Her phone is still in her hand. She has not looked at it since the car pulled away.

She tells herself she can handle it now.

She unlocks the screen.

The message waits exactly where she left it.

She opens it.

Harry: did you get home safe

That is all it says.

No apology. No explanation. No mention of the woman. Just concern. Familiar. Gentle. The kind of message he has sent her a hundred times before. The kind that used to make her smile without thinking.

Her chest tightens.

She reads it again. Then once more. Like maybe the words will rearrange themselves into something else.

They do not.

She locks her phone and sets it face down on the counter.

Not because she is angry. Not because she does not care.

Because she cares too much.

She carries the glass of water into her bedroom and sets it on the nightstand untouched. She sits on the edge of the bed, then lies back without turning on the lamp. The ceiling above her disappears into shadow.

She stares at it anyway.

This is the part she has been avoiding.

She presses her lips together and lets the truth settle without arguing with it.

She loves him.

Not in the vague way she has been calling it for months. Not the easy affection. Not the comfort or familiarity or chemistry she has tried to keep it labeled as.

She loves him in the way that hurts now.

In the way that made her walk away instead of ask questions. In the way that made her watch through a window like she had already lost something.

Her throat tightens as the realization lands fully. There is no panic this time. Just clarity.

She knows exactly when it happened.

The memory comes without her asking for it.

It was a Tuesday. Ordinary. Almost boring.

She had been sitting on the floor of his living room with her back against the couch, folding laundry that was not hers. He was in the kitchen humming quietly to himself, wearing one of those soft sweaters he always reached for when he was home. The windows were open. Late afternoon light spilled across the rug.

She remembers the sound of him setting a mug down. The clink of ceramic. The way he leaned against the counter and asked if she wanted tea without looking at her.

She had said yes.

He brought it over and handed it to her carefully, fingers warm where they brushed hers. Then he sat down on the floor beside her without thinking twice. Close enough that their knees touched. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him through denim.

They folded in silence for a while.

At some point she laughed at something stupid on her phone and showed him the screen. He leaned in, shoulder pressing against hers, head tilted so their temples touched. He smelled like clean laundry and whatever soap he kept buying in bulk.

She remembers thinking this is easy.

Not exciting. Not dramatic.

Easy.

He had rested his head against hers just for a second longer than necessary. She had closed her eyes without realizing she was doing it.

That was it.

That was the moment.

Not a kiss. Not a confession. Just the quiet understanding that this was where she wanted to be. That this was the person she wanted to come home to. That she could picture a thousand ordinary nights like this and never get tired of them.

She had never said it out loud.

She opens her eyes now in the dark bedroom and swallows hard.

She turns her head toward the nightstand where her phone rests face down. She does not reach for it.

Not yet.

She needs to sit with this first.

With the truth. With the ache. With the fact that loving him does not mean he belongs to her.

She rolls onto her side and pulls the blanket up around her shoulders. Her eyes sting but she does not cry. Not yet.

Tomorrow she might answer him.

Tonight she lets herself feel it.

She does not respond.

Not that night. Not the next morning when she wakes up groggy and reaches for her phone out of habit. Not when she sees his name still sitting there, unchanged, patient.

She reads it once more before locking her screen again.

She tells herself she just needs a day.

A day turns into two. Two turns into almost a week.

Harry sends nothing else at first. No follow up. No jokes. No casual check ins like he usually does. The absence feels deliberate, like he is trying not to crowd her. Like he is giving her space because that is what she asked for without saying it.

It makes her chest ache worse.

By day four she almost texts him something easy. something normal. a photo of her coffee. a stupid thought. anything to put things back where they belong.

She does not.

By day six she is jumpy. Every buzz of her phone makes her heart kick hard against her ribs. Every time it is not him she feels both relieved and disappointed.

On the seventh day her phone lights up while she is standing in line at the grocery store.

She knows it is him before she even looks.

She steps out of line and leans against a cold pillar near the windows. Takes a breath. Then unlocks her screen.

harry: hey

She closes her eyes for a second.

Then another message comes through.

harry: i might be overthinking but did i do something wrong

Her stomach drops.

She reads it again. Slower this time. There is no accusation in it. No defensiveness. Just him. Reaching. Careful.

Her fingers hover over the keyboard. She types three different responses and deletes all of them.

She does not want to start anything.

She wants it to stay easy. She wants to rewind to the part where he leaned against her on the couch and asked if she wanted tea. Where everything felt safe and unspoken and intact.

Another message appears.

harry: if i did im sorry

That one almost breaks her.

She exhales slowly and finally types back.

y/n: you didnt do anything wrong

There is a pause. Long enough that she imagines him staring at his phone the way she has been staring at hers all week.

Then:

harry: okay

Another pause.