Bean

please read these are your own risk. there are mature themes and lot's of violence but the writing is flawless

"Whoa, slow down,"  Niall interrupts.  "Take a breath before you hyperventilate.” Y/N inhales deeply, then exhales slowly. 

"Better?"

"No."  She sinks onto her bed, pushing aside a pile of rejected outfits.  "Niall, what if she hates me?"

"Why would she hate you? You're amazing. And Harry adores you."

"Because I'm his subordinate? Because I'm too young for him? Because I challenged her son's diagnosis in front of an entire team my first week as an intern?"

"To be fair, you were right about that diagnosis."

"Not the point!"  Y/N jumps up, pacing the room.  "This is Anne Styles we're talking about. Harry talks about her like she's a combination of Mother Teresa and Michelle Obama."

"With a touch of Gordon Ramsay, from what I've heard,"  Niall adds unhelpfully. 

"Not helping!"

 Niall sighs.  "Honey, listen to me. You're overthinking this. Just be yourself. The brilliant, kind, occasionally stubborn woman her son is crazy about,"  Niall says.  "The one who makes her son happier than anyone's seen him in years."

Y/N pauses, momentarily calmed by Niall's words. "You really think so?"

"I know so. Now, what are you wearing?"

 She glances at the disaster zone that is her bedroom.  "That's the problem. I've tried everything I own. Nothing feels right."

"What about that emerald sweater? Harry always says it brings out your eyes."

Y/N rummages through the pile, finding the cashmere sweater in question. "Maybe...with those black pants?"

"Perfect. Professional but not too formal. You look like you're meeting your boyfriend's mom, not performing a coronary bypass."

 She laughs despite herself.  "Okay. Sweater, black pants. What about jewelry?"

"The simple gold necklace your dad gave you. It's elegant without being showy."

Y/N nods, already feeling more centered.  "Right. Good call."

"Oh and bring flowers. Not a big bouquet though. Those are too formal. Just something small and thoughtful."

"Flowers. Okay."  She checks the time.  "I've got forty minutes. I can do this."

"You can absolutely do this. You cut people open for a living. Meeting a boyfriend's mother is nothing."

"She's not just any mother, though,"  Y/N says, voice softening with concern.  "She might be really sick, Niall. Harry's trying to play it cool, but I can tell he's worried."

"All the more reason for her to meet the amazing doctor her son is in love with. Because you're not just Harry's girlfriend. You're a damn good physician. If she is sick, having you there will be a comfort to both of them."

Y/N takes another deep breath, feeling her panic subside into something more manageable. "You're right. You're absolutely right."

"I usually am. It's my curse."

"Thank you, Niall. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Probably show up in scrubs with a stethoscope around your neck. Now go get dressed. And text me later. I want all the details."

 After hanging up, Y/N dresses carefully in the emerald sweater and black pants, adds the gold necklace, and applies minimal makeup. Her hair she leaves down, knowing Harry prefers it that way. On the way to Harry's apartment, she stops at a small florist and selects a modest arrangement of peonies. Standing outside Harry's door, flowers in one hand, she takes a final steadying breath before knocking. 

The door swings open almost immediately, revealing Harry in jeans and a soft gray sweater. His face lights up at the sight of her. 

"You're here,"  he says, relief evident in his voice. He leans in, pressing a quick kiss to her lips.  "Thank you for coming."

"Of course I came,"  she says, suddenly shy.  "How is she?"

 Harry's expression clouds slightly.  "Tired from the flight, but putting on a brave face. You know how mothers are." He steps back, allowing her to enter. 

"Mum's in the living room. She's been asking about you non-stop since she landed."

Y/N's eyes widen.  "She has?"

"Don't look so terrified,"  Harry says with a soft laugh, taking her hand.  "It's all good things, I promise."

 As they walk toward the living room, he leans in close, whispering:  "Just be warned, she brought photo albums. Apparently, you're going to see every embarrassing stage of my childhood."

Despite her nerves, Y/N smiles.  "Now that I'm looking forward to."

They enter the living room, where Anne Styles sits on the couch, looking through her phone. She's an elegant woman with striking blue eyes and dark hair. She looks up as they enter, and Y/N is relieved to see genuine warmth in her smile. 

"Mum,"  Harry says, his voice gentle in a way Y/N rarely hears at the hospital,  "this is Y/N."

Y/N steps forward, offering the flowers and her hand.  "It's so nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Styles. Harry talks about you all the time." Anne takes the flowers with a pleased expression, but ignores Y/N's extended hand. Instead, she stands and pulls her into a warm hug. 

"It's Anne, dear. And the pleasure is all mine."  She pulls back, keeping her hands on Y/N's shoulders as she studies her face.  "Well, my son certainly wasn't exaggerating about how beautiful you are."

Y/N blushes, casting a glance at Harry, who looks both embarrassed and pleased. 

"Mum,"  he protests half-heartedly. 

"Oh, hush,"  Anne says, guiding Y/N to sit beside her on the couch.  "If you didn't want me to embarrass you, you shouldn't have waited a year to introduce me to the woman you're always going on about."

She turns back to Y/N.  "He calls me every Sunday, you know. And for the past year, it's been 'Y/N this' and 'Y/N that.' I feel like I know you already."

Y/N's nervousness begins to fade, replaced by genuine curiosity. 

"Really? What exactly has he been saying?"

Anne's eyes twinkle mischievously.  "Well, first it was complaints. 'This new intern questioned my diagnosis, Mum. Can you believe the nerve?' Then it was reluctant admiration. 'She was right, though. Brilliant, actually.' And then..."

She pats Y/N's hand.  "Well, then it became obvious he was falling for you, even if he was too stubborn to admit it."

"Mum,"  Harry interrupts, his cheeks flushed.  "Maybe we could save the detailed analysis of my emotional journey for another time?"

Anne laughs, a warm sound that immediately reminds Y/N of Harry. 

"Fine, fine. I'll behave."  She turns back to Y/N.  "But I did bring photos, and he can't stop me from showing you those."

Harry groans, but there's no real displeasure in it. He moves to sit in the armchair across from them, watching the interaction with obvious relief. 

"Now,"  Anne says, her tone shifting slightly,  "Harry tells me you're a cardiothoracic resident. In your third year?"

"That's right,"  Y/N confirms, automatically straightening her posture.  "I'm specializing in minimally invasive valve repair."

"Fascinating field."  Anne nods approvingly.  "My late husband, Harry's father, had mitral valve issues. If the techniques had been more advanced then..."  She trails off, a shadow crossing her face. Y/N reaches out, gently touching Anne's hand. 

"I'm so sorry about your husband. Harry's told me what an amazing man he was."

 Anne smiles sadly.  "He was. And I see so much of him in Harry. The dedication and the brilliance."  She glances at her son with unmistakable pride.  "The stubbornness."

Harry clears his throat, clearly emotional but trying to hide it. "Speaking of stubbornness,"  he says, his professional tone slipping back into place,  "we should talk about your appointment tomorrow, Mum."

Anne waves a dismissive hand.  "Plenty of time for that later. Right now, I want to get to know Y/N properly."  She turns back to Y/N with a conspiratorial smile.  "Without my son hovering like I'm one of his patients."

Y/N can't help but smile in return, feeling a genuine connection forming. 

"I'd like that too,"  she says honestly. 

 Harry looks between them, a mix of concern and happiness on his face.  "Fine,"  he says, standing.  "I'll go put these flowers in water and start dinner. But Mum, no stories about my awkward teenage years."

"I make no promises,"  Anne calls after him as he disappears into the kitchen. 

 Once he's gone, Anne's expression grows more serious.  "He's worried about me,"  she says quietly.  "More than he's letting on."

 Y/N nods, deciding honesty is the best approach. "He is. He cares about you very much."

"And you? What do you think? Off the record, doctor to patient."

 Y/N considers her words carefully.  "I think getting thoroughly checked out is the right move. Cardiac symptoms should never be ignored, especially with your family history."

 Anne studies her face. "You're not sugar-coating it. I appreciate that."

"I've found that sugar-coating rarely helps anyone in medicine,"  Y/N says. "Especially the people you care about."

 A slow smile spreads across Anne's face.  "No wonder my son fell for you,"  she says softly.  "You're exactly what he needs. Someone who won't let him hide behind that brilliant mind of his."

 Before Y/N can respond, Harry calls from the kitchen:  "If you two are done analyzing me, dinner's almost ready!"

 Anne laughs, patting Y/N's hand once more.  "We should join him before he burns down the kitchen. But Y/N?"  Her voice grows serious again. "I'm glad he has you."

 Y/N feels a lump form in her throat, touched by the acceptance in Anne's words. "I'm glad I have him too,"  she says simply. 

As they rise to join Harry in the kitchen, Y/N realizes her earlier panic has completely vanished.

The day had started with routine post-op rounds and a stack of charts. It ended with Anne Styles coding in the middle of a cardiology consultation. 

 The call came through the hospital intercom with clinical detachment. "Code Blue, Cardiology Suite 3" and Y/N had felt her blood run cold before she even knew it was Anne. Harry had been in the middle of a department meeting. She'd heard later that he'd knocked his chair back so hard it hit the wall. 

The stabilization team had bought them time. Not much, but enough. The echocardiogram showed what they'd feared: a dissecting aortic aneurysm and it was progressing fast. The kind that didn't wait for anyone to be ready.  The kind that needed immediate surgery.

Twenty minutes later, Y/N stands outside the scrub room, having confirmed everything is in order. The surgical team is assembling, the OR is prepared and Anne's latest vitals reviewed. Only one thing is missing. The surgeon himself. Frowning, she pushes open the door to the scrub room. Harry stands at the sink, hands submerged in soapy water up to his elbows. But he isn't moving. He's just standing there, staring at the wall, completely still. His eyes are fixed on nothing. The water keeps running, the soap keeps lathering but his hands aren't scrubbing anymore. They're just...suspended. 

"Harry."

He doesn't respond, doesn't even blink. Y/N  approaches slowly, concern mounting. "Harry, they're almost ready for you in there." She steps closer, lowering her voice.  "Hey. Look at me."

He then blinks slowly like someone surfacing from deep water.  "I need to scrub in,"  he says. His voice is mechanical and all too wrong.  "She's in pre-op. They're prepping the OR. I need to—"

"Harry."  Y/N steps directly in front of him, blocking his eyeline.  "Stop."

His jaw tightens. "I'm fine."

"You haven't moved in ten minutes. Dr. Patel’s looking for you. I told him I'd get you."  She searches his face noting the pallor beneath his complexion and the slight tremor in his jaw he's trying to control.  "You're not fine."

The mask holds for another three seconds until it suddenly doesn't and his breath comes out in a shudder. One sharp, involuntary exhale that breaks something open. He turns away from her, bracing both soapy hands on the edge of the sink, head dropping.

"I can't do it." he says in a quit, defeated tone. "I—"  He stops then tries again.  "I got in there. I looked at her chart, I reviewed the imaging, I started to scrub in and I—"  His voice fractures.  "I can't see the anatomy. I look at the scans and all I see is her. I close my eyes and I'm trying to visualize the field and I just see her face."

 Y/N doesn't say anything, just steps closer. 

"I can't... operate on her." His voice breaks on the last word. "My hands...they won't stop shaking."

Y/N glances down and sure enough, beneath the soap suds, his normally rock-steady surgeon's hands are trembling visibly.

"Harry," she says gently, moving closer. "This is normal. The emotional connection—"

"It's not normal for me!" he snaps, then immediately looks contrite. "I'm sorry. I just...I've never...not once in my entire career..." He stared at his hands as if they've betrayed him.

"Fifteen years,"  he says, his voice dropping to something raw and ugly.  "Ten years of training. Chief of surgery at thirty-one. I have a waiting list of patients from four different countries."  He laughs, and it's terrible, hollow and self-lacerating.  "I have performed three hundred and forty-seven aortic procedures. Three hundred and forty-seven. And I am standing here—"  his voice breaks completely  "—I am standing here like a first-year medical student who's never held a scalpel, because it's her."  His shoulders are shaking now, barely perceptibly, but Y/N sees it. 

"What is the point?" he asks, and the question sounds like it's been festering for years. "What is the point of any of it—the training, the hours, the sacrifices—if I can't operate on my own mother? If I'm completely useless when it actually matters?"

He slams one palm on the sink, hard enough that the soap dispenser rattles. "She needs the best surgeon in this hospital and I—"  He can't finish it. 

Y/N reaches out and puts her hand on his back. "Harry, " but he doesn't turn around.  "Harry, look at me. Please."

Slowly, he straightens and turns. The expression on his face…Y/N has seen Harry Styles frustrated, exhausted, coldly furious, professionally devastated but she has never seen him look like this. Like something has been gutted out of him. She keeps her voice steady and calm. The way he sounds when he talks patients down from panic. 

"Loving someone doesn't make you useless,"  she says.  "It makes you human. And it disqualifies you from operating on them. Those are two entirely different things and you know it."

"Don't."  His voice is sharp.  "Don't give me the textbook answer. I know the textbook answer. I have the textbook memorized."

"I know you do."  She doesn't flinch.  "So you also know that the most dangerous surgeon in that room would be one who is emotionally compromised. You know that. You know it better than anyone in this hospital."

 He stares at her. His jaw works. "She's my mother, Y/N."

"I know."  Her voice softens.  "I know she is." A single tear escapes, trailing down his cheek. Y/N reaches up to brush it away. A long silence stretches between them. The water is still running. Somewhere down the corridor, a monitor beeps steadily. 

"So."  Y/N takes a breath.  "Tell me who you trust."

Harry frowns slightly. 

"In this hospital,"  she continues carefully.  "Right now, for this procedure. Who do you trust to go in there and bring her out?"

He's quiet for a moment. She watches him move through the grief of the situation, the pride of not being able to do it, and the clinical mind that never fully shuts off regardless of what's happening to the rest of him. Then, she sees him look at her. 

 "You."

 The word comes out without hesitation. Without a single beat of uncertainty.  Y/N stares at him. 

"Harry—"

"You."  He says it again, quieter but no less certain.  "No hesitation. You."

"I'm a third-year resident."  The words come out before she can stop them, her voice pitching slightly higher than she intends.  "Harry, I'm a resident. You want me to—your mother is on that table and you want me to—"

"You've scrubbed in on forty-three aortic procedures,"  he says, and his voice has shifted, the surgeon in him is surfacing despite the fractured voice.  "Eleven as primary operator under supervision. Your spatial reasoning is the best I've seen in a trainee in my entire career. Your hands don't shake. Your decision-making under pressure is—"

"Stop."  She holds up a hand, her own heart hammering.  "Stop evaluating me like I'm a candidate. This is your mother, Harry."

"I know who it is."  His eyes don't leave hers.  "That's why I'm telling you. Because I know who you are. Please, Y/N. I'm asking you not as your boss, not as your boyfriend, but as a son who needs someone he trusts completely to save his mother."

Y/N takes a deep breath, centering herself. She thinks of Anne. Warm, kind, Anne who welcomed her with open arms. She thinks of Harry, who has taught her everything she knows about cardiothoracic surgery. Who believes in her more than she sometimes believes in herself. She  exhales shakily. "You'd be there,"  she says. It's not quite a question. 

"Every second. I'll be in that room. I'll talk you through anything you need. But my hands—"  He looks down at them, still lathered, still trembling almost imperceptibly.  "My hands can't be the ones today."

Y/N looks at him for a long moment. At this man who has never once, not in the two years of working beside him, admitted to a limitation. Who has built his entire identity around being the person others defer to in a crisis.  Who is standing in front of her, asking her to carry the most important thing in his world. 

She takes a slow breath. "Okay,"  she says quietly, her voice steady despite the fear coursing through her. "I'll do it. But you get Morrison to agree, and I want Peters as my first assist."

Relief floods Harry's face. "Thank you," he whispers, pulling her into a tight embrace. "Thank you." Harry's eyes close briefly. 

"Okay,"  she says again, steadier this time.  "Then go be with her in pre-op. Talk to her. Let her see your face before she goes under."  She steps toward the sink beside him and turns on the water.  "I'll scrub in."

He watches her for a moment. Watches woman he loves as she reached for the surgical brush with steady hands. 

"Y/N."

 She looks up. He doesn't say anything else. He doesn't have to. Everything he can't articulate right now is written plainly across his face. 

"Go,"  she says softly.  "Go see your mom."

He holds her gaze for one more second before turning and walking toward pre-op. Left alone, Y/N turns to the sink, plunging her hands into the warm soapy water. She focuses on the familiar ritual. The methodical cleaning of each finger, each nail, up to the elbows. With each motion, she feels her surgical mindset settling into place. By the time Morrison appears at the door, his expression a mix of concern and reluctant acceptance, she is ready.

"Dr. Styles has requested that you lead this procedure," he says without preamble. "With me supervising and Peters assisting."

"Yes, Ma’am," Y/N replies, her voice calm and professional.

Morrison studies her face. "Are you certain you're prepared for this, Dr. Y/L/N? This isn't just any patient."

Y/N meets her gaze steadily. "I'm aware of that, Ma’am. But with all due respect, that's precisely why I need to do this. Because she isn't just any patient to me either."

A hint of approval flickers across Morrison's face.

"Very well. OR 1 is ready. Let's not keep Mrs. Styles waiting any longer."

As Y/N follows her toward the operating room, she catches sight of Harry in the hallway. Their eyes meet across the corridor. In his gaze, she finds not just trust, but absolute faith in her skills, in her judgment, and most definitely in her. It steadies her more than anything else could have. With a small nod to him, she turns and walks through the doors, ready to hold Anne Styles' heart in her hands, and by extension, Harry's as well. At this moment, she is not Harry's girlfriend or his resident. She is simply a surgeon, about to do what she was trained to do. Save a life.

The surgery takes nearly six hours. Every moment is meticulously executed and every decision carefully weighed. Throughout it all, Harry stands in the corner of the OR silent and watchful, his eyes never leaving the table where his mother lies with her chest open to the world. Dr. Morrison supervises closely, but as the procedure progresses, her interventions become fewer and further between.

Y/N works with a focus that surprises even herself. Her hands remain steady, her voice clear as she directs Peters and the surgical team. The bypass grafts take beautifully. The heart, once restarted beats strong and regular.

"Closing now," Y/N announces, her voice betraying none of the emotional weight of the moment. As she places the final sutures, she allows herself a quick glance at Harry. He hasn't moved or spoken, but the tension in his shoulders has eased slightly.

"BP stable at 110/70. Rhythm regular. O2 sats at 98%," the anesthesiologist reports.

Y/N steps back from the table, letting out a long breath. "Surgery complete. Time, 11:47 AM."

Dr. Morrison nods approvingly. "Excellent work, Dr. Y/L/N. Let's get Mrs. Styles to recovery."

The team moves efficiently, transferring Anne from the operating table to a gurney. As they wheel her out, Y/N remains behind, removing her gown and gloves, disposing of them properly. Her body feels weightless with relief, yet somehow heavy with exhaustion. She doesn't notice Harry approaching until he's right beside her.

"She's stable," Y/N says softly, meeting his eyes. "The grafts look good. Her heart accepted them beautifully."

Harry doesn't respond with words, takes her by the elbow instead and guides her out of the OR, through the scrub room, and into the small private consultation room adjacent to the surgical floor. The moment the door closes behind them, he pulls her into his arms. The embrace is fierce, almost desperate. Harry's arms wrap around her completely, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other pressed firmly against her lower back. He holds her as if she might disappear if he loosens his grip even slightly.

"Thank you," he whispers against her hair, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you."

Y/N feels the dampness against her neck before she realizes he's crying. Silent tears of relief and gratitude, his body trembling slightly with the release of hours of pent-up fear. She says nothing, just holds him tighter, one hand moving in slow, soothing circles between his shoulder blades. Her other hand threads through his hair, cradling his head as he buries his face deeper into the curve of her neck.

"She's going to be okay," Y/N murmurs, her voice soft but certain. "She's strong. Just like her son."

Harry pulls back just enough to look at her, his green eyes rimmed with red, cheeks damp with tears. The vulnerability in his expression steals her breath away. "I couldn't have done it," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not like you did. So calm, so sure."

Y/N reaches up to brush a tear from his cheek. "I wasn't calm inside. I was terrified the entire time."

"But your hands never shook," he says, taking her hands in his, studying them with a kind of reverence before bringing them to his lips for a kiss. "Not once."

"Because they were holding something precious to you," she replies simply. "And that made them steady."

Harry's expression crumbles slightly at her words. He leans forward, pressing his forehead against hers, eyes closed. "I love you," he says, the words coming out raw and unfiltered. "I love you so much it hurts"

Y/N feels her own eyes fill with tears, the emotional weight of the morning finally catching up to her. "I love you too," she whispers back. "And your mom is going to be just fine."

Harry nods against her forehead, then pulls back slightly to press a gentle kiss to her lips. It's brief but filled with everything he can't put into words.

"You should go see her," Y/N says softly when they part. "She'll be waking up soon, and your face should be the first thing she sees."

Harry hesitates, clearly torn between staying with Y/N and going to his mother.

"Go," she insists gently. "I'll be right behind you. I just need a minute."

He studies her face, then nods, pressing one more kiss to her forehead before reluctantly releasing her from his embrace. "Don't take too long," he says, his hand lingering on hers. "She'll want to thank you herself."

Y/N smiles tiredly. "I'll be there. Now go."

As Harry leaves the room, Y/N sinks down onto one of the chairs, finally allowing her legs the reprieve they've been silently begging for. The enormity of what just happened washes over her: she operated on her boyfriend's mother. She held Anne Styles' heart in her hands, and succeeded. She takes a deep breath, centering herself. In a few minutes, she'll join Harry in recovery, stand beside him as his mother wakes. But for now, she allows herself this brief moment of solitude, to process not just the surgery, but the profound trust Harry placed in her.

The recovery room is quiet except for the steady beep of the cardiac monitor. Harry sits beside his mother's bed, his hand gently holding hers. Y/N had stepped out to give them privacy, heading to the nurse's station to update Anne's chart and check on her post-op medications. Anne's eyelids flutter then slowly open. She blinks a few times, adjusting to the light before her gaze settles on her son.

"Harry," she whispers, her voice rough from the intubation.

Harry leans forward, relief washing over his features. "Hi, Mum. How are you feeling?"

"Like I've been hit by a truck," Anne manages a weak smile. "But I'm here."

"Yes, you are," Harry says softly, squeezing her hand. "You gave us quite a scare."

Anne's eyes drift to the bandages visible beneath her hospital gown. "Triple bypass, they said?"

Harry nods. "Three vessels. But the surgery went perfectly."

Anne reaches up with her free hand, weakly patting his cheek. "My brilliant boy. Always knew those hands of yours were meant to save lives."

Harry lets out a self-deprecating chuckle, looking down. "Actually, Mum...I didn't do your surgery."

Anne's brow furrows slightly in confusion. "You didn't?"

"I couldn't," he admits, his voice quiet but steady. "When it came down to it, I...my hands wouldn't stop shaking. I couldn't be your surgeon."

Anne's expression softens with understanding. "Oh, love."

"It was Y/N," Harry continues, his voice warming at the mention of her name. "She performed the entire procedure. Flawlessly, might I add"

"Your Y/N?" Anne asks, a small smile forming despite her weakened state. 

Harry nods, a hint of color rising to his cheeks. "She was extraordinary, Mum. You should have seen her. Completely in control, never hesitated once."

"And where is she now?" Anne asks, trying to look around the room.

"She stepped out to give us some time together," Harry explains. "She'll be back soon. She wanted to check your post-op medications personally."

Anne studies her son's face, noting the soft expression that comes over him when he speaks of Y/N and the gentle pride in his voice.

"Well," Anne says with a knowing smile, "in that case, Harry Edward Styles, you'd better marry that girl."

Harry's eyes widen, and a deep flush immediately spreads across his cheeks. He ducks his head, running a hand through his hair as he stares at the hospital floor tiles. The confident surgeon is nowhere to be seen at this moment. He's just a flustered son being teased by his mother about a girl.

"Mum," he mumbles, the blush reaching the tips of his ears now. "We haven't even...I mean, we only just..."

Anne reaches out to pat his hand weakly. "The way you talk about her says everything, love."

Harry glances up, a sheepish smile playing on his lips. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only to your mother," Anne says with a knowing look.

Harry fiddles with the edge of the blanket, still blushing. "I do...I mean, I think I..." He lets out a soft laugh. "Yeah. I agree with you. Wholeheartedly."

Anne's eyes begin to drift closed again, the medication and exhaustion pulling her back toward sleep. "Don't wait too long," she mumbles. "Life's too short...as I've recently been reminded..." 

"Get some rest, Mum," Harry says gently, adjusting her blanket. "We'll be right here when you wake up."

As Anne slips back into sleep, the door to the recovery room opens quietly. Y/N steps in, clipboard in hand, her expression softening when she sees Harry sitting beside his sleeping mother.

"How is she?" Y/N asks in a hushed voice, moving to stand beside Harry, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Harry looks up, the blush still lingering on his cheeks as he takes her hand. For once, he's not Dr. Styles, the brilliant surgeon with an ego to match. He's just  a son grateful for the woman who saved his mother

"She's going to be just fine," he says softly, his thumb tracing circles on her palm before pulling it in for another kiss. "Thanks to you.”

How do we feel about this one? :) feedback?

🥝 One-Shots & Short Stories:

The Frisbee Fiasco {Fluff /Meet-Cute} (Harry Styles x Reader)

The Green Thumb in 4B {Domestic Fluff / Neighbors AU / Rom-Com} (Harry Styles x Reader)

Half Baked Flour Power {Rom-Com / Workplace Fluff / Meet-Cute} (Harry Styles x Reader)

Faceplant {Hurt/Comfort, Soft Harry, Idiots in Love} (Harry Styles x Reader)

The Pineapple Paradox {Enemies-to-Lovers (in 10 minutes) / Playful Banter / Cozy Romance} (Harry Styles x Reader)

The 11 PM Collison Of Comfort Food {Meet-Cute / Soft Realism / Healing Fluff} (Harry Styles x Reader)

The Center Of The Universe (And Her Name Is Blair) {Papa!Harry/ Domestic Fluff/ Parental Fluff} (Dad!Harry x Reader)

2AM Raid {Domestic Fluff/ Rom-Com} (Harry Styles x Reader)

Moonbeam {Domestic Fluff / Soft Romance / Heart Melting Puppy Chaos} (Harry Styles x Reader)

Every Damn Thing {Soft Angst / Melancholic Romance / Soft Realism} (Harry Styles x Reader)

Coco Pebbles And Candlelight {Rom-Com / Domestic Fluff / Soft Angst Comfort} (Harry Styles x Reader)

Objection, Daddy! {Domestic Fluff / Humor / Soft Angst} (Dad!Harry x Reader)

Moving Out (Lily's Song) {Domestic-Fluff / Parent Chaos / Comedy} (Dad!Harry x Reader)

Vertigo {Soft Angst / Coming-Of-Age / Fluff} (Dad!Harry x Teen!Daughter x Reader)

Just Let Me Adore You {Coming-Of-Age / Fluff / Soft Angst} (Dad!Harry x Reader x Teen!Daughter)

Mom, Dad, Please Stop!!! {Fluff / Soft Domestic / Family Humor} (Harry Styles x Reader)

You Forgot Something {Fluff / Soft Domestic / Humor} (Harry Styles x Reader)

Bothersome {Fluff / Soft Domestic / Soft Angst} (Harry Styles x Reader)

Zero Kisses For Daddy {Fluff / Soft Domestic / Humor} (Dad!Harry Styles x Reader)

In The Doghouse {Soft Domestic / Family Domestic / Soft Angst} (Dad!Harry Styles x Reader)

The Review Rampage {Crack-Fic / Domestic Fluff / Comedy} (Harry Styles x Reader)

It Happens {Hurt Comfort / Soft Comfort / Fluff} (Harry Styles x Reader)

The Princess Treatment {Smut / Soft Comfort / Domestic Fluff} (Harry Styles x Reader)

B****h (Bitch) {Angst / Comedy / Crack-Fic} (Harry Styles x Reader)

The Day May Lost Her Innocence {Comedy / Family Domestic / Fluff} (Dad!Harry Styles x Reader)

The Good Daddy {Fluff / Comedy / Soft Angst} (Dad!Harry Styles x Daughter Reader)

Full Course Meal {Smut / Fluff / Domestic} (Harry Styles x Reader)

The Honeymoon Phase {Smut / Domestic / Fluff} (Harry Styles x Reader)

Out Of The Loop {Comedy / Fluff / Soft Comfort} (Harry Styles x Reader)

Drunken Mistakes {Comedy / Soft Angst / Hurt Comfort} (Harry Styles x Reader)

Signs Of The Times {Comedy / Fluff / Domestic Soft Angst} (Dad!Harry Styles x Reader)

The Checkup {Comedy / Soft-Burn Angst / Rom-Com} (Proc!Harry x Model!Yn)

Flu-Stricken and Heart-Struck {Rom-Com / Soft Domestic / Fluff} (Harry Styles x Reader)

Muscle Memory {Fluff / Soft Tension / Teasing} (PT!Harry Styles x Reader)

Need A Lap {Fluff / Soft Smut / Romance} (Harry Styles x Reader)

✨Series

Cinnamon & Salt

🍉Rules & Info

I love hearing from you! My Asks are always open for feedback or just to chat!

You, a person with a rich and mortifying history of overthinking everything from emails to eye contact, turned around in the middle of the street and ran back to kiss Harry Styles like you were possessed by the ghost of every bold woman who has ever existed in a romantic comedy.

You turn your head toward your phone on the nightstand.

It is face down, silent, and somehow already smug.

You grab it anyway and unlock it too fast, opening your messages before your brain has a chance to remind you about pride, dignity, or the many cautionary tales that begin with a woman texting too soon after a good kiss.

His name is there now.

Not just a profile. Not just a conversation living inside an app. An actual contact in your actual phone.

Harry.

It should not feel intimate, and yet it does. More intimate, somehow, than the kiss. Like he has crossed over into the architecture of your real life.

You open the conversation and stare at the last few messages from the night before, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

You do not want to be the kind of person who plays games.

You also do not want to be the kind of person who wakes up glowing and immediately texts a man before brushing her teeth.

This, you think, is how women end up with complicated feelings and a group chat dedicated to analyzing punctuation.

You set the phone on your chest and stare at the ceiling again.

This is new territory.

Not because he is famous, though obviously that part remains deeply absurd.

It feels new because nothing about him feels hard in the exhausting way. There is no weird energy to decode. No stale, performative banter. No sense that you are being sized up or handled or filed into some category. It just feels easy.

Which, frankly, feels suspicious.

Your phone buzzes against your sweater.

You sit up so fast you nearly headbutt yourself with it.

Harry: Did you make it home safe?

The smile arrives before you can stop it.

You type back immediately.

You: I did. Did you?

The typing bubble appears right away.

Harry: Yeah. Short walk.

You can picture him instantly. Coat on. Hands in his pockets. Head down against the cold. The same mouth that kissed you under a streetlight, now saying something unfairly casual like short walk.

You hesitate, then type:

You: I am still thinking about that pizza.

His reply comes almost immediately.

Harry: I am still thinking about you running back down the street.

You drop your head back against the headboard and let out a soft laugh, pressing your lips together like there is anyone here to witness you grinning at your phone before nine in the morning.

You: That was very out of character for me.

Harry: I am glad you did.

You stare at that one for a second.

There it is again, that warm little pull in your chest. The one that feels annoyingly sincere.

So, naturally, you decide to pivot before you say something reckless.

You: So what is on the schedule for today, Mr. Tourist?

There is a beat before he replies.

Harry: I believe I was promised a tour.

You smile into your pillow.

You: That starts after coffee. I do not do anything before coffee.

Harry: That feels like important information.

You: It is. Some would say sacred.

You push the blankets back and stand, still texting as you make your way into the kitchen, hair a mess, heart a mess, life suddenly veering off in a direction that feels both cinematic and deeply inconvenient.

You: Meet me at eleven. I know a place.

Harry: I will be there.

You set your phone on the counter and start the coffee maker, leaning against the cabinets while it brews. The apartment is quiet, filled with that in between kind of morning where the world has started but has not fully committed yet. Light creeps across the floor. A truck rumbles somewhere below. A door slams in the building across the street.

Everything feels exactly the same.

Which is strange, because nothing is.

You wrap both hands around your mug and take one sip before grabbing your phone again and calling Camille, because some experiences are simply too unhinged to carry alone.

She answers on the third ring.

“Well,” she says, voice bright with the particular alertness of someone who loves drama when it is happening to other people. “You are calling before noon. Somebody died or you got kissed.”

You start laughing before you can answer.

“Okay,” you say. “You have to promise to be normal.”

“No,” she says instantly. “That is not our relationship. Start talking.”

You pace into the living room, one arm folded over your stomach like you are trying to physically contain the nervous energy threatening to escape through your rib cage.

“I saw him last night.”

There is one beat of silence.

Then Camille screams so loudly you yank the phone away from your ear.

“You what?”

“He got in early,” you say, already talking faster. “He asked if I wanted to go for a walk and I said yes and then we walked through Central Park and then I took him for pizza.”

“The pizza place?” she asks, scandalized. “Sal’s pizza place?”

“Yes.”

“The one where the guy behind the counter looks like he has been personally offended by every customer since 1987?”

“Yes, that one.”

She lets out a strangled sound that is half laughter, half disbelief.

“You took Harry Styles to stress pizza.”

“I panicked,” you say. “I needed somewhere casual and familiar and not weirdly fancy.”

“No, actually, that is kind of perfect,” she says. “That is unfortunately very you. Continue.”

You sit on the edge of the couch, coffee in hand, suddenly shy in the face of your own memory.

“We were saying goodbye,” you say slowly, “and I started walking home.”

“And?”

“And then I turned around.”

Camille goes silent.

You stare at the floor.

“And then I ran back and kissed him.”

This time the scream is louder.

“You did not.”

“I did.”

“You fully ran back to him?”

“Yes.”

“Like in a movie?”

“I do not know what came over me,” you say, horrified all over again. “I think I temporarily lost access to my frontal lobe.”

“Oh my God,” Camille says. “That is the most romantic thing you have ever done. I need you to understand that I am obsessed with this version of you.”

“I do not even recognize her,” you mutter.

“Did he kiss you back?”

You look down into your coffee even though it cannot help you.

“Yes.”

A beat.

“Was it a good kiss?”

You lean back against the couch and close your eyes for half a second, which is somehow enough to bring it all back. The streetlight. The cold air. The pause before he kissed you again like he had been hoping you would.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “It was.”

Camille exhales like she has just received life changing news.

“Oh my God,” she says again, quieter this time.

You sit in that for a second, both of you.

Then she says, “So what now?”

You drag a hand through your hair.

“I am seeing him today.”

There is immediate rustling on her end of the line.

“I am coming over.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No, you are not.”

“You are not dressing yourself for Day Two with Harry Styles. I refuse to let history judge me that harshly.”

“It is not Day Two,” you say. “It is coffee and a bookstore.”

“It is the daylight sequel to a street kiss. It counts.”

You laugh despite yourself.

“I told him eleven.”

“Perfect,” she says. “That gives me time.”

“For what?”

“To save you from whatever deeply practical sweater choice you are about to make.”

“Camille.”

But she has already hung up.

You stare at your phone for a second, then at your coffee, then toward your bedroom.

Honestly, she is not wrong.

By the time you are standing in front of your closet, Camille has let herself in with the level of confidence usually reserved for women in Nancy Meyers kitchens.

“Hello?” she calls.

“In my room,” you answer.

She appears a second later holding two coffees and a tote bag that suggests she has wildly misunderstood the assignment.

She takes one look at the clothes spread across your bed and sighs.

“Oh,” she says. “You are spiraling.”

“I am not spiraling.”

She sets the coffees down and squints at a cardigan like it personally insulted her.

“You are considering beige before noon. That is a spiral.”

You are still standing in front of your closet pretending this is a normal amount of pressure for a Tuesday morning when your front door opens.

Not knocks. Opens.

“Hello?” Camille calls, already inside in the tone of someone who has never once considered herself a guest in your home.

“In here,” you call back.

She appears in your doorway a second later holding two coffees and a giant tote bag that suggests she has mistaken this for either a sleepover or a medical emergency.

She stops when she sees the state of your room.

Clothes on the bed. Shoes on the floor. You standing in the middle of it all in leggings and a tank top, staring into your closet like the answer to your future might be hidden behind your winter coats.

Camille takes this in and nods once.

“Okay,” she says. “Good. You waited for me before making any irreversible mistakes.”

“I was not making mistakes.”

“You were standing three feet away from a striped button down.”

You glance at the shirt in question.

“It is a nice shirt.”

“It is a shirt for accidentally running into your ex at a farmers market and wanting him to think you own expensive olive oil.”

You stare at her.

“That is alarmingly specific.”

She hands you one of the coffees and walks fully into the room, already scanning the options laid out on your bed with the focus of someone diffusing a bomb.

“What is the plan?” she asks.

“I thought the bookstore on Bleecker, maybe the record store a few blocks down, and then the ferry. Order to be determined.”

She freezes.

Slowly, very slowly, she turns to look at you.

“The ferry?”

You take a sip of coffee like this is not a loaded subject.

“Yes.”

“The boat.”

“Yes.”

“The thing you specifically said would not be involved.”

You try not to smile into the cup. You fail.

“I may have adjusted the itinerary.”

Camille points at you like a prosecutor who has just been handed the final piece of evidence.

“You have to say it.”

“Say what.”

“The line. About how you said there would be no boats and yet, surprise, there is a boat. That is free material. People in movies would kill for dialogue that easy.”

“I am not crowd sourcing my flirting.”

“You are not crowd sourcing it,” she says. “You are being guided by a professional.”

“In what field.”

“Romantic instinct. Visual storytelling. female intuition.”

You snort.

She is already flipping through the hangers now, ruthless and efficient.

“You need to look like yourself,” she says. “But like the version of yourself who gets kissed on ferries.”

“I have never been kissed on a ferry.”

She pulls out a pair of jeans and tosses them onto the bed.

“You have now entered a new chapter of life.”

“I hate when you talk like that.”

“No you do not. It is one of my best qualities.”

She reaches farther into the closet and comes back with a sweater, soft and fitted in that way that feels effortless when it is very much not effortless.

“This,” she says.

You eye it suspiciously.

“That just looks like something I would wear anyway.”

“Exactly,” Camille says. “We are not trying to make you look hot in an unfamiliar way. We are trying to make you look hot in a way that feels emotionally devastating because it appears natural.”

You blink at her.

“I would like you to know that sentence made me tired.”

She ignores you.

“Go put it on.”

You set your coffee down and change while she keeps talking, because silence has never once been her brand.

“Hair down,” she says. “But not too done. Makeup light. Shoes comfortable because if you start limping halfway through lower Manhattan, the romance will die right there on the sidewalk.”

“That feels dramatic.”

“It is not dramatic. Men cannot recover from a woman making bad shoe choices on a date. They do not know what to do with visible suffering.”

You pull the sweater over your head and turn toward the mirror.

Camille steps up beside you, studying your reflection with an expression that is almost annoyingly thoughtful.

Then she nods.

“Yeah,” she says. “That is it.”

You smooth a hand down the front of the sweater.

“It is just jeans and a sweater.”

“Exactly. It looks like you.” She looks at you in the mirror. “Which is the point.”

Something in your chest softens a little at that.

Because underneath all the joking and the coffee and the light interrogation, that is the thing making your stomach feel tight. Not that he is Harry Styles, though obviously that remains absurd in a way your brain may never fully process. It is that today is daytime. Today is real light and real hours and the version of you that exists outside of app messages and nighttime chemistry and one very cinematic street corner.

“I am nervous,” you admit, quieter now.

Camille’s expression changes immediately. Softer. Less amused.

“I know.”

You look at yourself in the mirror again, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, then undoing it because now it looks like you tried.

“What if today is weird?” you ask. “What if last night was just one of those perfect little moments that only works because it is night and cold and everyone is a little bit romantic when they are hungry and under a streetlight.”

Camille leans back against the dresser, folding her arms.

“Then it is weird,” she says. “And you survive. But you do not get to skip the part where something might be good just because there is a chance it could also be disappointing.”

You glance at her.

She shrugs one shoulder.

“Also,” she adds, “if Harry Styles asked me to get on a ferry with him, I would be so unbearable about it that our friendship would not survive. So I need you to go on behalf of the group.”

You laugh, which is exactly what she was aiming for.

She smiles a little and pushes off the dresser.

“Okay,” she says. “Shoes.”

By the time you are fully dressed, the nerves have settled into something more manageable. Still there, still alive, but less like panic and more like energy. Like the feeling right before the first drop on a roller coaster, when your body cannot tell the difference between dread and excitement and decides, generously, to make it both.

You grab your bag and your phone and do a quick sweep of the apartment for the usual things.

Keys. Wallet. Lip balm. Some remaining trace of sanity.

Camille is leaning against the kitchen counter watching you with the solemn expression of someone preparing to launch her only daughter into society.

“I am serious,” she says. “Act normal.”

“I am normal.”

She lets out one short laugh.

“No, you are not. You took him for pizza and then sprinted back down a street to kiss him. You have already left normal behind.”

You open your messages before she can say anything else and type before you can overthink it.

Meet me outside the bookstore on Bleecker at 11?

You stare at it for one second.

Then hit send.

Your stomach immediately drops and flips at the same time, which feels biologically unnecessary.

Camille watches your face.

“You sent it.”

“Yes.”

“You look like you just submitted a college application.”

“That is actually exactly what it feels like.”

Your phone stays stubbornly still for three full seconds, which is enough time for your brain to begin composing twelve separate rejection scenarios.

Then it buzzes.

On my way.

You look down at the screen and try to act like your pulse did not just spike for no reason at all.

Camille sees the smile anyway.

“Oh, you are gone,” she says.

“I am not gone.”

“You are a little gone.”

You slip your phone into your bag.

“I am just showing him around.”

She pushes off the counter and comes over to fix the collar of your coat, because apparently this is happening now.

“Okay,” she says. “Ground rules.”

“There are no ground rules.”

“There absolutely are. One, he is just a person.”

“I know.”

“Two, do not suddenly start talking about your job like it is boring.”

You make a face. “I do not do that.”

Camille gives you a look.

A very long look.

“You literally call your own work uninteresting every time a man with nice hair asks what you do.”

“I do not literally do that.”

“You metaphorically do it, then. Same problem.”

She smooths the front of your coat like she is finishing a sculpture.

“Three,” she says, “if he says something nice to you, do not make a joke or change the subject or act like he is confused. You say thank you like a stable adult woman.”

“That one feels pointed.”

“Because it is.”

You exhale, half laughing, half trying not to spiral again.

“It is just a day,” you say.

Camille opens your apartment door and gestures for you to walk through.

“You ran back and kissed him,” she says. “It has not been just a day for a while.”

You step into the hallway and she follows, pulling the door shut behind you. The two of you head down the stairs together, your footsteps echoing in the stairwell, your body suddenly too aware of itself in every possible way. Your hair. Your coat. Your face. The fact that you have hands.

Right before you reach the building’s front door, Camille catches your arm and turns you toward her.

“Hey.”

Her voice is gentler now.

“Just be yourself. That is clearly who he likes.”

The words land harder than you expect.

You look at her for a second, then down at the stairs.

“I do not really get why,” you admit.

Camille’s mouth softens.

“Yes, you do,” she says. “You just think there is supposed to be more to it.”

You swallow.

Then nod once.

“I will call you later.”

“You better,” she says, immediately back to herself. “I expect details. Specific details. Dialogue. Atmosphere. Emotional damage. Do not come home with a vague summary.”

You laugh and push open the front door.

The city meets you all at once.

Cool air. Car horns. A dog barking from half a block away. Someone dragging a cart over uneven pavement. People with coffees in hand and headphones in and places to be.

It looks like a completely ordinary morning.

Which would be comforting if your heart were not behaving like you are about to walk into an exam you forgot to study for.

You start toward Bleecker, shoving your hands into your coat pockets for warmth, and halfway down the block your phone buzzes again.

You pull it out.

Almost there.

That small smile is back before you can stop it.

Right. Fine.

Maybe you are a little gone.

You get to Bleecker a little early, which is both intentional and deeply uncool of you.

You tell yourself it is because you like being early. Because you are a calm, prepared person who respects time and enjoys a few quiet minutes to herself before meeting someone.

In reality, you just did not trust your legs to walk at a normal pace if you left any later.

So now you are here too soon, walking slower than necessary, pretending to look in store windows so you do not look like someone who arrived early to a date and is now killing time by examining a display of candles she cannot afford.

The street feels warm and awake in that late morning way where everything is moving but nothing feels rushed yet. A guy passes you carrying a tray of coffees like he is transporting something fragile and emotionally significant. Someone else is tying their dog to a bike rack while they run into a shop. Music spills out from an open doorway halfway down the block, something old and scratchy that makes the whole street feel like a movie set.

You slow down a little as you get closer to the bookstore, letting yourself take everything in instead of rushing straight to the door. You like this part of the city. You like that it still feels like itself, like it did not try too hard to become something shiny and new.

You spot him before he sees you.

He is walking toward you from the corner in sunglasses, hands in his jacket pockets, moving at an easy pace like he has nowhere urgent to be, which is probably the rarest luxury he has.

There is a strange, quiet moment where you just watch him for a second.

This is a very surreal thing, you think. To just casually recognize him from half a block away like this is normal. Like he is just a person you are meeting on a Tuesday and not someone whose face you have seen on billboards and magazine covers and the side of buses.

But then he gets closer, and he looks up, and he sees you, and he smiles a little.

And just like that, he is not a billboard anymore. He is just the guy who kissed you under a streetlight and texted you at nine in the morning to make sure you got home safe.

“Hi,” he says when he reaches you.

“Hi,” you say back.

There is no awkward hug. No weird pause where you both try to figure out what version of each other you are supposed to be in daylight. You just fall into step beside each other like you have done this before.

You gesture back toward the bookstore behind you.

“This is the first official stop,” you tell him. “Very important. Very historic. Very me.”

He looks up at the front of the building, at the old sign and the crowded window displays with little handwritten recommendation cards.

“What makes this one special?” he asks.

“It is old,” you say. “Like actually old. Writers used to hang out here. They still do readings in the back sometimes. And if you walk all the way to the rear there is a wall with signed books from people who came through years ago. It just feels like New York in there. Like the version that existed before everything got so expensive and shiny.”

He looks back at the storefront again, like he is seeing it differently now that you said that.

“Alright,” he says. “Lead the way, tour guide.”

You push the door open and the bell above it rings softly as you step inside. The smell hits you immediately. Paper and dust and something like coffee from somewhere in the back. That very specific bookstore smell that feels like quiet and time and stories all mixed together.

He steps in behind you and slows almost right away, looking around at the tall shelves and the narrow aisles and the little handwritten staff notes tucked under certain books.

“You were not kidding,” he says quietly.

You walk slowly, not rushing him, letting him look at everything instead of dragging him from section to section like this is a timed event.

“This place survived everything,” you say. “Rent going up, the internet, big chain bookstores. It just refuses to go away.”

He runs his fingers along the spines of a few books as you pass, reading titles, occasionally pulling one out just to look at the cover before sliding it back into place.

You lead him toward the back where the store opens up a little, a few chairs scattered around and a table stacked with new releases.

“There,” you say, pointing to a wall covered in framed photos and signed book covers. “That is what I was talking about.”

He walks over to it and studies it for a minute, hands in his pockets, leaning in slightly to read some of the names and messages.

“That is really cool,” he says. “It is like a little time capsule.”

“Exactly,” you say. “That is why I like bringing people here. It feels like the city keeps parts of itself hidden in places like this.”

He turns and looks at you then, like he knows you are not just talking about the bookstore anymore.

“You really love this place,” he says.

“Yeah,” you admit. “I do.”

He nods once, then gestures toward the shelves.

“Alright,” he says. “If this is part of the tour, you have to pick a book for me.”

You smile slightly.

“That is a lot of pressure.”

“You picked the pizza,” he says. “I trust your judgment now.”

You walk slowly along the fiction shelf, scanning titles like you have done a hundred times before, until you find one and pull it out. You turn back toward him and hand it over.

“If you want to understand the city,” you say, “start with this one.”

He takes the book from you, looking down at the cover, then back up at you.

“Homework again,” he says.

“Education,” you correct.

He nods like he accepts that and tucks the book under his arm like he is actually going to buy it.

You keep walking, trailing your fingers lightly along the shelves as you pass, occasionally pulling a book out just to look at the cover before putting it back. When you glance over at him again, he is doing the same thing, but more deliberately. He picks one up, reads the back, puts it under his arm with the one you gave him. Then another.

“You are getting a stack,” you say.

He glances down at the books in his arm like he forgot he was holding them.

“I like bookstores,” he says. “This feels dangerous.”

“Financially or emotionally,” you ask.

“Both,” he says.

You smile and turn down another aisle, not really paying attention to what he is picking up, just enjoying the quiet of the place, the way the city noise fades into the background in here.

At one point you double back toward the front and he slows near a table by the window.

“Give me one second,” he says. “I am going to grab one more.”

You nod, distracted by a display near the counter, flipping one of the books over to read the back without really paying attention.

By the time he joins you at the register, he has a small stack in his hands. The one you picked for him and a few others. You recognize one of the covers but not all of them.

“You are committing,” you say.

He shrugs slightly.

“I travel a lot,” he says. “Books make hotels feel less like hotels.”

There is something about that sentence that sticks with you for a second. Something a little lonely around the edges.

You pay for a small bookmark you absolutely did not need while he pays for his books, and you try very hard not to look like you are watching him do something as mundane as buying books like it is weirdly attractive.

When you step back outside onto the sidewalk, the street is busier now, the morning fully awake. Different people, different noise, the same steady hum of the city moving around you.

He steps up beside you again, tucking the bag of books securely in his hand.

“So,” he says, “where to next.”

You glance down the street, then back at him, a small smile starting.

“Now,” you say, “we are getting on a boat.”

He stops walking.

“We said there were no boats involved.”

You keep walking like this is not a big deal and he has no choice but to follow you.

“We might have said that,” you admit.

“You did say that.”

“But,” you continue, glancing over at him, “this one is important.”

“Oh, so now there is an important boat.”

“Yes,” you say. “This is not just any boat. This is a New York boat.”

“That does not explain anything.”

“You will see,” you say. “Have a little faith.”

He shakes his head, but he is smiling, hands in his jacket pockets as he walks beside you, the bag of books swinging lightly at his side.

“I should have known you were going to trick me into something.”

“You trusted the tour guide,” you remind him.

“I did,” he says. “This feels like a betrayal of that trust.”

“It is literally a ferry,” you say. “Relax.”

The two of you walk the rest of the way like that, talking about nothing and everything, the bag of books bumping lightly against his leg as you weave through the city together, and you do not know it yet, but somewhere in that bag is a book he picked out for you. He saw it, thought of you, and added it to the stack without saying a word.

The ferry is already there when you get to the terminal, people moving in a slow, patient line toward the entrance while the boat hums quietly against the dock like it is bored of waiting.

You buy two tickets from the machine and hand him one before he can argue about paying, and the two of you fall into line with everyone else. Tourists with cameras. A woman with a stroller. A man in a suit talking too loudly into a headset. Normal life, just with a skyline in the background.

“You are very calm about this for someone disgusted by men with boats on dating apps,” he says.

“It is just a ferry,” you reply, “I did not say no ferries. That is a completely different sentence.”

“That is the same sentence.”

“It is not,” you say. “It is technically a boat, but emotionally it is a ferry.”

He laughs under his breath and shakes his head as the line moves forward and you both step onto the boat with everyone else.

Instead of going inside, you lead him up the stairs to the open deck. The wind hits you immediately, pushing your hair back off your face, the air colder out here, sharper, cleaner. The city stretches out around you in a way that makes it feel both enormous and very far away at the same time.

You walk over to the railing and lean against it, looking out at the water as the ferry slowly pulls away from the dock. The engines rumble under your feet, low and steady, and the skyline starts to shift, buildings moving past each other, the whole city rearranging itself from this angle.

For a few minutes, neither of you says much. You just stand there next to each other, watching the water, the wind loud in your ears, the boat cutting a steady path across the river.

“It is different from out here,” he says after a while.

“Yeah,” you say. “That is why I wanted you to see it.”

You glance over at him.

“This is my favorite part of the city,” you add. “Out here it feels quiet even when it is not. Like the city finally stops talking for a minute.”

He nods, looking out at the skyline for another moment before he glances down at you. The wind immediately blows your hair straight across your face again and you try to push it back, half laughing.

“Okay,” you say. “The wind is ruining the mysterious tour guide image.”

He smiles and reaches out, his hand closing gently around your arm, pulling you a little closer to his side so you are tucked slightly into him, out of the worst of the wind.

It is such an easy movement, so natural, that you do not even react at first. You just let yourself stand there, close enough to feel the warmth of him through his coat, the fabric of his sleeve brushing yours every time the boat rocks slightly.

“Better,” he says.

“Much,” you reply.

You both look back out at the water again, the city stretching out behind you now, the sun reflecting off the river in bright, broken pieces.

After a minute, without really thinking about it, he leans down and presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

It is not a big moment. Not dramatic. Not the kind of kiss that belongs under a streetlight or at the end of a movie.

It is small and warm and absentminded, like it is the most natural thing in the world to kiss you just because you are standing there.

And for some reason, that is the one that gets you.

You do not move away. You do not say anything. You just stand there, tucked slightly into his side, looking out at the water while something in your chest pulls tight in a way that feels a little like fear and a lot like something else you are not ready to name yet.

After a while, you look up at him.

He is looking out at the skyline, eyes focused somewhere far away, hair moving in the wind, his expression thoughtful in that quiet way people get when they forget to perform for a minute.

Up close like this, you notice things you did not the other night. The shape of his nose. The curve of his mouth when he is not talking. The way his eyes narrow slightly when he is looking at something far away.

He smells good. Clean and warm and a little like whatever detergent hotels use that always smells better than what you have at home.

And it hits you all at once, fast and a little terrifying.

You are in trouble.

Not the small kind. Not the casual kind where you go on a few dates and it fizzles out and you move on and it becomes a story you tell later like it was funny.

This feels like the kind where you look up one day and realize you fell without ever seeing the exact moment it started.

You are still looking at him when he turns his head and catches you staring.

For a second, neither of you says anything.

You probably should look away. A normal person would look away.

You do not.

“What?” he asks quietly.

You shake your head a little.

“Nothing,” you say, but you are still looking at him.

He studies your face for a second like he is trying to read something there, and then his hand shifts slightly on your arm, his thumb brushing once, absentmindedly, like he does not even realize he is doing it.

The boat rocks gently under your feet and the wind pushes your hair across your face again.

This time he reaches up and tucks it behind your ear, his fingers brushing your cheek for just a second longer than necessary.

Your heart is beating so loud you are almost sure he can hear it over the engine.

“This was a good idea,” he says quietly.

“The ferry?” you ask.

“The tour,” he says. “All of it.”

You swallow and glance out at the water for a second before looking back at him.

“I wanted to show you my version of the city,” you say. “Not the version everyone else sees.”

He nods slightly.

“I like your version better.”

There is a quiet moment that stretches between you then, the kind where something feels like it could be said, but neither of you quite says it yet.

Instead, he just looks at you for another second, then leans down and kisses you.

This kiss is different from the first one.

The streetlight kiss was all nerves and adrenaline and the sudden, reckless decision to run back toward someone instead of away.

This one is slower. Warmer. Certain in a way that makes your stomach flip.

Your hand comes up to the front of his coat without you thinking about it, holding onto the fabric lightly as you kiss him back, the wind and the water and the city all blurring into the background.

When he pulls back, he does not go far. His forehead rests lightly against yours for a second, both of you just standing there, breathing the same cold air, the boat moving steadily under your feet.

“Tour guide,” he says quietly.

“Tourist,” you reply softly.

And you both smile a little, still standing there with the entire city stretched out around you like something waiting to see what happens next.

The rest of the afternoon unfolds easily after the ferry, like the day has found its rhythm and neither of you feels the need to rush it.

You walk when you can, take the subway once, cut through side streets instead of avenues, and you make sure every place you take him feels like somewhere you would still go even if he were not there.

That feels important to you. That he sees your real places. Not the places you think he would be impressed by.

You point things out as you go, little facts and pieces of the city that most people walk past without noticing.

At one corner you point up at an old building and tell him it used to be a silent film theater before it became a pharmacy and then a bank and now it is a clothing store, and that New York buildings never really die, they just become something else.

On another block you show him a tiny park squeezed between two buildings and tell him it used to be where people kept actual horses a hundred years ago, and now it is where people eat lunch and pretend the city is not loud.

You take him into a record store where the floor creaks when you walk and the guy behind the counter does not look up when you come in, and you show him the section where they keep older records and tell him the store has been there since before either of you were born.

He flips through records for a while, occasionally pulling one out and showing it to you. At one point he hands you one and says, “This one,” and you buy it even though you do not own a record player, and when he gives you a look you just say, “I will figure that part out later.”

You walk across a small park where someone is playing saxophone near a fountain and you sit on a bench for a few minutes just listening, not talking, just existing in the same space while the music carries across the trees and people walk their dogs and kids run past with melting ice cream.

At some point you buy pretzels from a street cart and he burns his fingers because he does not believe you when you say they are hot, and you laugh at him and tear off a piece for him like that is a normal thing to do.

You tell him which subway lines are the worst and which ones are weirdly nice and which stations always smell bad no matter how many times they clean them.

You tell him which streets flood when it rains and which diners are open all night and which bridges have the best view if you walk across them at sunset.

By the time the afternoon starts to slip toward evening, you realize you have been talking and walking for hours without really thinking about it, the day stretching out in a way that feels both long and too short at the same time.

You end up down near the water again, leaning against a railing, the sun starting to drop lower so everything looks a little more golden and a little softer than it did that morning.

For a minute neither of you says anything. You just stand there next to each other, watching the water move slowly, boats cutting across in the distance, the skyline glowing faintly in the late afternoon light.

You turn your head and look at him.

“So,” you say. “What do you want to do now.”

He looks out at the water for another second before looking back at you, like he is thinking about the question more seriously than you expected.

“That depends,” he says.

“On what.”

He studies your face for a second before answering.

“On how much time you have left on this tour.”

You lean back against the railing slightly, crossing your arms.

“The tour is very flexible,” you say. “The tour can continue.”

He nods slowly, like he is deciding something, then he looks out at the water again for a second before speaking.

“Have you ever been to Los Angeles?” he asks.

The question catches you a little off guard.

“Once,” you say. “Very briefly. It felt like a place where everyone is either on their way to something important or pretending they are.”

He laughs softly.

“That is actually a very accurate description.”

You glance at him.

“Why.”

He taps his fingers once against the metal railing, like he is trying to decide how to say something.

“I spend a lot of time there,” he says. “When I am not in Manchester. Work mostly. Recording. Meetings. All of that. It is not really home, but I am there a lot.”

You nod slowly.

“I am going back in a few days,” he continues. “And I did not want to ask you this over the app. Or over text.”

There is that feeling again. The one where the air shifts a little and suddenly this does not feel like a casual end of the day conversation anymore.

“That is usually a sign that it is either very good or very bad,” you say.

He smiles a little at that but he still looks a little more serious than he has all day.

“I do not want this to just be New York,” he says.

Your heart does that annoying, painful, hopeful thing all at once.

You do not say anything right away, so he keeps going.

“I know this is a little insane,” he says. “And I know my life is not normal. And I know this started on an app and we have only known each other for a few weeks and most of that was messages and late night walks and pizza.”

You smile faintly at that.

“But,” he says, looking at you now, “I like you. I like talking to you. I like being around you. And I do not want to get on a plane and have this just become a story about a girl I met in New York.”

Your throat feels a little tight suddenly and you look down at your hands for a second before looking back at him.

“So what are you saying,” you ask quietly.

He takes a small breath like he is just going to say it and not overthink it anymore.

“I want you to come visit me,” he says. “In LA. I want to show you my version of the city like you showed me yours.”

For a second the world feels very quiet, like the city noise dropped a level and it is just the two of you standing there by the water with this very big, very simple question sitting between you.

“You are asking me to get on a plane,” you say.

“I am.”

“You are asking me to come to Los Angeles.”

“Yes.”

“You are asking me to enter your world.”

He nods once.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I am.”

You look out at the water again, your mind moving a hundred miles an hour while your body stays very still.

Like two months ago you were going on bad dates and complaining to Camille and writing articles about zoning meetings and now you are standing by the water while a man who splits his life between Manchester and Los Angeles is asking you to get on a plane and see what his world looks like when it is not late night walks and pizza and bookstores.

You let out a small breath and laugh a little, shaking your head.

“My life was so normal like five minutes ago,” you say.

He smiles slightly.

“I know.”

You look back at him.

“This is a big ask,” you say.

“I know,” he says again. “You do not have to answer right now. I just wanted you to know that I do not want this to stop when I leave.”

You study his face for a second, trying to figure out if he realizes how sincere he sounds right now.

“Harry,” you say softly, “this is a little crazy.”

“I know,” he says. “But I think some things are worth being a little crazy for.”

You do not answer right away.

You just stand there next to him by the water, the city moving behind you, the ferry from earlier crossing slowly in the distance, and the question sitting there between you, big and bright and a little terrifying.

And for the first time since this whole thing started, you realize this is not just a cute story anymore.

You look out at the water for a long moment before you answer, watching the way the light hits the surface and breaks apart every time a boat passes through it. Your mind is moving quickly, but the feeling in your chest is strangely calm, like some part of you already knows the answer and is just waiting for the rest of you to catch up.

When you finally look back at him, he is already looking at you, like he has been trying to read your face this whole time.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I would love to.”

You watch his expression change, just slightly, like something in him relaxes that he was trying not to show was tense in the first place.

“And,” you add, “I appreciate you asking me. And letting me into that part of your life. Because if we are being honest, I am still kind of a stranger.”

He lets out a quiet laugh at that and looks down, shaking his head a little.

“You do not feel like a stranger,” he says.

“I kind of am,” you reply. “A few weeks ago I was just some girl whose friend gave her a Raya invite code and told her to get back out there.”

“Best friend,” he says. “Important distinction. She changed my life a little.”

You laugh.

“She will never recover if she hears you say that.”

“I will thank her personally,” he says.

“You absolutely will not,” you reply quickly. “She would make it her entire personality.”

He smiles at that, then leans back against the railing beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush lightly.

“I like how I feel when I am with you,” he says after a moment. “It is… normal. And I do not get a lot of normal.”

You do not interrupt. You just let him talk.

“I feel like I can relax,” he continues. “Like I do not have to be at a certain level all the time. I do not have to match energy or be interesting or on or anything. I can just be there. And I really like that.”

You look at him for a second, something in your chest pulling tight in that quiet, emotional way that sneaks up on you instead of announcing itself.

“I am glad,” you say. “I think everyone deserves a place where they get to just be a person.”

He nods slightly, then looks down at the bag of books he is still holding. He opens it and reaches inside.

“I got you something,” he says.

You blink.

“You did not have to get me something.”

“I know,” he says. “I wanted to.”

He pulls out one of the books from the bookstore, turning it over once in his hands before holding it out to you.

“This is my favorite,” he says. “Or one of them. I am not sure if you have read it.”

You take the book from him and look down at the cover, running your fingers lightly over the front.

“I have not,” you say, looking back up at him. “What is it about.”

He smiles a little, but it is not his usual easy smile. It is softer. A little more thoughtful.

“It is hard to explain,” he says. “It is one of those books that just kind of… stays with you. I read it the first time when I was younger and it made me feel less alone, I think. I have read it a few times since then, in a lot of different places. Tour buses, hotel rooms, planes. It always feels a little different every time.”

You look back down at the book again, then back at him.

“Why this one for me?” you ask.

He shrugs slightly, but he is still looking at you in that steady way.

“I do not know,” he says. “I saw it on the shelf and I thought of you. Which felt like a good enough reason.”

You swallow, your fingers tightening slightly around the book.

“That is a lot of pressure for me,” you say lightly.

He smiles a little.

“It is not pressure,” he says. “It is just… a piece of me. In paperback.”

That lands somewhere deep in your chest and stays there.

You look down at the book again, then tuck it carefully into your bag like it is something fragile.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

He nods once like that was the right response, then looks back out at the water, the sun lower now, the light warmer, the city starting to shift into evening.

You lean against the railing beside him, your shoulder brushing his again, and for a little while neither of you says anything.

You just stand there together, the city moving around you, the future suddenly this big, unknown thing sitting quietly in front of you.

It feels like the kind of moment you are going to remember later. Not because anything huge is happening, but because everything feels very still and very important all at the same time.

You glance over at him.

“So this is the part of the tour where I am supposed to say something profound about New York,” you say.

He smiles a little. “Do you have something profound prepared.”

“No,” you say. “But if I did, this would be the moment for it.”

He looks out at the skyline again, then back at you.

“I think I get it now,” he says.

“Get what.”

“Why you love it here so much,” he says. “It is loud and busy and a little chaotic, but then you find these quiet pockets. Bookstores and ferries and little parks and record shops. It is like the city is loud on purpose so the quiet parts feel more special.”

You look at him for a second.

“That was actually better than anything I was going to say,” you admit.

He shrugs a little. “I had a good tour guide.”

You smile and look back out at the water again, then let out a small breath.

“You know,” you say, “when Camille gave me that Raya code, I really did not think anything would come from it. I thought I would go on a few bad dates, get a few good stories, and then delete the app again.”

“Yeah?” he says.

“Yeah,” you say. “I did not think I would end up on a ferry with a man who lives in Manchester and spends half his time in Los Angeles asking me to get on a plane.”

He laughs quietly.

“When you say it like that, it does sound a bit ridiculous.”

“It is a bit ridiculous,” you say. “But not in a bad way.”

He turns slightly so he is facing you more.

“I am really glad I met you,” he says.

The way he says it is so simple and so honest that it catches you off guard a little.

“I am really glad I met you too,” you say.

For a second you both just stand there looking at each other, the kind of look that feels like a conversation all by itself.

Then you bump his shoulder lightly with yours.

“So,” you say, “logistically, how does this work now. Do I just get on a plane and hope you are not secretly a serial killer.”

He laughs.

“I guess there is a certain amount of trust involved.”

“Good,” you say. “I love making large life decisions based on vibes.”

“I will send you my address,” he says. “That usually helps with the serial killer concern.”

“Very comforting,” you reply.

He smiles, then reaches over and takes your hand like it is the most natural thing in the world. Like it has been there the whole day and you just did not notice until now.

You look down at your hands for a second, then back up at him.

“This is a little crazy,” you say again, but this time you are smiling when you say it.

“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

You squeeze his hand once, lightly.

“Okay,” you say. “Then I guess I am going to Los Angeles.”

He smiles at that, a real one this time, the kind that reaches all the way to his eyes.

“Okay,” he says. “Then I guess you are.”

You stand there for a few more minutes, talking about small things again. Flights and how long he will be there and how you have never really seen Los Angeles properly and how he has never really gotten used to the traffic and how Manchester will always feel more like home than anywhere else.

Eventually the sun drops lower and the air gets colder and the light starts to fade out of the sky.

You push yourself off the railing.

“Alright,” you say. “The tour guide is getting cold and hungry, which means the tour is officially over.”

He looks at you.

“Best tour I have ever had,” he says.

“That is because I did not take you to Times Square,” you reply.

“Thank you for that,” he says seriously. “I do not think I would have recovered.”

You laugh and start walking, and he falls into step beside you like he has been doing it for years instead of one day.

As you walk, your shoulder brushes his, then again, and then his hand finds yours again without either of you really acknowledging it.

By the time you get to the subway entrance, you both slow down a little, like neither of you is in a huge rush to be the one who says goodbye first.

“This is me,” you say, gesturing toward the stairs.

He nods, but he does not let go of your hand yet.

“I will text you,” he says.

“You better,” you reply.

He smiles a little, then leans down and kisses you. Not like the ferry. Not like the streetlight. Just a soft, warm, quick kiss that feels like a promise instead of a question.

When he pulls back, he presses his forehead lightly against yours for a second.

“Thank you for today,” he says.

“You are welcome,” you say. “Thank you for the book.”

He smiles.

“Read it on the plane,” he says.

You look at him for a second.

“Okay,” you say.

You squeeze his hand once more, then let go and step back toward the subway entrance. You walk down a few steps, then turn back around because apparently that is just who you are now, a person who turns around.

He is still standing there, watching you.

You lift the book slightly out of your bag and hold it up.

“I will text you when I finish it,” you call.

“I will be waiting,” he says.

A week of her not sleeping unless she is on you. A week of her crying every time you put her down. A week of you eating standing up, showering in three minute intervals, and feeling like the walls get a little quieter and a little louder at the same time.

Right now she is calm. Wide eyed. Quiet.

And for the first time today, you are not holding her.

You are in the kitchen, rinsing out a bottle, enjoying the most dangerous thing in the world to a new mother.

Silence.

You hear the front door open.

Then his voice, warm and familiar and so normal that it almost makes you want to cry.

“Hey,” he calls out. “Where are my girls?”

Your chest does a weird tight little squeeze. You didn’t realize how tired you were of doing this alone until the second you hear him.

“In here,” you call back, trying to sound normal, like everything is normal, like this week did not chew you up and spit you back out.

You hear his bag hit the floor. His shoes by the door. His footsteps getting closer, that familiar rhythm you could pick out of a crowd.

He walks into the living room first.

And he stops.

Not dramatically. Not angrily. He just stops when he sees Rosie in her bouncer.

Watching TV.

You can’t see his face from the kitchen, but you know that pause. You know that quiet.

He walks over to her anyway, because of course he does, and crouches down in front of the bouncer.

“Hi, Rosie Posie,” he says softly.

Her whole face lights up when she sees him. Her legs start kicking like crazy, her little arms waving, that huge gummy smile that makes both of you feel like the most important people in the world.

You hear him laugh quietly.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “There’s my girl.”

You lean against the counter for a second and just watch them from the kitchen doorway. Him talking to her in that soft voice he only uses for her. Her staring at him like the sun rose just because he walked into the room.

For a second, everything feels okay.

Then he glances up at the TV.

Then back at you.

He doesn’t yell. That would almost be easier.

He just says, very calm, very even,

“I thought we said no telly.”

And immediately, you feel something in your chest tighten.

Not guilt. Not exactly.

Something closer to exhaustion.

It had been one of those rare slow mornings a few months after Rosie was born. The kind where the house was quiet, the light was soft, and nobody was crying.

Rosie was asleep on Harry’s chest, her tiny body rising and falling with his breathing while he sat on the couch, too scared to move in case he woke her. You were sitting on the other end with a cup of coffee that had already gone cold, just watching them.

He looked down at her like he could not quite believe she was real.

“She’s so little,” he said quietly, like if he spoke too loud she might disappear.

“I know,” you said. “She makes me nervous.”

He smiled a little at that, still looking at her. “I just keep thinking about all the things that are going to get to her. Eventually.”

You frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

“Everything,” he said. “Phones and the internet and people and cameras and all of it. I know we can’t stop all of it. But I just… I don’t know. I want her to be little for as long as she can.”

You pulled your legs up under you on the couch, listening.

He was quiet for a minute, then he said, “I don’t want her in front of screens all the time. I see it everywhere now. Kids at restaurants with iPads, kids on phones before they can even talk properly. I just don’t want that for her.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. I get that.”

“I want her to read and play and be outside and be bored sometimes,” he said. “I want her to talk to us. Not just stare at a screen, you know?”

You watched the way his hand rested so carefully on Rosie’s back, like he thought if he pressed too hard she might break.

“We can do no screens,” you said. “That’s fine. She’s a baby anyway. She doesn’t need it.”

He looked up at you then, like he was making sure you really meant it. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said. “No telly. No iPad kid. We’ll be one of those annoying families.”

He laughed quietly. “We already are.”

You smiled a little. “It’ll be easier while you’re home anyway.”

The second you said it, you both felt it. That quiet understanding that his being home all the time was not permanent.

He looked back down at Rosie. “I know I won’t always be here like this,” he said. “But I want us to be on the same page. Even when I’m gone. Especially when I’m gone.”

That part had mattered to him. You could hear it in his voice.

“Okay,” you said softly. “We’ll be on the same page.”

He leaned over carefully so he would not wake her and kissed your temple.

“Thank you,” he said. “I know it’s more work for you when I’m not here. I know that.”

At the time, you believed that sentence would protect you later.

I know it’s more work for you when I’m not here.

You did not know that a few months later, you would be standing in the kitchen, exhausted, while your baby watched a baby show for ten minutes of quiet, and he would be standing in the living room saying,

“I thought we said no telly.”

And that sentence would feel very far away.

You stand there for a second after he says it.

You dry your hands on a towel, buying yourself a few seconds, then walk into the living room. Rosie is still kicking happily in her bouncer, completely unaware that her parents are about to have their first real fight since she was born.

“Uh, yeah,” you say. “Yeah. I know. It’s just been a rough week.”

He nods once, like he hears you, but he still reaches over and grabs the remote and turns the TV off. The room goes quiet except for Rosie’s little noises and the hum of the house.

“Well,” he says, not mean, not loud, just that calm voice he uses when he thinks he’s being reasonable, “maybe next time you could try something different.”

You look at him.

Not dramatic. Not angry. Just tired and confused.

“What?”

He looks at you like he doesn’t understand why you’re looking at him like that. “What?”

You let out a small breath that is almost a laugh but not really. “I did try something different. I tried everything.”

He crosses his arms lightly, not in a mean way, more like he’s settling into a conversation he thinks is logical. “Okay, I’m just saying we agreed no screens.”

“I know what we agreed,” you say, and you can hear your voice starting to get tight. “I was here when we agreed it.”

“I’m not saying you weren’t,” he says. “I’m just saying we said no telly.”

You stare at him for a second, and you can actually feel the week sitting on your shoulders. The no sleep. The crying. The being alone in the house for days. The same walls. The same routine. The same tiny person who needs you every second.

And he is standing there, after being gone for a week, telling you maybe you should try something different.

You let out a quiet, tired little laugh and shake your head.

“Right,” you say. “Sorry. Next time she screams for three hours straight and I haven’t eaten and I haven’t sat down all day, I’ll just try something different. Don’t know why I didn’t think of that.”

There it is.

The snide comment.

The second it leaves your mouth, the room feels different.

He looks at you, really looks at you now, and his jaw tightens just a little.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “You don’t have to be like that.”

And normally, maybe you wouldn’t be.

Normally you would take a breath. Normally you would explain it better. Normally you would not feel like you are being graded in your own house after a week of doing everything by yourself.

But you are so tired.

So tired that your eyes start burning before you even realize you are about to cry, which only makes you angrier because now it looks like you are crying over the TV when you are not crying about the TV at all.

You let out a short laugh, but there is nothing funny about it.

“Like what?” you ask. “Like I had a hard week?”

“I didn’t say you didn’t have a hard week,” he says, a little more defensive now. “I’m just saying we agreed on something and I come home and she’s sitting in front of the telly.”

“And I’m telling you it was a bad week,” you say, your voice tighter now. “A really really bad week, Harry.”

He runs a hand through his hair, already looking frustrated. “Okay, but you could have called me. We could have talked about it instead of just changing the plan.”

And that’s it. That’s the sentence that does it.

Because in your head you hear, you should have handled this better.

You stare at him and you can actually feel the moment your patience snaps.

“You weren’t here,” you say.

The room goes very quiet.

He blinks a little, like he’s not sure he heard you right. “What?”

“You weren’t here,” you repeat, louder now. “You don’t understand what it was like this week. You don’t. You get to come home and be the fun one and the calm one and make comments about the TV, but you weren’t here when she wouldn’t stop crying and I hadn’t slept and I was walking around the house at three in the morning trying not to lose my mind.”

His face changes. Not angry. Hurt.

“I know I wasn’t here,” he says quietly.

“No, you don’t,” you say, and now you are crying but you are too far in to stop. “You don’t know what it’s like to be alone with a baby that needs you every second and there’s no one to tap out with and no one to hand her to and no one to even talk to. So yeah. She watched a stupid show for ten minutes so I could wash bottles without someone crying in my ear or hanging off my breast. I’m sorry I broke the rule.”

He just looks at you for a second. Really looks at you. Like he does not recognize the conversation anymore.

Then he nods once.

“Right,” he says.

Just that. Right.

It is worse than if he yelled.

He walks past you into the living room and unbuckles Rosie from her bouncer. She immediately grabs onto his shirt, still smiling, still happy, because to her this is the best day ever. Dad is home.

He picks her up and rests her against his shoulder, gently patting her back.

“C’mon, Rosie,” he says softly. “Let’s give Mum a break, yeah? Since I’m never here and I don’t know anything.”

There it is.

The passive aggressive comment.

It lands exactly how he meant it to.

You turn around immediately. “That’s so unfair.”

And now you are both standing there, hurt and tired and defensive, with a baby between you who has no idea why the air in the room suddenly feels so heavy.

He’s still holding Rosie against his shoulder, gently swaying a little without even thinking about it. She’s playing with the collar of his shirt, perfectly content, like she can’t feel the tension stretched tight between the two of you.

He looks at you, tired and irritated and hurt all at the same time.

“Unfair?” he says. “You want to talk about unfair?”

You cross your arms, already defensive again. “Yes. Unfair. That was a cheap shot and you know it.”

He lets out a short breath through his nose and shifts Rosie a little higher on his shoulder when she starts to slide.

“Right,” he says. “Because what you said wasn’t?”

You blink at him. “What did I say?”

“You said I don’t understand and I’m not here,” he says. “You don’t think that’s a cheap shot?”

You open your mouth, then close it again, because you did say that. But it didn’t feel like a cheap shot when you said it. It felt like the truth.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say, but even to your own ears it sounds weak.

“How did you mean it then?” he asks, not raising his voice, which somehow makes it worse. “Because it sounded like you were saying I just disappear and then come home and start criticizing you.”

You rub your forehead with your fingers, suddenly feeling exhausted down to your bones. “I am not criticizing you, Harry. I’m trying to tell you I had a horrible week and I needed ten minutes where no one was crying.”

“And I’m not criticizing you,” he says. “I’m reminding you we agreed on something for her.”

You look at him for a long second, and you can feel it. This conversation is not going to get better right now. You are too tired. He is too defensive. Every sentence is just making it worse.

So you do the only thing you can think of to keep from saying something really mean.

You step around him and grab your water off the counter.

“I’m going to take a shower,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t answer right away.

You walk toward the hallway, then stop and turn back around, because even though you’re mad, you’re still her mom and you still love him and you still run this house together.

“Call me if you need me,” you say. “Or if she’s hungry. There’s a bottle of breast milk in the fridge from earlier.”

He nods once. “Yeah. Okay.”

You stand there for a second like you want to say something else. Like maybe you want him to say sorry. Or ask if you’re okay. Or say he didn’t mean it like that.

But he just keeps gently patting Rosie’s back, looking down at her instead of at you.

So you nod once too, even though your throat feels tight again.

Then you walk down the hall, into the bathroom, and close the door.

The second the shower turns on, the house goes quiet again.

And in the kitchen, Harry stands there holding Rosie, listening to the sound of the shower running.

He knows that did not go how it was supposed to go.

He looks down at Rosie, who is now trying to chew on his shirt.

“Yeah,” he murmurs to her quietly. “I think I messed that up a bit, didn’t I?”

Rosie just smiles at him like he’s still the best person she’s ever seen.

The bathroom fills with steam faster than you expect, and you step under the water almost the second it gets warm, like you cannot get close enough to it.

For a few seconds, you just stand there and let the water hit the back of your neck. You do not move. You do not wash your hair. You do not reach for the soap. You just stand there and breathe.

And then, without any warning, you start crying.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just that quiet crying where your face scrunches up and you press the heel of your hand into your eye like that might stop it.

You are not crying about the TV.

You are crying because this week was horrible and it feels like Harry isn’t trying to understand.

Because Rosie would not sleep unless she was on your chest and every time you tried to put her down, she woke up screaming like you had abandoned her. Because you ate crackers over the sink twice and called it lunch. Because you tried to shower one day and she cried so hard in the other room you got out with shampoo still in your hair.

Because you love her so much it scares you, but sometimes you miss being a person who could finish a cup of coffee while it was still hot.

You lean your forehead against the cool tile and close your eyes.

You think about the conversation months ago. The soft morning light. Rosie asleep on his chest. Him saying he just wanted her to be little for as long as possible. No screens. More books. More outside. More talking.

You had meant it when you agreed. You still mean it. You tried to read to her, take her outside on a walk, and talk to her but nothing helped.

But he was there when you agreed.

He was there to hold her when she cried. There to say, “I’ve got her, go take a shower.” There to order dinner when neither of you had the energy to cook. There to sit on the couch with you at night and say, “We survived today.” before giving you a high-five.

This week, there was no one to say we survived today. No one to high-five.

It was just you, walking around the house in the dark with a crying baby, whispering, “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay,” even when you were not sure it was.

The water runs down your face, mixing with the tears, and you let out a shaky breath.

You feel guilty.

That’s the worst part.

Not just tired. Not just overwhelmed. Guilty.

Like you failed some test. Like he left for a week and came back and the one rule you had, the one thing he really cared about, you broke it.

Even if it was only for a few minutes.

Even if it was because you felt like you were going to lose your mind if you heard one more minute of crying.

You slide down a little so your back is against the tile and you bring your knees up slightly, just standing there under the water like you are trying to hold yourself together.

You keep hearing it in your head.

“Well maybe next time you could try something different.”

You whisper it out loud, not even realizing you are doing it.

“Try something different,” you mumble, your voice cracking a little. “I tried everything.”

And the worst part is you know he loves you.

You know he loves Rosie.

You know he did not mean to make you feel like this.

But that does not mean it did not hurt.

And out in the kitchen, he is holding your baby like he did something wrong.

And in here, you are crying in the shower because you are so tired and you miss your husband and he is in the next room.

You do not know how long you stay there.

Long enough that the mirror is completely fogged. Long enough that the water starts to run a little cooler but you do not reach to fix it. Long enough that the crying stops and you are just standing there feeling… quiet.

Too quiet.

You lean your head back against the tile and stare up at the ceiling, water running over your face, and you have this thought that you do not like.

I don’t feel like myself.

It kind of sneaks in, that thought. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just a quiet, uncomfortable realization.

You try to remember the last time you did something that was just for you. Not laundry. Not bottles. Not grocery shopping. Not trying to get a baby to sleep. Something that made you feel like you, not just like someone’s mom.

You cannot think of anything.

And then you think about the last week. How quiet the house felt at night. How you would finally get Rosie to sleep and then just sit on the couch and stare at nothing because you were too tired to watch anything, too tired to read, too tired to even text anyone back.

You think about how you did not tell Harry how bad this week actually was, because every time you talked to him he sounded so happy to be back in the studio, so excited about the music, and you did not want to be the person on the phone who sounded like she was drowning while he was finally coming up for air after his break.

So every time he asked, “Everything okay at home?” you said, “Yeah. We’re good. Just tired.”

Just tired.

You swallow hard and close your eyes.

“I think something’s wrong with me,” you whisper, so quiet the water almost swallows the words.

Not wrong with you like you do not love your baby.

You love Rosie so much it physically hurts sometimes.

Wrong like you feel sad and you do not have a good reason. Wrong like you feel overwhelmed by tiny things. Wrong like you feel lonely in a house that has everything you ever wanted in it.

You rub your face with both hands and take a shaky breath.

“Get it together,” you mumble to yourself. “You’re fine. You’re just tired.”

But the thought is there now, and you cannot really push it away again.

Maybe you are a little depressed.

Maybe this is harder than you thought it was going to be.

Maybe you needed help this week and you did not ask for it.

You stand there a few more minutes, then finally reach over and turn the water off. The silence after the shower is loud. You wrap a towel around yourself and just stand there for a second, staring at your reflection in the foggy mirror.

You look tired. Not just sleepy. Tired in your eyes. Tired in your face.

You wipe a small circle in the fog with your hand and look at yourself.

“I’m trying,” you say quietly to the girl in the mirror. “I am trying really hard.”

Out in the living room, Harry is sitting on the couch with Rosie lying on his chest again, her head tucked under his chin, his hand resting on her back.

The TV is off. The house is quiet except for the faint sound of the shower running down the hall.

He stares at nothing for a while, just absentmindedly rubbing small circles on Rosie’s back. She makes a little happy noise and grabs onto his shirt again, like she is making sure he is real and not going anywhere.

“I know,” he murmurs to her. “I know. I missed you too.”

He presses a kiss to the top of her head and closes his eyes for a second.

Then he hears it again in his head.

“You weren’t here. You don’t understand.”

He exhales slowly through his nose.

“I know I wasn’t here,” he says quietly, more to himself than to her. “I know.”

He looks around the house a little. At the laundry basket. The bottles. The burp cloth on the chair. The half folded baby clothes.

Things he did not really see when he walked in because all he saw was the TV.

He adjusts Rosie slightly when she squirms, and he says softly, “Was Mum having a hard week, huh?”

Rosie just blinks up at him.

He swallows a little and leans his head back against the couch.

“I think I came in a bit hot,” he admits quietly. “I just… I don’t want to miss everything, you know? I don’t want to be gone and then come back and things are different and I didn’t even notice when it changed.”

He looks down at Rosie again.

“But I think I made her feel like she was doing something wrong,” he says. “And I don’t think she’s doing anything wrong. I think she’s just tired.”

He sits there for a long time, just holding her, listening to the quiet house, and for the first time since he walked in, he is not thinking about the TV.

He is thinking about you standing in the kitchen, looking at him like you were too tired to even defend yourself properly.

And he starts to feel a little bit sick about the way he said it.

“I think I hurt her feelings,” he says softly to Rosie.

Rosie responds by spitting a little bit of drool on his shirt.

He huffs a small laugh. “Yeah. I probably deserved that.”

He looks toward the hallway, then back down at his daughter.

“Alright,” he says quietly. “Let’s see if we can fix this later, yeah? But maybe not right away. I think Mum’s really upset.”

He presses another kiss to Rosie’s head and just sits there.

After a while, Rosie starts doing that thing where her eyes get heavy but she is still fighting it, her little fists opening and closing against his shirt, her head getting heavier on his chest.

“Yeah,” he murmurs softly. “You’re knackered, aren’t you?”

He stands up slowly, careful not to wake her fully, and walks down the hall to her room. The door creaks a little when he pushes it open and he freezes for a second, waiting to see if her eyes pop open.

They don’t.

He walks over to the crib and lowers her down slowly, one hand under her head, one on her back, the way you showed him a hundred times. She squirms a little, makes a small noise, then settles, her tiny mouth falling open as she drifts off.

He stands there for a minute, just looking at her.

It still hits him sometimes out of nowhere.

That’s my kid.

He gently pulls the blanket up a little, then turns on the small monitor and sets it on the dresser. When he walks back out into the hallway, he can hear the shower is off now. The bathroom door is still closed.

He looks at it for a second like he’s thinking about knocking, then decides against it.

Instead, he walks back into the kitchen.

And this time, he really looks around.

Not the way you look at your house when you live in it. The way you look at a place when you’ve been gone and you’re trying to figure out what happened while you weren’t there.

There are bottles everywhere. Not dirty, just… everywhere. On the counter. On the drying rack. One on the coffee table. A burp cloth on the arm of the couch. Tiny socks that somehow ended up near the TV stand.

He opens the fridge to put the milk away and sees containers of food that look like they were eaten straight out of, not plated. A half drunk cup of coffee. Another bottle.

He closes the fridge slowly.

“Jesus,” he mutters quietly to himself.

Not in a judgmental way. In a I did not realize it looked like this way.

He rolls up his sleeves and starts with the sink. He rinses the bottles, lines them up, washes what is in there. Wipes down the counter. Throws the burp cloths into a small pile. Folds the tiny laundry on the couch the way he has seen you do it, even though he is not very good at folding things that are that small.

Every few minutes, he glances down the hallway toward the bedroom and the bathroom, like he is waiting for you to come out.

But you don’t.

So he just keeps cleaning. Quietly. Not making a big deal out of it. Not announcing it. Just… doing it.

At one point he picks up one of Rosie’s tiny pink socks and just looks at it, shaking his head a little to himself.

“She’s so small,” he murmurs.

Then he looks around the house again, at all the little signs of your week. The survival mode. The half done things. The evidence that you were doing everything by yourself.

He leans his hands on the counter and stares down at the sink for a long moment.

“I really messed that up,” he says quietly to the empty kitchen.

And for the first time since he got home, he is not thinking about the TV at all.

He is thinking about you standing there saying, You weren’t here.

And now, looking at the house, he finally understands what you meant.

When you finally open the bathroom door, the house is quiet.

That is the first thing you notice.

Not baby quiet. Not TV quiet. Real quiet.

You walk down the hallway slowly, towel still wrapped around your hair, and when you step into the living room you stop for a second.

The laundry that was on the couch is folded. Not perfectly, but folded. The bottles that were in the sink are clean and lined up on a towel. The counters are wiped down. The burp cloths are in a neat little stack.

You just stand there for a second, taking it in.

Harry is in the kitchen, leaning back against the counter, scrolling on his phone but not really looking at it. He looks up when he hears you.

For a second, neither of you says anything.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

“Hey,” you say back.

There is this strange, fragile feeling in the room now. Like if either of you says the wrong thing, it is all going to snap again.

He nods toward the hallway. “She’s down. She fell asleep pretty quick.”

You nod. “Okay. Good.”

Another small silence.

He pushes himself off the counter like he is about to say something, and you can see it on his face. He wants to talk. He wants to fix it. He wants to say something about earlier.

But you are so tired.

Not just physically. Tired in your chest. Tired in your head. Tired in that place where conversations like this take energy that you just do not have right now.

So you speak first.

“I love you,” you say.

It clearly catches him off guard. His face softens immediately. “I love you too.”

You nod once, like you just needed to say it out loud so he knew this was not bigger than that.

“I’m just really tired,” you say quietly. “I think I’m going to take a nap… if that’s okay.”

He nods right away. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Go lay down.”

You hesitate for a second, then add, “Can you just… listen for her? And there’s bottles in the fridge. She’ll probably wake up in like an hour or so.”

“Yeah,” he says again, softer this time. “I’ve got her. Don’t worry about anything. Just go to sleep.”

You nod, and you start to walk past him, but he reaches out gently and touches your arm, not grabbing, just stopping you for a second.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

You look at him but you do not say anything.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t… I didn’t think before I said that. About the TV. I just saw it and I reacted. I’m sorry.”

Your throat tightens a little, because you can tell he means it.

But you are still too tired to have the whole conversation. Too tired to cry again. Too tired to explain everything that has been sitting in your chest all week.

So you just nod a little.

“I know,” you say softly. “I know you didn’t mean it like that.”

And you do know.

You squeeze his hand once, then let go.

“I’m going to sleep for a bit,” you say again.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll be here.”

You walk into the bedroom, close the door, and for the first time in a week, you lay down in the middle of the day while someone else is in the house to listen for the baby.

In the kitchen, Harry stands there for a long moment after you close the door, just looking down the hallway.

Then he quietly starts making a bottle and sets it in the fridge for later, just in case.

And every few minutes, he checks the monitor.

And he lets you sleep.

A few hours pass quietly.

Harry keeps the monitor next to him the whole time, the volume low while he moves around the house, answering a couple emails, folding the rest of the tiny laundry, wiping down the counters again even though they are already clean.

At some point he checks the time and realizes you have been asleep for almost three hours.

“Yeah,” he mutters to himself. “You needed that.”

He orders dinner from your favorite takeout place. The one you always get when you are too tired to cook and say, “I don’t even care, just order for me.” He does not even have to ask what you want. He just orders your usual.

Right as the delivery app says the driver is two minutes away, Rosie starts crying over the monitor.

He goes and gets her from the crib, her face all scrunched and warm from sleep, her little hands grabbing at his shirt while he walks her back into the living room.

“I know,” he murmurs, bouncing her gently. “I know. You’re hungry. Tough timing, yeah? Give me one second.”

The doorbell rings while he is still trying to settle her, so he opens the door with Rosie on his hip, signs for the food, thanks the delivery guy, and carries the bags to the kitchen table.

The house smells like warm takeout almost immediately.

Rosie is properly crying now, that hungry cry that is not dramatic but very insistent, so he grabs a bottle from the fridge and warms it while holding her with one arm.

“Alright, alright,” he says softly. “I’m moving as fast as I can. You’re very bossy for someone who can’t even hold her own bottle yet.”

He feeds her in the living room, the lamp on, the rest of the house dim and quiet. Halfway through the bottle, he hears something faint down the hallway.

Your phone.

The soft, familiar sound of TikTok videos playing quietly.

He glances down the hallway, then back at Rosie.

“Mum’s awake,” he says softly. “That’s a good sign.”

After Rosie finishes the bottle and burps, he walks down the hallway and stops outside the bedroom door. He can hear the faint sound of a video and you shifting around in the bed.

He knocks gently on the door.

“Yeah?” you call.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

“Yeah, come in.”

He opens the door and steps inside, Rosie on his hip.

You are sitting up in bed, pillows behind you, blanket over your legs, your hair a little messy from sleep, phone still in your hand. You look… better. Still tired, but not like you are about to cry anymore.

When you see Rosie, your whole face softens immediately.

“There’s my girl,” you say, setting your phone down and reaching your arms out for her.

Rosie immediately leans toward you, like she has been waiting for this exact moment.

Harry walks over and carefully hands her to you, and the second she is in your arms, she relaxes against your chest like that is where she belongs.

You press a kiss to the top of her head and close your eyes for a second.

“Hi, Rosie,” you murmur. “Did you have a nice nap with Dad?”

Harry stands there for a second, watching the two of you, then he says quietly, “I ordered dinner. From that place you like.”

You look up at him, a little surprised. “You did?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Figured you wouldn’t want to cook.”

You let out a small, tired laugh. “You figured right.”

There is a small pause, then you say softly, “Thank you. For letting me sleep.”

“Of course,” he says. “You needed it.”

Another one of those quiet, fragile silences settles in. Not as sharp as before. But not completely normal yet either.

Rosie makes a small happy noise against your chest and you absentmindedly rock her a little.

Harry shifts his weight slightly, like he is trying to figure out how to say what he wants to say without starting another fight.

“I cleaned up a bit,” he says. “I didn’t know where everything went, so… if I put stuff in the wrong place, that’s why.”

You look at him for a second, then glance past him toward the hallway, like you are remembering how the house looked earlier.

“I noticed,” you say quietly. “Thank you.”

He nods once. “Yeah.”

He is still standing there, like he does not really want to leave the room yet.

And you are sitting there on the bed, holding Rosie, looking at him like you both know you still need to talk about it.

Just not in the same way as before.

You adjust Rosie on your chest and shift toward the edge of the bed.

“Do you want me to come out there?” you ask. “Or do you want to eat in here?”

He shakes his head slightly. “No, come sit on the couch. We haven’t sat on the couch together in like a week.”

You give a small smile at that, because it’s true. The couch used to be where you ended every night together. Now it feels like a place you pass through on the way to do something else.

“Okay,” you say. “Let me just change her diaper really quick.”

“I’ll grab the food,” he says.

You stand up carefully with Rosie, who immediately makes a small protesting noise at being moved.

“I know,” you murmur to her. “You hate outfit changes, diaper changes, being slightly inconvenienced in any way. Very hard life you have.”

Harry huffs a quiet laugh and walks back toward the kitchen while you take Rosie to the nursery. You change her diaper, put her in a soft little sleeper, and by the time you come back out, the coffee table is covered in takeout containers, napkins, and two drinks.

He is sitting on the couch waiting, not eating yet.

You notice that immediately.

“You didn’t start?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “I was waiting for you.”

You sit down on the couch next to him, tucking your legs under you, settling Rosie against your chest again. She squirms for a minute, then relaxes, her cheek pressed against you.

You both open your containers and start eating, the TV still off, the room lit by just the lamp in the corner.

It feels quiet in a different way now. Not angry quiet. Not sad quiet. Just… careful.

After a few minutes, you say softly, “This is really good.”

“Yeah,” he says. “You always get the same thing.”

“It’s because it’s the best thing,” you say.

He smiles a little. “I know.”

You eat in silence for another minute, then he sets his fork down and leans back into the couch, looking at you but not in a confrontational way. Just… like he wants to understand.

“Can we talk about earlier?” he asks gently.

You look down at Rosie, brushing your thumb lightly over her back, thinking for a second.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “We should probably talk about it.”

And this time, it does not feel like the start of a fight.

It feels like the start of a real conversation.

He does not start with the TV this time.

He just looks at you for a minute and says quietly, “Were you really having that bad of a week?”

You let out a small breath through your nose and look down at Rosie, who is now asleep and warm and heavy against you.

“Yeah,” you say. “I really was.”

He nods slowly, like he is telling himself to just listen this time.

“She wouldn’t sleep,” you say. “Not during the day, not at night. Unless she was on me. And every time I put her down she’d wake up screaming. I felt like I was doing something wrong, like I couldn’t figure out what she needed.”

He does not interrupt. He just watches you and listens.

“I was so tired, Harry,” you continue quietly. “Like, so tired I felt sick. And the house was a mess and I didn’t want to tell you how bad it was because you sounded so happy to be back in the studio and I didn’t want to be the person on the phone ruining that.”

His face changes a little at that. “You wouldn’t ruin that.”

“I know,” you say. “But I felt like I would. So every time you asked how we were, I just said we were good. And we are good. I just… had a really hard week.”

He nods again, slower this time.

“And today,” you say, “she was crying and I was trying to wash bottles and I realized I hadn’t eaten and I hadn’t sat down and I just… I just needed ten minutes where no one needed me. So I put that show on and she stopped crying and I just stood in the kitchen and it was quiet and I felt like a human being for like ten minutes.”

Your voice gets a little tight at the end and you look down so you do not cry again.

For a minute, he does not say anything.

Then he says quietly, “I’m sorry.”

You look up at him.

“I shouldn’t have walked in and said it like that,” he says. “I didn’t even ask how you were. I just saw the TV and went straight into dad mode.”

You give a small, tired smile. “You did go straight into dad mode.”

He huffs a quiet breath. “I think I panic a little. That I’m going to miss things. Or that I’m not here and then I come home and something’s different and I didn’t even know when it changed.”

You look at him more carefully now. “Nothing changed, Harry. I just had a bad week.”

“I know that now,” he says. “I didn’t know that when I walked in. I just saw the TV and thought we were already breaking the rules and I wasn’t even here for it.”

You nod a little. That makes sense in a sad kind of way.

After a small pause, you say quietly, “I think I’m a little depressed.”

The words kind of just sit there between you.

He does not laugh. He does not brush it off. He does not say you are being dramatic.

He leans forward slightly, his elbows on his knees.

“Yeah?” he says softly.

You nod, staring down at Rosie’s tiny hand.

“I don’t feel like myself,” you say. “I love her so much. I love you. I love this. But sometimes I feel really sad and I don’t know why. And I feel lonely a lot. And then I feel guilty for feeling lonely because I have everything I ever wanted.”

He is quiet for a long moment, just taking that in.

“You’re not supposed to do this by yourself,” he says finally. “Even if I’m gone sometimes, you’re not supposed to feel like you’re by yourself.”

You swallow. “It felt like that this week.”

He nods, like that physically hurts to hear. “Okay. Then we need to change something. Because I don’t want you feeling like that. And I don’t want you crying in the shower because you think you’re failing some rule about the TV.”

You look at him quickly. “How did you know I was crying?”

He gives you a small, sad smile. “I didn’t. I just guessed.”

You look down again, and he continues.

“The TV is not the problem,” he says. “I think I just made it the problem because it was the only part I could see. I didn’t see the week you had. I just saw the screen.”

You nod slowly.

“I still don’t want her in front of screens all the time,” he says gently. “But I also don’t want you falling apart because you’re trying to follow a rule we made when we were both home and sleeping.”

You let out a small breath that almost feels like relief.

“So maybe,” he continues, “the rule isn’t no screens ever. Maybe the rule is we survive first. And then we worry about being perfect parents later.”

You laugh quietly at that, and it turns into a small, shaky almost cry again, but not a bad one this time.

“I can survive,” you say. “I just… I need help sometimes.”

He nods immediately. “Then we get you help. We can get someone to come a few days a week when I have to go, like my mum. Or someone. And when I’m gone, we make an actual plan, not just ‘you’ve got it.’ Because clearly that’s not working.”

You nod, and for the first time in the whole day, you feel like you are not standing on a ledge by yourself.

“And,” he adds quietly, “you can tell me when it’s bad. You don’t have to pretend you’re okay so I can enjoy work. I need to know when you’re not okay.”

You look at him for a long moment, then you say softly, “Okay.”

Rosie shifts slightly in her sleep between you, making a small sighing noise, and both of you look down at her at the same time.

Harry reaches over and gently touches her back.

“We’re learning,” he says quietly. “We’ve only been parents for a few months. We’re allowed to mess up a bit.”

You lean your head back against the couch and look at him.

“Today sucked,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says. “Today sucked.”

“But I still love you,” you say.

He gives you a small smile. “I still love you too.”

And this time, when the room goes quiet, it does not feel tense anymore.

She stops recording and glances at you. “You look sad.”

“I am not sad.”

“You are aggressively neutral. Which is worse.”

You pull at the sleeve of your sweater. “It’s been three weeks.”

“Three weeks since the breakup,” she says, hopping onto the counter across from you. “And you are still defending a man who thought oat milk was a personality.”

You huff out a small laugh despite yourself. “He was not that bad.”

“He was that boring.”

The thing about Camille is that she could have said I told you so months ago. She saw the cracks before you did. Instead she let you figure it out, and now she is careful with you, even when she’s teasing.

“You need a distraction,” she says, softer now.

“I have work.”

“You write about city council meetings.”

“I like writing about city council meetings.”

“I know you do,” she says quickly. “I’m not diminishing your civic passion. I’m saying you deserve something that makes your stomach flip in a good way.”

You give her a look. “That sounds dangerous.”

She grins and reaches for her phone. “It is.”

You already know that expression. It’s the one she gets right before she convinces you to do something you swore you wouldn’t.

“Camille.”

“Raya.”

You laugh immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because that is for models and DJs and men who own boats. I am a writer for an online newspaper. I am painfully normal.”

She slides off the counter and comes to stand in front of you, arms crossed. “First of all, you are not painfully normal. You are emotionally literate and hot. That’s a rare combination. Second, I have an invite code.”

“How do you just have an invite code?”

She shrugs. “It circulates.”

“That is not an answer.”

“One of the stylists I worked with last month had extras. Influencer privilege. It resets every so often.”

You stare at her. “Your life sounds fake.”

“And yet here I am, using it for good.”

She types something quickly and your phone buzzes in your hand.

“Camille.”

“Just download it. You don’t have to use it. Think of it as exposure therapy.”

“I do not need exposure therapy. I need to stop wanting to text my ex.”

“Exactly,” she says, like you just proved her point. “This is you moving forward without actually moving forward. Low stakes. No expectations.”

You look down at the string of letters and numbers on your screen. A code. A tiny door you did not ask for.

“You’re going to make fun of every man on there with me, aren’t you.”

“Respectfully,” she says. “Yes.”

You slide off the counter and open the app store before you can overthink it. Camille watches like she’s overseeing a soft launch.

When the app opens and asks for photos, you hesitate.

“Use the one from Emma’s birthday,” she says immediately.

“I look shiny.”

“You look dewy. Big difference.”

You scroll anyway, choosing three that feel honest. You laughing mid sentence. You walking down a street. You at your desk with coffee and a stack of papers.

It asks for your job.

You type: Writer, online newspaper. You pause, then add: Painfully normal.

Camille leans over your shoulder and smiles. “That’s charming.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s self aware. People love self aware.”

“I do not want people loving anything. I want them mildly intrigued at best.”

She nudges you. “You say that now.”

You finish setting it up. The profile exists. A version of you sitting in a digital room full of strangers.

“Now what,” you ask.

“Now nothing,” she says. “Close it. Let it breathe. You don’t have to dive in tonight.”

You study her for a second. “You’re being surprisingly chill about this.”

She softens. “I’m not trying to throw you into chaos. I just don’t want you shrinking.”

The words land heavier than the joke did.

You swallow and nod once. “Okay.”

That night, the app sits on your home screen. Small. Unassuming. You open it once, just to look. Profiles slide past. People with glossy photos and inside jokes in their bios. It feels like a room where everyone already knows each other.

You close it. You are not ready. The next day you don’t open it at all. Or the day after that. But you don’t delete it either. You don’t open the app again.

Not when you’re bored on the train. Not when you’re half tempted to text your ex and need a distraction. It just sits there, tucked between your news app and your notes, quietly existing.

A week passes.

Then Camille texts: Girls night. Emergency vibes. Bring pajamas.

You show up at her apartment with a tote bag and low expectations. She’s already in matching satin shorts she claims were gifted but absolutely bought herself. There’s a charcuterie board that looks suspiciously sponsored but isn’t, and a bottle of wine breathing on the counter.

“You look alive,” she says approvingly as you kick off your shoes.

“I showered.”

“Growth.”

You roll your eyes and accept the glass she hands you. The apartment smells like whatever expensive candle she’s currently pretending not to be emotionally attached to. Music plays softly in the background. It feels easy.

You talk about work first. You tell her about a piece you’re drafting and how your editor keeps asking for more bite. She tells you about a brand dinner where a micro celebrity tried to explain crypto to her for twenty minutes.

By the second glass of wine, you feel looser. Not reckless. Just less tight in your chest.

Camille studies you from across the couch. “Did you delete it?”

You know exactly what she means.

“No.”

Her eyes light up. “So you kept it.”

“That does not mean anything.”

“It means you’re curious.”

“It means I forgot.”

She gives you a look that says she does not believe you for a second.

“Open it.”

“Camille.”

“Open it. We’re in a safe environment. I will curate.”

“You are the least neutral curator alive.”

“Correct.”

You hesitate, then reach for your phone. The app opens faster than you expect, like it’s been waiting.

Profiles start sliding past. A director in Berlin. A DJ in Miami. A guy whose bio is just a single black square emoji.

Camille narrates like it’s a sport.

“Absolutely not.”

“He looks like he says ‘let’s circle back.’”

“Oh he owns a boat. You were right about the boats.”

You laugh more than you have in days. It feels harmless. Distant. These are just faces on a screen.

You swipe left. Left. Left. Then you pause.

Camille notices immediately. “What.”

“Nothing.”

“Show me.”

You turn the phone toward her.

The first photo is candid. Slightly blurry. Sunglasses. A half smile that feels familiar in a way your brain takes a second to process. The second is him on what looks like a boat, wind pushing his hair back. The third is simple. Black shirt. Direct eye contact with the camera.

There’s no over the top bio. Just his name. Harry. A few understated details. A song playing in the background of the profile that you recognize immediately.

Your stomach drops in a way that has nothing to do with wine.

Camille blinks. Then blinks again. “Is that…”

“Yes.”

She grabs your wrist. “Oh my god.”

“It’s fake.”

“It does not look fake.”

“It’s absolutely fake.”

The photos don’t look like press shots. They look like someone handed a friend a phone. The prompts are understated. Almost boring. Which somehow makes it worse.

Camille leans closer to the screen. “Location?”

You glance at the top. It lists New York, but there’s a small note about frequent travel.

Your heart is beating faster now, and you hate that it is.

“This is stupid,” you say, more to yourself than to her.

“Swipe right.”

“No.”

“Why not.”

“Because what if it matches.”

“That is the point of the app.”

“Camille.”

She softens, just slightly. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. But if you’re going to tell this story one day, you’re going to wish you swiped right.”

You stare at the screen. At the small, digital version of a man you have only ever seen on stages and magazine covers. It feels ridiculous. Unreal. He is just another profile. Just another person in a room full of people.

You swallow.

“This is insane.”

“I know,” she whispers, grinning.

You swipe right.

The screen barely has time to settle before it flashes.

It’s a match.

You and Camille freeze at the exact same time, staring at the glowing words like they might rearrange themselves into something more reasonable.

“No,” you say immediately.

Camille grabs your arm. “No way.”

The phone is still in your hand. Still warm. Still real.

You both scream. It’s not cute. It’s not controlled. It’s loud and sharp and slightly panicked. Camille knocks over her wine glass in the process and you fling the phone onto the couch like it just burned you.

“Oh my god,” she says, half laughing, half hyperventilating.

“This is not funny,” you say, backing away from the couch like the phone might start speaking.

“You matched with him.”

“It’s fake.”

“It literally says matched.”

“That does not mean anything. People hack things.”

She lunges for the phone. You lunge too. You both miss and it slides off the couch and lands face down on the rug.

You stare at it.

“Pick it up,” she whispers.

“You pick it up.”

“It’s your life.”

“It was your code.”

She laughs in this nervous, stressed out way that makes everything feel ten times more unhinged. “Okay. Okay. Breathe. This is fine. You’re fine.”

“I am not fine.”

She scoops up the phone and flips it over. Still there. His name at the top of the screen. The little notification bubble waiting.

“You have to message him,” she says.

You actually yell. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No. Absolutely not. I am not messaging him.”

“You cannot match with Harry Styles and then just sit there.”

“I can and I will.”

She shoves the phone toward you. “Say hi.”

“I don’t know how to say hi to that.”

“You say hi like you would to anyone else.”

“That is objectively untrue.”

You grab the phone from her and clutch it to your chest like you’re protecting it from her.

“What if it’s not him,” you say quickly. “What if it’s someone pretending to be him and I say something normal and they screenshot it and it’s humiliating.”

Camille squints at the profile again. “The photos look real. The prompts look real. It’s understated in a way that feels real.”

“That is not comforting.”

She tilts her head. “Do you want him to message first?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t control that.”

You glance down at the screen like it might betray you at any second. “This was supposed to be funny.”

“It is funny.”

“It is not funny. It’s deeply stressful.”

She grins despite herself. “You are glowing right now.”

“I am panicking.”

“Same,” she says brightly.

Your thumb hovers over the message bar. Blank. Waiting.

“Okay,” Camille says, suddenly serious. “If you don’t message him, you’re going to think about it all week. If you do message him, worst case scenario he doesn’t respond and we move on.”

“And best case.”

She smiles slowly. “We get a story.”

You look at the phone. At his name. At the tiny space where words are supposed to go.

You feel ridiculous. You feel curious. You feel a small flicker of something that does not feel like your ex.

“I hate you,” you tell her.

“I know,” she says sweetly.

Your thumb taps the keyboard. Then you panic and throw the phone back onto the couch again.

“No. I can’t.”

Camille bursts out laughing and dives for it before you can. “You are impossible.”

“Do not send anything,” you warn, scrambling after her.

“I won’t. I promise. I’m just looking.”

You both collapse onto the couch, shoulders pressed together, staring at the screen like it’s a live wire.

The message bar is still empty. Waiting. You stare at the blinking cursor like it’s personally judging you.

Camille is practically vibrating next to you.

“Okay,” she says carefully, like she’s negotiating with a wild animal. “Give me the phone.”

“No.”

“You are spiraling.”

“I am thinking.”

“You have been thinking for ten full minutes.”

You glance at the clock. She’s right. It has been ten full minutes of you typing something, deleting it, typing something else, deleting that too.

“What if I say something weird,” you say.

“You won’t.”

“What if I black out and accidentally propose.”

She snorts. “Then at least it would be memorable.”

You press your lips together and look back down at his name. It still feels surreal. Too big for the tiny screen.

“Okay,” you say slowly. “You can send it.”

Her eyes widen. “Really.”

“Yes. But nothing embarrassing. Nothing flirty. Nothing that sounds like I’ve ever listened to music in my life.”

She grabs the phone gently, like it might shatter. “Relax.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

You watch her thumbs hover over the keyboard. Your heart is pounding again, which is ridiculous. This is a dating app. People message each other every day. This is normal.

Painfully normal, you remind yourself.

“Just say hi,” you whisper.

“That’s boring.”

“Boring is safe.”

She thinks for a second, then starts typing. You crane your neck to see.

Hi. I was told this app was for models and DJs and men who own boats, so I’m slightly confused.

You stare at it.

“That’s actually good,” you admit quietly.

“I know.”

“It sounds like me.”

“Because I am a genius.”

She looks at you one more time. “Last chance.”

You take a breath. The worst that happens is nothing. The worst that happens is it is him and he doesn’t respond. The worst that happens is you wake up tomorrow and your life is exactly the same as it was this morning.

“Send it,” you say.

She taps the screen. The message flies off into the void. You both immediately scream again and she drops the phone onto your lap this time.

“It’s done,” she says, laughing in that stressed out way that makes everything feel unreal. “You did it.”

“I didn’t do it. You did it.”

“You approved it.”

You stare at the chat. The message sits there, small and harmless looking. Sent. Now you wait.

Camille leans her head against your shoulder. “See. That wasn’t so bad.”

You swallow. “It was terrible.”

She smiles. “Admit it. You’re curious.”

You are.

There isn’t an immediate response. Of course there isn’t.

You and Camille stare at the screen for a full minute like something dramatic is supposed to happen. It doesn’t. The chat just sits there with your message hanging in polite, digital silence.

Camille eventually clears her throat. “Well. He’s busy.”

“Right,” you say quickly. “He’s… him.”

“He could be in a studio. Or asleep. Or on a boat.”

“Stop mentioning boats.”

She laughs, but after another minute of nothing, the intensity fizzles. The wine settles. The night moves on. You order takeout. You watch something mindless. You do not check the app again before you fall asleep on her couch.

The next morning, you half expect a notification. There isn’t one. And weirdly, that makes it easier.

Life resumes.

You go to work. You draft headlines. You sit in meetings where someone says the phrase content vertical without irony. The Raya message drifts to the back of your mind, filed somewhere between embarrassing and funny.

Every few days, Camille checks in.

“Any movement?”

“No.”

“Are you checking?”

“Not obsessively.”

“That is not what I asked.”

You roll your eyes at her texts and keep walking down the street, coffee in hand. It becomes a bit. A running joke. The time you matched with Harry Styles and nothing happened.

You stop opening the app altogether. You don’t want to see the unchanged chat. It feels cleaner to leave it unopened than to confirm the silence.

A week passes. Then another.

The sharpness of it dulls. You stop imagining what you would say if he responded. You stop replaying the message in your head. It becomes a story you’ll tell someday. Remember when.

One evening, you’re walking up the stairs to your apartment, juggling your tote bag and your keys. It’s been a long day. You stayed late finishing a piece and your brain feels like static. All you want is a shower and something easy to eat.

Your phone buzzes in your hand.

You don’t even look at the screen at first. You assume it’s Camille. She tends to text around this time, usually something chaotic like I have a new theory about men.

You push your door open with your shoulder and glance down casually.

It’s not iMessage blue.

It’s the Raya icon.

Your heart drops so fast you actually miss the doorway and bump your hip against the frame.

You stare at the notification. Harry sent you a message.

For a second, you just stand there in your dim apartment hallway, door half open behind you, keys still in your hand.

You genuinely consider not opening it. Preserving the possibility instead of facing whatever is actually there.

Your phone buzzes again. Another message.Your throat goes dry.

You step inside slowly and close the door with your foot, like you’re trying not to disturb something fragile. The apartment is quiet. The only sound is your own breathing, suddenly louder than it should be.

You unlock your phone.

Your thumb hovers over the app.

You think, absurdly, I thought this was Camille.

It isn’t.

It’s him.

You open it before you can talk yourself out of it.

The chat loads.

Your message is still there at the top, slightly smug now that it has company.

Below it:

I don’t own a boat. Feels important to clarify.

You stare at it.

Then the second message.

But I am slightly offended I got lumped in with DJs.

You let out a sound that is half laugh, half something close to hysteria.

It’s him. It has to be him. The tone is dry. Understated. Not trying too hard. Not grand.

You drop your bag on the floor without meaning to.

Your brain immediately starts overanalyzing. How long ago did he send this. You check.

Three minutes.

Three.

He is currently on the app.

Your heart begins beating in a way that feels wildly disproportionate to a dating app notification.

You pace once across your living room. Then back.

You consider calling Camille. You absolutely cannot call Camille. She will scream and make this worse.

You look back at the messages.

There are no emojis. No exclamation points. Just clean, simple sentences.

You sit down on the edge of your couch and type.

I appreciate the clarification.

It feels neutral. Slightly amused. Safe.

You hesitate for only a second this time before hitting send.

The message delivers.

You immediately lock your phone and toss it onto the couch like distance will regulate your nervous system.

It buzzes.

You freeze.

You turn slowly and pick it up.

That was faster than I expected. I thought you might have forgotten about this place.

Your stomach flips.

You type back before you can overthink it.

I did. Briefly.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Fair. I disappear for weeks at a time. Occupational hazard.

You swallow. Occupational hazard. He’s referencing it without naming it. Casual.

You lean back into your couch now, letting yourself settle into it.

Hazard implies danger. Should I be concerned.

The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.

Only if you’re afraid of slightly inconsistent texting habits.

You actually smile.

That feels honest. Not polished. Not trying to charm.

You decide to push, just slightly.

And what exactly is the occupation that causes that.

You stare at the screen after sending it. It’s a normal question. Completely normal.

The three dots take longer this time.

Then:

I sing sometimes.

You laugh out loud in your empty apartment.

Sometimes.

You rest your head back against the couch and type:

Ah. Casual.

A pause.

Then:

And you’re painfully normal, if I remember correctly.

Your cheeks warm.

Writer. Online newspaper. I cover city council meetings sometimes. No boats involved.

Three dots.

That sounds more interesting than boats.

You blink at the screen.

You weren’t expecting that.

Before you can respond, another message appears.

How did you end up on this app if you’re so painfully normal.

There’s no judgment in it. It reads curious. Respectful.

You hesitate for a second, then decide honesty is easier than crafting something cool.

A friend passed along an invite code. She said it would be character building.

You add, after a beat:

I haven’t decided if she was right.

The typing bubble appears again.

I respect a friend with connections. Sounds efficient.

You smile at that.

Your apartment feels different now. Lighter somehow. Charged in a quiet way.

It stays small. Contained. Two people in a digital room, testing the edges.

And for the first time in weeks, your chest feels full of something that isn’t grief.

It’s curiosity.

And it feels dangerously close to excitement.

You stare at the screen for a second longer than necessary, letting the fact that this is happening settle somewhere in your chest.

You decide to keep it light.

She would be thrilled to hear that. She considers herself very well connected.

The typing bubble appears almost immediately.

Sounds intimidating. Should I be worried about her vetting process.

You smile.

She’d absolutely run a background check if she could.

That feels fair.

The ease of it surprises you. There’s no heavy flirting. No performance. Just conversation.

Another message appears.

So. Writer for an online newspaper.

You shift on the couch, tucking one leg under you.

Yes. Very glamorous.

What do you write about.

You consider giving him the short version. Instead, you answer properly.

Local things. City council meetings when they matter. Housing issues. Small business stories. Restaurant openings. The kind of pieces people actually click on at eight in the morning while they’re drinking coffee.

You pause, then add:

Sometimes it’s more human. I interviewed a man last month who’s been feeding the same stray cat outside a laundromat for nine years. That one did surprisingly well.

The typing bubble appears quickly.

That sounds more interesting than most things I’ve read today.

You blink at the screen.

It’s not glamorous. But it’s real.

A moment passes.

Real is better.

You feel that one land somewhere you weren’t expecting.

Then:

What got you into it.

It isn’t surface level. He keeps asking follow ups like he actually wants to know.

You think about it before answering.

I like paying attention to things that would get ignored otherwise. Small decisions. Small people. The stuff that doesn’t trend but still matters.

You hover over the screen, suddenly aware you might be revealing more than you planned to.

You send it anyway.

The typing bubble lingers.

That doesn’t sound painfully normal to me.

Your cheeks warm.

You’ve exchanged maybe fifteen messages with me. That’s not a thorough character study.

I work well with limited data.

You laugh under your breath.

You decide to pivot.

And you. You “sing sometimes.” Is that what you put on tax forms.

A beat.

Depends who’s asking.

I’m asking.

There’s a slightly longer pause this time.

I travel a lot. I write songs. I spend more time in airports than I’d like.

It’s understated. No résumé. No ego.

Then another message appears.

I’ve been spending a lot of time in Italy lately. I’m there now.

You sit up a little straighter.

Oh.

Work. I tend to stay longer than planned.

You picture it without meaning to. Warmer air. Different language. A life that moves at a different speed.

That sounds better than New York in February.

It’s quieter. Less arguing outside the window.

You smile.

On impulse, you switch languages.

Quindi ora sei ufficialmente italiano? (So are you officially Italian now?)

You immediately wonder if that was too much.

The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.

Capisco un po’. Not enough to get in trouble. (I understand a little.)

Your eyebrows lift.

That’s suspiciously vague.

It’s strategic.

You laugh.

How much is “un po’.” (“A little.”)

A beat.

Enough to order dinner. Not enough to win an argument.

You shake your head, smiling into your phone, alone in your apartment but suddenly not feeling it quite as much.

You stare at the last message for a while.

Enough to order dinner. Not enough to win an argument.

You type a response. Delete it. Type another. Delete that too.

You don’t want to overextend it. You don’t want to drag the conversation into the early morning just because you can. He said it was late there. You can feel the natural pause settling in.

So you send one last thing.

That feels like the correct level of fluency.

The message delivers.

You lock your phone before he can respond.

Not in a dramatic way. Just deliberately. You don’t want to sit there watching the typing bubble. You don’t want to turn this into something frantic.

You set your phone on the coffee table and lean back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.

Your apartment is quiet again.

It feels different though. Charged. Like the air shifted a few degrees.

You tell yourself you’re being normal. You had a conversation. That’s it. People have conversations every day.

Still.

After a minute, you reach for your phone again.

You don’t open the chat.

You open his profile.

The first photo loads. Slightly blurry. Sunglasses pushed up into his hair. A half smile that looks unguarded. The kind of picture that feels like it was taken by someone standing too close, not a press photographer.

You swipe.

The boat photo. Wind in his hair. Sun on his face. He looks relaxed in a way that feels almost private.

You swipe again.

The black shirt. Direct eye contact with the camera. No exaggerated expression. Just him.

You exhale slowly.

He’s beautiful.

Not in a distant, untouchable way. In a human way. In a way that feels almost unfair when it’s paired with the quiet, thoughtful messages you just read.

You zoom in slightly before you can stop yourself, studying details you would absolutely make fun of Camille for noticing. The curve of his mouth. The line of his jaw. The softness in his eyes that doesn’t fully translate on stage but shows up here.

Your stomach flips again.

You close the app.

Open it again.

Just to look one more time.

You’re not desperate. You’re curious. There’s a difference, you tell yourself.

You set your phone down for good this time and stand up, pacing once across your living room.

This is ridiculous, you think.

You give it a few days.

Not on purpose at first. Just life moving the way it does. Work piles up. Your editor sends back notes. You spend an entire afternoon interviewing a bakery owner who insists on telling you her full life story before answering a single question.

You do not open the app.

You think about it, though.

In line for coffee. On the train. When your phone buzzes and your heart does something irrational before you check the notification and it’s just a news alert.

You tell yourself this is healthy. Measured. You are not spiraling. You are not glued to a screen waiting for a typing bubble.

You are taking it slow.

By day three, you’ve convinced yourself that leaving space makes you mysterious.

By day four, you realize you are just nervous.

Camille texts you on Thursday night.

Are you alive.

You stare at the message.

Yes.

That’s it? she replies. Suspicious.

You hesitate, then type:

He messaged.

There are three dots immediately.

WHAT.

You call her before she can send anything else because you know she will escalate.

She answers on the first ring.

“You cannot just text ‘he messaged’ and leave it there,” she says, already breathless.

“It was normal,” you say quickly. “Very normal. Calm. Human.”

“Define human.”

“We talked about work. Italy came up.”

“Italy,” she repeats, like it’s a plot twist in a show she’s invested in.

“He’s there.”

“I hate that.”

“I know.”

She goes quiet for a second. “So what’s the problem.”

“There isn’t one.”

“Then why do you sound like there is.”

You sit on the edge of your bed, twisting the hem of your shirt around your fingers.

“I just… I don’t want to ruin it.”

“Ruin what.”

“I don’t know. The tone. The ease.”

Camille softens.

“You’re allowed to enjoy something without pre ruining it.”

“I’m not pre ruining it.”

“You’re rationing it,” she says gently.

You look at the floor.

She’s not wrong.

“I haven’t opened the app in a few days,” you admit.

“On purpose?”

“Kind of.”

“Why.”

You search for the right words.

“Because if I answer too fast, it feels like I care too much. And if I answer too slow, it feels like I’m playing a game. I don’t want to play a game.”

Camille exhales.

“You are overthinking this.”

“I know.”

“He is a man. On a dating app. You are a woman. On a dating app. You are allowed to respond when you want to respond.”

“It’s different.”

“Because he’s famous.”

You don’t answer.

She continues, softer now.

“Is he talking to you like he’s famous.”

“No.”

“Is he acting like you should be impressed.”

“No.”

“Then stop assigning weight to it.”

You lean back onto your bed and stare at the ceiling.

“I’ve just been taking it slow,” you say finally.

“Slow is fine,” she replies. “Slow is sexy. Slow is mysterious. Slow is emotionally regulated. But slow is not avoidance.”

You laugh quietly.

“Which one am I.”

“A little of both,” she says.

You glance at your phone on your nightstand.

It hasn’t buzzed.

But you know the conversation is still there. Waiting. Not in a demanding way. Just existing.

You shift on your bed, tucking the phone tighter between your shoulder and your ear so you can free up one hand.

“Don’t,” Camille says immediately.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to. I can hear it.”

You roll your eyes even though she can’t see you. “I’m just looking.”

“You are absolutely about to open the app.”

You don’t deny it this time. You pull the phone away from your ear for a second, switch to speaker, and open Raya.

The screen loads.

Your thumb hesitates before you tap the chat.

Nothing new.

The last message is still there. Calm. Unmoved. No typing bubble. No fresh notification.

You stare at it longer than you should.

“Well?” Camille asks through the speaker.

“Nothing.”

There’s a small pause.

“That’s okay,” you add quickly. “He’s busy.”

Camille hums in a way that says she’s watching you spiral from miles away.

“Yeah,” she says. “He probably is.”

You exit the chat but don’t close the app right away. You linger on his profile picture at the top of the screen like it might offer some kind of reassurance.

“He said he disappears for weeks sometimes,” you say, trying to sound unaffected. “Occupational hazard.”

“You remember the exact phrasing,” she points out.

“Stop.”

You finally lock your phone and set it on your nightstand.

“I don’t want to be the girl who waits around,” you admit.

“You checked once,” she says calmly. “While actively talking to me.”

“That still counts.”

“It counts as being human.”

You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling.

“It’s fine,” you say again, softer this time. “He’s in Italy. It’s late there. He probably has a life.”

Camille laughs gently. “I hope so.”

You smile despite yourself.

“It was one conversation,” you continue. “A good one. But still.”

“And if that’s all it is, that’s still nice,” she says.

The week stretches longer than you expect.

Not in a dramatic way. Just quietly.

You stop checking every day. Then you stop checking at all. Work fills the space. You finish the bakery piece. You sit through a zoning meeting that runs forty minutes past what it should. You have dinner with Camille where neither of you says his name out loud.

It settles into something that almost feels finished.

You tell yourself that was nice. A good conversation. A small reminder that the world is bigger than one breakup.

You don’t delete the app.

You just let it exist.

It’s the following Tuesday when it happens.

You’re on the train, wedged between a woman reading a thriller and a man aggressively eating almonds out of a plastic bag. You’re half listening to a podcast, half staring at nothing.

Your phone buzzes in your hand.

You glance down automatically.

Raya.

Your stomach drops so fast you actually miss your stop announcement.

You stare at the notification without opening it.

Harry sent you a message.

The train keeps moving. Someone coughs. The world continues like this is not a seismic event.

You open it.

The chat loads.

The last message is still yours. Then below it, new.

Sorry. I disappeared.

Your throat tightens.

Another message comes through.

You were right about the argument thing. I lost one in Italian. Very humbling experience.

You let out a soft, startled laugh on the train, earning a brief look from the almond man.

It’s been a week.

A full week.

And yet the tone is exactly the same. Dry. Casual. Like no time has passed.

You type slowly, deliberately.

That does sound humbling.

You stare at it.

Then add:

I assumed you were busy.

The typing bubble appears almost immediately.

I was.

A pause.

Didn’t mean to vanish.

There’s something in that. Not defensive. Not overly apologetic. Just acknowledging.

You lean back against the train pole, trying to keep your expression neutral.

Occupational hazard, you write.

Three dots.

Exactly.

Another pause.

How’s New York.

You smile to yourself.

The fact that he remembers where you are.

Still cold. Still loud. No progress on the arguing neighbors.

The typing bubble.

I admire their commitment.

You laugh softly.

The train lurches and you grab the pole with your free hand, heart still beating faster than it needs

The train rattles forward and you stay where you are, letting two stops pass without even thinking about it.

Your phone buzzes again.

Did you write anything interesting this week.

You blink at the screen.

It’s such a simple question. And yet it doesn’t feel like filler.

You shift your weight and type carefully.

I wrote about a bakery that almost closed because of a rent increase. The neighborhood showed up for them. It worked.

There’s a pause.

Then:

That’s a good story.

You smile.

It felt like one.

Another message appears before you can overanalyze.

Do you ever want to write something bigger.

You hesitate.

Bigger how.

More glamorous. More visible. Less local.

You decide not to shrink.

Sometimes. But I like knowing exactly who I’m writing for. It feels less abstract.

The typing bubble lingers.

That makes sense.

Then:

Abstract gets lonely.

That lingers quietly.

You swallow.

The train announces the next stop. Yours. You step off, weaving through people while still holding your phone low against your chest.

Lonely in what way, you type as you climb the stairs to street level.

A longer pause this time.

You reach the sidewalk just as the reply comes through.

You play to a lot of people. It doesn’t mean they know you.

Your steps slow.

The city noise rushes around you. Taxis. Conversations. Wind cutting down the block.

You type carefully.

Do you want them to?

Three dots.

Disappear.

Reappear.

Not all of them.

There’s something steady in that answer. Not self pitying. Not dramatic.

You walk toward your apartment, pulse still elevated.

Selective, you write.

Almost instantly:

Exactly.

You smile.

There’s a rhythm now. A comfort.

Another message comes through.

What are you doing right now.

You glance around at the sidewalk, at the guy walking a dog in a tiny sweater.

Walking home. It’s disgustingly cold.

Italy would like to offer an alternative.

You laugh.

That feels like a marketing pitch.

It is.

You shake your head.

What are you doing?

A beat.

On a terrace. It’s late. I should be inside.

You can almost see it without trying. Warm air. Quiet. Different sky.

And yet, you type.

And yet I’m not.

There’s a softness to that.

You unlock your apartment door and step inside, shutting out the noise of the street.

Why not, you ask.

The typing bubble appears almost immediately this time.

Because I’m enjoying this conversation.

Your breath catches just slightly.

You sit down on the edge of your couch again, like your body instinctively knows you need to brace for impact.

You stare at the screen.

Then, slowly:

Me too.

There’s no immediate response.

Just the quiet hum of your apartment and the faint echo of traffic outside.

Then:

Good.

It continues like that.

Not intense. Not dramatic. Just steady.

A few messages in the morning. Sometimes late at night. Sometimes nothing for a full day, then a casual reappearance like no time has passed.

You fall into a rhythm without meaning to.

How’s the bakery.

Thriving. The power of carbs.

Impressive.

—————

How’s Italy.

Still warm. Still confusing me grammatically.

Have you won an argument yet.

Absolutely not.

—————

What are you writing today?

Housing piece. Slightly less charming than stray cats.

You make it sound charming.

—————

Some days it’s just:

Morning.

Morning.

Or:

You alive?

Barely.

It never tips into too much.

He disappears occasionally. Reappears with something small and thoughtful.

Heard a song today that felt like something you’d write about.

Saw a café that would make a good scene in an article.

You don’t ask for proof. You don’t demand consistency. You just let it exist.

Camille notices the shift before you say anything.

“You’re calmer,” she observes one night over dinner.

“Am I.”

“Yes. You’re not spiraling. You’re just… talking.”

That’s exactly it.

You’re just talking. Having fun even.

No declarations. No flirting that feels forced. Just pieces of each other exchanged in manageable amounts.

He tells you about long studio days without naming locations. You tell him about a zoning vote that got unexpectedly heated. He sends a photo once, unprompted. A blurry shot of a street at night. Warm lights. Stone buildings.

It’s quieter than New York, he writes.

You send back a photo of your street. Snow piled against the curb. A bodega glowing under fluorescent light.

It’s louder, you reply.

The time difference becomes familiar. You start to recognize when he’s likely awake. He learns your routine too.

You’re usually on the train around now, he texts one morning.

You pause at that.

Observant.

Limited data, he replies.

You smile.

It’s been three weeks.

Three weeks of casual conversation. Of checking the app without panic. Of feeling something build slowly instead of crashing all at once.

There are no grand gestures.

Just consistency.

It’s a random Wednesday afternoon when it shifts.

You’re at your desk, halfway through rewriting a paragraph for the third time, when your phone buzzes.

You glance down automatically.

Raya.

You open it without thinking now. No dramatic pause. No pacing.

I’m coming back to the States for a bit.

Your fingers still over the keyboard.

You stare at the message for a second.

Then:

Oh?

The typing bubble appears quickly.

Yeah. A few weeks.

Your heart picks up, just slightly.

Where.

A pause. Not long. Just long enough for you to become aware of your own breathing.

Los Angeles.

You lean back in your chair.

Of course.

Work? you type.

Promo. New album coming out. Record meetings. The usual chaos.

You smile at the understatement.

That sounds mildly busy.

It’ll be fine, he replies. Just loud.

You glance around your small office. Your muted computer screen. The hum of fluorescent lights.

You thrive in loud, you write.

There’s a pause.

Sometimes, he replies. Sometimes it’s just noise.

You sit with that for a second.

Then:

When are you back.

Next week.

Your stomach flips. You hate that it does.

Next week feels close. Close in a way Italy never did.

You try to sound casual.

That’s soon.

Yeah.

Another pause.

Will you be in New York at all, you ask before you can talk yourself out of it.

There’s a slightly longer beat this time.

Possibly. Not sure yet. Schedules are still moving around.

You nod to yourself like that makes it less vague.

Fair.

The typing bubble appears again.

Would you want to know if I am?

Your breath catches.

You read it twice.

It’s not a grand gesture. Not an invitation. Just a question.

But it feels like one.

You swallow and type carefully.

I think I would.

There’s no immediate response.

Just the faint hum of your office and your own pulse in your ears.

Then:

Okay.

Life keeps moving.

He flies back to the States and the day he lands your phone buzzes mid afternoon.

Made it. LA is aggressively sunny.

You smile at your desk.

Welcome back to chaos.

A photo comes through. Blurry palm trees from the window of a car. Another of what looks like a studio. Cables. A mic stand. Nothing flashy.

Proof of life, he writes.

You send one back without overthinking it. Your laptop open. Notes scattered across your desk. A coffee cup with lipstick on the rim.

Proof of deadlines.

He replies almost instantly.

Yours looks more organized than mine.

That’s a generous interpretation.

The weeks in LA settle into the same rhythm you built before. Messages between meetings. Late night replies when he’s done for the day.

Long one today, he texts one evening.

Good long or exhausting long.

A bit of both.

He sends a photo of a sunset over the hills. The sky pink and unreal.

You send back a photo of your street in the rain. Reflections in the pavement. A taxi splashing through a puddle.

Still louder, you caption it.

Still warmer here, he replies.

It feels steady. Not performative. Just two lives running parallel with small windows into each other.

You don’t talk about meeting. Not directly. It floats unspoken between you.

Until one night.

It’s late afternoon. You’re already in bed, half asleep, when your phone buzzes on your nightstand.

Raya.

You squint at the screen.

You up.

You blink, suddenly awake.

Unfortunately yes.

The typing bubble appears immediately.

I’m in New York.

You sit up in bed so fast you almost knock your lamp over.

What.

Another message.

One night. Early meetings tomorrow. Flying back out after.

Your heart is pounding now. Loud in the quiet of your apartment.

That’s… random.

Very.

You stare at the screen, trying to slow your breathing.

Where in the city, you type.

A pause.

Midtown. Hotel near the park.

Of course.

You swallow.

The distance between Italy and New York felt theoretical. LA felt far enough to be safe.

But this.

This is different.

Another message comes through.

Thought you’d want to know.

You stare at that one for a long time.

Your city. His one night.

The possibility hanging there.

You stare at Thought you’d want to know until the screen dims.

Your heart is beating too loud for how quiet your apartment is.

You could ignore the implication. You could say that’s exciting, hope it goes well. You could play it safe.

Instead, you sit up straighter and type carefully.

Busy schedule? Or do you get to pretend you’re a normal person for a few hours.

You erase it.

Too pointed.

You try again.

Any plans after your meetings.

Neutral. Almost casual.

You hit send before you can overthink it.

The typing bubble appears quickly. Disappears. Comes back.

I was hoping you might ask that.

Your stomach flips.

Then, another message.

No plans yet.

You inhale slowly.

He doesn’t leave it there.

Do you want to get a drink?

There’s no hedging. No vague maybe we should. No soft landing.

Just direct.

Your pulse kicks up again.

You stare at the message, reading it twice to make sure you didn’t invent it.

This is real. He is in your city. For one night.

You type back, forcing your fingers to stay steady.

That depends.

A pause.

On what.

You smile despite yourself.

On whether you’ve improved your argument skills.

Three dots.

I can lose in English too. Very versatile.

You laugh quietly.

Then you type what you actually mean.

What time?

It takes a few seconds longer this time.

I’m free after nine. I can come to you. Or we can meet somewhere you’re comfortable. If that’s not too late.

There it is again. Direct. But careful.

Not assuming.

Your chest feels tight in a way that isn’t panic. It’s anticipation.

You glance around your apartment like it might offer guidance.

There’s a place near me. Quiet but nice. Not Midtown chaos, you write.

The reply comes quickly.

Send me the name.

Another pause.

See you at nine.

Your breath catches at the simplicity of it.

No overcomplicating. No dramatic build.

Just a plan.

You lock your phone slowly and stare at your reflection in the dark window.

One night.

Nine o’clock.

The second you lock your phone, the calm dissolves.

You stand in the middle of your bedroom staring at your closet like it personally orchestrated this.

“This is ridiculous,” you mutter.

It is one drink. One man. One normal human interaction.

Except it is not normal and you know it.

You start pulling hangers aside too fast. Sweater. No. Too casual. Black dress. Absolutely not. That feels like you’re trying too hard. Jeans. Maybe. But which ones. The good ones. Obviously the good ones.

You sit on the edge of your bed and take a breath.

Cute and comfy. Well dressed. Effortless.

You settle on high waisted tailored trousers and a soft cream button up that drapes just right. Simple gold hoops. Loafers. Hair down, brushed out, not overly styled.

You look at yourself in the mirror.

You look like you. Just slightly steadier.

“Okay,” you whisper.

At 8:45 you’re pacing. At 8:50 you grab your coat. At 8:55 you’re walking faster than necessary.

The bar you chose is dim and narrow and usually quiet on weeknights. You push the door open at exactly 9:00.

No one else is there.

Just the bartender wiping down the counter and a couple in the corner booth speaking in low voices.

You swallow and walk to the bar, sliding onto a stool.

“Can I get you something?”

“Just a glass of red.”

Your phone sits face down on the bar in front of you.

9:02.

That’s fine. Two minutes means nothing.

You take a small sip of your wine and try not to look at the door every time it opens.

9:05.

He’s in Midtown. Traffic exists. Elevators exist. Security exists.

9:08.

Your stomach starts doing something uncomfortable.

You flip your phone over casually.

No new messages.

You open the app.

Nothing.

The last thing he said still sits there.

See you at nine.

You swallow.

9:10.

The bartender glances at the door when it opens. It’s not him. Just someone picking up a takeout order.

Heat creeps up your neck.

This is fine. You are early. Or he is late. That happens. That’s human.

9:12.

You open his profile again without meaning to. The same photos. The same half smile.

A ridiculous thought creeps in.

What if this is the long game.

What if you have been talking to someone who is not him. What if this is the punchline. What if you are about to become a story Camille tells at dinner parties.

9:15.

Your chest feels tight now.

You pick up your phone and hover over the chat.

You could send something casual.

You alive.

Too pointed.

All good.

Too needy.

You lock your phone again and place it back down carefully.

You will not spiral in public.

9:17.

The door opens again.

You look up automatically.

And for a split second, before your brain catches up, you think you might actually be getting catfished.

The door closes behind him and the cold air follows.

For half a second your brain doesn’t register anything except tall.

Then the details come into focus.

Black coat. Slightly windblown hair. That same half smile from the photos, only less curated. More real. His eyes scan the room quickly, adjusting to the dim light.

And then they land on you.

Recognition is instant.

Not confusion. Not hesitation.

Recognition.

Your stomach drops in a completely different way.

He walks toward the bar without rushing. Calm. Almost casual. Like this is just another Wednesday night and not the culmination of three weeks of careful conversation.

You are suddenly very aware of how you’re sitting. Of your hands. Of your face.

He stops a few feet away.

“Hi.”

His voice is softer than you expected. Warmer.

You blink once like your body needs to reboot.

“Hi.”

There’s a flicker of something in his expression. Relief, maybe. Like he wasn’t entirely sure either.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Elevator situation.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “That tracks.”

He smiles properly at that.

Up close, he looks exactly like himself and not at all like a screen version. There’s texture. Movement. A small crease near his eyes when he smiles.

“Is this seat taken?” he asks, nodding to the stool beside you.

You shake your head. “No.”

He slides onto it and shrugs off his coat, draping it over the back. The bartender appears immediately.

“Whiskey,” he says, then glances at you. “That okay?”

You nod, like you have any authority over it.

There’s a small beat of quiet once the bartender steps away.

This is the moment that could be awkward.

It isn’t.

He turns slightly toward you.

“You look like yourself,” he says.

You blink. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It means I wasn’t catfished.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself.

“That was absolutely my fear fifteen minutes ago.”

His eyebrows lift. “Really.”

“9:15 was dark for me.”

He laughs softly at that, shaking his head. “I should’ve sent a message. That’s on me.”

“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “You’re here.”

The simplicity of that lands between you.

He studies you for a second in a way that doesn’t feel invasive. Just present.

“You’re real,” he says quietly.

“I could say the same.”

He smiles again, smaller this time. Less public. More private.

The bartender sets his drink down. He thanks him absentmindedly without breaking eye contact with you.

For a moment the noise of the bar fades into the background.

It’s just the two of you. No typing bubbles. No time difference. No distance.

Just this.

He takes a sip of his drink and tilts his head slightly.

“So,” he says. “Hi.”

Update Schedule: Once A Week✨

Part 1: Late for What?

Part 2: City of Love

Part 3: Reviews

Part 4: A Little Treat

Part 5: Mr. Popular

Part 6: Places of Peace

Part 7: Swoon Worthy

Part 8: Good Hands

Part 9: Civil extra: Harry’s convo with Niall here

Part 10: Smells Good

Part 11: Bad Energy

Part 12: It’s Just Cake

Part 13: Comes in Waves

Part 14: I’m Just a Librarian

Part 15: Don’t Ruin It

Part 16: Hand Flex

Part 17: If I Was A Worm?

Part 18: Disagreement

Part 19: Welcome Home

Part 20: Not Going Anywhere

Extras:

Fan, green juice and Patrick the Pillow

Father’s Day

“CAN I TELL YOU A SECRET?” by @st4rkeysangel

summary: “your best friend’s best friend took an interest in you quite a while ago but never made a move in fear of messing things up for everybody. at a party where he’s desperate to see you, things go terribly wrong, resulting in you in the emergency room where he finally confesses.”

pairing: uni! harry styles x fem! reader

warnings: mentions of parties and alcohol, swearing, blood, getting knocked out, hospital trip, fluff.

𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐍 | 𝐇.𝐒 | 𝟏 | part 2 by @jezebelblues

summary: “𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲’𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫.”

pairing: college!harry x fem!reader

warnings: drug usage/selling, angst, college!harry, fem!reader, smut in pt2 if that’s what ur here for, allusions to violence, friends to lovers if u squint

Windows Facing | H.S by @ghstyles

summary: “By sophomore year, Y/N gotten used to the chaos. Specifically, the chaos coming from the frat house directly next to her apartment. Ever since move-in day freshman year, her bedroom window has faced his: Harry Styles. Loud, shirtless, smug, and apparently hell-bent on ruining her peace. Their window wars have become tradition: insults yelled across the alley, lights flicked on at 3 a.m., and a rivalry that keeps the entire floor entertained. But somewhere between the late-night fights and sarcastic truce offerings, something unexpected begins to grow. She was supposed to hate him. He was supposed to be a joke. But their windows aren’t the only things opening.”

pairing: fratboy!harry x fem!reader

warnings: none

Not Your Charity Case by @erodasfishtacos

summary: “Harry is a frat boy - who doesn’t need sympathy from anyone. He makes Y/N feel a sense of home when they’re together. But is Harry just like every stereotypical frat boy?”

pairing: deaf fratboy!harry x fem!reader

warnings: minor violence, language, deaf!harry, smutttt

I Hate You by @smuttyaf

summary: “𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐞”

pairing: fratboy!harry x fem!reader

warnings: none

loudest voice in the room by @cinemafics

summary: “enemies to lovers! college/frat boy harry styles (and you can probably guess what’s happening in the story)”

pairing: uni!harry x fem!reader

Harry is in the kitchen. She can hear him moving around, opening a cabinet, closing it again. A glass being set on the counter. He is not being loud. He never is. That almost makes it worse. Everything between them feels careful right now, like they are both trying not to bruise something already sore.

Her mind keeps drifting back to earlier, replaying the moment on a loop even though she wishes it would stop.

They had been standing in the kitchen then too. Afternoon light spilling through the window, dust floating lazily in the air. She had been leaning against the counter, shoes kicked off, bag still on her shoulder because she had not even had the energy to set it down yet.

Harry was rinsing strawberries in the sink, humming quietly to himself.

“Hey,” he had said casually, glancing over his shoulder. “Do you wanna come with me tomorrow when I run to the studio? You can just hang out if you want. Or we can grab lunch after.”

She remembers sighing before she even answered, the weight of the day pressing down on her chest.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

He had nodded, still easy. “Yeah, that’s fair. I just thought I’d ask.”

There was a pause. Not uncomfortable yet. Just space.

Then he added, “You’ve seemed a bit distant lately. I didn’t know if maybe getting out would help.”

That was the moment. The exact second where something small tipped.

She turned her head toward him, sharper than she meant to. “I’m not distant. I’m just tired, Harry.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I wasn’t saying you weren’t allowed to be.”

“It kind of sounds like you were,” she replied, arms crossing without thinking.

He turned the water off and faced her fully then, brows knitting together. “I wasn’t trying to start anything. I just miss you a bit.”

Something in her chest tightened at that. Instead of softening, she bristled.

“I’m right here,” she said. “I don’t know what else you want from me.”

His shoulders dropped slightly. “I don’t want anything. I just wanted to spend time together.”

“Well, I can’t always do that on your schedule,” she snapped, immediately wishing she could pull the words back.

He blinked, caught off guard. “I didn’t say it had to be my schedule.”

“I know,” she said, voice flat now. “Can we not do this?”

“Do what?”

“Turn everything into a conversation,” she replied. “I’ve had a long day.”

There it was. The line she kept tripping over now.

He had gone quiet after that. Not angry. Just still.

“Okay,” he said finally. “I didn’t realize asking was turning it into that.”

She grabbed her bag from the counter then, already halfway out of the room emotionally. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

But her tone said otherwise.

He watched her for a second, like he was deciding whether to push or let it go. He let it go.

“Alright,” he said softly. “We’ll talk later.”

And they did not. Not really.

Now, hours later, she exhales slowly on the couch, the memory settling heavy in her chest. It had not been a fight. No raised voices. No slammed doors. Just two people missing each other by inches.

She hears his footsteps approach and then stop, like he is deciding whether to come into the living room or turn back. When he does step in, he pauses by the doorway, leaning one shoulder against the frame.

“You hungry?” he asks.

It is a normal question. His voice is normal too. That gentle, careful tone he uses when he does not want to sound like he is asking something else underneath it.

She looks up at him and shakes her head. “Not really.”

“Okay,” he says. A beat. “I might make something small.”

“Yeah. That’s fine.”

The exchange lands between them and just sits there. Polite. Uneventful. Strange.

He lingers for another second, like he might say more, then turns back toward the kitchen. She watches him go, noticing how he does not glance back this time. Usually he does. Usually there is some small smile, some quiet check in, even when they are doing their own things.

She leans her head back against the couch, eyes closing briefly.

This is the part she hates. Not the argument, not even the tension. It is the distance that sneaks in when neither of them is actively doing anything wrong. When love feels less like a spark and more like something that could slip through their fingers if they are not paying attention.

A few minutes pass. She hears him chopping something, the rhythmic tap of the knife against the cutting board. It is soothing in a way, familiar. She has stood beside him a hundred times while he cooks, stealing pieces off the counter, leaning into his side. Right now, she stays where she is.

He brings his plate into the living room and sits on the opposite end of the couch, leaving space between them that feels intentional even if it is not meant to be. He sets the plate on the coffee table and eats quietly for a moment.

“You can turn the sound on,” he says gently, glancing at the television.

She shrugs. “I’m not really watching it.”

He nods, accepting that answer without pushing. “Right.”

Another pause. The kind where the words are there but neither of them reaches for them yet.

She picks at a loose thread on the cushion. “Sorry if I was short earlier.”

He looks at her then, really looks at her. His expression is soft, but tired around the edges. “You don’t need to apologize,” he says. “I know you’re exhausted.”

“I know, but still,” she says quietly. “I didn’t mean to sound like that.”

“I didn’t think you meant to,” he replies. He hesitates, then adds, “It just caught me off guard a bit.”

That honesty lands heavier than any accusation could have.

“I don’t want us to talk like that,” she says. “Not over stupid things.”

He sets his fork down slowly. “Me neither.”

They sit there, the distance between them still present but thinner now, stretched instead of solid. He shifts closer, not touching yet, just enough that his knee is near hers. She notices immediately. Her body always does.

Outside, the sky deepens into evening. Inside, everything feels suspended, like they are standing on the edge of something small but important.

Two days later, it happens again.

Not in a dramatic way. Not with raised voices right away. It almost makes it worse how ordinary it is.

They are in the car this time, late afternoon sun slanting through the windshield. Harry is driving, one hand loose on the wheel, the other tapping lightly against his thigh in time with whatever song is playing low through the speakers. She is in the passenger seat, knees pulled up slightly, phone glowing in her hand.

They are supposed to be heading to dinner with a few friends. Nothing formal. Just one of those casual plans that feels easy until it suddenly does not.

Harry glances over at her. “Hey, can you text them and let them know we’re about ten minutes out?”

“Yeah,” she says without looking up.

She types quickly, thumb moving faster than her thoughts. The message sends. She keeps scrolling, a habit she has not fully shaken lately. Notifications, half read messages, a headline she does not really care about.

“Did you tell them we might be a little late?” he asks.

“I just did,” she replies.

Another pause. He nods, eyes back on the road. “Okay.”

A minute passes. Then another.

“You told them we’re on the way, right?” he asks again, tone still light but edged with something else now. Checking. Not accusing. Yet.

She sighs before she can stop herself. “Yes, Harry. I literally just said that.”

He frowns slightly. “I know. I just wanted to make sure.”

“Well, you don’t need to double check me,” she snaps, finally turning to look at him. “I’m not incompetent.”

His jaw tightens. “I didn’t say you were.”

“It feels like you did,” she says, voice sharper than she intends. “You keep hovering.”

“I’m not hovering,” he replies, the calm in his voice thinning. “I asked a question.”

“You asked it twice.”

“Because last time you said you did something and you hadn’t,” he says before he can catch himself.

The words hang there, immediate and ugly.

She stares at him. “Are you serious right now?”

He exhales through his nose. “That’s not what I meant.”

“That’s exactly what you meant,” she shoots back. “You’re bringing it up like this is some kind of pattern.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

He grips the steering wheel a little tighter. “Why does everything turn into this lately?”

“Because you keep poking,” she says. “You keep acting like I’m doing something wrong.”

“I’m not acting like that,” he says, frustration breaking through now. “I just feel like you’re already annoyed with me before I even open my mouth.”

“Maybe because you’re always questioning me,” she fires back.

They stop at a red light. The car fills with silence that feels loud enough to bruise.

Harry stares straight ahead. When he speaks again, his voice is lower. Controlled. “I am not your enemy.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You treat me like I am,” he says quietly.

That hurts more than the argument itself. She looks away, jaw clenched, watching people cross the street like the world is not cracking open inside the car.

“I’m just tired,” she says. “I don’t have the energy for this.”

He laughs once, humorless. “Funny. That’s what you said last time too.”

Her head snaps back toward him. “So what, now I’m not allowed to be tired?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what are you saying?” she asks, voice rising despite herself. “Because it feels like no matter what I do, it’s wrong lately.”

The light turns green. He drives on, slower than before.

“I’m saying I miss us being nice to each other,” he says after a moment. “I miss when we didn’t jump straight to assuming the worst.”

She presses her lips together, throat tight. “You started it.”

He shakes his head. “No. We both did.”

They pull up to the restaurant a few minutes later, neither of them quite ready to get out of the car. The argument hangs unfinished between them, raw and unresolved.

Harry cuts the engine and stares at the dashboard. “We can go in,” he says. “Or we can talk. But I can’t pretend everything’s fine right now.”

She swallows, fingers curling into her sleeve. Her chest aches with the familiar fear creeping back in. Not that they will break up. Something quieter and worse.

That they will keep hurting each other over things that should never hurt at all.

She nods slowly. “Let’s talk.”

The door stays closed. The world waits.

They sit there for a moment, the car still warm, the faint ticking of the engine filling the space where neither of them knows how to start.

Harry breaks first.

“I feel like I’m walking on eggshells around you all the time,” he says, still looking forward. His voice is steady, but there is something worn underneath it. “Like I have to think three times before I say anything or you’re going to snap at me.”

Her chest tightens immediately. “That’s not fair.”

He finally turns to her. “It’s how it feels.”

“Well, I feel like you question everything I do,” she fires back. “Every text. Every plan. Every answer I give. It’s exhausting.”

“I’m not interrogating you,” he says, frustration slipping into his tone. “I’m trying to stay connected to you.”

“It doesn’t feel like that,” she says. “It feels like you don’t trust me.”

“That’s not true,” he says quickly.

“Then why does it always feel like I’m being checked up on?” she asks. “Like I have to prove that I’m doing things right.”

He rubs a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. “Because half the time you’re already irritated with me before I even finish a sentence.”

“Maybe because you’re always bracing for me to mess up,” she snaps.

“I’m bracing because I don’t know which version of you I’m going to get lately,” he says, the words coming out harsher than he intends.

That one lands like a slap.

Her voice drops. “Wow.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he says immediately, but it is too late.

“So now I’m unpredictable?” she asks, laugh sharp and disbelieving. “I’m moody and difficult and you just have to tiptoe around me?”

“I didn’t say difficult,” he says. “I said I don’t know where you’re at.”

“Because you don’t ask,” she says. “You assume.”

“I do ask,” he says. “And you shut me down.”

“Because every question feels loaded,” she replies. “Like there’s a right answer and a wrong one.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t win.”

“I’m not asking you to win,” she says. “I’m asking you to stop acting like I’m always doing something wrong.”

The air between them feels thick now, heavy with everything they have been swallowing for days.

“I miss when we could just talk,” he says quietly. “When being together didn’t feel like a minefield.”

Her eyes sting. “So do I.”

“Then why does it keep turning into this?” he asks.

“Because you keep pushing,” she says.

“And you keep pulling away,” he shoots back.

They stare at each other, both breathing harder than they should be over something that started with a text message.

“This isn’t healthy,” he says, voice low. “We can’t keep snapping at each other like this.”

“You think I don’t know that?” she says. “Do you think I like feeling like I’m constantly being watched?”

“I’m not watching you,” he says. “I’m worried about you.”

“Well, your worry feels like pressure,” she replies. “And your concern feels like criticism.”

He looks away again, jaw tight. “I don’t know how to talk to you anymore without setting you off.”

“That goes both ways,” she says. “I feel like no matter what I say, you’re already assuming the worst.”

Silence drops again, heavier this time. Outside, people laugh as they walk past the car, the restaurant lights glowing warmly. Inside, everything feels raw and exposed.

Harry grips the door handle but does not open it. “I love you,” he says quietly. “But this? This makes me feel like I’m failing you.”

Her throat tightens. “I’m not asking you to be perfect.”

“Then what are you asking for?” he asks.

She looks down at her hands, fingers trembling slightly. “I’m asking you to stop treating me like a problem to solve.”

He closes his eyes for a brief second. When he opens them again, there is hurt there. Real and unguarded.

“And I’m asking you to stop treating me like the enemy,” he says.

The fight hangs between them, unresolved and aching. Neither of them knows how to move forward without one of them giving in first.

Finally, she opens the door. “We should go in.”

He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah.”

They step out of the car and into the evening, walking side by side but not touching. The argument does not end. It just goes quiet, tucked away for later, where it will wait until one of them is brave enough to reach for the other again.

They make it through the night.

Barely, but they do.

Inside the restaurant, everything is warm and loud and full of movement. Laughter spills over tables. Glasses clink. Someone is telling a story too loudly in the corner. On the outside, it looks like a normal night. On the inside, she feels like she is holding herself together with sheer will.

Harry keeps a polite smile on his face. The one he knows how to wear easily in public. He slips into conversation without effort, greeting friends with hugs, asking about projects, listening closely. Anyone watching would think nothing is wrong.

She stays close but not too close. A half step behind him. Close enough to be included, far enough that they do not have to touch.

At the table, she laughs at the right moments, nods along, sips her drink slowly. She feels him beside her, solid and familiar, but the space between them is louder than the room. Every time their knees almost brush, she stiffens. Every time his arm shifts, she wonders if he is about to reach for her or pull away again.

At one point, he leans over to murmur, “You okay?” like he always does. Soft. Habitual.

She nods immediately. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

The lie tastes bitter, but it is easier than explaining.

Their friend across the table is watching them more closely than the others. She notices it when his gaze flicks between them, lingering a second too long.

“You two alright?” he asks casually, but not casually enough.

She feels Harry tense beside her.

“Yeah,” she says quickly, forcing a smile. “We’re good.”

“Just tired,” Harry adds, a beat too late.

Their friend raises an eyebrow but lets it go. “Fair enough. That’s basically my personality at this point.”

The conversation moves on, but the moment sticks. She stares down at her plate, appetite gone. Harry picks at his food, barely touching it.

Someone asks about upcoming travel plans. Harry answers smoothly. Someone else asks her how work has been lately. She gives the safe version. The easy version. The one that does not crack anything open.

She catches Harry watching her when he thinks she is not looking. His expression is unreadable, closed off in a way that makes her chest ache.

When the check comes, he reaches for it automatically, then hesitates. She pretends not to notice.

On the way out, people hug them both goodbye. Someone jokes about double dates. Someone tells them they look cute together. She smiles and nods and thanks them, the words sliding out on autopilot.

Outside, the night air is cool against her skin. She exhales like she has been holding her breath for hours.

Harry opens the car door for her. She slides in, grateful for the quiet, the dark, the way the world finally narrows down again.

As he gets in and starts the engine, neither of them speaks. The tension has changed shape now. Less sharp. More heavy.

She rests her forehead briefly against the window, watching the lights blur past as they pull away.

They did not fight in front of anyone. They did not embarrass each other. They did not break anything publicly.

But the distance followed them out the door anyway, settling back into place like it never left.

When they get home, the house greets them with the same quiet it always does at night. Soft. Familiar. Heavy.

Harry drops his keys into the bowl by the door and kicks his shoes off without much care, one thudding against the wall. He loosens his jacket as he walks further inside, shoulders slumping like the effort of holding it together in public has finally caught up to him.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” he says, voice tired but not unkind.

“Okay,” she replies from the doorway.

He pauses for half a second, like he might say something else. He does not. He just nods and heads down the hall, the bathroom light flicking on a moment later. The faint sound of the shower starting follows.

She moves to the couch and sinks down, curling in on herself. The room is dim, lit only by the lamp in the corner and the glow from the hallway. Her phone buzzes in her pocket. She ignores it.

This was not how they used to be.

She presses her palms into the cushion beside her, grounding herself, and lets her mind drift backward without meaning to.

It comes to her suddenly. Clear and warm.

Their best date.

They had not planned it. That was part of what made it perfect.

They had both woken up late in a tiny hotel room with the curtains half drawn, sunlight cutting across rumpled white sheets. He had been half asleep, hair sticking up in impossible directions, blinking at her like he was surprised she was real.

“What time is it?” he had mumbled.

“Late,” she said, smiling. “Like, irresponsibly late.”

“Brilliant,” he replied, reaching for her and pulling her back into him. “Then we’re doing nothing today.”

They did not, in the way people usually mean it. They ordered room service and ate it in bed, crumbs everywhere, laughing when she spilled coffee on his shirt and he insisted it was fine because it was already ugly.

Later, they wandered the city with no destination. No schedule. He held her hand loosely, swinging it between them. They stopped in a small record shop and listened to an employee talk passionately about an album neither of them had heard of. Harry bought it anyway.

“We don’t even have a record player at home,” she had pointed out.

He grinned. “We’ll get one.”

They shared fries on a curb somewhere, legs stretched out, shoulders pressed together. He told her stories about being young and nervous and pretending he was not. She told him things she rarely said out loud. It felt easy. Like breathing.

That night, they sat on the hotel roof with a bottle of cheap wine, city lights spread out beneath them. She remembers the way he looked at her then. Open. Soft. Completely unguarded.

“You make everything quieter,” he had said, almost to himself.

She had laughed. “You’re literally famous.”

“I know,” he said, serious. “That’s why it’s weird. With you, my head stops buzzing.”

She leans back against the couch now, the memory pressing heavy against her chest. They had not been careful with each other because they had not needed to be. Kindness had come naturally. It had not felt like a choice. It had felt like the default.

The sound of the shower continues down the hall, steady and distant.

She stares at the ceiling and swallows hard.

When did they start talking like everything was loaded?

When did being together start to feel like work instead of refuge?

She pulls her knees closer to her chest, eyes stinging. She does not want grand gestures. She does not want apologies shouted across rooms.

She just wants them back in that quiet space again.

The water shuts off.

Her heart picks up, suddenly aware of the present again. Footsteps move down the hall. The past fades, leaving her alone on the couch with the truth she cannot ignore anymore.

Something has to change.

He goes straight to the bedroom.

She hears the soft creak of the bed a minute later, the familiar sounds of him settling in. A drawer opening. The low glow of his phone lighting the room. The door stays open, like it always does.

She stays on the couch for another moment, staring at nothing, then finally pushes herself up. The quiet feels heavier now, pressing in on her chest.

In the kitchen, she moves on autopilot. Pulls a small plate from the cabinet. Lines up a few crackers, some cheese, a handful of grapes. Nothing fancy. Just enough to feel intentional. She opens a bottle of wine and pours two glasses, the sound too loud in the still house.

She pauses with both glasses in her hands, hesitating.

The bedroom is dim, lit only by the bedside lamp on her side. Harry is already in bed, hair damp from the shower, T shirt soft and worn. He is propped up against the headboard, phone in hand, thumb scrolling absently.

He looks up when she walks in.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” she replies.

His eyes flick to the plate, then to the wine. Something unreadable crosses his face before he looks back down at his phone. Not dismissive. Just tired. Guarded.

She places the plate carefully on her nightstand, sets the bottle beside it, then slips under the covers. The sheets are cool against her skin. She shifts closer than she has the last few nights, closing the space inch by inch until her thigh brushes his.

He stiffens almost imperceptibly, then relaxes again.

She exhales, a quiet sigh that carries more weight than she intends.

And then the breath catches on the way out.

“I’m sorry,” she says suddenly, the words tumbling out before she can stop them. Her voice breaks almost immediately. “I’m really sorry.”

Harry looks up from his phone, the screen dimming as his attention snaps to her. “Hey,” he says, concern cutting through the quiet. “What’s going on?”

She shakes her head, already crying now, tears spilling faster than she can wipe them away. “I don’t want to lose you,” she says, voice shaking. “I feel like I’m messing everything up and I don’t know how to stop.”

He sets his phone down on the nightstand and turns fully toward her. “You’re not losing me,” he says gently. “Come here.”

But she keeps talking, afraid that if she pauses she will fall apart completely.

“I love you so much,” she sobs. “And I know I haven’t been acting like it. I know I’ve been short and distant and shutting you out when all you’ve been trying to do is spend time with me.”

Her shoulders curl inward as she cries. “I’ve just been in this funk. Everything feels heavy and I don’t even know why. And when you try to make plans or be close, it makes me feel guilty because I know I should want that. I do want that. I just feel stuck.”

Harry reaches for her then, gently but firmly, pulling her into his chest. She goes willingly, collapsing against him, fists clutching the front of his shirt like he is the only solid thing left.

“I never stopped loving you,” she cries into him. “Not for a second. I just didn’t know how to explain what was happening in my head without hurting you.”

He wraps both arms around her, holding her close, one hand cradling the back of her head. “I know,” he murmurs. “I know you love me.”

She shakes her head against him. “But it doesn’t look like it.”

“Love doesn’t disappear because you’re having a hard time,” he says quietly. “It just gets quieter. That doesn’t mean it’s gone.”

Her sobs soften, turning into shaky breaths. He stays steady beneath her, grounding, patient.

After a moment, he shifts slightly and reaches for the plate on the nightstand. He picks up a grape and holds it out to her, brushing it gently against her lips.

“Here,” he says softly. “You haven’t eaten.”

She lets out a small, watery laugh through her tears and opens her mouth. He feeds it to her, smiling faintly when she chews.

“Is this a peace offering?” he asks.

She laughs again, a little more real this time, wiping at her cheeks. “Yeah,” she says. “Very much so.”

He picks up a cracker next, offering it the same way. “Then let’s call a truce.”

She leans back against him, nodding. “Okay.”

He presses a kiss to the top of her head. “Let’s just be nice to each other,” he says quietly. “We don’t have to solve everything tonight. We just have to be kind.”

Her chest tightens, but this time it is warm. “I can do that,” she whispers. “I want to do that.”

Harry shouldn’t have drunk this much. He knows it, but now there’s nothing he can do about it. But after all this is his graduation party, the one night everyone was waiting for, the party that means they survived college and the real world is out there waiting for them. 

With another beer in his hand he stumbles out of the kitchen, his vision is a bit blurry, but he can still carry himself just right. Seemingly everyone else is just as wasted as him, the music is blasting through the speakers, couples are making out, there’s an impromptu dancefloor in the middle of the living room, the whole house is packed with celebrating students, yet he is only looking for one person. 

He spots her through the terrace door, laughing with a group of girls, her eyes a little hazy, but she is nowhere near as drunk as Harry is. He pushes his way through the crowd and finally step outside, naturally drawing attention just with his presence, but he’s kind of used to it by now. And the only person he is paying attention to is Y/N. 

“There’s my girl!” he exclaims, throwing his arms into the air, almost sloshing beer on everyone around him. 

“Who? Me?” Y/N laughs, pretending not to know him. 

“Yes! You!” Harry points at her and then crosses the terrace, settling beside her, hanging an arm around her, tugging her close to his side. They swing a little out of balance at first, she wraps her arms around his waist and together they manage to stand straight. 

“You’re wasted, Styles,” Y/N giggles, squeezing his abdomen. 

“No, I’m a graduate and wasted!” He corrects her, making the people around them laugh.

“How come you two never dated?” A girl from the circle asks. Harry’s head snaps up, he looks at the girl and then down at Y/N. 

“I don’t know, how come?” he asks with a smug grin.

“Oh my God, stop,” Y/N rolls her eyes. “We would kill each other.”

“Isn’t that what we already do?”

“Yeah, but in a friendly way!” 

Harry laughs and just squeezes her to his side. He loves teasing her, it’s their usual dynamic and probably everyone knows it on campus. As soon as they started college, everyone knew they were close friends, like two peas in a pod. Even when they started hanging out with different crowds, Harry became part of the athletes in school while Y/N leaned more onto the artsy side, they still remained best friends. Many were guessing that they were actually hooking up, that their friendliness were a lot deeper, but the truth is they never crossed that line. 

“Hey, wanna have a break?” he asks, leaning closer to her so only she can hear him. She nods and doesn’t even bat an eye when he pulls her in front of him, arms curled around her shoulders as he steers her away from the group. 

They leave the buzz of the party behind and go upstairs, right into Harry’s room. It’s a relief for the both of them to have space. Y/N steps to the window right away, opening it wide and sitting on the sill, Harry following her, but a little wobbly in his drunken state. 

“Careful, don’t want to scrape you up the floor on the day of our graduation,” Y/N teases him as he finally settles. 

“Ha-ha. You’d actually laugh if I fell,” he huffs.

“No, I wouldn’t. That would actually traumatize me.”

“Wait, so you care about me?” Harry gasps dramatically. 

“Shut up or I’ll push you out this window,” she laughs, bumping her shoulder against his. 

Silence settles over them, both of them just watching the party in the backyard, all the people they saw at parties for the past years or in class or just around campus, suddenly it’s real, that this is the end of it. 

“I’m gonna actually miss this,” she sighs, leaning against him, resting her head on his shoulder. 

“We had a good time,” he hums. “It was better with you.”

She turns to look at him, he is already blinking lazily at her with an unreadable expression that stirs something in her. 

“You’re turning into a big softy,” she grins at him and he mirrors it. 

“Only for you.”

“Stop,” she chuckles, shaking her head. “Don’t use your charm on me, I’m not one of your hookups.”

“I know that,” he nods, but his expression stays serious. “Why did we never date?” he asks the same question they got on the terrace. 

“Because we’re good like this,” she shrugs, but swallows the guilt that biles in her throat, knowing this might not be the truth. 

“So you never thought of me like that?” he asks, completely surprising her. 

“Harry, you’re too drunk,” she chuckles, shaking her head. 

“I’ve thought of you like that,” he bluntly says and she freezes for a second, feeling his gaze on her. When she looks at him, he’s still staring at her, a small, lazy smile on his lips that just worsens it all. 

“Stop messing with me,” she scoffs at last, jumping back inside from the window. Harry follows, though he is moving way slower, almost tripping when he jumps off the sill. 

“What? I can’t admit I’ve thought about what it would be like?”

“No, you can’t,” she shoots him a look. 

“Too bad, already did,” he grins. 

“You’re way too drunk, Harry. Maybe you should go to bed.”

“Oh, is that an invitation?” he wiggles his eyebrows and she just starts laughing, knowing well now all of his comments will be like that. Just then, Harry loses balance and almost trips, Y/N grabs him by his arm, though her reaction is not that fast either. 

“Woah, alright, let’s get you to bed so you can sleep this off.”

“But the party is still going!” he whines, though doesn’t protest when she pulls him towards his bed and sits him down. 

“Yeah, but they will have to go on without you.”

Somehow they manage to take his jeans off, leaving him in his boxers and a t-shirt, then she pulls the covers over him, his eyes already blinking closed. She is just about to leave when he grabs her wrist and pulls her back. 

“No, don’t leave,” he slurs half asleep, tugging her until she is forced to sit on the edge of the mattress. 

“You need to sleep.”

“Stay with me.” He opens his eyes with the most pleading look in them she’s ever seen, even pouting at her. “Come on, just wanna spend tonight with my best friend.”

He scoots over, making space for her, his hand still holding her wrist so she doesn’t flee. With a sigh she gives up, kicking her shoes off. She settles under the cover and they both lie on their side, facing each other in the darkness. The music can still be heard from downstairs, the party will probably rage on for a while, but somehow they are wrapped in their own peaceful cocoon. 

“I wasn’t joking though, you know,” he breaks the silence, eyes fluttering closed. 

“About what?”

“That I thought of you like that. You’re my best friend, it was inevitable to think of you as more.”

It’s like he is speaking in his sleep, but Y/N is practically holding her breath at his words. Because she’d be lying if she said she hasn’t thought of him more than just a friend. 

“And where did that thought take you?” she whispers back. Harry sighs, burying his head further into the pillow and he leaves the question unanswered for a while, making her think he’s already asleep, but then he speaks up.

“I fucking love you, Y/N.”

Her lips part at the words, chest thumping in her chest. She knows he is drunk and almost fully asleep, but the weight of this slurred confession is already pushing on her chest. She watches him, lashes fanned out on his cheeks as his breathing slows and she knows he’s sleeping and probably wasn’t awake when he said it. 

But still, she reaches out and gently brushes his hair out of his forehead.

“I love you too, Harry,” she whispers and then lets herself drift off to sleep as well. 

It’s quiet in the house when Harry wakes, but still dark outside. He has no idea how long he’s been asleep, but not long enough, that’s for sure, because he still feels disoriented from the alcohol. With a frown he is about to roll to his other side when he realizes he’s not alone in the bed, someone is curled to his side, an arm across his chest, legs tangled with his. For a split second he curses himself out for hooking up with some random girl because he drank too much, but then he realizes just how familiar the sleeping figure is. 

It’s Y/N, sleeping peacefully beside him, snuggled up to his side and his body relaxes instantly, the memory of drunkenly begging her to stay now slowly crawling back into his sleepy mind. His arms curl around her, the feeling of her body against his is blissful and it surely brings out fantasies he has battled before. 

Because he wasn’t joking when he said he’s thought of her before as more than just a friend, in fact, it’s been occurring more and more frequently recently, bringing him utter confusion. 

But now he is way too tired and still kind of drunk to overthink it and he can just enjoy her closeness, the softness of her body, the small breaths she is puffing out, the way she hums in her sleep as they rearrange, lying on their sides again, facing each other, but this time way closer than before, legs still tangled, Harry’s arm thrown over her waist. 

He doesn’t fall back asleep though and when he blinks his eyes open again, he is stunned by the sight of the sleeping Y/N. Even despite the long years of friendship, they never shared a bed, so the experience is all new and consuming for him. Her face is screaming to be touched, her hair, the curve of her shoulder, everything about her in that moment is making his palm and fingers itch to touch her. 

And so he does. 

Gently, he runs his knuckles down the side of her face at first and then cradles her cheek in his palm. She stirs in her sleep, nuzzling more into his touch, twisting something even more in him. He’s not thinking. There’s no rationality in him when he leans closer and presses a kiss to her forehead. 

The touch of his lips makes her shift and then slowly blink her eyes open. She looks at Harry, as if she’s just making up what she is seeing, then closes her eyes back. She doesn’t protest, she doesn’t speak and maybe Harry would have gone back to sleep… if she didn’t scoot closer, so close their noses brush together. Her hands move from under the pillow to the base of his neck, but her eyes are still closed, like she’s doing it all in her dream. 

And that’s exactly how Harry feels too. 

She blinks her eyes open again, her gaze locking with Harry’s and at first they are just staring at each, sleepily and wordlessly. Then his gaze drops to her lips and they part as she moves the tiniest bit closer, Harry looks back into her eyes and a second later he closes the gap between them, but only so his lips are brushing against hers, as if giving her one last chance to stop, but instead she pushes towards him and now they are fully kissing. 

It gets heated fast, the simple kiss turns passionate as they press up against each other in the sheets, limbs tangled and tongues licking. They’re tugging and pushing and pulling and neither of them hesitates when clothes start to disappear. It’s like an urge took over them and they need to obey to keep breathing, they devour each other. 

Harry’s hands move to her now naked breasts and she rolls her hips against his, pulling a moan out of him. 

“Harry,” she gasps when the tip of his cock touches her clit and that just riles him even more. 

Within seconds he is pulling a condom on, rolling on top of her and their eye contact doesn’t waver as he pushes into her, slowly stretching her until he is all the way inside. Grabbing him by the back of his head she pulls down for another kiss as he starts moving, carefully at first, but quickly picking up his pace. 

They become one big mess, chasing their high, she’s clawing at his back, biting his lips while he keeps driving his hips forward, almost drowning in the euphoria of feeling her this close and deep, an addiction already forming in his gut. Nothing has ever felt like this, nothing compares to the way her body moves with his and their lips melt together with such hunger. 

“Fuck,” he growls, face buried into her neck. “I’m so close,” he rasps out.

“Just a little more,” she gasps, digging her fingers deeper into his back. He tries to hold back, keeps thrusting and when he feels her walls tighten around him and her breath hitching he lets it go. 

He keeps moving, both of them riding out their orgasm, then slowly halts, but stays like that for a bit before rolling to the side, onto his back. It takes some time for them to catch their breath and the tiredness wears them down quite fast, before the realization of what actually happened could set in, they are both out. 

When hours later Harry wakes again it’s bright outside and his drunkenness has turned into a hangover. He frowns at the throbbing of his head, not even finding the will to open his eyes. He stretches his arm to the side, looking for his phone somewhere, but instead his hand lands on something entirely different. 

A body. 

His eyes pop open as his head snaps to the side, only to find a sight he was definitely not expecting. Y/N is sleeping beside him, tangled in the sheets, naked. And then, the memories of what happened hours ago come flooding back to him. 

Waking up in the middle of the night, still kind of drunk, kissing Y/N and then things escalated fast, he now remembers quite well how she felt, the noises she made, the way her fingers clawed at his back…

“Fuck,” he breathes out, panic taking over him. 

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. Not like this. Not with her.

His gaze drifts over her peaceful face and something painful twists inside him. Y/N is his constant, the one person he could always rely on. Endless late night talks, even more inside jokes, she is the only person who knows him inside and out and he’s spent years keeping that line drawn firmly, never allowing himself to cross it, telling himself it’s the safest way.

But now that line is gone, completely blurred. It wasn’t just a touch of his toe on the other side, he jumped right over, into the middle.

However the panic isn’t just about waking up next to her, but also about just how right it feels, how natural and how terrifyingly easy it was to ignore the line and let everything he’s been keeping in the back of his head run free just because he got drunk. But he can’t do this. He can’t want her, she already knows him more than anyone, but if she knew everything, if she saw this one side she hasn’t before…

He rubs his hands over his face, almost feeling nauseous as he stares up at the ceiling. 

Y/N stirs beside him a few minutes later, shifting in the sheets. Harry freezes, as if he didn’t move he would simply disappear. 

“Harry?” her voice is soft, thick with sleep. “What time is it?”

He swallows. “I-I don’t know. Maybe around ten.”

She pushes herself up on one elbow, blinking against the light. Then she looks at him and something settles in her expression. Not panic or regret, more like awareness, like she is going through the same realization Harry went through just minutes before, remembering what happened and what it might mean.

“Um… Huh. Hey,” she croaks out. His chest tightens painfully at how normal she sounds. Like this isn’t blowing her world apart the way it’s blowing his.

“Hey,” he echoes, too quickly. He sits up, the sheets sliding down and bunching in his lap. “Um, I’m gonna go and shower.”

He climbs out of the bed and quickly grabs his boxers that are luckily on the edge of the mattress. He pulls them on and quite noticeably avoids looking her in the eyes.

“Harry…” she sighs as she sits up fully, holding the sheets to her chest. 

“You want to shower too?” he asks, but his eyes are still everywhere but on her. 

“What are you doing?”

“As I said, I’m going to take a sho–”

“No, you’re acting like an asshole right after we had sex.”

Her bluntness stuns him, he wasn’t expecting her to come forward this fast and easily. He stops in the middle of the room and at last turns to face her. The fact that she’s still naked in his bed definitely doesn’t help him. 

“Y/N, please don’t,” he pleads.

“Please don’t what? Do you really just want to ignore it?”

“Preferably, yes,” he nods, his breathing starting to get heavy. 

“You can’t be serious.”

“It shouldn’t have happened, okay?” he snaps. “I-It was… a mistake. We were drunk.”

She stares back at him in disbelief, like she is looking at an entirely different person she has never met before. 

“We were drunk, but you also told me you love me, then we kissed and had sex and we weren’t that drunk when that happened.”

It hurts, every single word is like a stab in his chest. But he just shakes his head, already deeply settled in his ignorance.

“It was a mistake,” he repeats. “We shouldn’t… No.”

She stares at him again, as if she’s waiting for him to tell her he’s just joking, but the change never comes. He just stands there, eyes glued to the floor again and something breaks between them, she knows. 

“I’m gonna shower now,” he mutters and with that, he disappears in the bathroom, shutting the door.

In every way, she thinks. 

When Harry walks out in a cloud of steam, the room is empty and just then he starts to feel the actual weight of what happened. 

***

This is not at all how Y/N planned the week after graduation, in bed most of the time, often crying herself to sleep, wasting the last days of college life on spiraling.

Because that’s what she’s been doing. Replaying that last conversation with Harry, the way he dismissed everything that happened and the pain she felt when she got dressed in a hurry while Harry was in the bathroom and left with tears streaming down her face. That morning still haunts her in her dreams, even a week later. 

Now as she is packing up the last of her stuff in her dorm room she still can’t believe the turn things have taken in the very end and that she is not only leaving college, but it feels like she is walking away from Harry as well. 

They haven’t talked, they couldn’t have because Y/N muted him on her way back to the dorm that morning, because she didn’t have it in her to block him, but also didn’t want to hear from him. She only once checked if he had tried to reach out and saw a bunch of texts, but chose to ignore them and focus on forgetting. 

Boxes everywhere, suitcases filled to the brim, her room feels like a ghost of what it was just days ago. She grabs two more boxes and heads out to the car she rented to drive home, another thing that had to be done after the whole Harry situation. They were supposed to go back home together with his car, sparing Y/N from having to drive, the one thing she is utterly terrified of, but now she has to do it. 

She crosses the sidewalk to the car and tries to open the trunk without having to put the boxes down but entirely fails, so with a tired and frustrated huff she is about to put the boxes down when a tattooed arm appears from behind her, opening the trunk and she doesn’t have to look behind to know who it belongs to. 

She freezes, the boxes still in her hands as her stomach twists into a knot. 

“Can we please talk?” 

Harry’s voice hits differently after a week of radio silence, it’s like a punch into her gut, but she fights the urge to start crying instantly. 

“Don’t think that’s a good idea,” she manages to say, busying herself with putting the boxes in the trunk. Harry moves to her side, a hand covering the door of the trunk right when she always tends to hit her head. A small gesture, but it warms her heart even through the thick curtains of anger and disappointment. 

“You haven’t been answering my texts.”

“I know.”

“But they go through,” he continues as she shuts the trunk and heads back inside for another round, Harry following her closely. “So you didn’t block me.”

“Excellent observation,” she mutters under her breath. “I muted you.”

It’s a stab in his chest, but he brushes it off. 

“So you don’t hate me enough to block just yet.”

She doesn’t answer as she walks into her room. Harry follows and shuts the door closed and stands in the way, so now she’s trapped, she can’t walk out without having to walk past him. 

“Y/N, please. I’m begging you,” he breathes out and when she finally shifts her gaze over to him her breath hitches. 

He looks… awful. Like he hasn’t slept in days, his shoulders are sagging forward, hair messy but not in his usual charming way. He looks like the ghost of himself. 

She draws a deep breath and crosses her arms over her chest, as if that could help her keep it together. 

“Five minutes,” she says at last and a hint of relief flashes in his eyes. 

“Y/N, I fucked up like never before,” he starts and she huffs out a bitter laugh.

“Yeah,” she says quietly, shaking her head. “You did.”

The words aren’t as sharp as he expected and that’s what makes them hurt more. Harry swallows, jaw tightening as if he’s bracing himself. 

“I know I don’t get to ask for forgiveness. I know I don’t even deserve these five minutes. But I need you to know that what I said that morning–” He breaks off, dragging a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t the truth.”

She scoffs, finally meeting his eyes. “Then what was it, Harry? Because it sounded pretty clear to me.”

“I panicked,” he blurts out. “Because quite frankly, that was all I wanted for so long, but I kept denying even the thought from myself.”

“The thought?” she frowns in confusion.

“The thought that you mean… fucking everything to me. And you know me more than anyone, but I was scared that if you knew…” His voice dies down, it’s a struggle to say the words that only existed in his head. Y/N patiently waits for him to get his head straight and continue. “I’m scared that if you knew, if you really knew me, inside and out, you’d…”

He trails off, staring at his feet. It takes a moment before he forces the words out.

“You wouldn’t want me anymore. Not even as a friend.”

His voice is barely more than just a whisper and he can’t bear to look her in the eyes, keeping his gaze on his feet. 

“Harry…” she sighs softly. 

“I didn’t mean to be such an asshole,” he continues. “I panicked and in that moment I really thought that ignoring it all was the best idea, but the second I came out of the shower and you were gone, I just knew I did the worst possible thing. I’m so sorry.”

He looks up at her with teary eyes and her heart sinks, she’s never seen him so broken before. 

“Every time I go to bed, it just… It feels cold without you and the thought of losing you keeps me up at night, I’m scared I’ll never sleep again.”

Her anger is gone. All she sees is her best friend, the person he loves the most and he is so broken, so devastated that her first instinct is to do whatever it takes to get him back. 

“I can’t believe you’re actually this stupid, Harry,” she shakes her head with a tired laugh. “I already know you inside and out, I know fucking everything about you and I still…” Her voice wavers. “I still love you.”

His lips part at her confession. Hearing those words from her is like her personal salvation after a week spent in hell. They both step towards each other at the same time, Y/N’s hands cup his face and his arms curl around her waist, their foreheads meeting in the middle. 

“I love you too. I always have. I was just an idiot who thought loving you meant losing you.”

“I’ve seen your worst, Harry,” she chuckles, tears dwelling in her eyes too by now. “I’ve seen it all and I still want it all.”

“Fuck, Y/N. I really don’t deserve you,” he exhales shakily before finally kissing her. 

The kiss is soft, almost hesitant, like they’re both testing the waters, afraid the other might dance back, but once they realize there’s no going back, it turns more passionate, all the need and craving that piled up not just in the past week but in the past years unleashes. 

When they pull back, Harry rests his forehead against hers again, breathing her in like he needs to memorize the feeling of actually having her. 

“Am I forgiven for being such an asshole?”

“You really were one, I never thought that you’d be the first one to kick me out after a hook up,” she chuckles. 

“Technically, I didn’t kick you out,” he protests with a smirk, but she punches him in the chest. “You’re never gonna let me live it down, right?” he sighs.

“Oh, you’re right. I will bring this up until the end of time,” she grins.

“That’s okay,” he nods with a softer smile. “As long as I have you that long.”