#cloudyluun

The air in your apartment is still. No distant chatter, no flashing cameras, no murmurs of speculation just out of earshot. Just silence. A stark contrast to the whirlwind of the gala, to the tension that still lingers in your chest, wound tight like a coil refusing to snap. You kick the door shut behind you, the sound echoing through the dimly lit space, grounding you.

Your hands tremble as you reach for your phone, the screen illuminating your face with a cold, blue glow. You refresh Twitter. Once. Twice. Again.

Nothing.

No blurry pictures hastily taken from the corner of the room. No speculative threads dissecting stolen glances or analyzing body language. Just the usual: best-dressed lists, articles debating the most jaw-dropping looks of the night, a few clips of drunken celebrities caught mid-slur.

You exhale, a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, and sink onto the edge of your bed. Maybe you got lucky. Maybe the fan who recognized you in that moment—who raised their phone, eyes wide with realization—decided to keep the photo to themselves.

But relief is fleeting. It never lasts long when it comes to him.

Your fingers hover over his name in your messages, muscle memory betraying you.

Maybe you were just overreacting. Maybe the fan won’t post it. Maybe this was just a false alarm—a close call, but nothing more.

You type out a message to Harry but doesn’t send it.

(What would you even say?) "That was close?" "Thought we were caught?" "I can still feel your hands on me?"

You don’t text him. You shouldn’t. You tell yourself you won’t. Instead, you lock your phone and toss it onto the duvet beside you, pressing the heels of your palms against your eyes. As if that could stop the flood of thoughts, the relentless replay of the night unraveling in your mind.

The rooftop.

The cool night air brushing against your skin, a welcome contrast to the heat that had coiled low in your stomach the moment his hand found yours. The city stretched below you, lights blinking like stars scattered across concrete. The faint hum of music from the ballroom below, distant, as if the world had momentarily paused for the two of you.

You remember the way he looked at you—really looked at you. Like he was trying to memorize every detail, as if this moment, this stolen sliver of time, was all he’d ever have. His gaze had burned through you, unspoken words resting heavy between you both. You should have walked away. You should have ignored the way his voice curled around your name, like a secret only he was meant to keep.

But you didn’t.

You stayed.

You let him pull you in, let the night swallow you whole, let yourself forget—just for a second—that there were rules, consequences, a world beyond the rooftop’s edge waiting to come crashing back in.

And now, in the quiet of your apartment, with only the hum of your thoughts and the lingering scent of his cologne on your skin, you can’t escape the truth.

You crossed a line tonight.

And the whole world might find out.

But before the rooftop, before the gala, before the lies and the secrecy, there was a beginning. A first moment. A shift in the air so subtle and yet so undeniable that even now, as you sit in the dim glow of your apartment, you can still feel it humming beneath your skin.

The first time you saw Harry, the world around you dulled. Maybe it was the sheer force of his presence, the way he occupied a room so effortlessly, all slow movements and easy confidence. Maybe it was the sound of his laughter, rich and unhurried, cutting through the noise of a crowded space like he had all the time in the world.

Or maybe it was the way he looked at you—like he had already known you before you had the chance to introduce yourself.

You weren’t supposed to notice him. You weren’t supposed to feel anything when his gaze lingered just a second too long, when his lips curved into that lazy, knowing smile that made your pulse falter. But the second his eyes found yours across the room, something clicked into place. Something inevitable.

The attraction was instant. Palpable.

You remember the way your breath caught when he spoke your name for the first time, the syllables rolling off his tongue like he was testing them, savoring them. The way conversation with him felt different—like an undercurrent of something dangerous, something waiting to pull you under.

You told yourself it was nothing. A fleeting moment. A trick of the light.

But Harry Styles was not the kind of man you forgot.

It started as a game. A dance of words, teasing and laced with something unspoken. A battle of who would fold first.

And you did.

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. The first time it happened, it was just that—an accident, a misstep, a single night that spiraled out of control before either of you could stop it. A party, too much champagne, the sharp edge of desire pressing into your ribs.

You remember the way his fingers grazed your wrist when he reached for your drink, the way his lips quirked when he caught you staring. You remember the heat in his eyes, the way his touch burned through fabric, the moment his mouth finally crashed against yours like he had been waiting for it, like you had been waiting for it.

It was reckless. Messy. Teeth against lips, hands fisting in fabric, breathless laughter swallowed by the dark. The press of his body against yours, the sheer force of wanting him making your head spin.

And then, morning came.

And you told yourself it was a mistake.

But then it happened again. And again.

Each time, you swore it was the last. Each time, you promised yourself it was just physical, just an outlet, just something to be ignored in the light of day.

But it never was.

Because Harry didn’t just touch you—he unraveled you. He kissed you like he was memorizing you, like he was terrified you’d slip through his fingers the moment he let go. And when the world wasn’t watching, when the cameras weren’t flashing, he looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

So you made rules.

No feelings. No expectations. No one finds out.

And in the beginning, the rules worked. They made it easier to pretend. They turned stolen glances into nothing more than coincidence, turned fleeting touches into meaningless gestures. They allowed you to lie to yourself—convince yourself that whatever this was, it wasn’t real.

But rules mean nothing when he kisses you like he’s drowning.

When his fingers tangle in your hair like he can’t bear to let go.

When he pulls you into his arms after, as if holding you in the dark is the only thing keeping him together.

And now, with your heart still racing from the night you just had, with the taste of his name still lingering on your tongue, you know one thing for certain: This was never just a game.

But you pretend it is.

You have to.

Because if you let yourself believe anything else, if you admit that this thing between you and Harry has already bled past every line you swore you wouldn’t cross, then you’re left with something fragile. Something that could shatter with a single breath.

So you do what you do best. You compartmentalize.

You throw yourself into work, letting your schedule consume you. Early morning meetings, script read-throughs, press junkets, rehearsals. Your days are meticulously planned, a well-oiled machine running on caffeine and sheer force of will.

When people ask about the gala, you keep your answers light, practiced, as if the night hadn’t ended with you pressed against the wall in a dark corner, Harry’s breath hot against your neck. 

You’re good at pretending. You always have been.

But at night, when the world quiets, when there’s nothing left to distract you, the truth finds you.

Or rather, he does.

It happens like clockwork.

The text usually comes first.

"Awake?"

If you don’t answer fast enough, your phone buzzes again.

"Liar. Open the door."

And sure enough, when you tiptoe to your front door and glance through the peephole, he’s there. Hood up, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie, his frame half-hidden in the dim glow of the hallway light.

You hesitate for only a second before unlocking the door.

The second he steps inside, the air shifts. The easy charm, the teasing, the cocky smirk he wears in public—gone. Instead, there’s something raw in his eyes as he looks at you. Like you’re the only thing in the world that makes sense.

Neither of you speak as he toes off his boots, shedding layers as he follows you into your bedroom. You’re already crawling under the sheets when you feel the bed dip under his weight, his body warm and solid behind you.

A kiss to your bare shoulder. A whispered, “Missed you.”

You tell yourself this is enough. These quiet moments, these stolen nights.

That you don’t need more.

But that’s a lie.

Some nights, it’s reckless. Impulsive.

Your phone vibrates while you’re in the middle of a meeting, and when you glance down, the message on the screen makes your breath hitch.

"Wish I was there. On my knees. Bet I could make you come without making a sound."

You press your thighs together, biting back a smirk. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Knows that for the rest of the meeting, you’ll be restless, distracted, replaying his words in your head.

And later that night, when you finally see him, he doesn’t even let you get a word in before his mouth is on yours, hands roaming, pushing you up against the nearest surface.

"Thought about you all day," he murmurs against your lips, and the moment you part them to respond, he swallows the words whole.

And then there’s the jealousy.

It’s subtle. Unspoken. But it lingers in the space between you.

Maybe it’s an event, a photo that surfaces of you and someone else—just friendly, nothing more. Maybe it’s work, a scene you had to film with a male co-star, your bodies too close, your laughter lingering a second too long.

He never says anything. Not really.

But later that night, his hands are rougher. His grip tightens on your hips, fingers digging into your skin. He fucks you deep, slow, deliberate. Like he’s trying to carve himself into you, trying to erase anyone else’s touch.

"You’re mine," he breathes against your throat, and you don’t argue.

Because you are.

And then there are the mornings. The only time when the heat has burned itself out and there’s nothing left but softness.

The warmth of his fingers tracing patterns along your back. His lips skimming your temple, voice thick with sleep as he murmurs, “So perfect like this.”

Like this.

Like he already knows these moments aren’t meant to last.

And for a while, it’s easy to believe the secret is safe.

That the picture from the gala will never surface.

That no one will ever find out.

At one point, you even joke about it, stretching lazily against the sheets as you grin up at him. “Imagine if someone finds out? They’d probably think I kidnapped you.”

Harry smirks, fingers trailing down your thigh, amusement flickering in his gaze. “You kinda did.”

It feels like a game.

Until it isn’t.

You wake up to chaos.

The sharp, relentless vibration of your phone drags you from sleep, the screen lighting up with notification after notification, the soft glow casting eerie shadows across your bedroom. You blink against the brightness, still half-asleep, reaching blindly for your phone.

And then you see it.

Your name. His name.

Trending. Everywhere.

A cold weight settles in your stomach as you swipe to unlock your phone, your heart hammering against your ribs. Your vision blurs for a second as you take in the headlines, the sheer speed at which the world has latched onto something that—until now—had belonged only to the two of you.

Harry Styles’ Secret Romance EXPOSED! Who Is the Mystery Girl Holding Hands with Harry Styles? Fans Speculate: Harry’s Hidden Relationship REVEALED!

Your stomach twists painfully as you scroll, your hands trembling around your phone. And then—

The picture.

It’s unmistakable.

The two of you leaving the gala, his fingers laced through yours. The way he’s looking at you—not just a glance, not something casual, but something intense. The angle makes it painfully obvious, the intimacy written all over you.

Your breath catches in your throat.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

You were careful. You always were. Every stolen glance, every fleeting touch, every moment behind closed doors—it was yours. No cameras. No press. No speculation.

But now?

It’s out.

And the internet is on fire.

The comments are instant. Loud. Unforgiving.

Some are excited, supportive.

"He looks so happy! Whoever she is, she must be amazing.""I knew it! He’s been glowing lately!""As long as she treats him right, I’m happy for them."

But others—

"Who even is she??""She’s just using him for clout.""She’s not even famous. She’s NOTHING.""Homewrecker. Slut. Gold digger."

The words slice through you, sharp and merciless. They don’t even know you, but that doesn’t matter.

You were naïve to think they’d be kind.

You knew what happened to women in his orbit. You’d seen it before—the scrutiny, the invasiveness, the vitriol. You had just hoped… maybe, somehow, it would be different.

You were wrong.

And the worst part?

You don’t know how Harry is handling it.

You call him.

Straight to voicemail.

Your pulse pounds as you try again, fingers gripping the phone too tightly.

Still nothing.

Panic coils in your chest as you check your texts. No messages. No missed calls.

Just silence.

Meanwhile, your team is already reaching out.

Your phone buzzes with an incoming call from your manager. Your publicist. A flurry of texts asking how to handle the situation.

Do you deny it? Ignore it? Release a statement?

But you have no answers.

Because the only person who matters isn’t answering his damn phone.

Then, finally—

It rings.

You don’t even hesitate. You answer immediately, your voice breathless, frantic.

"Harry—"

But his voice—

It’s cold. Distant.

"We need to talk."

The words sit heavy in the air between you, weighted with something dark, something dangerous.

You hesitate for only a second before whispering, “Okay.”

--

The moment you see him, you know.

He’s waiting for you in his hotel room, standing near the window, hands shoved deep into his pockets. His posture is stiff, his shoulders drawn tight, tension radiating off him in waves.

His jaw is clenched, his lips pressed into a thin line.

He hasn’t even said a word yet, but your chest is already tight.

This is bad.

The door clicks shut behind you, and you take a step forward, arms crossed over your chest like they might shield you from whatever’s coming.

"Say something," you murmur.

Harry finally turns, his eyes locking onto yours. And for the first time since you met him, they’re unreadable.

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don’t know. Maybe that it’s not a big deal?" You shrug, trying to keep your voice steady. "It’s just a picture, Harry. People will talk for a few days, and then they’ll move on."

He lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head. "You don’t get it. This isn’t just about us. This is my life."

"And what am I, then?" You step closer, heat rising in your chest. "Just someone you fuck in the dark?"

The silence that follows is deafening.

His throat bobs as he swallows, his jaw tightening further.

That’s the answer, isn’t it? The thing neither of you have ever said out loud.

"You keep me hidden like I’m your biggest mistake."

His head snaps up at that, something flickering behind his eyes. He shakes his head quickly, voice raw. "You’re not a mistake."

"Then why are you acting like I am?"

You’re too worked up to stop now, to soften the blow, to think before you speak.

"Jesus, Harry. Do you know what it feels like to be with someone who refuses to claim you? Who never reaches for your hand in public, who won’t even look at you too long when other people are around? Like I’m some dirty little secret you have to keep?"

"That’s not—" He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "That’s not what this is, and you fucking know it."

"Then what is it?" Your voice is hoarse now, the frustration bleeding into something more vulnerable. Something fragile. "Because to me, it feels like I’m always going to be the girl you love behind closed doors but pretend not to know when the lights come on."

That gets him.

His entire body stiffens, his fingers twitching at his sides.

Love.

You said love.

And you don’t take it back.

His breath is uneven when he finally speaks. "I just—fuck, I didn’t want this for you. I didn’t want you to go through this."

You stare at him, the fight temporarily knocked out of you.

"What?"

He exhales, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "The media. The rumors. The hate. The way they tear apart every woman I’ve ever been seen with. I didn’t want you to have to deal with that. You don’t deserve it."

"So you were protecting me?" The words taste bitter on your tongue. "By making me feel like I don’t exist?"

Harry’s eyes squeeze shut, and for a second, he looks wrecked.

"I didn’t mean for it to be like this."

"But it is."

It hangs between you, heavy and unmovable.

Neither of you speaks. Neither of you moves.

You don’t break up.

But something between you fractures.

The distance is immediate.

A coldness that lingers in the spaces where warmth used to be.

Harry doesn’t text as much. Calls grow infrequent. Conversations turn shallow, safe, as if you’re both terrified of touching the wound too soon, of reopening something that’s still bleeding beneath the surface.

You don’t reach out either. Maybe it’s better this way.

Maybe space will fix what words couldn’t.

But then—something shatters the fragile truce.

You’re sitting on your couch, scrolling mindlessly, when the clip appears.

A headline first.

HARRY STYLES BREAKS HIS SILENCE ON DATING RUMORS

Your stomach knots.

With shaking hands, you press play.

The video starts mid-interview, Harry perched on a plush chair, microphone in hand. He’s wearing one of his usual tailored suits, his hair messily tousled in that effortless way only he can pull off. The crowd laughs at something he just said, the interviewer leaning in with a conspiratorial grin.

And then, the dreaded question.

“So, Harry, there have been some rumors lately… A certain photo making the rounds. Any truth to it? Are you seeing someone?”

The air in your lungs turns solid.

Harry stills, just barely. It’s subtle; the faintest stiffening of his shoulders, the almost imperceptible tension in his jaw. But you see it. You know him.

And then he smiles. That easy, practiced grin, the kind that charms the world but makes your stomach twist.

He laughs, brushing the question off like it’s nothing.

“People love to speculate, don’t they?” he says lightly. “I’m just focused on my music right now.”

Your heart stumbles over itself.

No denial. No confirmation.

The interviewer doesn’t let it go.

“So, you’re saying you’re single?”

The silence lasts half a second too long.

And then—

“Yeah,” Harry says, smooth and effortless, not a single waver in his voice. “I’m single.”

The world stills.

You can’t breathe.

The clip ends. Your screen fades to black. But the words linger. The weight of them presses down on your chest, heavy and suffocating.

"I’m single."

Like you never happened.

Like the nights spent tangled together, the whispered confessions in the dark, the way he held you like he never wanted to let go—none of it meant anything.

Your hands tremble as you exit the video, but it’s too late. The internet is already burning.

#HarryIsSingle trends within minutes.

Fans take his words as gospel. Theories shift. Maybe you were just a hookup. Maybe you made the whole thing up. Maybe you’re obsessed with him.

The hate floods in fast.

Your DMs. Your mentions. A hurricane of strangers dissecting your life, your worth, your place in his world.

You’re a liar. A desperate fangirl. A delusional girl who thought she was special, who was using Harry for his fame.

And worst of all?

Harry doesn’t reach out.

Not even a text.

You don’t cry. Not at first.

You just sit there, numb, watching your phone vibrate with notifications you refuse to read.

Then the anger comes.

Slow, simmering, bubbling up from the depths of something raw and wounded until it erupts.

That night, when your phone finally lights up with his name—just a simple, “Hey”—you don’t respond.

But he doesn’t let it go.

An hour later, there’s a knock at your door.

You hesitate for only a second before pulling it open.

Harry stands on the other side, hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes scanning your face. And the second he sees your expression, he knows.

“You saw it.”

Your laugh is sharp, bitter. “Saw what? You telling the whole fucking world you’re single?”

He exhales heavily, dragging a hand through his hair. “It’s not that simple.”

You scoff. “Isn’t it? Because from where I’m standing, it looked pretty fucking easy for you.”

“It wasn’t easy,” he snaps. “But what was I supposed to do? Announce to the world that we’re together? Let the media tear us apart?”

Your eyes flash. “Better to pretend I don’t exist, right?”

He takes a step forward, his voice tight with frustration. “You’re twisting this.”

You shake your head. “No, Harry. I’m finally seeing it for what it is.”

Silence.

A long, painful pause where neither of you know what to say.

And then, barely above a whisper—

“You don’t get to do this to me. Not again.”

His brows furrow. “Again?”

Your throat tightens. The truth sits heavy in your chest.

You swallow hard. “You did this before.” Your voice is hollow, empty. “Back then. When we started this. You acted like it didn’t mean anything. Like I didn’t mean anything. And I let you.”

Harry’s expression crumbles. Guilt flickers in his eyes, his lips parting like he wants to argue, to tell you you’re wrong.

But he doesn’t.

Because he knows.

“That’s not true.” His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“Isn’t it?” Your voice breaks. “Because that’s how it fucking feels.”

For the first time, he has no defense.

And you don’t have the energy to fight anymore.

You take a step back. Your chest aches, your eyes sting, but your voice is steady when you say it—

“Just go, Harry.”

He hesitates.

But you don’t waver.

Finally, he nods. Turns. Leaves.

And this time—

You don’t think he’s coming back.

You didn’t think things could get worse.

You thought the storm had passed. That the damage had been done. That the worst of it was behind you.

But then—your phone rings.

It’s your manager. Their voice is clipped, urgent. “You need to see this.”

Your stomach drops.

There’s something in their tone. Something that makes your skin prickle with unease.

You pull your phone away from your ear, heart hammering as you open the link they sent.

And then—your world crumbles.

The screen loads. A video. Camera footage. Grainy but unmistakable.

You. Harry. The gala night.

The intimacy of it—the way he’s touching you, the way he’s whispering things only meant for you—it’s all out there, laid bare for the world to see.

You feel like you’re going to be sick.

Your vision tunnels, fingers tightening around your phone as the weight of it all crashes down on you.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

This was yours. His.

Something private. Something that was never meant for the world to see.

And now—it’s everywhere.

Your hands shake as you scroll.

Trending: - “Harry Styles sex tape” - “Who leaked Harry’s video?” - “Y/N is ruining his life”

The internet is cruel. Ruthless.

The comments flood in, thousands of voices screaming over one another:

- “She probably leaked it herself for attention.” - “Poor Harry. He deserves better than this mess.” - “She’s disgusting. A clout chaser.” - “She’s trying to trap him.” - “Harry needs to leave her for good.”

They defend him. They attack you.

As if you planned this. As if you wanted this.

As if this isn’t your literal worst nightmare.

Your breath comes too fast, too shallow. You try to inhale, but your lungs won’t cooperate.

Your phone slips from your grasp, clattering onto the floor.

Harry is calling. Again and again.

You don’t answer.

Because what could he possibly say to fix this?

Nothing.

There is no fixing this.

But that doesn’t stop him from trying.

Within the hour, your phone won’t stop vibrating. Your manager. Your PR team. News outlets. Lawyers. And then Harry, over and over again.

Then: a knock at your door.

You freeze.

Your hands grip the edge of the counter, knuckles white.

You don’t want to see him. You don’t want to look him in the eyes, see whatever shattered version of him is waiting on the other side.

But you do.

The door creaks open.

And there he is.

Disheveled. Jaw clenched. Eyes burning.

A storm contained within flesh and bone.

He steps forward, into your space, into your orbit, like he’s drawn to you despite the wreckage between you.

His voice is raw, barely above a whisper. “Are you okay?”

You laugh. A sharp, bitter sound. “Am I okay?”

Your eyes burn as you shake your head. “Harry, the whole fucking world just watched us—watched me.” Your voice cracks, but you force yourself to keep going. “And they think it’s my fault.”

He exhales sharply, his hand raking through his hair. “I know. I know, and I’m going to fix this.”

“Fix it?” You step back, the words tasting like poison. “How the fuck do you fix something like this?”

He looks at you then—really looks at you—and there’s something in his eyes. Something wild, desperate. Guilt. Rage. Fear.

But before he can answer—before he can try to convince you that there’s a way out of this—

Your phone dings.

The sound cuts through the moment like a blade.

Your heart pounds as you glance at the screen.

Another notification. A new article.

And then—

Your breath catches in your throat.

Because it’s not just about the leaked tape anymore.

It’s worse. So much worse.

Your entire body goes cold as you read the headline:

“EXCLUSIVE: INSIDER REVEALS WHO LEAKED HARRY STYLES’ SEX TAPE.”

Your vision blurs, hands trembling as you click the link.

The page loads. Your stomach drops.

And then—

The name staring back at you makes your blood run cold.

You don’t realize you’ve spoken out loud until you hear your own voice, barely a whisper.

“No… No, that’s not possible.”

Harry’s eyes snap to you, his expression shifting instantly.

“What? What is it?” He reaches for the phone, but you yank it away, gripping it so tightly your knuckles turn white.

Your head shakes, disbelief crashing over you in violent waves.

Because the person who leaked it…

It wasn’t some hacker. It wasn’t a random invasion of privacy. It was someone close. Someone you trusted.

And now?

Now, the real betrayal begins.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

[part 3]

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

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You reach for it with stiff fingers, your heart already climbing into your throat. Another wave of hate comments? Another headline tearing you apart? You almost don’t want to look. Almost.

But then your screen lights up. A notification. A link.

And your entire body goes cold.

EXCLUSIVE: INSIDER REVEALS WHO LEAKED HARRY STYLES’ SEX TAPE.

Your vision blurs.

Your stomach knots so tightly you think you might be sick.

No.

No, no, no.

Your hands tremble as you tap the screen, a single breath rattling through your lungs as the article loads. You barely feel the way the couch cushions dip beside you as Harry sits down, barely hear him say your name—soft at first, then sharper.

And then you see it.

Alex Carter.

The name glares back at you in bold, black letters, more gutting than any of the slurs people have thrown at you online.

Your mouth parts, but no sound comes out.

Alex Carter.

Your former manager.

Someone who spent years convincing you he was the only one who truly had your best interests at heart. The one who whispered in your ear about how the industry would chew you up and spit you out, about how you had to play the game, how you had to trust him, because everyone else would sell you out eventually.

And now—now he’s the one who sold you out.

He’s the reason your most intimate moment is on the internet for the whole world to see.

A strangled gasp forces itself out of your throat. The phone slips from your fingers, landing facedown on the couch. Your vision tilts dangerously. Your ears ring.

“No…” Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. Your lungs feel too tight, like you can’t pull in enough air.

No, that’s not possible.

You feel the shift in the air before you see it. The slow, deliberate way Harry stiffens beside you, like every muscle in his body has locked up at once. The way his breath comes out too sharp, too controlled.

Then—his hand wraps around your phone before you can even blink. He lifts it, eyes scanning the screen.

The tension in the room thickens like smoke.

His fingers tighten around the phone, knuckles going white. His jaw clenches, the muscle ticking just beneath the surface. His nostrils flare.

And then—

CRACK.

You jolt as Harry hurls the phone across the room. It slams against the far wall, bouncing off the floor with a dull thud.

“That fucking—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head violently. His whole body is vibrating with rage.

Your breath hitches, a sharp, uneven inhale. You force your legs to move, to stand, to do anything other than sit there drowning in your own nausea.

“Why?” Your voice cracks, raw and frayed. You shake your head, pressing a hand to your forehead, your pulse erratic. “Why would he—”

“To destroy you.”

Harry’s voice is low, dark, dangerous.

Your gaze snaps to his.

His eyes burn with something lethal, something you’ve never seen before.

“To destroy us.”

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh, the sound hollow and jagged in your throat.

“Well,” you say, wrapping your arms around yourself, “congratulations to him. It worked.”

The words linger in the air, thick and suffocating.

Silence crashes over the room, pressing into your chest until you can barely breathe.

Your knees buckle. You barely make it to the couch before your legs give out, your body folding in on itself as your hands bury into your hair.

You don’t even feel yourself start to cry.

Not at first.

But then your shoulders shake. And you can’t stop.

You hear Harry move before you feel him. The creak of the floor. The rustle of fabric. And then—

He kneels in front of you.

His hands hover just inches from your skin, like he wants to touch you, to fix this, but doesn’t know how.

His voice is softer now, frustrated but gentle.

“We’ll fix this.” He swallows hard. “I swear to god, we will.”

You lift your head slowly, your gaze locking onto his.

And he looks wrecked.

Not just furious. Not just vengeful. But broken.

Like the mere thought of you being hurt like this is ripping him apart.

Your throat feels tight, raw, like something is lodged deep inside of it.

“How?”

Harry stills.

Your voice wavers, breathless and trembling.

“How do you fix the fact that the whole world has seen us like that?” Your eyes burn as you force the words out. “That they think I did this to myself?”

The air shifts.

Harry opens his mouth—then stops.

He has no answer.

Because there isn’t one.

And his silence is an answer in itself.

The weight of it crushes your ribs, pressing down, down, down, until it’s almost unbearable. You wait for him to say something—anything. Some promise that he can fix this, that he knows what to do, that somehow, against all odds, he can make this go away.

But he just sits there.

Kneeling in front of you, hands limp in his lap, his shoulders rising and falling in heavy, uneven breaths. His lips are slightly parted, but no words come out. Nothing.

And you realize—he can’t fix this.

No one can.

A hollow laugh bubbles up in your throat, but it never fully forms. Instead, you press your fingers against your temples, squeeze your eyes shut, try to block out the world for just one fucking second.

Then—Harry moves.

The air in the room shifts so suddenly it makes you look up.

His hands are on his thighs, fingers curling into fists so tight his knuckles burn white. His jaw is clenched, his body wound so taut he looks like he might snap in half from the force of it.

Then, he stands. Too fast. Too sharp.

And before you can react—

He’s gone.

The front door slams so hard the walls tremble.

You don’t flinch.

You just sit there, staring at the empty space where he was just kneeling, heart thudding slow and heavy in your chest.

He’s going to find him.

Of course he is.

Because Harry doesn’t know how to sit with this. Doesn’t know how to handle helplessness, how to accept a loss. Harry fights. With his words, with his body, with every part of him.

He is not the type to let things go.

And you don’t stop him.

You don’t call after him. Don’t chase him. Don’t try to talk him down.

Because you want this, too.

You want Alex Carter to suffer.

You want him to hurt.

You want him to feel even a fraction of what you’ve felt over the last few days. The shame, the helplessness, the violation. The feeling of knowing that your own body is no longer yours. That it belongs to the internet, to strangers, to disgusting men jerking off behind computer screens, to tabloids who don’t see you as a person but as a headline.

You want him to be fucking ruined.

But mostly?

You just feel numb.

You don’t hear from Harry for hours.

At first, you don’t check your phone. You can’t. The idea of looking at another headline, of seeing your name trending next to words like leaked, sex scandal, and career suicide, you can’t do it.

So, you sit.

You stare at the television, but you don’t watch it. You try to drink water, but it tastes like nothing. You think about eating something, but the idea of putting food in your mouth makes your stomach churn.

Then—

Your phone buzzes.

Not with a call. Not with a text.

With a breaking news alert.

You reach for it before you can talk yourself out of it, swiping the screen open with clumsy fingers. The moment the article loads, your breath catches.

HARRY STYLES CONFRONTS FORMER MANAGER OF Y/N IN EXPLOSIVE SHOWDOWN.

Your blood turns to ice.

You scan the article, pulse hammering as your eyes dart over the words, taking in the damage.

Witnesses report Harry Styles stormed into a high-profile restaurant in London earlier today, where Alex Carter was having lunch with industry colleagues. According to sources, Styles wasted no time confronting Carter in front of the entire venue, accusing him of leaking the intimate footage that has rocked social media for the past week.

Your heart stops.

It gets worse.

Things quickly escalated when Styles allegedly slammed his fist down on Carter’s table, knocking over a glass of wine. A heated argument ensued, drawing the attention of patrons and staff. Though sources claim security intervened before the situation turned physical, Styles left the restaurant visibly enraged.

Oh, god.

The article includes a photo.

And there he is.

Harry, mid-stride, leaving the restaurant with his shoulders drawn tight, jaw clenched, his entire expression twisted in unfiltered fury. His hair is a mess, his lips pressed into a thin, unforgiving line, his eyes dark and dangerous.

And then, beneath the article, the comments:

 Jesus, Harry looks like he was about to kill that guy.

Never seen him look this angry. Fucking terrifying.

Bet he was defending her honor or some shit. Y’all, they’re definitely in love.

Does this mean he’s confirming they’re together?

Wait, why do I find angry Harry Styles kind of hot??

Lmaoooo this dude is out here fighting her battles while she just sits there and plays the victim.

This is embarrassing. Hope he doesn’t throw away his career for some girl.

Your stomach twists.

The anger in you—at Alex, at the world—shifts.

Because now, they’re going after Harry, too.

They’re twisting this.

Turning him into the villain.

And suddenly, the numbness inside you cracks—just a little.

Harry doesn’t call you.

Not that night.

Not the next day.

Not even after the press tears him apart.

The news runs with the story for days, speculating on what was said, exaggerating the confrontation, dragging his name through the mud.

“Harry Styles Unhinged: A man on the brink?” “From Heartthrob to Hothead—Has Styles Finally Snapped?” “Sources Claim Styles' Label is Concerned About His Public Outbursts.”

They don’t care why he did it. They don’t care that he was standing up for you, that he was furious over what was done to you, that maybe, just maybe, he loves you so much that he lost control.

No.

They just see a story.

And he lets them tell it.

Because he doesn’t defend himself.

He doesn’t issue a statement.

He doesn’t try to clear his name.

And the worst part?

He doesn’t call you.

Not even once.

You tell yourself it’s fine.

That maybe he needs space. That maybe, after everything, this is too much.

That maybe this is what breaks you.

You don’t want to admit that thought lingers inside of you like an open wound. You don’t want to admit that every time you unlock your phone and see no calls, no messages, no sign of him at all, it chips away at something fragile inside of you.

You try to numb it out.

But it doesn’t work.

The days drag on, each one blending into the next, weighed down by the same relentless cycle.

More headlines. More hate comments. More people dissecting every detail of your life like they’re owed an explanation.

You stop leaving your apartment.

You stop answering your phone.

You stop existing.

The weight of the world’s scrutiny settles into your bones, heavy and suffocating.

Sleep doesn’t come easily. When it does, it’s restless—short bursts of unconsciousness broken up by nightmares of flashing cameras, of hands grabbing at you, of voices shouting things you don’t want to hear.

You barely eat.

Your stomach is constantly twisted in knots, anxiety coiling deep inside of you, making food seem like an impossible task.

The silence in your apartment is deafening.

And Harry is nowhere.

You tell yourself you don’t care. You tell yourself it’s better this way. That if this is how it ends, at least it’ll be over.

But it’s a lie.

And it shatters the moment he comes back.

It’s late.

You don’t know exactly how late, but the city outside is quieter, the usual sounds of life dulled by the hour.

You’re curled up on the couch, knees drawn to your chest, the glow of your television casting a faint, flickering light across the room. You’re not really watching. You haven’t been for a while.

Then—

A knock.

At first, you think you imagined it.

You don’t move.

Your heart pounds, but you ignore it.

Another knock. Harder this time. More insistent.

You close your eyes. Go away.

“Y/N. Open the fucking door.”

Your stomach drops.

His voice is hoarse, raw, like gravel scraping against pavement.

You sit frozen, gripping the fabric of your sweatshirt so tight your knuckles ache.

Then—silence.

You inhale, deep and shaky, your lungs burning as you hold the air in. Maybe he’ll leave. Maybe this is just another thing he’ll walk away from. Maybe—

A loud thud shakes the door.

You jump.

Then, his voice again, closer this time. "I swear to fucking god, open the door, or I’m not leaving."

You exhale sharply, your hands trembling as you push yourself up from the couch. You don’t let yourself think about what you’re doing. You don’t let yourself hesitate.

You cross the room, your bare feet cold against the floor.

You unlock the door.

And then you open it.

The second you see him, your breath catches.

He looks wrecked.

Like he hasn’t slept. Like he hasn’t eaten. Like he’s been walking around with this unbearable weight pressing down on his chest, suffocating him, just as much as it’s suffocating you.

His hair is a mess, the usual effortless curls now a wild, tangled disaster. His jaw is shadowed with stubble, thick enough that it looks like he hasn’t touched a razor in days. His eyes—

Fuck.

His eyes are bloodshot, ringed with exhaustion, dark circles settled deep into his skin.

He looks like he’s been through hell.

And you hate that it makes something inside you ache.

You swallow hard, forcing your voice to work.

“What do you want?”

Harry stares at you, something sharp and unreadable flashing across his face.

Then, he steps inside.

You barely have time to move before the door slams shut behind him.

And then, everything explodes.

“Why the fuck have you been ignoring me?”

His voice is rough, raw with frustration.

You laugh, but it’s empty, humorless.

“You’re seriously asking me that?”

“Yes,” he snaps. “I fucking am.”

You step back, crossing your arms over your chest, anger roiling beneath your skin, clawing its way up your throat.

“Maybe because you disappeared, Harry.” Your voice is sharp, slicing between you like a blade. “Maybe because you left and never called. Maybe because for days, I had to watch them tear you apart while you let them—”

His jaw tightens.

“That’s not fucking fair.”

“Oh, isn’t it?” You let out a bitter scoff. “You didn’t even try, Harry. Not once. You let them make you out to be the villain, and you just—just let it happen.”

His chest rises and falls rapidly, his breathing shallow and uneven.

“Because I don’t fucking care what they say about me!” His voice booms through the room, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “I don’t give a fuck about some stupid goddamn article or what Twitter has to say about me!”

“Then what do you care about?” you demand, voice shaking.

And he doesn’t hesitate.

“You.”

The word crashes into you, knocking the air from your lungs.

You stare at him, heart hammering.

His jaw flexes, his gaze burning into yours.

“I care about you.” His voice is lower now, but no less intense. No less brutal.

“And you don’t get to fucking shut me out.”

You shake your head, anger rising again, throat tight, vision blurring.

“I don’t get to shut you out?” You laugh, but it’s full of fire now. “Then stop treating me like a goddamn secret.”

Harry flinches.

His throat bobs, his hands twitching at his sides.

Silence.

Thick. Charged.

Neither of you backing down.

The air is electric, so tense it could snap.

Your chest heaves, pulse thrumming wildly beneath your skin.

Harry’s jaw tightens—his breath coming fast, hard, like he’s trying to stop himself from doing something reckless.

And then—

Then—

The tension snaps.

He moves.

And you don’t stop him.

His hands clamp onto your waist, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises, and then he’s crashing into you—lips, teeth, breath, everything.

His mouth devours yours, the kiss bruising, raw, desperate. There’s no hesitation, no careful testing of boundaries, no slow build. It’s pure hunger.

A collision of need and rage and too many things neither of you know how to say out loud.

His hands tighten, his grip possessive as he pulls you flush against him, your body molding to the solid heat of his.

You gasp into his mouth, but he doesn’t give you a chance to breathe.

He won’t let you.

He’s everywhere at once—gripping, pulling, consuming. His tongue swipes across your bottom lip before he bites down, hard enough that you whimper.

And fuck—that sound wrecks him.

A low, guttural growl rumbles through his chest as he grabs the back of your head, fingers twisting into your hair, yanking just enough to make your throat bare for him.

Then, his lips are on your neck.

Hot. Wet. Unforgiving.

He sucks hard, dragging his teeth over the sensitive skin, marking you.

You feel the scrape of his stubble, the heat of his breath, and then he bites down.

Hard.

Your back arches, your head falling back, a sharp gasp ripping from your throat.

And that’s all it takes.

That sound.

That tiny, broken noise.

It’s all he needs.

He loses control.

There’s no careful undressing.

No slow, teasing unbuttoning.

No patience.

Harry’s hands fist in your sweatshirt, yanking it up over your head so fast it nearly takes you with it. His fingers skim over your bare skin, heat trailing in their wake.

Then, his hands are at your waist, gripping the fabric of your shorts.

You don’t even realize he’s ripping them apart until you hear the sound—the sharp tear of fabric giving way under his fingers.

You let out a startled gasp.

He doesn’t even look sorry.

He doesn’t stop.

Your nails dig into his shirt, gripping at the material before yanking it up and over his head.

Your fingers find his skin, the hard muscle beneath it, nails scraping over his stomach, his chest, his back.

He shudders, his grip tightening on your hips.

His lips crash back against yours, and this time, he bites.

His teeth sink into your bottom lip, just enough to send a jolt of pain down your spine, just enough to make you moan into his mouth.

And he swallows it whole.

His hands roam, explore, claim.

Everywhere at once; your hips, your thighs, your ribs.

His fingertips press into your skin, leaving marks, reminders.

His hands grip your ass, lift you up, and slam you onto the kitchen counter.

A sharp gasp punches out of you as your back hits the cold marble, but Harry is already on you.

He spreads your thighs wide, fingers digging into the flesh, eyes dark, ravenous.

His gaze drags over you, taking in every inch, and fuck—it’s too much.

You reach for him, nails scratching down his stomach, and he lets out a low, wrecked groan.

Then, he’s pulling at his belt.

His movements are frantic, rough, all muscle and frustration.

And then; 

Then, there’s no space left between you.

He pushes into you in one deep, brutal thrust.

You gasp—loud, sharp, wrecked.

Your fingernails sink into his back, digging into the skin as he stretches you open.

The counter digs into your back, the cold surface a stark contrast to the scorching heat of him.

But you don’t care.

You don’t want soft.

You don’t want careful.

You want this.

Rough. Desperate. Hard enough to bruise.

And he gives it to you.

Harry drives into you with a force that feels like destruction. Like he’s trying to exorcise something dark and desperate from his body. Like he’s trying to burn away everything that hurts.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not sweet.

It’s a punishment.

For him. For you. For all the fucking ways you’ve hurt each other.

Your back scrapes against the cold marble of the counter, but you barely feel it. Not when his hips are snapping into yours with brutal precision, not when his hands are gripping your waist so tightly it feels like he’s trying to fuse you to him.

You meet him halfway, matching his pace, your thighs trembling around his waist. Your hands find his shoulders, his back, his hair—clutching, grasping, clawing at whatever you can reach.

His fingers slide up, ghosting over your ribs, your stomach, until one hand wraps loosely around your throat.

Your breath hitches.

Not tight. Not squeezing. Just holding. Just claiming.

His grip slides upward, cupping your jaw instead, forcing your head back, tilting your throat up for him.

And then he bites.

Hard.

A sharp sting of teeth sinking into your skin, sucking, marking, owning.

You whimper, arching into him, your nails raking through his curls, tugging hard.

He groans against your neck, the sound low, wrecked, guttural.

His hips snap forward even harder.

"I fucking hate how much I want you," he growls, his breath hot against your skin.

His words send a violent shudder down your spine, fire licking at your nerves, pooling low in your stomach.

And you should hate him for saying it.

But you don’t.

Instead, your breath shatters, your fingers tightening in his hair, and you whisper something you shouldn’t.

"Then ruin me."

His body tenses.

His fingers dig into your hips, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths.

Then—

He does.

His growl vibrates against your skin as he snaps his hips forward, driving into you with reckless, devastating force.

You cry out, your body jolting against the counter, his grip the only thing keeping you steady.

His teeth scrape along your collarbone, his lips hot, open, desperate. His hands move, grabbing your thighs, yanking you closer, until there is no space left between you.

Your name leaves his lips like a curse. Like a prayer.

“You’re mine,” he pants against your throat, his voice rough, raw, primal.

And you don’t deny it.

You can’t.

Pleasure builds too fast.

Too sharp, too overwhelming, threatening to consume you whole.

Your nails rake down his back, leaving angry red trails, and he groans at the sting, hips stuttering just slightly before slamming into you harder.

Every thrust is deeper, slower, heavier, wrecking you from the inside out.

His breathing is labored, erratic, desperate.

You’re so close.

Too close.

His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding the spot that makes you tremble, pressing, circling, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

And then—

Then—

Your body tenses, back arching, head falling back as pleasure snaps like a live wire, a white-hot explosion tearing through you.

You cry out his name, shaking, unraveling, breaking apart in his hands.

Harry snaps.

His hips slam forward in deep, shuddering thrusts, his grip on you bruising as he buries himself inside you with a strangled, wrecked groan.

His forehead drops to your shoulder, his breath hot against your damp skin as he spills into you, his entire body shuddering against yours.

He doesn’t pull out.

And you don’t want him to.

Your bodies are still tangled, his weight pressing into you, grounding you. The only sound in the dimly lit room is the heavy rise and fall of your breaths, still uneven, still chasing the remnants of what just happened. His forehead rests against your shoulder, damp curls sticking to his skin. His hands haven’t moved—still gripping your hips, your waist, like he’s afraid to let go.

Your fingers slip into his hair, a slow, absentminded motion, soft in contrast to the brutal way you just had each other. You should say something. So should he. But the words feel too heavy, too dangerous. The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s charged, pulsing with everything unsaid.

Then, he shifts. Leans back just enough to look at you. His eyes, dark and unreadable, search yours as if he’s looking for an answer he already knows but isn’t ready to hear. And then, almost too quiet to be real, he murmurs,

“You make it impossible to walk away.”

Your breath catches. Your heart clenches.

Because you know.

You know he won’t.

And neither will you.

But then—

A sharp chime shatters the quiet.

Your phone.

You don’t move at first, as if ignoring it will make it go away. But then another one. And another. The sound slices through the moment, through whatever fragile thing existed between you just seconds ago.

Harry watches as you reach for it, his brows furrowing when your fingers tremble. The screen is flooded with notifications, the words blurring together in your vision before your eyes finally settle on the headline.

EXCLUSIVE: PRIVATE MESSAGES LEAKED: THE TRUTH ABOUT Y/N AND HARRY STYLES

Your stomach drops.

The article is already live, the screenshots bold and glaring. Text messages. Voicemails. Private conversations never meant to be seen, dissected, twisted into something they’re not. This isn’t just a scandal anymore. This is targeted. Someone wants more than just a story—they want to ruin you.

Harry sits up, his body tense beside you. “What is it?”

You can’t speak. Just turn the screen toward him.

His jaw tightens as he reads. His fingers flex against his thigh, the same hands that had been holding you so delicately just moments ago now curling into fists. “Are you fucking kidding me?” His voice is low, dangerous. “Who the hell—?”

“I don’t know.” Your voice is barely a whisper. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to breathe through the panic rising in your chest. “Harry, this is—this is bad.”

“We’ll fight it.” He doesn’t hesitate. His hands are on yours now, steady despite the storm brewing behind his eyes. “We’re going to fight this.”

You let out a shaky breath. “How?”

Then—

A flash.

Bright. Sudden. Blinding.

Your head snaps toward the window just in time to see movement. A shadow. A camera.

A fucking paparazzo.

Your stomach twists. Another picture. Another leak waiting to happen.

And just like that, the walls start closing in.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

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But the industry had other plans for her.

She had started with ambition, fresh out of college, ready to write the stories that mattered. But the jobs that paid? The ones that kept the rent covered and the lights on? Those were the ones that required clickbait headlines and shallow coverage of people who barely seemed real.

And so, Beth had become another faceless name in the sea of entertainment journalists, forced to write about scandals, red carpet outfits, and who's dating who. She’d learned how to craft engaging pieces that held just enough bite to make them feel substantial, but in the end, it was all just noise. A constant cycle of disposable stories about people whose lives would never be touched by the words she wrote.

That’s why this assignment felt like her last shot.

Her boss had made it clear—this was either going to be her big break or her last chance before she was permanently relegated to covering B-list divorces and influencer drama.

"We need something real, Beth," her editor, Jonathan Pierce, had told her, fingers tapping against his desk as he leveled her with that too-patient look. "Not just another shallow puff piece. Styles is at the peak of his career right now. People want to know who he is, not the version we see on stage, but the man underneath it all."

Beth had bit back the urge to roll her eyes.

Harry Styles.

Of course.

If there was one name that could guarantee headlines and clicks, it was his. He was a global phenomenon, a walking enigma, an untouchable icon. At thirty, he had long since outgrown his boyband past, solidifying himself as one of the most powerful and respected musicians in the industry. His concerts sold out within minutes. His albums dominated the charts. His face was plastered across billboards, magazines, and social media feeds worldwide.

And yet—he was also infamously private.

Beth had done her research. He gave interviews, sure, but they were carefully controlled, filled with charming deflections and rehearsed soundbites. The media loved him, but no one actually knew him.

Her job? To change that.

She had been granted exclusive access to his European tour, shadowing him across multiple countries, given rare, behind-the-scenes insight into the life of Harry Styles, the person.

Beth knew how this would go.

She would show up, ask the hard-hitting questions, and be met with infuriatingly smooth non-answers. He’d probably flash that boyish smirk, tilt his head just right, and make it impossible for anyone to push too hard. The public adored him for that.

But Beth?

She wasn’t here to adore him. She was here to unravel him.

Still, she wasn’t expecting her first glimpse of him to hit her like a gut punch.

The moment she stepped into that room, she knew.

He was going to be a problem.

The private event was held at an intimate venue in Paris; a low-lit, exclusive affair where only VIPs, industry elites, and carefully selected press members were allowed inside. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, leather seating, and the faint musk of whiskey poured into crystal glasses.

Beth walked in, blending into the sea of journalists and label executives, scanning the room for the man she had spent weeks researching.

And then she saw him.

Harry Styles did not belong to the real world.

There was something about the way he existed in a space, the way people naturally gravitated toward him—an effortless pull, an undeniable gravity.

He stood near the back of the room, dressed in an all-black ensemble that should have looked simple but instead made him look infuriatingly expensive. The tailored slacks. The silk shirt, unbuttoned just enough to hint at tattoos inked across golden skin. The loose, effortless curls.

But it wasn’t just his looks.

It was the way he carried himself like he was untouchable.

Beth watched as he laughed at something someone said, flashing that devastating grin that made cameras worship him. But it was the look in his eyes that caught her attention—sharp, assessing, distant, even as he smiled.

And then, as if sensing her stare, he turned.

Their gazes met.

A slow flicker of recognition crossed his face, though they had never met before. His green eyes scanned her, quick and unreadable.

And then, just as fast, he looked away.

Dismissive.

Beth felt heat rise to her throat.

Oh.

Oh, he was going to be a problem.

And he had no idea what was coming for him.

Beth didn’t look away first.

She wasn’t the type to shrink under scrutiny, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to start now. But Harry? He barely spared her a full second before shifting his attention elsewhere, like she wasn’t worth a second glance.

The disinterest was strategic, she realized almost immediately. A controlled dismissal. The kind that kept people chasing, trying harder, falling over themselves for just an ounce of acknowledgment. She’d seen it before—men in power using silence as their weapon, turning the simple act of ignoring someone into an exercise of dominance.

It didn’t work on her.

So when she was finally ushered forward—her name murmured alongside a polite introduction—she didn’t bother offering her hand or plastering on a media-friendly smile. She met him with the same level of apathy he had thrown her way.

“Beth Monroe,” the event coordinator introduced. “She’s covering the European tour for Pulse magazine.”

Harry, who had just been charming some record executive’s wife with an easy smile and effortless conversation, didn’t even pretend to be interested. He gave the barest nod, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before lifting it to his lips.

“Journalist,” he mused, voice low, almost amused—but not in a way that invited conversation. More like he was tasting the word and finding it unappetizing.

Beth crossed her arms. "Is that a problem?"

That made him look at her properly.

Up close, she could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, the sharp contrast between deliberate nonchalance and razor-sharp awareness. She knew the game well—he was observing, measuring, deciding exactly how much space she was allowed to take up.

And then, in the most unbothered, condescending way possible, he simply muttered, "No. Just predictable."

Beth’s lips parted, caught between shock and incredulous amusement.

"Predictable?" she echoed, lifting an eyebrow. "That’s a bit rich coming from a man whose entire brand is built on being the world’s most palatable rockstar."

There it was.

The shift.

The flicker of something in his gaze like she had managed to surprise him. Like maybe he wasn’t expecting her to push back.

It lasted half a second before he schooled his features, tipping his glass back and dismissing her completely.

Beth could feel the eyes on them. The silent tension in the room as the moment stretched between them. But Harry? He wasn’t interested. At least, not enough to entertain her further.

His voice was maddeningly even as he murmured, "Enjoy the party, Miss Monroe."

And just like that, he turned his back on her.

Beth spent the rest of the night watching. Not because she was enthralled—fuck no—but because she needed to understand him. If she was going to do this job right, she needed to know what made him tick, needed to peel back the carefully constructed layers he used to keep the world at arm’s length.

What she noticed was infuriating.

Harry was charming with everyone else. Effortlessly engaged, magnetic in a way that made people lean in, hang on his every word. He gave them just enough of himself—never too much, never too little. His persona was crafted with surgical precision.

But with her?

Nothing.

He ignored her. Not obviously, not rudely, but in a way that felt intentional. Every time she tried to break into a conversation, he sidestepped her. When she asked a question, he answered in vague, detached sentences.

And when she finally managed to pull him into a one-on-one exchange again, it ended just as quickly as the first.

“I’ve noticed you never really answer questions,” she said, arms crossed as she studied him from across the dimly lit bar area.

Harry didn’t look up from where he was stirring his drink with a lazy wrist. “And I’ve noticed journalists never stop asking them.”

Beth exhaled sharply through her nose. “Right. Because heaven forbid anyone learns something real about Harry Styles.”

That got his attention.

He set his glass down, leaning against the counter as his gaze slid over her slowly.

“You lot aren’t interested in ‘real.’” His voice was quiet, but firm. “You’re interested in a headline.”

Beth bristled. “And you’re interested in a narrative.”

Something shifted.

For a moment, they just looked at each other, the weight of the conversation settling between them.

Then Harry smirked.

“Good luck with your story, Miss Monroe.”

And just like that, he was gone.

Beth clenched her jaw.

She wasn’t done with him yet.

Beth had dealt with difficult men before. Politicians who thought they were too powerful to be held accountable, executives who assumed her presence in a room meant she was someone’s assistant rather than the journalist they’d have to answer to. She had sharpened herself against condescension and arrogance, made a career out of standing her ground in rooms filled with people who wanted to dismiss her.

But Harry Styles?

He was a different breed of difficult.

For the next several weeks, Beth followed him across Europe, shadowing his tour with increasing frustration. She sat through press conferences where he charmed reporters into asking safe, meaningless questions—the kind that allowed him to give those clever, detached answers that never actually revealed anything.

She watched him interact with fans, saw the way he flipped the switch so effortlessly—one moment the distant, untouchable rockstar, the next, someone who could make a stadium of people feel like they mattered.

And yet, with her?

He remained a wall.

He made it a point to avoid her questions, brushing past them with an easy smirk and a raised eyebrow, like he found her attempts amusing.

“Beth, darling, you’re thinking too hard,” he had murmured once, lounging backstage after a show, still glistening with sweat from the stage lights. “Why don’t you just write the same piece everyone else does? You know, the whole ‘Harry Styles is mysterious but also terribly charming’ bit. Sells every time.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t write fanfiction.”

He grinned. “Shame.”

And then there were the games.

Beth would show up for scheduled interview slots, only to be told that Harry was "unavailable." Sometimes it was because he was in a mood. Sometimes it was because he was “too busy” relaxing in his dressing room, scrolling through his phone, while she sat outside with her recorder untouched on her lap.

When she finally called him out on it, he didn’t even pretend to feel bad.

“Beth, love,” he drawled, voice dripping in mock sympathy, “you’re in my world now. Things don’t always run on schedule.”

Her patience cracked. “So you’re just wasting my time for fun?”

Harry leaned back in his seat, legs spread wide, fingers tapping lazily against the armrest. “Not for fun.” Then, after a beat, he smirked. “Though it is fun watching you get all worked up.”

She wanted to throw something at him.

The breaking point came after a particularly brutal argument.

It had been a long day—one of those rare occasions when Beth had actually gotten a few uninterrupted moments to ask real questions. She had pushed harder than usual, refusing to let him slide through with half-answers and smirks.

“Why do you do that?” she had asked, arms crossed as she watched him peel the rings off his fingers after soundcheck.

Harry flicked a glance up. “Do what?”

“Pretend you’re giving people something real when all you’re actually doing is controlling the narrative.”

The look he gave her was sharp, guarded. “That’s rich, coming from someone whose job is to spin a story.”

Beth exhaled through her nose. “You think this is easy for me? That I just write whatever sells? I’m not here to make you look good, Harry. I’m here to write the truth.”

A tense silence stretched between them.

And then, before she even saw him move, he was in front of her.

Too close.

Her breath caught.

She wasn’t sure if he had stepped forward or if she had unconsciously leaned in, but suddenly, there was no space between them. The air thickened, buzzing with something hot and electric.

His jaw flexed.

His hands curled into loose fists at his sides, as if he was holding something back.

Beth lifted her chin, refusing to shrink away.

The corner of his mouth twitched—not in amusement, not quite. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and slow, a quiet challenge.

“You think you’ve got me figured out, huh?”

Beth swallowed, throat tight. “I think you hate that you can’t intimidate me.”

Silence.

A heavy, suffocating pause.

For a second—just a second—she swore his gaze dropped to her mouth.

But neither of them moved.

Neither of them acted on it.

And later that night, when Beth was alone in her hotel room, staring at the ceiling—she realized she was still thinking about it.

She wondered if he was, too.

Beth liked to believe that she had control over herself—over her emotions, over the way her body reacted, over the frustrating, infuriating pull she felt every time Harry Styles so much as looked at her.

But control was hard to maintain when someone was constantly poking, prodding, pushing just to see where her breaking point was.

And Harry?

Harry was pushing.

Hard.

It happened in Milan.

The afterparty was in full swing—music thumping, bodies swaying, conversations weaving in and out of the dim, golden-lit space. Beth wasn’t drinking, but the atmosphere was intoxicating in itself, everyone high off the post-show adrenaline.

Harry had been watching her all night.

Not obviously, not in a way anyone else would notice, but she felt it. The flicker of his gaze when she moved through the crowd, the way his attention snagged whenever she threw her head back in laughter.

She ignored it.

She refused to let him get in her head.

Which was why, when another musician—Nate, a guitarist from one of the opening acts—struck up a conversation with her, Beth didn’t hesitate to let herself enjoy it.

He was easy to talk to, charming in a way that didn’t feel like a performance. And when he leaned in, whispering something that made her laugh—a real, unguarded laugh—she barely had time to register the shift in the air before Harry was there.

He didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t say anything.

He just stood there, nursing a drink, his stare cutting through the noise like a blade.

Beth felt it before she saw it—the shift in Nate’s posture, the way his fingers curled around the bottle in his hand.

“I’ll catch you later,” Nate murmured, voice a little too careful.

Beth blinked. “Wait, what?”

But he was already slipping away, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the room.

And that was when she felt him.

The warmth of his presence behind her, the slow exhale against the shell of her ear.

“You like playing games, love?”

Beth closed her eyes.

Of course. Of course he had to do this.

She turned slowly, deliberately, only to find him watching her with a look she couldn’t quite place.

“Excuse me?” she said, tone light, though she could feel her pulse thrumming against her skin.

Harry tilted his head, mocking. “That was cute. The whole giggle and lean-in routine. Did you rehearse that?”

Beth’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, I’m sorry. Am I not allowed to have a conversation without your approval?”

His jaw flexed. “Didn’t say that.”

“Then what are you saying, exactly?”

He took a step closer.

Then another.

Beth refused to step back.

His voice dropped lower, dangerously smooth.

“I’m saying… you’ve been running your mouth for weeks. Acting like you don’t give a shit about me. But then—” He let out a quiet, humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “—then you go and pull that?”

She scoffed. “Pull what?”

Harry smiled. It wasn’t nice.

“You wanted me to see that.”

Beth’s stomach flipped.

She should have laughed in his face. Should have rolled her eyes, brushed past him, walked away.

But she didn’t.

Because there was something about the way he was looking at her.

Something thick and charged and dangerous.

His hands twitched at his sides, like he didn’t trust himself not to touch her.

Beth’s breath shook.

The music downstairs faded into a dull throb, the laughter and chatter dissolving into nothing. The party might as well have been on the other side of the world.

It was just them now.

Beth barely registered how it happened—one moment, she was in the thick of the afterparty, heat and voices pressing in on all sides. The next, the door clicked shut behind her. A soft, decisive sound.

She turned just in time to see Harry’s hand linger on the lock, fingers curling around the metal, twisting until it slid into place. A quiet snick.

Her pulse skittered.

Slowly, he turned back to her, gaze dark and unreadable.

Somehow, between one breath and the next, Beth’s back was already against the wall, cool brick pressing through the thin fabric of her dress. She could still feel the phantom warmth of Nate’s touch—light, fleeting—but it didn’t matter. Not when Harry was in front of her now. Not when his body was taut with something sharp, something dark. His eyes, usually lidded with lazy arrogance, were harder now. Narrowed. Burning.

His fingers flexed at his sides, like he was trying to control himself.

Then, low, rough, "You like playing games, love?"

A shiver ran down her spine.

She forced herself to lift her chin. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

His jaw twitched.

Slow. Measured. He reached out, running two fingers up her arm, featherlight but searing. Beth refused to react, refused to show him that he got under her skin.

His lips curled. "Laughing. Touching. Batting your lashes at him like you wanted him to take you right there in front of everyone."

That made her scoff. "Oh, fuck off—"

She barely got the words out before he was on her.

No warning. No hesitation.

One hand shot to her throat—not squeezing, just holding, firm enough to make her gasp as his body pressed flush against hers. His other hand planted itself beside her head, caging her in completely.

His mouth hovered just above hers, breath warm, uneven.

"You wanna push me, is that it?" he murmured, voice like gravel. "You wanna see what happens when I lose my patience?"

Her breath hitched.

It wasn’t fear curling in her stomach. It was something much worse.

She wanted this.

Needed it.

So she pushed him again, knowing it was reckless. "Maybe I do."

That was all it took.

Harry didn’t waste another second.

His grip tightened, and then he was kissing her—if it could even be called that. There was nothing soft about it. No buildup, no hesitation. It was a clash of teeth and tongues, a war between them.

His hand left her throat, moving down, down, over the thin fabric of her dress, gripping her waist so tightly it ached.

Beth’s nails raked down his arms, her own frustration spilling over. She wanted to hurt him. Make him feel this the way she did.

"Fuck—"

The word was ripped from her throat as he yanked her leg up, hitching it over his hip. The dress rode up instantly, baring her thigh, and then his hand was there, fingers digging into her skin, making her burn.

Desperate.

That was what this was.

It wasn’t love.

It wasn’t romance.

It was hunger.

It was starving.

His teeth scraped along her jaw, down her neck. He bit—not enough to leave marks, but enough to make her feel it.

“Look at you,” he rasped, dragging his mouth down her jaw. “Needy. Desperate. And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

Her fingers fisted in his hair. "Fuck you."

He laughed, breathless, dark.

"Say it," he pressed. "Say you want it."

Beth clenched her teeth. She hated him.

And yet.

And yet.

"Say it."

She swallowed hard, nails still biting into his shoulders. "I want it."

He hummed in approval, pushing her harder against the wall. "Good girl."

Then he wrecked her.

There was no teasing. No gentle touch. He dragged her panties down and shoved her dress up with no regard, making her gasp as the cool air kissed her exposed skin. His fingers slid between her thighs, finding her soaked, and he smirked.

"Fuckin’ knew it," he muttered, lips brushing her ear. "You act like you don’t want this, but look at you."

She bit her lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a sound.

It didn’t last.

His fingers slipped inside her, rough, unrelenting, and the cry broke from her throat before she could stop it.

"That’s it," he murmured, pumping them hard and deep. "Don’t hold back now."

Her head tipped back against the wall, hands gripping his shoulders, nails biting through the fabric of his shirt. His thumb pressed against her clit, rubbing, teasing, pushing her closer and closer to the edge with every sharp movement.

"Thinkin’ about him now?" Harry taunted, voice low. "Bet you’re not."

She wasn’t.

She hated it, but she wasn’t.

All she could think about was Harry.

His fingers. His voice. The way he was taking what he wanted without a second thought.

Her whole body tensed, pleasure winding tight in her stomach.

And then he pulled away.

A whimper slipped out before she could stop it.

He grinned. "Not yet."

He undid his belt in a swift motion, shoved his jeans down just enough, and then he was lifting her completely, pressing her against the wall, spreading her open for him.

She barely had time to take a breath before he slammed into her.

"Fuck—"

She choked on a gasp, nails raking down his back as he filled her, stretched her in a way that made her legs shake.

There was no time to adjust.

No time to breathe.

He just fucked her.

Hard.

Desperate.

The wall scraped against her back with every sharp thrust, and she loved it.

His fingers bit into her thighs, holding her in place, making her take every inch, every punishing roll of his hips.

"You take me so fuckin’ well," he murmured, voice strained, lips dragging over her neck. "Like you need this."

She did.

God help her, she did.

She was close—so fucking close, and she knew he could feel it in the way she clenched around him, in the way her nails dug deeper, in the way her body arched.

"Say it," he ordered. "Say you’re mine."

Her breath stuttered.

He thrust harder. "Say it, Beth."

She swallowed the lump in her throat, her body screaming for release.

And then she broke.

"I’m yours."

He groaned, deep and guttural, and that was all it took.

Pleasure crashed through her, leaving her shaking, wrecked, gasping as he kept going, drawing it out until she had nothing left to give.

Moments later, he followed, hips jerking, a rough growl spilling from his throat as he came deep inside her.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Their breathing was heavy, erratic, mingling in the thick air between them.

Then, just like that, it was gone.

Harry pulled away, adjusted himself, ran a hand through his hair like nothing had happened.

Beth watched, still breathless, still reeling.

He met her eyes, his own dark, unreadable.

Then, with a smirk that made her stomach flip, he stepped back.

"See you around, love."

And then he was gone.

Leaving her wrecked, ruined, and still fucking wanting.

But worst of all?

She still wanted him.

She hated herself for it.

She hated him more.

Beth barely remembered leaving the party, barely registered the way the city lights blurred together in the back of her cab, the hum of Milan’s nightlife drowning out the noise in her head. Her body still felt him—his hands, his breath, the rough edge of his voice scraping against her skin.

It should have been enough.

It should have burned her out, smothered whatever slow, insidious pull had been building between them.

But it didn’t.

Because when she saw him again the next day, sitting in the green room of the arena, lounging like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t ruined her the night before—Beth realized something awful.

She wasn’t done with him yet.

--

Harry was different now.

Not in the way Beth had expected—not in the way most men got after a night like that.

There was no smugness, no knowing smirk, no self-satisfied arrogance that she could take a swing at.

Instead, he was… colder.

Distant. Detached. Like she was nothing more than a mild inconvenience, an insignificant blip on his radar.

He barely looked at her.

Didn’t acknowledge her when she walked into a room, didn’t spare her even a glance during soundcheck or press briefings.

And that should have been fine.

She should have been fine.

But the second she started talking to someone else—the second she so much as smiled in another man’s direction—Harry’s jaw would lock.

His shoulders would tense.

His fingers would curl around his drink, around his microphone, around anything to keep from doing something reckless.

Beth noticed.

And she made sure he knew it.

She leaned in closer when someone else made her laugh. Let her fingers linger just a little longer when she touched an arm. Tilted her head just right when she listened, knowing Harry was in the room, knowing he was watching even if he refused to look at her directly.

She wanted to prove a point.

If she was just a fuck, if she was nothing, then he shouldn’t care.

So why did he?

--

It happened in Paris.

Beth had been talking to a photographer, a harmless conversation, nothing she wasn’t allowed to do.

Harry had been across the room, pretending he didn’t give a shit.

Then suddenly, he wasn’t.

Suddenly, he was right there.

His hand closed around her wrist, fingers tight, his voice just low enough for only her to hear.

“Outside. Now.”

She blinked up at him, feigning innocence. “Excuse me?”

His grip didn’t loosen. “You heard me.”

For a second, she considered telling him to go to hell.

But she didn’t.

Because she wanted this too.

The door barely shut behind them before he was on her.

Teeth at her jaw, hands rough on her hips, shoving her against the brick wall of some dark alley behind the venue.

Beth gasped, but it wasn’t from shock.

She should have expected this.

She had wanted this.

“You’re a fucking brat,” Harry muttered against her skin, his voice thick with frustration, with heat, with something else she couldn’t name. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

Beth grinned, sharp and mean. “What am I doing, Harry?”

His fingers tightened.

“You think you can get a reaction out of me?” His teeth scraped her jaw. “Think you can make me jealous?”

Her breath hitched.

“So you admit it?” she whispered. “You were jealous?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Because the way he touched her—rougher, filthier than before—told her everything she needed to know.

The first time had been about control. About proving a point.

This time?

This time, it was a need.

Desperate. Dirty. Addictive.

And neither of them could stop.

Every time they tried, they failed.

The silence never lasted. The distance never held.

Because the second they were in the same room again, the second their eyes locked across crowded spaces, it was already too late.

They had pulled each other under too many times to pretend they knew how to breathe without drowning.

Beth knew it was toxic.

Knew it in the way her hands trembled when she buttoned up her shirt in the dark, his warmth still clinging to her skin.

Knew it in the way Harry’s fingers curled into fists when he watched her leave, like he wanted to reach for her but refused to let himself.

Knew it in the way they never talked about it.

Because talking would make it real. Talking would force them to admit that it wasn’t just physical, wasn’t just convenience, wasn’t just a mistake they kept making over and over again.

But they didn’t stop.

Not when they should have.

Not even when the headlines started.

Not even when the whispers turned into full-blown rumors, twisting what they had into something uglier, something Beth couldn’t control.

She was losing pieces of herself to this, to him.

And Harry—Harry wasn’t losing anything.

Not his reputation. Not his career. Not his control.

She should have left before it reached this point—before it ripped through them like a wildfire, scorching everything in its path, leaving nothing but wreckage and ruin in its wake.

Before it bled into everything else.

Before it turned into this.

--

It happened in London, outside a sleek, high-end restaurant that reeked of old money and exclusivity—the kind of place Harry fit into effortlessly, where his name alone held weight, where he belonged.

Beth never had any interest in it. The glint of polished silverware, the hushed conversations over expensive wine, the way the air itself seemed thicker inside—like money had a scent, and it didn’t belong to people like her.

She hadn’t even wanted to come. Had told herself, promised herself, that she was done. That she wouldn’t let him do this to her again.

And yet, here she was.

The air outside was thick, muggy, summer pressing against her skin like a second layer, suffocating, clinging. A neon sign from across the street flickered, buzzing intermittently, painting the pavement in broken splashes of red light.

Harry stood a few steps away, pacing, hands raking through his already-messy curls. His jaw was locked, shoulders drawn tight, his frustration visible in the tense way he moved. He looked untouchable—towering, sharp, devastating in his black suit, the collar of his shirt slightly open like even it couldn’t handle the heat of the moment.

His eyes found hers—dark, searing, burning like embers about to catch.

“Are you seriously fucking mad at me for this?” His voice was low, taut, a thread stretched too thin, on the verge of snapping.

Beth folded her arms tightly across her chest, holding herself together. She could feel the anger, coiling hot in her stomach, winding through her like a slow, controlled burn. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

His lips pressed into a hard, thin line. “Enlighten me.”

She let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking her head. He didn’t care. He never fucking cared.

“Your team,” she spat, voice shaking despite her best efforts, “just made me look like some desperate, attention-seeking—”

“—that’s not what happened.”

“Really?” She stepped closer, chin tilting up defiantly, her eyes searching his face for something—anything. A flicker of regret. Understanding. A crack in the cold, calculated exterior he was so good at wearing. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like they threw me under the fucking bus to save your ass.”

The photos had hit the tabloids that morning.

Beth Monroe, clinging to Harry Styles. Beth Monroe, picking a fight in public. Beth Monroe, the problem.

Headlines twisting the truth, reshaping the narrative, turning her into something she wasn’t. His PR team had done what they always did—spun the story, cleaned up the mess, protected the asset.

Beth had been collateral damage.

Harry exhaled sharply through his nose, his gaze flicking away as if he couldn’t be bothered to deal with this. “Jesus, Beth, why do you care so much what people think?”

Her stomach twisted—not just at the words, but at how he said them.

Like it was nothing. Like she was nothing.

Like all of this—all the nights, all the touches, all the ways they’d clawed at each other, desperate and reckless—had meant absolutely fucking nothing to him.

And maybe it hadn’t. Maybe she had been fooling herself this entire time.

Something inside her snapped—something raw and fragile and past the point of saving.

“You know what?” She took a breath, forcing her voice to stay steady, forcing herself to hold his gaze even though it hurt. “I don’t. Not anymore.”

And before she could change her mind—before she could let him pull her back in—she turned around.

And for the first time, she didn’t look back.

It should have been a relief.

Should have felt like he had won.

But it didn’t.

Harry downed the rest of his drink, the ice clinking against the glass as he set it down with more force than necessary.

The neon lights of the club flickered above him, casting shadows along the crowded space. Smoke curled through the air, mixing with the thrum of bass vibrating through the floor, a heartbeat that wasn’t his. People surrounded him—laughter, touches, whispers—but none of it registered.

His third drink.

Or maybe his fourth.

He wasn’t keeping track. Didn’t need to.

Because Beth was gone.

And he should feel lighter. Should feel fucking free.

But instead, there was just this—this hollow, gnawing feeling in his chest, a slow rot that no amount of whiskey could burn away.

He had told himself it was just sex. That it was just a game.

A messy, reckless game they both played, fully aware of the rules.

So why the fuck was he still thinking about her?

Why did he still hear her voice—sharp and furious, echoing in his ears like an accusation he couldn’t shake?

I don’t. Not anymore.

Why did he still see her face when he closed his eyes—not the smirking, defiant expression she always wore when they fought, but the way she had looked at him that night—raw, open, hurt.

Why the fuck did that bother him?

Harry scoffed under his breath, shaking his head, reaching for another drink.

Fuck that.

She’d be back.

She always came back.

Wouldn’t she?

The weeks passed.

She didn’t call. Didn’t text. Didn’t show up at any more venues.

And no matter how many women he took home—no matter how many soft lips and unfamiliar hands he let touch him—it was never the same.

Because none of them were her.

None of them made him feel alive the way she did when she pushed him, when she fought him, when she stood her ground and refused to give in.

And for the first time, Harry realized—

He had fucked up.

Not just in the way he always did—careless, reckless, breaking things without thinking about the consequences.

No, this was different.

This was real.

This was Beth.

And he had let her slip through his fingers like she was nothing.

Like she hadn’t changed him.

Like she hadn’t fucking ruined him.

It took him weeks. Too many weeks.

Weeks of sleepless nights, of bitter drinks that burned as they went down, of meaningless encounters with women who weren’t her.

Weeks of ignoring the pit in his stomach whenever he reached for his phone and saw her name missing from his notifications.

Weeks of denying—lying to himself—until he couldn’t anymore.

Until it became impossible to pretend that this wasn’t more.

That she wasn’t everything.

So, he found her.

No cameras. No PR team carefully crafting the narrative. No staged apology meant to keep his image intact.

Just him.

Beth stood in the doorway of her apartment, eyes wary, lips pressed together like she wasn’t sure if she should slam the door in his face or let him inside just to yell at him.

She was in sweats, hair tied back, looking so soft and real and heartbreakingly beautiful that Harry had to clench his fists at his sides to stop himself from reaching for her.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, shaking her head. “You really have no concept of boundaries, do you?”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Would it help if I said I knocked first?”

Beth lifted a single, unimpressed brow.

“Yeah, didn’t think so.”

She sighed, exhaling heavily, fingers gripping the doorframe. “What do you want, Harry?”

Her voice was flat, tired—so fucking tired—and it hit him in the chest like a punch.

He did that.

He made her sound like that.

And maybe if she had been yelling, maybe if she had been angry, it would have been easier.

But this?

This quiet disappointment, this absence of fire, of fight—this was worse.

Because it meant she had already decided to let him go.

And he couldn’t have that.

He wouldn’t.

Harry swallowed, licking his lips, feeling the words crawl up his throat, unfamiliar and foreign and terrifying.

“I was afraid,” he admitted, voice rough, uneven. “You got too close.”

Beth’s gaze flickered, but she didn’t speak.

Didn’t stop him either.

“I didn’t—I don’t—” He let out a slow breath, shifting his weight. “You were supposed to be temporary, Beth.” His voice cracked on her name. “And I don’t want temporary anymore.”

Her eyes softened. Just a little.

But she didn’t let him off the hook.

Not yet.

She folded her arms across her chest, tilting her head. “So what? You came all this way just to tell me that?”

His jaw tightened. “Yeah.”

“And now you expect me to just—what? Forget everything? Pretend like you didn’t throw me to the wolves the second things got hard?”

“No.” His voice was hoarse. “I don’t expect that.”

Beth exhaled slowly, closing her eyes for a moment before she looked at him again, and fuck, he felt stripped bare under her gaze.

“I was falling for you,” she whispered, the words barely audible but lethal. “And you made me feel like I was nothing.”

His stomach dropped.

“I know,” he rasped. “And I’m—I’m so fucking sorry, Beth.”

She didn’t speak, but her fingers trembled where they curled around her sleeve.

Harry took a step closer.

Then another.

Until she was right there, close enough to touch, but he didn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, he just let himself be seen—raw, vulnerable, desperate in a way he had never allowed himself to be before.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, voice low, uneven. “But I want to try. I want you.”

Beth swallowed hard, blinking quickly, like she was trying to hold something back.

“Say it again.”

He frowned. “What?”

“Say it again,” she whispered.

Harry took a breath, steady and sure.

“I want you.”

Beth let out a shaky exhale, something breaking, fracturing between them—but this time, it wasn’t falling apart.

It was falling into place.

She didn’t answer.

Not with words.

But when she finally reached for him, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him down, letting him in—

He knew.

She wanted him too.

-

This isn’t like before.

It’s not fueled by resentment, not tangled in frustration or sharp-edged words.

It’s not an attempt to silence their own thoughts or to claim victory in an unwinnable battle.

This time, it’s different.

Because this time, they’re choosing each other.

And neither of them wants to pretend anymore.

It’s quiet.

Not the uneasy, tension-laced silence they used to share, but something softer. He’s brought her here—to his real place, not some impersonal hotel room or a shadowy corner where they could disappear without consequence.

It’s his space.

Dim lighting from the city outside filters through half-drawn blinds, painting warm, golden stripes across the floor. The air is thick, heavy with something unspoken, the echoes of every past moment clinging to the walls.

No noise from the outside world.

Just them.

And for the first time, that’s all they need.

They stand close but don’t touch—not yet.

It’s strange, this carefulness between them, this slow, deliberate restraint. For so long, everything between them has been about force, about taking, about dominance wrapped in lust.

But now—

His fingers reach for her, hesitant but certain, trailing the line of her jaw with an aching kind of reverence.

No roughness. No bruising grip.

Just a slow, featherlight touch, like he’s memorizing her, like he’s afraid to move too fast.

Beth’s breath stutters. She tilts her face into his touch, just barely, just enough to tell him that she wants this too.

When she opens her eyes, he’s already watching her.

Already waiting.

Already sure.

When he kisses her, it’s nothing like before.

Not an attempt to overpower, not a silent demand for control.

It’s soft.

Tentative, at first—like he’s rediscovering her, learning the shape of her lips, savoring her warmth. A slow slide of mouths, the quiet exhale of breath mingling between them.

And then—

The restraint fractures.

A low, desperate groan rumbles in his chest, and his hands move to her waist, pulling her closer, molding her against him. The kiss deepens, turns hungry, but it’s not about possession anymore.

It’s need.

It’s want.

It’s everything they’ve never allowed themselves to feel.

Her fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him down into her, and he lets her. Lets her take as much as she wants.

He doesn’t rush.

Doesn’t tear at her clothes like before, doesn’t drag fabric over her skin like it’s just another obstacle to get through.

He takes his time.

Fingers skimming her shoulders, down the length of her arms, over her ribs. He lingers, watching her, drinking her in like he’s seeing her for the first time.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough with something raw, something that sounds like awe.

Her breath catches.

She should feel exposed. Vulnerable.

But the heat in his gaze doesn’t make her feel bare.

It makes her feel wanted.

She reaches for him then, pulling at his shirt, sliding her hands over warm, firm skin, feeling the steady, grounding beat of his heart beneath her palms.

He lets her undress him too.

No rush. No urgency.

Just this.

Just them.

He takes his time.

Worships her with his hands, his mouth, his tongue, exploring every inch like he’s memorizing her, like he never wants to forget the way she feels beneath him.

His fingers trace the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, the softness of her inner thigh.

He doesn’t hurry.

Doesn’t just take.

He gives.

She fists the sheets when he drags his mouth lower, when he pauses to watch her reaction, when he smirks against her skin at the way she shifts, needy, impatient.

She doesn’t want to beg. Not this time.

But when his mouth finally touches her, warm and devastatingly slow—

She does.

He doesn’t rush her to the edge.

He builds it.

His mouth works her over with precision, savoring every shudder, every gasp, every quiet, breathless plea.

His hands hold her open, steadying her, grounding her, keeping her exactly where he wants her.

He watches her the entire time.

Doesn’t look away.

Not when she trembles.

Not when she cries out his name.

Not when she finally, finally falls apart beneath him.

He just holds her gaze, dark and unwavering, like he’s making damn sure she knows—

This means something.

When he finally slides into her, it’s different.

No rough, frantic pace. No bruising hands.

Just this.

Just the slow, deliberate push of his hips, deep and measured, drawing a gasp from her lips.

He stills for a moment, presses his forehead against hers, breathing her in, grounding himself in the feel of her.

She wraps her arms around his shoulders, her nails dragging lightly over his skin.

Not clawing.

Not marking.

Just holding.

He moves then.

Not just fucking—making love.

Every slow thrust feels like a confession.

Every whispered “mine” against her lips feels like a promise.

And this time—

She doesn’t fight it.

She lets him have her.

And takes him in return.

No rush to leave.

No scramble for clothes.

No silence.

Just this.

Just them, tangled in sheets that smell like them, his arms heavy around her, his fingers tracing slow, mindless patterns against her back.

For the first time, he stays.

For the first time, she lets him.

There’s a pause. A deep, quiet moment where neither of them speaks.

Then—

“You’re mine now, aren’t you?”

His voice is quiet. Certain.

Beth doesn’t hesitate.

She shifts closer, presses her lips against his jaw, and breathes him in.

“Yeah, Harry.”

A slow smile tugs at his lips.

She watches it spread, watches the tension leave his body, watches the way he finally lets himself believe it.

“I am.”

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Harry exhaled, rolling his shoulders back before looking out at the thousands of faces staring up at him. Somewhere in the front row, right where she always was, sat Y/N.

He found her instantly. She was watching him with that look—the one that made his chest feel too tight and too full all at once. She already knew what was coming.

“This next song is…” Harry trailed off, running a hand through his curls, voice unsteady for a moment. He let out a small laugh, shaking his head. “It’s an emotional one.”

The crowd quieted, sensing the shift in mood.

“I wrote it after a conversation with someone very special to me,” he continued, gaze flickering back to Y/N. “Someone who has the biggest heart I’ve ever known, even when she didn’t always get the love she deserved.”

Y/N’s breath caught, fingers curling around the edge of her seat.

Harry hesitated, voice thick. “She… she’s spent too much of her life thinking she had to apologize for wanting more. For wanting to be loved the way she should have been from the start. And when she told me her story, I just…” He exhaled, rubbing his jaw before continuing.

“I knew I had to write this. For her.”

The crowd let out a collective aww, but Harry barely heard it. He was still looking at Y/N, his expression soft yet unreadable.

“I asked her if I could sing it tonight,” he admitted, smirking slightly. “She said yes—after making me promise I wouldn’t cry. We’ll see how that goes.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd, but Y/N was frozen in place, heart hammering against her ribs.

Harry glanced back at his band, nodding. The first delicate chords of Matilda filled the stadium, and as he turned back to the mic, his eyes found hers again.

Then he started to sing.

"You were riding your bike to the sound of ‘It’s No Big Deal’..."

Y/N felt her throat tighten.

"And you're trying to lift off the ground on those old two wheels..."

The words hit her the way they always did—like a whisper of something she had never been able to say out loud.

"Nothing about the way that you were treated ever seemed especially alarming 'til now..."

The crowd swayed, phone lights twinkling like stars. But for Harry, there was only her.

"So you tie up your hair and you smile like it’s no big deal."

She had smiled like that for years—like everything was fine. Even when it wasn’t.

And Harry had seen right through it.

Her vision blurred, and she quickly wiped at her eyes, but it was no use. The emotion in his voice was too raw, too real.

"You can let it go..."

As the chorus washed over the arena, it was as if he was singing just for her.

"You can throw a party full of everyone you know..."

Y/N swallowed hard. She had never truly believed it before. That she could let go. That she could move forward without carrying the weight of the past on her shoulders.

"You can start a family who will always show you love..."

Her breath hitched.

"You don’t have to be sorry for doing it on your own."

Harry’s voice was steady, but she could see the way his fingers trembled slightly on the mic stand. He was feeling this. Every single word.

By the time he reached the last chorus, she was openly crying. And she wasn’t the only one. Fans wiped their cheeks, whispering the lyrics back to him, as if they, too, had spent years feeling like they had to apologize for simply wanting love.

When the song ended, the silence stretched for just a second—thick, heavy, real. Then, the entire stadium erupted into cheers, but Harry wasn’t paying attention.

His eyes were locked on her.

He stepped back from the mic, pressing a hand to his chest, as if to steady himself. Then he took a breath and spoke, voice gentle but unwavering.

“If you need to hear this tonight—” He let his gaze sweep over the crowd before settling back on Y/N. “You don’t have to be sorry for choosing yourself. For walking away from what doesn’t serve you. You deserve love. You deserve all of it.”

The cheers grew louder, but Y/N barely heard them.

Because in that moment, looking up at him, she realized something.

Harry had always known. Always seen her for who she really was. And somehow, he had turned all the words she had never been able to say into something beautiful.

For the first time in her life, she truly believed it.

She didn’t have to be sorry. Not anymore.

And with Harry by her side, she never would be again.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

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