#daddyrry

That’s why, after quitting her last attempt at a campus job, y/n decided to go job hunting in the nice part of town. Sure, it was a bit far from the one bedroom college apartment she lived in… but in her opinion, the 30 minute walk was entirely worth it.

The buildings downtown were a completely different world from the university buildings she had initially limited herself to. All the venues were high class, with chandeliers and marble floors and air conditioning. 20 floor tall corporate buildings painted the sky, bustling with men wearing $50,000 watches and women in pantsuits that probably cost more than y/n’s entire wardrobe. Across the street from those skyscrapers were shopping centers with department stores that had that same high-class, expensive look to them. They were the kind of designer stores that served their shoppers champagne while they looked at luxury bags and expensive shoes― the kind of stores that laughed at y/n when she stumbled in with her tote bag and tattered shoes, asking for job openings. 

She knew that she wasn’t the type of person who belonged in that area. She was a broke college student― the most expensive thing she had in her closet was a pair of boots that she’d splurged on after she soaked her only pair of sneakers while walking to class in the rain. But her brokenness was the precise reason that she needed a job in the part of the city where it was a social norm to tip more than 20%. 

She considers herself superbly lucky that she’d mustered up the courage to go into Pleasing after an entire day of being laughed out of stores due to her “lack of elegance and sophistication” or whatever the fuck they managed to criticize her for. Somehow, she’d stumbled into the restaurant on the very same night that one of the other waitresses had been fired! (If she thinks hard enough, she vaguely remembers a girl wearing an apron running out of the restaurant crying, but she hadn’t paid any mind to it at the time as she was too distracted by the glittering chandelier that hung from the sitting room ceiling.)

Pleasing’s staff manager (an older, balding man named Alfredo, who had a mustache that twisted up at the ends and carried a handkerchief to wipe the sweat off of his forehead every five minutes), had been so frantic at the fact that they were yet another waitress short, that y/n had nearly been hired on the spot. She only received a brief interview that consisted of a few questions about her past experience in the service industry and a quick briefing on the importance of maintaining a high class appearance and treating their customers with the utmost respect. Y/n blindly agreed to all of this, and even hummed her agreement a few times just to butter Alfredo up, figuring that it wouldn’t be too hard to maintain a classy facade while dealing with these high-class customers. If it paid the bills, then she could pretend to be anything. 

Her job offer was a quick, “You’re cute enough. Be here tomorrow at 6, your uniform will be provided― hair must be up, shoes must be black, and smile must always be on!” …and that was how she started. 

She had somewhat of an idea of how expensive a restaurant Pleasing actually was from the general atmosphere of the place― but when she saw the menu… that’s when she truly realized that she was in the world of the upper-class. Each plate was $70, at minimum, and there was always a bottle of $200 wine to accompany the meal. The food was served on the most expensive fine china y/n had ever seen, with the kind of silver cutlery that she thinks you could only find in Buckingham Palace. The patrons had an unspoken dress code, with the men dressed in well pressed suits and button downs, and the ladies in cocktail dresses and sparkling diamonds. There was no sign of children anywhere, and she wondered if that was just because the rich people who ate at Pleasing were too busy making money to make babies… or if it was just a child-free restaurant. 

When she showed up for her first day (with her hair twisted into a bun, a pair of black ballet flats that she got in the clearance bins of one of the department stores nearby, and an anxious smile plastered on her face!) Alfredo assigned her to spend the entire shift shadowing one of the other waitresses (Grace) to ensure that she knew exactly what kind of hospitality was expected towards the people they served. As they walked from table to table, she gave y/n the rundown of how Pleasing worked. Apparently, the restaurant was owned by this millionaire chef who rarely ever actually cooked at the restaurant. He had four Michelin stars (y/n doesn’t really know what that means but she guesses it means he’s a good cook) and usually was traveling around the world, cooking for royals and politicians and all sorts of important people. 

Occasionally, he would have special nights where he would come back for “In-Chef Nights” as they called it, nights where people were willing to pay nearly a thousand dollars just to have their food cooked by Chef Styles― the world-renowned, multi-millionaire, gourmet chef. Those were the busiest nights of the year at Pleasing, according to Grace, but they only happened maybe once a month. Even on the nights Chef Styles wasn’t there, however, having the Styles name tied to the restaurant was enough for people to want a table at the restaurant to try his famous recipes and quality service. 

“He’s kind of a big deal,” Grace had whispered to y/n while grabbing a saffron and lobster Risotto from the counter to take out to a couple seated on the restaurant balcony. “I’ve never met him, but I’ve heard he’s super intimidating. Kinda mean too, he fires people all the time if they aren’t up to his standards.”

From that night when she was hired, all the way into about a month of working at Pleasing, y/n had never had an encounter with Mr. Styles either. She’d been allowed to start waiting on tables by herself starting her second night there, and quickly came to learn that the customers that she served were… not ordinary.

Simply put, the people who ate at Pleasing were all… pompous, rich assholes with no decency or basic manners. They barely acknowledged y/n when she was serving them, gave her nasty side-eyes when she smiled at them, and made her feel downright awful from the way they looked down on her. 

There was always some douchebag who would try to sweet talk y/n in exchange for a free cocktail, or a middle-aged woman who would complain about everything and demand that her food be sent back to the kitchen. They’d make up some bullshit about how they had asked for no sesame seeds on their curry, when y/n knew damn well that they hadn’t mentioned anything about any sort of seeds when she had taken their order. Old men would blatantly stare at her chest, while their younger, model dates would make snarky comments about how y/n’s ballet flats were so last season while she walked away from their tables. She didn’t even know that there was a season for shoes, but it still hurt her feelings! 

Now normally, y/n was able to put up a strong front and just ignore the rude customers. She’d force a smile and a polite “I’m sorry to hear that miss, let me get you a new plate right away,” and just imagine punching those people in the face to help herself calm down. 

But tonight… it all just got to be too much. She’d already had a shitty day at school― she’d slept through her alarm and was late to her morning class, had a physics midterm that she’s pretty sure she failed, and accidentally left her calculus notebook at her apartment, which meant she had to take her calculus notes in her physics notebook instead (and she really hates when her notes get mixed up because she honestly has no idea what's going on in either class anyway so it just becomes extra confusing!!!).

So when one of her customers with graying hair and obvious anger issues threw his drink on y/n and called her an ‘incompetent, stupid girl’ after he decided that his merlot hadn’t been chilled properly… well y/n really couldn’t hold back the tears for much longer. 

She managed to politely tell the man that she’d send someone to clean up and help him resolve the issues with his meal, before scurrying to the kitchen to find Grace.

“Oh, what’s wrong sweetheart!” Grace coos as soon as she sees y/n’s tear glazed eyes and stained shirt. 

“H-he threw his drink on me,” she blubbers out, her hands rubbing furiously at her eyes as if she could just erase the tears threatening to spill. 

Grace gasps, “He didn’t! Oh, I’ll go out there n’give him a piece of my mind right now, bubbles. You need a second to get yourself together?” 

Y/n nods, sniffling harshly and letting out a shaky breath. 

“M’kay,” Grace pulls her in for a hug, “you go and sit outside for however long y’need, ‘n I’ll cover the rest of your tables until you’re ready, ‘kay? I’ll try n’find you a shirt too sweetie, don’t worry about anything, just go n’get some fresh air.” 

Y/n bleats out a small (but gracious) thank you, before running out of the back entrance to the employee parking lot behind the restaurant. She just needs a little bit of time for herself, a second to let all the tears out and to cry her troubles away. A moment to just privately recollect herself so that she could go back to work with a fresh mind. 

She’s startled when she finds that the parking lot isn't empty the way she’d expected. Instead, she steps out and sees two guys. One of them she recognizes as Kevin – an assistant chef who works in the kitchen― but the other one is facing away from her, just an intimidating figure in the dark. The mystery man stands a few inches taller than Kevin, dressed in a dark, well-pressed suit that seems as though it’s been tailored to fit him perfectly. The jacket compliments his broad shoulders and lean waist, cutting off right above his hips to show the way his pants hug his thighs. They flare out at the bottom elegantly to reveal a pair of sleek, black boots with a small heel on them. 

Y/n is so intrigued by the mystery man, that she doesn’t even realize that she’s walked in on a heated discussion between the two of them. “You could’ve fuckin’ killed a customer!” the man yells at Kevin, “Cos’ your head was up y’fuckin ass! You’re lucky they noticed there were peanuts in the lady’s meal or else we would’ve had to call a fucking ambulance n’ it would’ve been on your ass!” 

Y/n thinks they might be talking about the one customer that came in tonight with a severe nut allergy, but she’s not entirely sure.

Kevin holds his poofy little chef hat in his hands as he pipes up, “I was just―”

“You were what? Too busy texting y’pals to pay attention to the notes on the order? There’s a fucking rule against having your phone in the kitchen for a reason you idiot!” The man shakes his head exasperatedly and lets out a disbelieving sigh, “Get out of here, you’re fired. Don’t even think about puttin’ this restaurant on your references because m’not gonna say anything nice.” 

As Kevin stomps away angrily, the man turns on his heel and heads back towards the restaurant, finally allowing y/n to see his face. He’s not someone she’s ever seen around the restaurant before, but considering how he just fired someone, she assumes he must be important. Despite the way his green eyes glimmer prettily in the outdoor lighting, the man is terribly intimidating, with furrowed eyebrows and a hard glare. When those hard eyes flicker up to look at y/n, who’s still standing in the doorway, she feels her heart skip a beat. 

“What are you doing out here?” the man asks her, a harsh bite to his tone. Y/n flinches, not ready to face yet another dickhead that might make her cry. 

“Um,” she sniffles, wiping away her tears and stuttering out in the most put-together voice she can muster, “A-a customer spilled their wine on me so I’m just, um, quickly cleaning up.”

He steps closer to her, now standing directly in front of her and looking down. He’s a head taller than her, his heeled boots giving him an extra inch that just adds to his intimidating demeanor. 

He had immediately recognized the waitressing uniform that she was wearing, and had been incredibly irritated at the thought of another one of his employees slacking off on such a busy night. But when he hears her shaky voice and sees her tear-stained cheeks… he lets a little bit of the sternness in his voice fade away, eyes softening just the slightest bit. Not too much (he couldn’t have one of his employees thinking he was a big softie…), but just enough so that he maybe wouldn’t make her feel worse than she already seemed to.

“Come with me,” he orders, brushing past her and trusting that she’d follow behind him. Knowing that this guy must be important, she doesn’t hesitate one bit, her head down as she trails after him like a lost puppy, trying to hide her puffy eyes and sniffly nose from the rest of the staff. He leads her into a room that she’s never been in, some sort of office with plaques hanging on the walls and a big, professional desk covered in paperwork. 

He pulls out a chair and gestures towards it. “Sit.”

She plops down obediently, and a soft smirk dimples his cheek.

“Good,” he says. “Now stay.” 

She nods.

With that, he steps out of his office and closes the door behind him. He hadn’t expected to be cooking at all tonight, but with the hurt little puppy sitting in his office, he really felt as though he had no choice!

“Evening Mr. Styles,” one of the chefs in the kitchen greets him, “Everything alright?” 

“Yes, thank you Teddy,” Harry responds pleasantly, Teddy being one of his first and favorite chefs to come work for him at Pleasing, “Can y’get one of the stove tops ready for me? Need to make something really quickly.” 

“Of course, sir,” Teddy wipes his hands dry, “I’m assuming Kevin won’t be coming back?” 

Harry shakes his head in confirmation, the furrow in his brow returning at the thought of the ignorant chef. He’d need to have a talk with Alfredo about the recent hires – his business was better than someone as careless as Kevin.

“Y’can take his station then,” Teddy offers. “S’still hot, pots all cleaned too.” 

Taking off his suit and rolling up the sleeves of his button down, he decides to make her a little bit of mac n cheese― a classic comfort food, right? Except, because he’s Harry Styles (aka one of the best chefs in the nation), he takes it to the next level. The pasta is fresh and handmade in their kitchen, parmesan grated from a gigantic sphere that was imported from France, with truffle oil and Italian basil to top it all off. He doesn’t even bother trying it; if he made it, then he knows it’s good. 

Plating the dish is second nature to him, easily displaying the pasta and putting decorative herbs and dollops of Béchamel sauce around the main meal. With a single fork in hand, he grabs the plate and takes it back to his office.

The waitress jumps up in her seat when Harry pushes the door open, startled by his entrance and generally just intimidated by his sharp jawline and gorgeous face. Her eyes widen at the sight of the food in his hand, glimmering with excitement that she fails to conceal. It’s cute, Harry admits to himself, the way she perks up like an excited little puppy at the sight of a gourmet meal. He puts the plate in front of her and sticks the fork in her hand. 

She looks up at him with wide eyes, and doesn’t make a move to start eating until Harry tells her to “try it,” as if she had been waiting for his permission to dig in. “Mm!” her eyes flutter shut as she chews the creamy pasta, “I didn’t even know we had this on the menu, it’s so good!” 

It actually wasn’t on the menu, but he wasn’t going to ruin her fun.

“Have you tried some of this? S’so yummy, you have to try some!” she tells him, sticking a forkful out for him to try. He wants to tell her that he already knows it’s good because he made it, but– just to humor her– he wraps his lips around the fork and eats it straight from her hand. He tries not to visibly show how pleased he is with the reaction he gets from her― her mouth falls slightly ajar and her eyes stare at his plump, pink lips as they pull off of the fork. 

“Mm,” Harry hums, a slight teasing lilt to his words, “oh yeah, that is really good.” He lets her praise the food a little bit more before casually asking, “I put a little truffle oil on there, could you tell?” 

She pauses mid-chew and asks slowly, “Y-you made this?” He nods smugly, a smirk plastered on his face. 

She had assumed a chef in the kitchen had just randomly put this together… not for this man to go out in his fancy clothes to make her a plate of the best mac n cheese she’s ever had. “Oh my gosh, I didn’t realize you were one of the chefs here,” she stutters out. “m’kind of new at the restaurant… the pasta was really good, I like the kind of earthy, garlic-y taste, is that the truffle oil― “

She’s cut off by a knock on the door and a concerned looking Grace stumbling in saying, “Y/n, are you in here― oh!” Grace’s eyes widen and her jaw drops a bit before she splutters, “Oh, I’m so sorry for interrupting Mr. Styles.” 

“What is it?” he asks, not so nicely.

Grace’s eyes flicker to y/n, “I― um, just brought an extra shirt for y/n, sir. Since her other uniform got ruined.” She places the shirt on the table right next to the door, “I’ll just leave it right here, excuse me sir.” 

With a nod, Harry gives Grace permission to leave the room and shut the door behind her, the blonde waitresses scurrying out of the room as quickly as she can. When his head turns back to y/n, her eyes are wide and surprised. 

This was Mr. Styles? As in, the world famous, Michelin star chef? As in the owner of this multi-million dollar restaurant? As in her literal boss? 

She was just casually sitting here, eating a plate of gourmet mac-n-cheese with a guy who just so happened to be her boss, when she was supposed to be out there working? 

Her demeanor immediately changes, and Harry can see that y/n is finally connecting all the dots in her head. That smug smirk of his spreads on his lips once more, an amused dimple in his cheek as he props his chin in his hand and watches the way y/n puts the fork down and sits up straighter. 

“Um― thank you for the meal Mr. Styles,” she stammers, slowly rising from her seat, “I suppose I should get back to work now…”

“Nonsense,” he says. She sits back down immediately. “You’ll stay here and finish your food. Someone else will cover your tables for you.” 

“Yes sir,” she squeaks politely. Harry’s beyond amused by how she suddenly turned into this polite little girl as soon as she realized who he was, and thinks he could get used to the words sir and Mr. Styles falling from her heart shaped lips. 

He asks her a bunch of questions while she’s eating, and y/n briefly worries if that’s his way of trying to decide if he should fire her or not. She’s really trying to be on her best behavior, using her most polite voice and etiquette when talking to him ― but things are kind of slipping because Harry’s eyes are flickering all over her face and he’s so put together and intimidating and hot and it’s making her nervous!!! She’s stumbling over her words and forgetting the answers to simple questions because she’s so distracted by his sharp jawline, and honestly… Harry loves it.  He loves how shy and polite she is, and loves seeing the way he can get her all flustered. That’s honestly the only reason he keeps interrogating her ― just to hear her cute little yes sir and no sir and to see how she nervously bites her lips between each question. 

When she’s finished with her food and the redness of her eyes has died down, Harry cleans up her plate for her and throws her the shirt that Grace had brought. “Take the rest of the night off,” he says, opening his office door to step out and give her a bit of privacy so she can change. “Next time I won’t be so easy on you, okay?”

She stands up, alert and still buzzing with nerves and peeps out a final “Yes sir!” before Harry closes the door, shaking his head with a small chuckle.

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Grace really wasn’t kidding when she warned y/n about how busy Pleasing could get when Chef Styles was cooking. 

From the moment she arrived to the moment the very last table finished dining, y/n was on her feet. She’d barely managed to put her stuff down in the staff room before Alfredo was pushing her out into the dining hall, muttering something about “Chef Styles” and “is going to kill me.” They had back to back reservations, a waitlist with nearly a three hour delay, and a bustling kitchen packed with chefs. The waiters were buzzing between tables like little bees, constantly checking on customers and rushing to the back counter to pick up meals and deliver them to tables. Laughter and conversation rang throughout the entire restaurant, echoing on the high ceilings and glass chandeliers, chaotically harmonizing with the sizzling of vegetables and clatter of pots that came from the kitchen. 

Mr. Styles worked gracefully despite all the chaos ensuing around him. He always made sure that everyone knew what they were supposed to be doing before any customers arrived to ensure that there would be no screw ups or accidents, and nobody dared stray away from the job Chef Styles assigned them. Dressed in his white chef’s suit with the sleeves pushed up his forearms, he prepped each meal in the blink of an eye and moved on to the next dish immediately – quick, efficient, and absolutely delicious. 

By the end of the night, his feet are pounding from standing up for seven hours straight and his fingers (which are normally quite nimble and flexible) feel stiff and just about ready to fall off. He supervises the staff as they close the restaurant for the night, helping them do the dishes and wrap cutlery in preparation for opening tomorrow, and waits in his office until he’s the last one in the restaurant. Sometime between the time the last customer left and the time that he’s about to leave the restaurant it starts to rain outside. So, before shutting off the lights, he grabs an umbrella, and finally leaves his office at about 2:30 in the morning. 

The sound of his boots clicking against the polished tile floor is all that can be heard as he walks through the foyer, his head down as he types out a message on his phone – that is, until he hears a tiny, kitten-like sneeze.

He stops in his tracks, looking up, and stares hard into the darkness. He takes a few, cautious steps closer towards the door, until he can make out a faint silhouette.  It’s y/n – bundled up in a cute little hoodie with what he presumes is her university’s logo embroidered on the front, and her bag clutched tightly to her chest.

“Y/n,” he calls out. “What are you still doing here?” 

She jumps at the sound of his voice, her shoulders tense as she timidly walks out of the corner she’d seemingly been hiding in. “Oh, I’m just waiting for the rain to lighten up a little bit before I walk home, Mr. Styles. Promise I’ll leave soon!” 

His eyes nearly pop out of his head – walk home? At this time of night? He strides over to where she’s standing, “Have y’not got a car? Or a metro pass, at least?”

“No, no car…” she explains with a small frown on her face, “N’the metro near my school doesn’t come up towards downtown. S’too fancy around here for a sketchy little metro.”

He looks down at the way she’s hugging herself tightly, her hands tucked into the sleeves of her sweatshirt in an effort to keep warm. She’ll freeze to death if she tries to walk home, he thinks to himself. Even wrapped in his expensive Burberry coat, the thought of walking in that rainy weather sends a chill down his spine. 

He sighs. “Come on,” he says, “M’not letting you walk home in the rain.”

He opens the restaurant doors and sticks his umbrella out first, opening it and stepping under seamlessly so that not even a drop of rain stains his suit. She blinks at him dumbfounded. Still holding the door, he gestures for y/n to follow him, “Come on pup, haven’t got all day.” 

She scurries under the umbrella with him, standing close as he locks the door behind them. The rain is pounding down hard and his umbrella isn’t very large, so he wraps an arm around her waist and hastily guides her to his car. 

Now, y/n’s no expert on cars, but the large, black range rover that her boss unlocks the doors to seems like a pretty fancy car! She struggles to climb into the passengers side when Mr. Styles opens the door for her, so he holds a hand out to help her up into the seat and shuts the door behind her. As she buckles herself in, he quickly runs over to the driver’s seat, shaking his umbrella off outside and carelessly throwing it in the backseats. 

He notices that y/n’s arms are still wrapped around herself super tightly, trying to hide that her whole body is shivering from the cold, so as soon as he turns the car on, he leans over to her side and turns the heat up for her. That – along with the press of a few more buttons on the center console that turns on the heated seating – has y/n sighing blissfully as she sinks back into the comfy leather seats.

“Thank you so much Mr. Styles,” she says, wiggling her fingers happily in front of the blasting hot air. 

“You would’ve frozen to death if you walked home in this weather,” he grumbles, pulling out his phone and handing it to her. “Put in y’address.”

She does as he says obediently, her numb fingers making her fumble a little bit when she tries to type on his phone – the latest iphone, she notices from the extra two cameras on the back. 

He glances briefly at the location she’s typed in, before flicking on his windshield wipers and reversing out of his reserved parking spot. 

His speakers automatically started playing some soft classical music, creating a gentle atmosphere in the otherwise silent car. As he’s driving, he can see her fidgeting around nervously in her seat. Her fingers twist anxiously in her lap, the inside of her cheek being assaulted by her nervous chewing, and she keeps looking over at Harry, burning holes in the side of his head.

“Have I got something on my face?” he asks abruptly. 

“W-what?” 

“Y’keep staring,” he explains, glancing over at her when they stop at a red light. To no surprise, he catches her… staring at him. She quickly turns away, opting to stare at her hands instead. 

“Sorry,” she says, “I was just… watching you drive.”

He snorts. “Watching me drive?”

She fumbles over her words, struggling to explain herself. “Yeah, you’re just– like you… you just drive really cool.” She only realizes how stupid she sounds once the words come out of her mouth. 

“I drive cool?” 

She grimaces and turns to him slowly, “M’sorry, that probably doesn’t make any sense.”

His expression is entirely amused, a smirk on his face that he’s trying to cover with his hand. “Please, explain it to me then,” he begs with a teasing tone. 

“You’re just like, driving with one hand on the wheel and listening to this fancy music in your fancy car… it just looks like you’re from a movie or something.” Not to mention how sharp his jawline looked from the side. Or how attractive the furrow in his brow was. Or how his white dress shirt was rolled up at the sleeves to reveal his strong, tattooed forearms. But she wasn’t about to say all that to him. She needs to stop talking before she embarrasses herself any further! “It’s stupid, I’m sorry. I’ll stop staring.”

“Didn’t say I minded it,” he says simply. With a teasing smirk still planted on his face, he pulls up in front of y/n’s apartment complex. Despite the fact that it’s pouring outside, Harry still offers to walk her up to her door.

“Oh no, I couldn’t make you do that!” He’d already gone out of his way to drive her home, she thinks making him get out of his car just to walk her up would be asking way too much of her boss.

“At least take the umbrella then,” he says, grabbing it from the back and giving it to her. She opens her mouth to protest, but he gives her this look that makes her just shut up and take it. 

“Thanks, Mr. Styles. I really appreciate it.” 

He rolls his eyes, “Just don’t forget it next time it’s scheduled to rain.” 

He watches as she opens the apartment door, and only pulls away after she’s turned back, waved at him, and closes the door behind her. 

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When y/n walks to the restaurant the next day, it’s raining once again. She takes Mr. Styles’ umbrella with her to shield her from the drizzle, and arrives at the restaurant a bit breathless, but nonetheless dry. 

As she’s clocking in, Harry happens to walk past. He sees his umbrella in her hand, droplets dripping onto the floor, and smiles to himself. 

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Harry’s grown some sort of… fondness towards y/n. 

How could he not? The first time he’d met her she’d been crying, looking up at him with her puppy dog eyes and tear stained cheeks. She’d complimented his cooking, and been all sweet and polite while he talked to her, calling him sir and Mr. Styles with her pouty lips. 

And then when he’d driven her home… she looked so pretty sitting in the front seat of his car, rambling on and on about his cool driving and fancy car. It made him soft! She was young and innocent and just the cutest little thing. He loves how flustered she gets when he teases her, how she fumbles over her words when she doesn’t know what to say. So you really can’t blame him for keeping his eye on her. 

Whenever he’s in his office, he’ll keep his ears open in hopes of hearing her pretty voice ringing through the halls, escorting guests or calling out orders to the chefs. He loves listening to her chat with the cooks, and finds himself laughing silently at some of her silly remarks. (“Guys help!!! Where are the oysters from? Like are they local? I know it’s a stupid question but one of the customers wants to know! Should I lie and say they’re imported from the Caribbean? Like… how would they know that I’m lying? Okay, fine whatever I’ll just say they’re caught locally every morning! Thanks bye!!!”)

With this newfound fondness, he’s also grown quite… protective of her. He often talks with Alfredo to see if y/n’s been getting along with the other waiters, and discretely checks that she hasn’t encountered any other rude or disrespectful customers. He figures that he’d prefer to kick some snobby lady out of his restaurant rather than see y/n all teary eyed again.

These smushy feelings are all new to Harry, and he doesn’t really know what they meant just yet… all he knows is that he had a soft spot for y/n. And he’ll be damned if he didn’t show a bit of favoritism towards her. 

Sitting in his office, working on some paperwork for the building, he hears her shuffling down towards the kitchen. (Yes, with how attentive he’s been recently, he’s learned to distinguish the sounds of her footsteps from the rest of the waiters.)

“‘Scuse me Edgar!” she calls out to one of the cooks, “Y’know the cod that you’re working on for table 67? She just asked for the romesco to be put on the side instead. D’ya think you could change that real quick?”

“Man, are you kidding me y/n! I already put it on there!”

“I know, I know I’m sorry!” she whines embarrassedly, cheeks heating at the bite in Edgar’s voice, “she just stopped me right now and asked for it!”

Edgar gives y/n an exasperated sigh, “Great, m’gonna have to make a new one! And we’re so fuckin’ busy tonight, this is fuckin’ brilliant–” 

“Hey!” Harry’s assertive voice booms through the kitchen, cutting Edgar off mid-rant. “S’not her fault that the lady changed her order, is it?” His stern gaze is burning on Edgar, making his cheeks turn red. 

“No sir,” the chef responds apologetically.

“Apologize to y/n.”

Edgar turns to her, “Sorry y/n. Wasn’t your fault, m’just being hot headed for no reason.”

“S’okay, I get it. It’s frustrating,” she says softly, shocked at the fact that Mr. Styles was making one of the chefs apologize to her! She’s just a silly little waitress! She was used to being belittled by the older, more established staff.

“Good. Don’t want t’hear any complaining from anyone, or else you’re getting fired. Understood?”

A chorus of “yes sir” echoes around the kitchen. 

Y/n stands there, speechless at the fact that Mr. Styles had made such a bold move to defend her. When he catches her staring, he simply winks, giving her that cocky smirk of his and turning on his heel, back into his office as if nothing had happened. 

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During her 15 minute break, y/n tiptoes to Mr. Styles’ office and quietly knocks at the door, entering cautiously when she hears him grunt out a less than welcoming “come in.”

“Um, Mr. Styles?” she announces nervously. The furrow in his brow immediately disappears when he recognizes that it’s y/n. “I-I just wanted to say thanks for, um, sticking up for me today? Or- I mean… just thanks for getting the chefs to go easier on me, I guess.” Her fingers twist nervously behind her back, and it’s taking everything in her to look Mr. Styles in the eye when she’s talking to him. His gaze is just so intense, and she has no idea what he’s thinking… it makes her nervous! 

He’s quiet for a second, deliberating what she’s just said, before cracking a smile and shaking his head. “You don’t have t’thank me, pet. M’not gonna let the chefs be dicks to m’favorite waitress.”  

Her heart jumps out of her chest at that, cheeks flushing in a way that she really hopes Mr. Styles can’t see. With this flattery, she can’t help but drop her gaze to her feet, contemplating the floor as she mumbles out, “I– well, still. Thanks.” 

Harry laughs to himself, dragging a hand down his face. She’s so… cute when she’s all flustered like this! It makes him want to tease her all the time. “Yeah, yeah,” he brushes it off playfully, “now get back t’work.” 

She twirls on her heels, ready to run out of the room and freak out about this encounter in the privacy of the employee bathroom.

“Oh, y/n?” Harry calls out just before she walks out the door. She looks back at him with those eager puppy eyes. “M’gonna drive you home tonight as well. Come to my office when you’ve finished your shift and we’ll leave together.”

The smile that lights up her face is one of a giddy school girl with a playground crush. 

“M’kay,” she says casually. But on the inside, she is Freaking. The Fuck. Out.

Yay!!!!

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This time, once the restaurant closes and all the employees and staff have left, y/n doesn’t head out into the darkness for her usual 30 minute walk home.

No, this time she heads towards Mr. Styles’ office, clutching her trusty tote bag to her chest to try and mute the feeling of the butterflies swarming her entire body. She has no idea why Mr. Styles might’ve offered her another ride home. Perhaps he felt bad that she’d been scolded in front of the kitchen today by Edgar, or maybe he just pitied her. 

Whatever the case was, she wasn’t going to question it too much. She’d developed an itty bitty crush on Mr. Styles, so even if he was just giving her a ride home because he felt bad… well, then at least it meant she got to spend some more time with him! 

She knocks on his door and waits for his muffled “come in” before she walks in. A pair of reading glasses are perched on the tip of his nose, reflecting the light of the laptop screen he’s staring at intently. He doesn’t look away from his laptop as he says, “m’almost done.” He gestures mindlessly at the seats in front of his desk when she hovers awkwardly in front of the door. “Sit.”

Her quiet obedience makes him smile as he finishes the last of the emails he wanted to send that night, and with a final press of a button he shuts his laptop. He takes the reading glasses off and stands up, and y/n tries to stare discreetly at his thighs (which are being hugged deliciously by his slacks) as he packs up his things.

She’s not as discreet as she thinks she is, because Harry has to call her name three times before she snaps out of her daydreams. “Where’s your head at, puppy?” he taunts, a knowing smile pulling at his lips. Her cheeks turn warm, and she’s thankful that she doesn’t have to explain herself as she follows him to his car. 

This was gonna be a long ride.

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Y/n doesn’t know how it happened, but she and Mr. Styles have created some sort of arrangement. 

Anytime he’s been in the office for the past two weeks, he’s given her a ride home. She’s tried to tell him that he really doesn’t have to and that the walk home really isn’t that bad (she feels bad for making him drive all the way to her apartment!), but for some reason, he insists!

Secretly, she’s really happy that he’s always offering to drive her home. She gets to spend an extra 15 minutes with him every night, talking to him, looking at him, and getting teased by him. Yes, he has a knack for embarrassing her… but in a way, she actually kind of enjoys it. 

Like all the other nights, she meets him in his office and they walk out together. He holds all the doors open for her, his hand lightly placed on the small of her back as they walk outside. And again, like all the other nights, he opens the passenger’s side door for her and holds a hand out to help her into his car. 

There is one thing that happens differently tonight though. When Harry gets behind the wheel, her stomach lets out the loudest grumble she’s ever heard. 

She shuts her eyes in embarrassment. Of course this would happen. She can only hope that Mr. Styles didn’t hear it.

Unfortunately for her, he chuckles softly, “Are you hungry?”

“A bit,” she replies sheepishly.

“When’s the last time you ate?”

She hesitates, “Um… I had a granola bar right before my physics lecture.”

He pauses. “And when was this lecture?”

“At 1.”

“So you’re telling me,” Harry glances at the time in disbelief, which reads 10:47 PM, “That you haven’t eaten since 1 in the afternoon?”

“Well… I mean, usually I have some food before coming to work! But I went to a study session after class and I lost track of time, so I didn’t have time to eat anything.”

“Tha’s not enough, puppy. You need to bring something to eat during your break or else you’ll pass out.” He puts his hand on the back of her seat and looks behind him to back out of his parking spot. “And, if you don’t have time to eat anything, then I’ll cook something for you.”

“You don’t have to do that Mr. Styles,” she politely refuses. “M’not even that hungry right now.” 

The growl her stomach lets out says otherwise. “Not hungry?” he taunts.

“Okay, maybe a little bit… m’too tired to cook anything though so I’ll probably just have a pop tart or something and call it a night.”

He scoffs, “a pop tart?”

“Yeah, you know those little pastry things? They usually come in that foil packaging and have–”

“I know what a pop-tart is.” A bunch of processed sugars and artificial jam stuffed in a horribly dry crust that spills crumbs everywhere? The thought of eating one absolutely repulses him. “They’re disgusting.”

“Hey, they’re not that bad!” y/n whines defensively. “M’on a student budget! And I’m not that good at cooking, not all of us are gourmet chefs like you.”

He thinks for a second then says, “Well then…how about I take you to mine and cook you a gourmet dinner?”

“What– like, right now?” she bleats. When he nods, she asks, “you would cook me dinner right now?”

“Why s’that so hard to believe?”

Well, first of all he’s her hot boss who is notoriously known for being a hot asshole. Second of all, she has a stupid crush on her hot boss, and can’t actually believe that he’d invite her over to his home. And third of all, and the one she settles for, “Isn’t it a bit late?”

He looks over at her. “Is it past your bedtime?” he asks playfully. She shakes her head no bashfully, face heating at his teasing as he continues, “If it’s not late for you, then it’s not late for me.” 

She sits there and thinks. Obviously she wants to go over to his apartment and spend more time with him! But… gosh, she feels bad! Making him not only drive her home, but also cook her dinner was just asking for too much!

“Y/n,” he interrupts, as if he could read her mind, “stop overthinking it. I want to cook for you, I wouldn’t offer it if I didn’t. Will y’let me?”

“I’d really like that,” she admits shyly.

He smiles at her, “My house it is, then.”

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Mr. Styles is rich. Like… super rich. 

His luxury car was only a preview to his luxurious lifestyle. He drives them not far from the restaurant, to a tall, shiny building. He parks his car in the garage and takes y/n through the lobby, his heeled boots clicking against the shiny tiled floors. An elevator takes them up to the 16th floor, and opens to a dark penthouse. Floor to ceiling windows provide a view of the city, the lights of downtown flashing up in a kaleidoscope of colors. The floors are wooden with a cool undertone that complimented the grey walls, and the furniture is all sleek and dark. He leads them to his luxury kitchen and tells her to sit at the highchairs in front of the island.

“What shall I make you?” he asks.

“Um… a grilled cheese?”

He quirks his eyebrow. “You’ve got one of the world’s best chefs in front of you, and you want me to make you a grilled cheese?”

She shrugs, “That’s what I would’ve made myself if I wasn’t so lazy.”

“How about I surprise you with something… a little more special.”

“I feel bad making you cook this late when you’re not even supposed to be working,” she admits as Harry ruffles through his fridge.

“Darling,” he scoffs, “making you a meal is nothing for me. I could do this in my sleep.”

“I dunno, cooking is always such a hassle for me. Y’gotta get all the ingredients right, and make sure nothing burns, and then all the dishes… s’too much work.”

“But finding all the right ingredients and watching over y’food is exactly why I love cooking,” he explains passionately. “S’like… even the slightest thing could change the flavor of your dish, and take it to the next level. It’s so much fun.” He pulls out a pot and fills it with water. “The dishes are a headache though,” he adds teasingly. 

As he waits for the water to boil, he goes to his wine cooler and pulls a bottle out. “Do you like this wine? It’s Chianti 1982, from Montespertoli.”

“Um…” she looks at him helplessly. “I don’t really know much about wine.”

He hums, and pours himself a glass. Then he sits on the stool next to hers. He hooks his foot into the leg of her chair and pulls her stool to him, close enough so that their knees were touching and that she could see the stubble right above his lips. 

He holds up the wine glass as if he were offering a sip, but as soon as her hands come up to steady the glass to her lips, he pulls it away. “Ah ah,” he tuts, “You’ve gotta smell it first.” 

He swirls the wine around under her nose. “What do you smell?” he murmurs.

She takes a deep breath and contemplates it deeply. “...grapes?”

He snickers, “nice try.” He pulls the wine under his own nose and says, “It smells fruity… notes of cherry… plum… oak…” He takes a sip of it. “Mm… it’s light. Smooth.” 

Y/n watches him with wide eyes as he swirls the wine around in the glass and brings it up to his mouth, hyper fixating on his lips. His thick fingers, decorated with a multitude of sparkly rings, delicately wrap around the stem of the glass. And his lips, plump and pink, pucker softly against the rim as he takes another sip. 

His wine-stained tongue peaks out to lick his lips, and her own lips part open with want. 

He takes another enticing sip. “You want some, puppy?” he asks.

She nods her head, looking up at him with her round eyes and parted mouth. He gives her a taste, opting to hold the glass up to her lips as she drinks instead of having her take it from his hands and do it herself. When he feels that she’s had enough, he pulls it away. “What do y’think?”

“S’good,” she says, the tart taste of the wine drying out her tongue. It makes her want more. She looks at Harry with her eager eyes, and he feeds her another sip. This time though, she’s a bit too excited. When he pulls the glass away from her, a little bit of it dribbles down her chin.

He tsks. “Messy girl,” he murmurs. His thumb comes up to swipe at the mess, collecting it and teasing at her bottom lip. He lingers there for a second, before he pushes in, her supple lips parting easily as he slides his finger into her mouth. It rests heavily on her tongue, the acidic flavor of the wine lingering on his finger. She sucks, and his eyes darken. 

“Good girl.” His voice is low and gruff, eyes focused on her lips wrapped around his thumb. He pulls it out slowly, her bottom lip tugging downwards as he does it, and he watches it bounce back into place. 

He drags his eyes away from her lips and back up to her eyes, which are looking at him, wide and curious. Unlike Harry, who can’t stop his eyes from flickering down to her lips, her eyes are glued on him, frozen and waiting for his next move. When he moves the slightest bit closer, her breath catches in her throat. She’s not well versed in all this stuff, but she supposes if he keeps looking at her lips and leaning in, that probably means he wants to kiss her, right? She inches forward to test her theory. He reciprocates. Both of their eyes flutter shut. 

His nose brushes against hers ever so lightly, nudging it to the side, and she lets out a shaky breath when his lips graze hers. With one final tilt of her head, their lips slot together, as if they were two opposite charges connected by a magnetic force. He encases her lips in a soft kiss, her supple bottom lip trapped between his for a second, and his hand comes up to cup her jaw. He doesn’t do anything more than gently kiss her lips – no hot tongue in her mouth, no heavy breathing, nothing that he thinks might overwhelm her. Just a simple kiss, that he pulls away with a soft click.

Her eyelashes flutter open to reveal her moony eyes, looking up at him like an eager puppy. They flicker between his eyes with a mixture of want, confusion, and excitement hidden in her irises. 

He grins down at her. “Let me go check on the water.”

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