#harries

He feels good. A little tired, maybe, because Wembley has its own weight, but the kind of tired he knows how to carry. The first two shows have gone well, better than well, and even with the pressure of ten London nights still ahead of him, something about being home keeps him steadier. His own bed, his own kitchen, even when it still carries the ghost of your three-in-the-morning jacket potato crimes, his own streets, and you.

You had an appointment in London late this morning, something you told him you preferred to do alone, and the plan is simple: he picks you up when you're finished, then the two of you head to Wembley together. It's practical enough, but Harry is already pleased by the thought of seeing you standing outside some building, probably checking your phone, probably pretending not to smile when you spot him.

Then he passes a small flower shop halfway there and stops. The display outside is soft and colourful, buckets filled with bunches that look more like they were gathered from a field than arranged by someone with a ruler. Yellow blooms, little white daisies, pale pink clusters, green stems tied with rough string, brown paper waiting behind the counter. Nothing too polished, but exactly the sort you love. Harry steps inside without thinking too much about it, because some decisions in his life have become very simple. If he sees flowers that look like you would press your face into them and smile, he buys them.

The woman behind the counter recognises him after about four seconds, though she handles it politely, a quick widening of her eyes before she asks what he is looking for.

“Something a bit wild,” Harry says, glancing at the buckets. “Not too perfect.”

“For someone?”

“My girlfriend.”

The woman smiles. “What colours does she like?”

Harry looks at the flowers again, trying to choose as if the bouquet is a sentence and he needs it to say the right thing. “She likes them when they look like they didn’t try too hard. Yellow, maybe. White. A little pink. Green bits. Sorry, that’s probably not very helpful.”

“It is, actually.”

A few minutes later, she hands him a bouquet wrapped in brown paper, stems tied with twine. It's beautiful in the exact unfussy way he wanted, daisies and little yellow flowers spilling out between softer pinks and airy greenery, the whole thing looking like sunlight gathered in someone’s hands. Harry pays, thanks her, and steps back outside with the flowers tucked carefully against his arm.

He makes it another few streets before someone calls his name. There are three girls near a bus stop, all of them freezing in that unmistakable way people do when they recognise him and are trying to decide whether they are allowed to approach. He slows, because they are already half-smiling, half-panicking, and one of them clutches her phone like it might escape.

“Hi,” he says first.

They come over carefully, excited but respectful, and tell him they are going to the show tonight. One of them asks for a photo, another for a signature on her ticket confirmation printed out because, as she admits with embarrassment, she doesn't trust phone batteries. Harry laughs at that and signs the folded paper for her, telling her that is “very sensible, actually,” which makes her look as if she may faint.

“Have a good night,” he tells them after the photos.

“You too,” one of them says, then immediately covers her face. “I mean, obviously you’re performing, so—”

“I’ll try to have a good night as well,” Harry says, smiling.

He walks away with a little wave, flowers still safe in one hand, his mood even lighter than before.

Then he spots a Lime scooter. It sits near the edge of the pavement, bright and ridiculous and, in Harry’s opinion, perfectly timed. He looks at it for a moment. There is probably a more dignified way to arrive at your appointment pickup, there is definitely a safer way to arrive at Wembley. He can already hear you in his head, asking him whether he has lost his mind, whether he knows how many people online already make fun of his attachment to Lime bikes, whether turning up on a scooter with a bouquet is truly the image he wants to project. The answer, unfortunately, is yes. And so he unlocks it, places the bouquet carefully in one hand, and sets off.

By the time he reaches the street where your appointment took place, he's far too pleased with himself. You're already outside the building, standing near the entrance with your bag over one shoulder, looking down at your phone. The moment you hear the scooter roll closer, you glance up. Harry slows to a stop beside you, one foot on the pavement, sunglasses on, flowers in hand, expression shamelessly proud. You just stare, and then you laugh. It's not a polite laugh, it's a proper one that makes you lift one hand to your mouth as if you might be able to hide it after the fact.

Harry raises his brows. “What’s funny?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“You look like a romantic midlife crisis.”

He gasps softly. “That’s how you greet the man who came to pick you up?”

“On a scooter.”

“With flowers.”

“On a scooter.”

He looks down at the Lime scooter, then back at you. “Efficient transport.”

“You are one helmet away from becoming a meme.”

“I’m already a meme.”

“That is very true.”

Harry steps off the scooter, leaning it carefully against the curb before he comes closer. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

He kisses you softly, brief because you’re in public, but warm enough to make your smile change. When he pulls back, he holds out the bouquet. “These are for you.”

Your teasing disappears immediately. “Oh,” you say, voice a little surprised.

You take the flowers with both hands, looking down at them like he has given you something far more valuable than stems wrapped in paper. Your thumb brushes over the twine, then over the edge of a yellow flower, and Harry watches your whole face open with quiet delight.

“They’re beautiful,” you say.

“Thought you’d like them.”

“I love them.” You bring them closer, smelling them gently. “They look like someone stole them from a meadow.”

“That was the brief.”

You look up at him, eyes bright. “Thank you.”

Harry doesn't answer straight away, because he's busy looking at you. He knows he's in trouble, really, he has known for two years. But there are moments when the knowledge arrives all over again, fresh and almost inconvenient, like now, with you standing on a London pavement holding a bouquet of wildflowers as if it might make your whole day better. He has played stadiums, he has heard crowds scream his name until the air shook, he has been loved loudly by people he may never meet. But this, somehow, still undoes him most. “You’re welcome,” he says.

You narrow your eyes slightly. “You’re staring.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t help it.”

“You’re being sweet to distract from the scooter.”

“Is it working?”

“A little.”

“Excellent.”

He climbs back onto the scooter, then nods behind him. “Come on.”

You blink. “What?”

“Get on.”

“No.”

Harry laughs. “No?”

“I am not getting on that thing with you.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a scooter, Harry. Not a tour bus.”

“It’ll be fine.”

“It looks unstable.”

“It’s perfectly stable.”

“I’m holding flowers.”

“You are holding flowers, yes.”

“I’m also holding my will to live.”

He laughs properly at that. “I’ll be careful. You just stand behind me and hold on.”

You look from him to the scooter, then to the road, then back to him. “Is this legal?”

“Yes.”

“Is it wise?”

“Different question.”

“Harry.”

“Love, we’re not going on the motorway.”

You hesitate another second, clearly torn between good sense and the fact that he's grinning at you with entirely too much confidence. Then you sigh. “If I die on a Lime scooter today, I’m haunting you.”

“That seems fair.”

You step on carefully behind him, your bag secure on one shoulder, flowers tucked in one arm. Your free arm wraps around his middle, and Harry immediately looks far too happy about that. “Hold tight,” he says.

“I am holding tight because I’m afraid.”

“That’s fine with me.”

The ride to Wembley isn't nearly as dramatic as you expect, mostly because Harry does actually go carefully, avoiding busy roads where he can and slowing whenever the pavement or path feels uneven. Still, you spend half of it muttering instructions into his back.

“Careful.”

“I am.”

“Pothole.”

“I see it.”

“Harry.”

“I saw it.”

“Bus.”

“It’s nowhere near us.”

“It exists, and I dislike it.”

He laughs every time.

By the time the stadium appears, you're still alive, slightly windblown, clutching the flowers and him with equal seriousness. Security lets you through into the secluded area after a few amused looks, and Harry pulls up near the back doors, stepping off with the air of a man who has achieved something heroic.

You get down immediately and exhale. “We made it.”

Harry turns to you, amused. “You sound surprised.”

“I am.”

“I’m a very safe driver.”

“You almost ran over a squirrel.”

“A squirrel? There weren't any squirrels, love.”

“There was one. It moved unpredictably.”

He laughs, taking your hand as you approach the entrance. “You’re never getting on one with me again, are you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Shame. You looked cute holding on.”

“I was fearing for my life.”

“Still cute.”

Inside, the stadium is already alive with show-day movement. Crew members pass with headsets, instrument cases roll along corridors, radios crackle, doors open and shut. You and Harry separate almost immediately, like you so often do on workdays, with a quick kiss and a quiet promise to find each other later.

He has a briefing with the band and the extra musicians, strings, flute, saxophone, the whole expanded arrangement that makes this tour feel fuller and warmer than anything he has done before. Surprise song details need confirming, transitions checked, timing adjusted after the last show.

You go straight to his dressing room and the first thing you do is find a vase. It takes you a minute, and you end up borrowing one from a side table in the corridor, but soon the wildflowers are sitting in fresh water near the mirror, bright and soft against the professional chaos of the room. You look at them for a moment longer than necessary, smiling to yourself, then settle on the sofa with your MacBook.

Work finds you quickly. Anthony has sent over a folder from night two, stage shots first, then backstage impressions, small moments of Harry laughing with the band, his tie being adjusted, Shania on stage from the wings, crowd shots from the back of the stadium. You make notes, mark favourites, think through captions that feel warm without sounding too polished. You draft an Instagram carousel, then scrap the first caption because it feels too corporate, then write another one that sounds more like together together is supposed to sound. You check the posting schedule, respond to messages from the PR group chat, approve a short TikTok edit, flag a few fan-shot videos that might be good for stories later, and update the list of possible show three content.

Two hours pass easily until entry starts outside. You know because the stadium’s energy changes. There's a different kind of sound when fans begin coming in, not the controlled movement of crew but the rising hum of thousands of people finding seats, buying drinks, taking photos, screaming when they see the stage for the first time.

Then your phone starts buzzing more, and at first, you assume it's just normal tagging. People posting their outfits, their view, their bracelets, the stadium roof, the stage from every possible angle. But then the tags become repetitive and more urgent. You open Instagram, then TikTok, then X, scanning quickly.

Restricted view

Section 551

Can’t see the stage

Paid full price

Not marked restricted

A video plays on your phone, shaky because the fan filming it is clearly upset. The seat is high up under the roof, facing towards the stage, but a PA tower sits directly in front of the view, metal framework cutting across almost everything, speakers hanging in the way. Another video shows the screen partially blocked by a second tower to the right. You watch three more, same section, same issue, and you know immediately that this is bad. It's not catastrophic, or unfixable, but definitely bad enough to spread quickly, especially after the ticket price discourse that followed the original sale. These fans didn't buy restricted view seats. Their tickets are digital, full price, regular category. The production build has clearly created an obstruction that should have been accounted for before entry.

You glance towards the door, Harry is in a meeting, Jeff is somewhere dealing with a hundred other things. No one needs another problem handed to them unless it is unavoidable, and this one has a visible, practical solution if you move quickly. So you close your laptop, slip your phone into your back pocket, and leave.

The climb to section 551 is long enough to make you regret every time Harry has ever made you run uphill and you refused to speed up with him. As you move through the concourses and up into the higher levels, fans recognise you. Some wave, a few call your name, and you smile, wave back, say hi when you pass, but keep moving.

When you reach the section, the problem is even worse in person. The seats sit almost directly behind the PA tower. From where the fans are supposed to watch, the stage is mostly a fragmented suggestion behind black metal and suspended speakers. The main screen is compromised too, another structure cutting across the angle. It's not a minor inconvenience, or someone exaggerating online, it is, in fact, a terrible view.

A group of fans spots you almost immediately. “Oh my God,” one girl says, hand flying to her mouth. “Y/n?”

You smile gently. “Hi, I saw the videos.”

The reaction is instant, relief and excitement mixing so quickly that several of them start talking at once.

“We didn’t know it was restricted.”

“It didn’t say anything when we bought them.”

“We paid full price.”

“We tried asking staff, but they said they couldn’t do anything.”

“I’m really sorry,” you say, and mean it. “Can I see your tickets?”

They pull up the digital tickets on their phones, one after another. Regular seats, regular price, no restricted view marker no warning. You check enough to confirm the pattern, then look down at the stage again, already calculating. “How many of you are affected in this block?”

They start counting rows. Around forty-five people, give or take, all with the same obstruction. You nod. “Alright. I’m going to see what I can do.”

The girl closest to you looks as if she might cry. “Really?”

“Yes. Stay here for a bit, okay? I’ll come back.”

“You don’t have to—”

“You paid to see the show,” you say simply. “You should be able to see it.”

That quiets them, before the thank-yous begin, grateful and emotional and overlapping. You smile, promise again that you will return, then make your way back down through the stadium.

Backstage, you find one of the tour’s guest experience coordinators near the production office, a woman named Leah who handles wristbands, guest movement, and the impossible little emergencies that happen every night without fans ever knowing. “Leah,” you say, slightly breathless from the stairs. “Do we have capacity in any of the pits tonight?”

She looks up from her iPad. “For how many?”

“Forty-five.”

Her eyebrows lift. “Forty-five?”

“There’s a full-price block in 551 with the PA tower directly in front of them. Not marked restricted. It’s already spreading on social media.”

That gets her attention and she taps through something quickly, checking capacity counts and guest lists. “Disco pit has room. Left front. Enough not to affect safety numbers.”

“Good. I need forty-five pit wristbands and lanyards.”

“VIP?”

“If that’s what gets them moved cleanly without arguing at every checkpoint, yes.”

Leah hesitates for half a second, then nods. “Give me two minutes.”

You wait, phone in hand, watching the videos gain views. When Leah returns with the wristbands and lanyards, bundled in neat groups, you thank her quickly.

“I’ll bring them down myself,” you say.

“Do you want security?”

“I’ll be fine. They’re fans, not wolves.”

Leah smiles faintly. “Good luck.”

This time, when you return to 551, the fans see you coming from several rows away and their faces change before you even speak.

“Okay,” you say, slightly out of breath again but smiling. “We’re moving you.”

The noise they make is almost louder than the pre-show music. You hand out the wristbands and lanyards one by one, checking that everyone affected gets one, making sure no one from outside the obstructed block tries to slip in unnoticed. It's chaotic, but happy-chaotic, the kind of emotional gratitude that reminds you exactly why fixing these things matters. One girl keeps saying thank you while trying not to cry, another asks if she can hug you, and when you nod, she does it carefully, as if you are the fragile one.

Then you lead them down. It turns into a small procession through Wembley, forty-five fans buzzing with disbelief behind you as you guide them through the correct route, past staff who check the lanyards and wave them through. When they finally enter the Disco pit, the stage suddenly close and visible in front of them, several of them scream.

One turns back to you with both hands over her mouth. “This is insane.”

“Enjoy the show,” you say.

“You’re the best.”

“I’m really not,” you laugh. “Just drink water, be nice to security, and have fun.”

They promise immediately.

By the time you return backstage, the online conversation has already changed. The original videos are still there, but now they are being followed by new ones. You watch from Harry’s dressing room sofa, laptop open but forgotten for a minute, as fans post their new view from the pit, the wristbands, the lanyards, their disbelief that someone from Harry’s team actually came upstairs, checked the tickets, and moved them.

y/n saw the videos and came herself

She was so kind

They moved us to Disco pit

Best team ever

Harry’s girlfriend really said not on my watch

You smile at their comments. It feels good, not because people are praising you, but because the problem was real, and now those fans will have a night they remember for the right reasons.

The door opens about an hour later and Harry steps in, hair slightly messy from whatever he has just been doing, face brightening when he sees you. “There you are,” he says. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” You close the laptop halfway. “Busy, but good.”

He crosses the room and glances at the flowers in the vase. “They survived?”

“They’re thriving.”

“Like me.”

“Debatable.”

He grins, leaning down to kiss you. “Wanna watch Shania with me?”

Your answer is immediate. “Obviously.”

“Thought so.”

A few minutes later, the two of you tuck yourselves into the back of one of the pit entrance tunnels, half-hidden in the shadow where the fans cannot easily see you. Shania is on stage, commanding the stadium with that effortless warmth that still makes you feel a little unreal. Harry stands behind you with one arm around your waist, chin occasionally brushing near your temple when he leans down to say something quietly and for a while, everything is calm.

Then Jeff appears in the tunnel. At first, you don't think anything of it. Jeff is everywhere on show days, moving through corridors with his phone in hand, making decisions before most people know there is a decision to make. He looks tense, but that's not unusual. “Y/n,” he says. “Can I have a minute?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Harry’s arm loosens around you, you glance back at him with a small smile, expecting nothing more than work, then follow Jeff farther into the tunnel, away from the fans and the sound spill from the stage.

The second you are out of earshot, his tone changes. “What the hell were you thinking?”

You stop, and for a moment, you genuinely don't understand the question. “What?”

“Moving forty-five people into Disco pit with VIP lanyards.”

“Oh.” You blink, trying to catch up with the anger in his face. “Jeff, they had restricted view seats that weren’t sold as restricted. There was a PA tower directly in front of them, and the videos were already—”

“I know what happened,” he cuts in. “It’s all over social media.”

“Right, but that’s why I moved quickly. It was negative PR, and they had paid full price for seats they couldn’t use.”

“You moved them into pit.”

“There was space.”

“You gave them VIP lanyards.”

“To get them through checkpoints cleanly. The wristbands were the important part.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

His voice is sharp enough to make you glance back towards the tunnel opening, checking whether fans can hear. Shania’s set is still loud enough to cover you, but the aggression in his tone unsettles you more than you want to admit.

“I spoke to Leah,” you say, keeping your own voice controlled. “She checked capacity. Safety wasn’t an issue.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?”

“The point is that you made an operational decision without clearing it with me, without clearing it with venue management, without considering the precedent. Those people paid for seats in the upper level, and now they’re in a pit people paid hundreds more for.”

“They didn’t pay for obstructed view.”

“No, but you don’t just hand out upgrades worth hundreds because TikTok got loud.”

You stare at him, heat rising in your face now. “That’s not what happened.”

“It looks exactly like what happened.”

“I went up there. I saw it myself. They couldn’t see the stage, Jeff. They couldn’t even see the screens properly.”

“Then you escalate it.”

“To who? Everyone was busy, and it needed handling before the show.”

“To me.”

“You were in meetings.”

“I’m the fucking manager.”

“I know that.”

“Then act like it.”

You take a breath, trying to hold the line between professional and personal. “I was trying to protect the show, protect Harry, protect the tour from a ticketing issue becoming a headline.”

Jeff scoffs. “You were trying to play hero.”

Your eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair is you thinking you can walk around this tour making calls because you want his fans to like you.”

“That has nothing to do with it.”

“It has everything to do with it.”

You shake your head once. “Those fans were happy. The videos are positive now. The capacity was safe. The lanyards weren’t sold anyway, so there was no revenue loss from giving them away.”

“That’s not how any of this works.”

“Then explain it without yelling at me.”

For a second, Jeff seems even angrier that you're not folding and behind you, Harry notices. He's been watching Shania, or trying to, but you've been gone too long. When he looks towards the tunnel and sees you and Jeff facing each other in the half-shadow, his expression shifts. You and Jeff don't argue, not like that. You work together constantly, sometimes under pressure, sometimes with different opinions, but always respectfully. This is not how your work relationship works.

Harry starts walking over and he reaches the edge of the conversation just as Jeff says, low and cutting, “You don’t have the right to make decisions like that just because you’re sleeping with the artist.”

You freeze so completely it feels as if the stadium sound drops away for one impossible second. Harry stops too, a few feet behind you, he has heard every word. Jeff sees him almost immediately, but he doesn't take it back, that may be the worst part. The sentence remains there between all three of you, ugly and deliberate, reducing years of your education, your work, your talent, your effort, your hours spent keeping Harry’s public world alive, to the fact that you share his bed.

You cannot speak, for once in your life, nothing comes out of your mouth. But Harry can, and he does. His face changes in a way you have rarely ever seen before. He doesn't explode immediately, though. He walks to your side, close enough that his shoulder nearly touches yours, then shifts half a step forward, not pushing you behind him entirely but placing himself between you and Jeff just enough for the message to be unmistakable.

“Repeat that,” Harry says.

Jeff exhales sharply. “Harry—”

“No. Repeat what you just said to her.”

Jeff’s jaw works. “This isn’t about—”

“It is exactly about what you just said to my girlfriend.” Harry’s voice stays low, which somehow makes it worse. “So say it again. To me.”

Jeff looks between you and him, irritation still there, though something less certain flickers underneath it. “She had no authority to move those people.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

“She gave away pit access and VIP lanyards to people who bought hundred-pound seats.”

Harry’s eyes don't leave him. “I don’t care about the lanyards right now. I care about you telling her she thinks she can make decisions because she’s sleeping with me.”

You look down at the floor, the words landing again now that Harry has repeated them.

Jeff lifts his chin. “It was harsh, but I’m not wrong.”

Harry’s anger sharpens visibly. “You are wrong, Jeffrey.”

“Would we have hired her if she wasn’t with you?”

The question is a low blow, and everyone there knows it. Harry steps closer. “Careful.”

Jeff laughs once, humourless. “Come on. You know how this looks.”

“I know how it looks when a woman does her job well and a man decides to call her position personal because he’s angry she made a call before he did.”

Jeff’s eyes flash with anger as he hisses through gritted teeth. “Don’t turn this into that.”

“You turned it into that when you said what you said.”

“She overstepped.”

“Then talk about the work,” Harry snaps, voice finally rising. “Talk about process. Talk about escalation. Talk about whatever you need to talk about without insulting her like she’s only here because of me.”

You glance up at him and he's furious, properly angry, shoulders squared, jaw tight, every bit of his softness folded away because someone he loves has just been dismissed in front of him.

Jeff points toward the stadium. “There are systems for a reason.”

“And apparently the system sold full-price seats behind a PA tower.”

“That’s a ticketing issue.”

“It became a fan issue.” Harry’s voice cuts cleaner now. “She fixed it.”

“She made it my problem.”

“No. She made it smaller before it got bigger.”

Jeff opens his mouth, but Harry doesn't let him take the space. “You’re angry because she made a decision,” Harry says. “And I’m angry because she had to make it alone.”

Silence follows that, sharp and uncomfortable. You stare at Harry, stunned in a completely different way now.

Jeff’s face hardens. “That’s not fair and you know it.”

“Neither is speaking to her like that.”

“She still overstepped.”

“Maybe the process needs looking at. Maybe someone should’ve caught those seats before fans got inside. Maybe tomorrow, when everyone’s calmer, you and I can talk about how decisions like this get handled properly. But right now, you are not going to stand in a tunnel at my show and treat her like she’s disposable.”

“I didn’t say she was disposable.”

“You implied worse.”

Jeff looks at you then, but not with apology. He looks frustrated, cornered, too proud to climb down.

Harry sees it too. “Go,” he says.

“Harry—”

“Go be useful somewhere else.”

Jeff’s mouth tightens and for a second and you think he might argue again. Instead, he huffs, mutters something under his breath that you cannot make out, turns, and walks away down the tunnel.

The moment he's gone, Harry turns to you, and his expression changes immediately. The anger doesn't fully vanish, but it moves aside for concern. He reaches for you with both hands, eyes searching yours. “Are you okay?”

You nod automatically. “Yeah.”

“No, don’t do that.” His voice softens. “Are you okay?”

You try to answer, but nothing comes out and that's answer enough. Harry pulls you into him, arms wrapping around you tightly, one hand at the back of your head. You go into him without resistance, your face pressing against his shirt, the noise of Shania’s set and the stadium and the corridor all muffling into the warmth of his body.

“I’m sorry,” he says near your hair. “I’m so sorry he said that to you.”

Your hands curl lightly into the fabric of his shirt. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

“You didn’t.”

“I thought I was helping.”

“You were.”

“I should've asked someone.”

“Maybe there’s a conversation about process,” he says, steady and careful now, “but that doesn't make what he said true. It doesn’t make it okay. Not for a second.”

You close your eyes, breathing him in, trying to push away the sentence still circling your mind.

Would we have hired her if she wasn’t with you?

Harry seems to know exactly where your thoughts have gone. “Stop,” he murmurs.

You let out a small, shaky laugh against him. “You don’t know what I’m thinking.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“You’re wondering if he’s right.”

You go quiet.

Harry’s arms tighten. “He’s not,” he says firmly. “He is not right, you hear me? You have this job because you’re brilliant at it. Because you understand the fans, because you understand me, because you know how to make it feel real without turning my life into content. Do you know how many people trust you now? The team, Anthony, the PR lot, me. The fans notice it too. You brought those accounts back to life.”

You swallow. “I didn’t want the ticket thing to become ugly,” you say.

“I know.”

“They paid to see you.”

“I know.”

“They couldn’t see anything.”

“So you made sure they could.”

“What if Jeff’s right that I shouldn’t have made that call?”

Harry pulls back enough to look at you, hands still on your arms. “Then we talk tomorrow about how to do it next time. That’s it. That’s the worst-case version where you made a process mistake. It still doesn’t give him the right to humiliate you.”

You nod, but your eyes sting. “I hate being the reason people fight.”

“You’re not the reason.” His thumb moves gently over your arm. “He crossed a line. I reacted to the line.”

“He thinks I’m only here because of you.”

“Then he can enjoy being wrong.”

Despite everything, the bluntness nearly makes you laugh, but Harry’s expression stays serious. “I mean it. You're never trouble to me. Not in this job, not in this life, not anywhere. I’ve got your back.”

You look at him. “I know,” you whisper.

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Because I’ll keep saying it until it sticks.”

A call comes from farther down the corridor, one of the assistants looking for him. “Harry? They need you for hair and wardrobe.”

Harry glances over, then back at you. “Two minutes.”

The assistant disappears again.

You wipe carefully beneath your eyes, annoyed to find them damp. Harry notices and kisses your forehead, lingering there, his hand warm against the side of your neck. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” he says. “Properly. When he’s not being an arse and I’m not two seconds from throwing him into a speaker stack.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I actually considered.”

You breathe out a small laugh.

He slips his arm around your shoulders and starts walking you back towards the dressing room area, keeping you close as the stadium noise swells again behind you. Shania is still singing somewhere out there, the fans are still cheering, show three is still unfolding, and in less than an hour Harry will have to walk on stage as if his blood isn't still hot with anger. But he will, and you will do your job, and Jeff will have to apologise.

For now though, Harry presses one more kiss to your temple as you walk. “You did good today,” he says quietly.

You lean into his side, flowers waiting in his dressing room, fans in the pit because of you, the show still alive around you. “Promise?”

Harry looks down at you, certain as anything.

“Promise, love.”

Taglist: @lizsogolden @avensgreenvans @maudie-duan @chocostyles @sparklejumpropequeen1113 @pops234 @lomlcamy

But not Y/N. Her favourite part of her life was when she got to leave her office job and make herself look just as pretty as she wanted that specific day without feeling silly because she had an occasion. She pulled on her coat and made sure to grab her purse before rushing out the apartment door and down the stairs.

Becca was lounged on her chair, pizza slice in one hand and phone in the other. “Hey.”

“Hi! I’m early today, see?” Y/N pointed out.

“And I’m early every day. You look great though.”

She felt herself light up as she took off her coat and sat in her chair. That chair. The one she’d learnt to associate with relaxation and happiness. Y/N had always been chatty. Chattier than Becca so their friendship usually operated in a way where Becca would listen as well as handle the behind the scenes and she would talk.

Both of them were quite pleased with that arrangement and saw no need to change it. The need was actually to enhance the experience for both of them and divide Y/N’s plethora of interesting thoughts to the whole population rather than just Becca’s ears.

That’s how they got here. Their own little radio show. She absolutely loved it. Becca would handle the production aspect of everything and she got to live her dream, multiple people ringing in each night just to talk to her! About their love lives. What could be better?

She got comfortable in the chair where she had heard hundreds and hundreds of love stories from strangers and cleared her throat giving Becca a signal that she was ready. Becca smiled and nodded at her.

The show started and she gave her usual introduction before giving people the opportunity to call in. Becca gave her a thumbs up and connected an anonymous caller to her. Y/N knew how to make her voice a little sultrier. Not for the people. Just for the radio. Like she was trying to impress her microphone. She enjoyed it so much, it was on the verge of putting on a sexy, fun character while still being herself.

“Welcome to Midnight Lines, I’m your host. What seems to be your love conundrum tonight?”

“Uh-hi. So I’m a woman. And I have this guy. He’s beautiful. Like a model. But he travels a lot so we agreed to keep it casual. Very on and off.”

“I see.” She replied, smiling and leaning forward on the desk as she listened for more.

“The sex is fine. Like not mind-blowing but it’s not bad. But he leaves so often.”

“Aw. So you wish he wouldn’t leave you so much?”

“Kind of. I just feel like there’s so much chemistry when he comes back from all his trips but then we start fighting and I just can’t wait for him to leave again.”

Y/N leans back in her chair, “well, there’s gonna be fights occasionally, that’s unavoidable.”

“Yeah…”

“But you know what? Some people just like to make dramatic entrances when they’ve got nothing to fill in the rest of the show with. And it sounded like the sexual aspects of your lover aren’t anything to write home about.”

Becca made a face saying, “I agree.” as she chewed on her pizza slice.

“And if he’s making you unhappy to the point you want him to leave every time he comes home then well I think we know where you stand, maybe he’s not the right one, hon.”

“Really? I just feel like I get used to him not being here and then just don’t like living with someone else.”

“Well then that’s where you are in life right now and you don’t have to be sorry about that. I still don’t think a guy who makes you wish he was gone when he’s there is worth it.”

“Maybe you’re right. Now that I think about it, the only thing that excites me about him is when I know he’s about to come home.”

“Ah because you build up a fantasy of the big, steamy and passionate reunion and it never happens?”

“…yeah.”

“Mm. Well why settle for a man who only fits the beginning of your desired love story? Go all the way and find one who can give you the rest of it.”

The woman on the other line is quiet for a bit before she agrees and wraps up the conversation. Y/N looks back at Becca for confirmation that the call is done then speaks again to her viewers. “The floor is open, loves.”

The next caller is a man. He sounds like he leads a miserable life, his voice is quiet and dreary.

“Hey, so I’m an accountant… have been since I was um… 21. I’ve got a girlfriend.”

“Okay.” She smiled, leaning forward and taking a little moment to appreciate her nails before her attention shifted back to the caller.

“I just feel like my life isn’t the most… adventurous so sometimes I wanna compensate in bed by trying new things.”

“That’s great!”

“Yeah but I don’t know how to tell her the things I wanna do. Some of them are a bit out there and I don’t want her to stop liking me.”

“Well if she really likes you then she wouldn’t stop liking you just for asking if she wants to do something. Now if she says no and you keep pushing, that’s a different story. But there’s no harm in proposing something.”

“I-I’m not really the best at talking to people.”

“I know speaking about sex sounds really scary especially because you don’t want your partner to see you as weird or kink shame. But honestly, sitting someone down and gently talking about something usually does go well.”

“You think? Do girls like that stuff? Handcuffs, blindfolds and all that?”

“Are you asking if I do? Because that’s the only question I can give you a definitive answer to. All girls really aren’t the same. Some do and some don’t. But it’s not an extreme fantasy. Loads of people use handcuffs and blindfolds.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep.”

“Okay. Thanks for helping me out there.”

“That’s why we run this show,” she said with a tone that allowed the listeners to hear the smile on her lips.

A few callers later, she was about to wrap up when someone called in. Becca looked at her, silently asking if she wanted to take one last one. Y/N shrugged. Why not? She nodded at Becca to put them through.

“Hi, how can we help your love life at Midnight Lines?”

The caller took a moment to answer. But when he did, oh she was glad he did. He had a deep, beautiful voice. The kind that’s low enough to cause vibrations through you if you heard it in person but soft enough that you felt comforted by it. The British accent surrounding it only made her happier she’d chosen to take the last call.

“Hello. I take the train every day. I always see a beautiful woman. She’s gorgeous. She stands in the same spot of the train every day, unless there’s a seat available. Then she… lights up as she sees it. I always hope no one sits there when I see it as I get on. Just to see her get on at the next stop and her eyes scan the train and widen slightly with happiness when she sees it.”

Y/N freezes. She doesn’t know if he meant to go on as much as he did. Usually people on here who would call about someone theyre not dating but like just go off of there appearance. Or things they find sexy about their personality, even. But never something so casual in such great detail.

“That-that’s lovely. So I assume you want to talk to this woman?”

“So much. I always try to give it a go but it’s so quiet because we take it really early so nobody’s in a chatty mood. So, if she were to say no or really not want to talk to me then everybody would hear. And it would just get really awkward.”

“Ah…okay yeah. I get that. It’s scary trying to talk to people you really like. Are you willing to give it a go? Or did you just want to rant a bit?”

“I think I would like to give it a go. I’m just not really sure how. She doesn’t know me and I don’t want to come across as creepy. I honestly just want a few moments of her time. Even if she’s not interested in me romantically, I’d love to just talk to her. Find out a little more about her.”

“That’s so sweet. I’d say if you’re stuck, go traditional. There’s a reason why so many people buy flowers and chocolates for people they love, it works. Nobody dislikes receiving a bouquet or something sweet to get them through the day. Then once you get to know them you can work on making it more personal.”

“So you think flowers won’t be too much right?”

“Yeah. Maybe not a bouquet of sultry red roses if you wanna be safe. But just a mix of a few flowers would be a lovely thing to do. Some peonies, baby’s breath… you know?”

“Right. That sounds nice. How would I give them to her? Just… hand them to her one day?”

“If you don’t want to do it on the train you could always get off at her stop and then walk the distance to yours if it’s not too far. Or wait for the next train. Just walk up to her and say hey I think you’re really pretty and I’d love to get to know you better. Offer her the flowers gently.”

“And that won’t come across as weird?”

Y/N chuckles, “hopefully not. It depends on the sort of person she is but I know I wouldn’t mind getting a bouquet first thing in the morning from a sweet guy on the train.”

“Thank you so much, I guess I was just looking for some confirmation of what works.”

“No problem. It’s what we set this up for. I hope you get the girl, call to check in if you want later!”

“Will do. Thanks again.”

While packing her stuff, Y/N turned to look at Becca, trying to see if the last man had the same effect on her. Becca seemed neutral enough.

“What’s wrong?” Becca asked.

“What did you think of the last caller?”

“The train guy? I don’t know. Sounded sexy right?”

“Mhm. But I mean. Did you hear what he was saying? Most of the people-men especially who call on here just wanna fuck a girl. I wasn’t expecting such a mellow request.”

“Yeah I guess you’re right. I mean he sounded sweet as hell. I hope the train woman likes the flowers.”

“Mm.”

The next morning hit her hard. The night had gone by so wonderfully after the conversation with that man. He sounded so… beautiful. Just by his voice she could tell he must be attractive. She just had a gut feeling. But as well as that, she didn’t find herself jealous that he liked another woman. Just happy that she was able to bring together this man and whoever he’s trying to get with.

She yawned as she pulled the heavy coat over her shoulders. It was the same one that she had put on last night but it seemed to have gotten drearier overnight. The consolation that she would get to do her show all over again soon was the only thing that gave her the strength to pick up her bag as she trudged out the door.

It was cold this time of year and right now considering everything about her work life, love life and everything in between, the dull sky and constant chill seemed to be pathetic fallacy. She bought her train ticket at the bureau and waited by the edge with her usual crowd.

A man who would always get off at the second stop then ride home with her as well. A woman who would get on the morning train but she wouldn’t see her again for the rest of the day. She saw new faces as well. A group of teenage friends probably going into the city for some shopping and a day out.

She got on the train and looked around to see if any seat was free. Nope. She sighed as she went over to stand in her regular spot, adjusting her scarf. She nodded and smiled politely at the man she saw every day. The tall one with the curly brown hair. He would always stand opposite her on the train but maintain a respectful distance.

She never saw him get off or on the train so she assumed his first stop was earlier than hers and his last, later. He was a calming prescence on the train. She’d seen him give up his seat multiple times to people who needed it more with nothing but a smile and a polite hand on his heart while reassuring them that it was no trouble.

Now that she thought about it his voice sounded familiar. Maybe somebody she’d seen on TV sounded similar. That wasn’t what she was thinking about right now, though. Right now the only thing that occupied her brain was the man from last night. Maybe he would be on a train right now, looking at the woman he likes, holding a bouquet in his hands, wondering if she should give it to her.

Coincidentally, when she looked down at her train man’s hand she saw something tucked so it was being covered by one of his legs but she could make out that it was suspiciously shaped like a bouquet and she knew it for a fact when she saw the baby’s breath peaking out.

How funny. Two men however many miles away from each other holding a bouquet on a train. Maybe for the same purpose. Maybe a different one. She knew the stop after her one was the one where there was a hospital a really short walk away so perhaps he had someone he knew who was unwell and wanted to bring some comfort.

Her stop began to approach and soon the thought of both the men was out of her mind as her thoughts drifted to the hell that was her office job. Maybe today her boss would decide he wasn’t going to be such a prick and just be normal just for one day. Unlikely.

Or maybe Tina from HR would talk about something other than her boyfriend in the, “political field”, who apparently knew everybody there was to know. Also highly unlikely.

All in all, she hoped a borough of unlikely things opened itself of the world today whether it was her caller’s crush falling head over heels for him when she properly noticed him for the first time or Tina gaining some sense. But she’d have to wait and see. She quickly looked around to make sure she hadn’t put anything down that she should take with her and then headed off the train.

But she felt a presence and an enveloping aroma of vanilla and sandalwood behind her as she saw the curly-haired man getting off with her, his trench coat billowing slightly giving him a gorgeous silhouette.

“Ma’am!” He said a little louder than he intended so he brought his volume back down.

“Yes?”

He held the flowers forward for her and spoke, “I’m sorry if I’m keeping you but I would love for you to have these.”

“Oh? They’re very beautiful thank you. But… I’m sorry do I know you from somewhere?”

“No no. You don’t know me. I just see you on the train every day and I-just think you’re very beautiful. I’d love to get to know you better.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I’m not even necessarily asking you on a date just… to get to know you a little better.”

She froze. The words he was saying were the exact ones she’d heard the man from last night say. Was she the train woman he was talking about? Now that she thought about it his voice sounded exactly the same too.

She slowly took the flowers, her face still frozen in thought of last night but he misunderstood and thought she was judging him.

“I’m really sorry if this came across as random or… out of the blue. I was never trying to make you uncomfortable and I can leave right now if you’d like. But I just thought it was worth a shot. If nothing more I’d love to be your friend.”

“No not at all this is lovely. I’m sorry I just had something else on my mind. Why don’t I give you my number? I need to get going right now but I’d love a chat later.”

“Yeah that’s amazing. Thanks so much.”

She watched him look back at the train, seeing if it was still there but then his shoulders deflated as he saw that it wasn’t, getting ready to just walk the way to his stop rather than wait for another. He started walking away, his boots making a satisfying click sound on the ground.

Was he really the guy from last night? And was she really the woman who had made him say such wonderful things about her?

She felt an uncontrollable, real smile creep up on her. She managed to suppress it a tiny bit with the help of thinking about her job but she still had a little sparkle of joy for the rest of the day.

When she got home that night she looked at his number and scrolled through the few messages they’d exchanged already. He was asking her out to dinner now. She didn’t know what to say. She wanted to go out with him but should she tell him that she was indeed the radio show host?

She texted back, “7 on Saturday is great. I’ll text you my address.”

“Sounds wonderful.” He texted back.

“Random question?”

“Yes?”

“Are you planning to talk about my dinner plan agreement on a certain radio show tomorrow night?”

He didn’t reply for a bit. Not like he went offline to avoid her but like he genuinely just sat there with his fingers frozen at the keyboard of his phone, poor guy probably relaxed and just about to go to sleep.

“Which show?”

“It’s called Midnight Lines I believe.” She texted back, smiling to herself.

“God. You listen to it?”

“I’m related to it.”

“What does that mean?”

“I might know the woman who runs it.”

“What??”

“Seriously.”

“Okay I mean yeah. I went on there. I didn’t know who else to ask. My friends are dicks, they don’t know the first thing about asking a woman out… politely.”

“So you went on a radio show where the most discussed topic is sex positions?”

“The woman who ran it seemed friendly. I feel like she’d give genuine advice. How’d you know her? Is she a friend?”

“She might just be me actually.”

“You joking?”

“Nope.”

He didn’t reply for a while. Then her screen lit up with the three dots again.

“So I managed to ask you how to ask yourself out?”

“At least you know there would be no one who gives better advice.”

“Should I keep calling then? If this goes further?”

“You could just… you know text me.”

“Yeah but where’s the fun?”

The night passed just like that and it seemed like many more did too. Too many to count it seems because when she least expected it one night her boyfriend called into the radio show again. Becca sat up as she recognized Harry’s voice too now from knowing him for quite a while.

Y/N didn’t know whether to acknowledge she knew him. “Yes? How can we help you today?”

“So I have this girlfriend. She’s gorgeous. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on.”

She smiled but continued for the sake of playing it off like a regular call, “I see.”

“And I need to know whether my anniversary present for her would be a good one or not.”

“Mm. Okay. What did you get her?”

“I don’t know if I can say. She apparently tunes into this.”

“Does she?”

“Yeah. Related to the show very closely.”

Y/N looked at Becca who just chuckled to herself and went back on her phone. Harry spoke up again.