#harries

You know you should rest. You've known that since the car pulled up outside the house this morning after the early flight from Amsterdam, both of you heavy-eyed, stiff from travel, still carrying the strange emptiness that comes after a residency ends. The final Amsterdam show had been beautiful. Loud, emotional, full of that particular last-night feeling, all celebration and goodbye tangled together. Harry had sung Cherry as the surprise song, just like you suggested on the Fluisterboot, and the crowd had lost its collective mind before the first line even finished while you had watched him from the side, smiling quietly, remembering his face on the water when he said he would rather spend the rest of his life writing love songs about you.

Then morning came too quickly. Packing had already been done before the show, but travel still took what little energy remained. Bags, cars, airport, flight, another car, London traffic, home. By the time you walked through Harry’s front door, the relief of being back had almost made you emotional. His house smelled familiar, warm wood and clean sheets and faint coffee from the machine his maid must have set up before your arrival.

Home, for about twelve minutes, it felt peaceful, then reality arrived in the shape of luggage. You're not exactly mad about doing it. You like things sorted, you like bags emptied, clothes washed, jewellery returned to trays, skincare put back in the bathroom, chargers in the right drawers, books stacked by bedsides. You're the sort of person who cannot fully relax while a suitcase stands open in the corner like a silent accusation. So you started, and kept going.

Harry had been busy most of the day. Calls about Wembley, which starts next week and already seems to be breathing down his neck. Calls about the final arrangements for Meltdown, because curating a festival while also being on tour is exactly the kind of impossible thing he agrees to and then somehow makes look elegant. Calls about Pleasing, new launches, timing, campaign approvals, details you caught in fragments when he passed through the room with his phone pressed to his ear.

You didn't really mind at first. He had work, you had unpacking, it was fair enough. But then, after one of those calls, Harry had appeared in the doorway of the bedroom and said he was going for a run. You had looked up from sorting laundry and just nodded. You were too tired to go with him, and he had kissed your head before leaving, promising he wouldn't be long.

That was two hours ago. Now you're in the walk-in closet connected to the bedroom, standing in front of a velvet-lined jewellery drawer, trying to separate your necklaces from his ring and the little pile of bracelets fans gifted you that somehow got packed together at two in the morning after the last show. Your shoulders ache from carrying bags up and down stairs, your eyes feel dry, your mind has started moving in the dull, repetitive way it does when you're way past tired and into the grey space after it.

All you really want is a quiet evening. Takeaway from the Thai place down the road, maybe. Or pasta. Something delivered, something eaten in pyjamas, preferably on the sofa with Harry’s feet under your legs and the television on low. Then bed early. No calls, no people, and absolutely no questions. Just home and the two of you in it.

Footsteps sound in the bedroom and a moment later, Harry appears at the entrance of the walk-in closet, flushed from his run, hair damp with sweat, breathing still a little uneven. He's wearing running shorts, a light t-shirt darkened at the collar, sunglasses pushed up onto his head, and his watch still strapped to his wrist.

“Hi,” he says, pulling open the drawer where he keeps running accessories.

You glance over while unfastening a necklace chain. “Hi.”

He drops his sunglasses into the drawer, then removes his watch and places it beside them. “You’ve been at it the whole time?”

“Pretty much.”

“Bloody hell.” He wipes a hand over his forehead. “You’ve unpacked half the house.”

“Not half the house, just four weeks of Amsterdam.”

“That’s worse.”

You try to smile, but it doesn't quite arrive. “How was the run?”

“Good, hotter than I thought. Thought London might be kinder after Amsterdam, but apparently not.” He leans one shoulder against the frame of the wardrobe, still catching his breath. “Did about fifteen, maybe a bit more. Got lost near the Heath because I thought I knew a shortcut.”

“You always think you know a shortcut.”

“I often do.”

You would usually laugh, you almost do, but the tiredness gets there first, and the sound stays somewhere behind your teeth.

Harry notices the missing laugh, though he doesn't seem to know what to do with it yet. He looks at you for a moment, then clears his throat a little. “I spoke to Mum earlier.”

You place one of your rings into the small tray where it belongs. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Invited her and Gemma over for dinner tonight.”

Your fingers stop immediately and the room seems to pause around that sentence, though Harry clearly expects it to land as harmless news. He reaches for the hem of his running shirt, lifting it slightly away from his sweaty skin, then lets it fall again while waiting for your reply.

You stare down at the jewellery drawer. “Why?”

Harry’s brows pull together. “Why?”

“Yes.”

“Because they’re my family,” he says, already sounding confused. “I haven’t seen them in weeks. Mum’s been asking when we’d be back properly, and Gem’s free tonight, so I said they could come by.”

You set another necklace down too carefully. “Tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“We got back this morning.”

“I know.”

“And you invited people for dinner tonight?”

Harry tilts his head slightly. “They’re not people. They’re Mum and Gemma.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean, then?”

There is no softness in the question, only confusion beginning to harden at the edges because he doesn't understand your tone. He's sweaty and tired and probably still full of run endorphins, and you are standing in a closet surrounded by laundry, jewellery, and the quiet collapse of the evening you thought you were going to have. “I mean I’m exhausted,” you say. “I’ve been unpacking since we got home. I thought we were going to order food, sit down for once, and go to bed early.”

Harry blinks. “We can still do that after they leave.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point?”

“The point is that I don’t have the energy to host dinner tonight.”

His face changes then, subtle, but there. “Host dinner?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t ask you to cook a five-course meal.”

“You invited your mum and your sister for dinner, Harry. What did you expect would happen? They arrive, and I just smile and wave at them from under a blanket?”

“No, I expected we’d eat together because we’re home and I miss my family.”

You turn away from the drawer, one hand braced lightly on the edge of it. “You could see them tomorrow.”

“Why should I have to wait until tomorrow?”

“Because we’ve been travelling since early morning, and I’m tired.”

“So am I.”

“Then why invite people over?”

“Because I still want to see them.”

“And I don’t get a say in that?”

Harry stares at you. “Of course you get a say, but you’re making it sound like I’ve invited thirty strangers into the house.”

“I’m making it sound like I wish you had asked me before making plans that affect both of us.”

He lets out a breath, looking away for a second. “It’s my family.”

“I know it’s your family.”

“You love Mum and Gemma.”

“I do.”

“So what’s the problem?”

The problem isn't Anne, and neither is it Gemma. The problem is that you've been awake since too early, moving since you opened your eyes, sorting through the remains of his tour life for hours while he has been on calls, gone running, and now expects the house to open itself warmly at the exact moment you had been counting down to quiet. The problem is that you're too tired to say it clearly, and he is too tired to hear anything except rejection.

“The problem is,” you say, voice firmer now, “that I feel like you’ve just decided what tonight looks like without considering me at all.”

Harry’s eyes flash back to yours. “That’s not fair.”

"Oh, really?"

“No, I’ve been working all day.”

“So have I.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

His jaw clenches. “Yes, I do.”

“Because it doesn’t feel like it when I’m the one unpacking the bags, doing the laundry, putting everything away, and now apparently needing to figure out dinner.”

“You didn’t ask me to help.”

You laugh once, but there is no humour in it at all. “I shouldn’t have to ask you to notice.”

The second the words leave your mouth, Harry’s expression closes a little. It's not fully anger yet, but the door is opening. “I had calls,” he says.

“I know.”

“Important calls.”

“I know.”

“Wembley starts next week. Meltdown starts in days. Pleasing has things going on that can’t just wait because we’re tired.”

“I know that too.”

“Then why are you acting like I’ve been sitting around doing nothing while you suffer?”

“I’m not acting like that.”

“You are a bit.”

“And you’re acting like me not wanting to host dinner means I hate your family.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

“I said I miss them.”

“And I said you could see them tomorrow.”

Harry’s voice rises. “Why does everything always have to be on your schedule?”

You freeze, and he seems to hear it the same second you do, but neither of you is soft enough to step back yet. “My schedule?” you repeat.

“I didn’t mean—”

“No, go on, I'm all ears.”

He drags a hand through his sweaty hair. “I mean I’ve been away for a month too. I’ve been working too. I’ve been on stage, doing press, rehearsals, meetings, trying to get everything ready for London, and I just wanted to see my mum and my sister for dinner. I didn’t think that needed to become a whole thing.”

“And I just wanted one quiet night after spending all day taking care of this house.”

“You chose to unpack everything today.”

“Because it needs doing.”

“It didn’t all need doing today.”

“It does if I want to be able to relax in my own home.”

“Our home,” he says, and the correction lands harder than it should.

You look at him, Harry looks back, and the atmosphere in the closet has changed completely now. The soft mess of unpacking has turned tight and unpleasant, clothes hanging neatly around you both while everything between you becomes less neat by the second. “I know it’s our home,” you say quietly.

Harry’s expression changes, but again, neither of you stops. “Do you really?” he asks.

That hurts. It's a small sentence, and he says it from the wrong place in himself, from tiredness and defensiveness and a fear he probably couldn't name fast enough to stop it, but it hurts anyway.

Your voice thins. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means sometimes you act like you have to manage everything alone, and then you resent me for not reading your mind.”

“I don’t resent you.”

“You sound a lot like you do.”

“I sound exhausted.”

“So do I.”

“Then why are we doing this?”

“Because you’re making me feel guilty for wanting to see my family.”

“And you’re making me feel guilty for being too tired to host them.”

“I didn’t ask you to host.”

“You invited them to dinner!”

“We can order!”

“You didn’t say that.”

“I didn’t think I had to.”

“You didn’t think at all.”

Harry’s head jerks back slightly and you wish you could take it back immediately, or soften it, or explain that you don't mean he is careless in general, only that this one thing made you feel unseen. But the fight has gathered too much speed and your pride is standing in the way of your heart, and his is doing exactly the same. He looks at you, hurt now, anger wrapped around it because hurt is harder to hold.

“Right,” he says. “I didn’t think.”

“That’s not—”

“No, s’alright. Good to know.”

“That’s not what I meant, for fucks sake.”

“Feels like what you meant.”

“You’re not listening.”

“Neither are you.”

His voice is louder now, not shouting, but raised enough to make the small room feel smaller.

“I’m trying to tell you I’m tired,” you say.

“And I’m trying to tell you I miss my family.”

“I never said you couldn’t see them.”

“Oh sure, you just don’t want them here.”

“Tonight, Harry! I don’t want them here tonight.”

“Well, I do!”

The words echo more than either of you expects and for a moment, both of you go quiet. Harry’s breathing is uneven again, but now it has nothing to do with exercise. You stand in front of the open drawer, one hand curled around the edge of it, the other still holding a tangled bracelet you forgot you were sorting.

He looks at you for a second longer, then he turns. “I’m going downstairs.”

He leaves the walk-in closet, footsteps moving quickly through the bedroom and then out into the hall. A few seconds later, you hear him on the stairs, then nothing when he has reached the ground floor.

The silence he leaves behind is awful in the plain, domestic way arguments are when they happen in environments that were supposed to be safe. The house feels too big suddenly, too quiet. The laundry still hums in the washing machine below, the drawer remains open in front of you, and the bracelet in your hand slips from your fingers and lands softly among the other jewellery, while you stand there, blinking hard.

For a while, you refuse to cry. It feels stupid to cry over dinner plans, and it feels even stupider to cry while surrounded by clothes that still need putting away, so you keep moving. You pick up the bracelet, put it in the wrong section, realise, move it again. You take a stack of folded t-shirts from one suitcase and carry them to the shelf. Your vision blurs halfway there, and one of the shirts slips from the pile, landing on the floor. You stare at it for several seconds before bending to pick it up and the first tear finally falls onto the fabric, then another. You wipe at your face with the back of your wrist, annoyed with yourself, exhausted by everything, and keep going.

You and Harry don't fight often. You disagree, of course, and sometimes you get irritated. You both have habits that drive the other one mad. But real fights are rare because most of the time you are careful with each other. You talk before resentment has somewhere to grow, you notice when the other person goes quiet, both of you apologise easily. Just not today. Today, both of you walked into the house carrying too much and assumed the other person should be able to see it all.

You hang another shirt, then press both hands to the shelf, head lowered, and cry silently because you're tired, because you miss him even though he is downstairs, because you hate the way his raised voice sounded and hate even more that yours had matched it.

You don't hear him come back at first, you only realise when a gentle breeze brushes against the back of your neck that he's there.

“Love.” His voice is quiet.

You turn your face away quickly, as if hiding the tears now will make any difference. Surprisingly, it doesn't. Harry stands in the doorway of the closet, no longer sweaty in the same way, though he hasn't showered yet either. His hair is still messy, his running shirt still on, but the anger has gone from his face completely. What remains is regret, clear and immediate. He takes one look at you, at the clothes in your hands, at the tears you're trying to pretend aren't there, and he seems to fold.

“No,” he says softly. “No, come here.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m just finishing—”

“I don’t care about the suitcase.”

He crosses the room before you can argue, gently taking the folded shirts from your hands and setting them on the shelf beside you. Then he pulls you into him. You resist for one second out of habit, out of pride, out of the leftover sting of the fight, but then he wraps both arms around you properly, and the resistance leaves you as your face presses into his chest, and the tears come harder, still quiet but no longer contained. Harry holds you through them, one hand rubbing slow circles over your back, the other cradling the back of your head. He kisses your hair once, then again. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m so sorry.”

You shake your head against him. “I’m sorry too.”

“No. Let me say it.” His hand moves steadily over your back. “That was stupid. I was stupid. I should’ve asked you before inviting anyone over, especially today.”

“I didn’t mean to make it sound like I don’t want to see them.”

“I know.”

“I love Anne and Gemma.”

“I know, baby.”

“I just—” Your voice catches, and you hate it. “I’m so tired.”

Harry’s arms tighten. “I know,” he says, and this time it sounds like he really does. “I know. I should’ve seen that. You’ve been doing all of this all day while I’ve been on calls and then I went running like an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot.”

“Bit of one today.”

“You missed your family.”

“I did, still do.” He pulls back enough to look at you, one hand moving to your cheek, thumb careful beneath your eye. “But missing them doesn’t mean I get to throw plans at you and expect you to just absorb them.”

You let out a small, shaky breath. “I thought you expected me to cook,” you admit. “And clean up, and be normal, and I couldn’t even imagine standing in the kitchen, pretending I wasn’t exhausted.”

Harry’s expression softens painfully. “I didn’t mean that, I promise. I wasn’t thinking of it as hosting. I just thought… Mum, Gem, food, us. Easy.”

“That does sound nice when you say it like that.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t say it like that, did I?”

“No.”

“I just announced it and expected you to follow.” You look down, but he tilts your chin back up gently. “That wasn’t fair.”

“I shouldn’t have said you didn’t think.”

“Yeah, I didn’t like that.”

“I know.”

“But you were hurt.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

“No,” he says softly. “But we can both have been wrong.”

You breathe out a humourless little laugh. “Mature of us.”

“Occasionally.”

He kisses your forehead, lingering there for a moment. The anger has fully left the two of you now and in its place is the bruised quiet that comes after a fight, when both people are still tender but finally standing on the same side again. It's not instantly fixed, it doesn't feel like it never happened either, but his hands are warm on you, and your arms are around him, and both of you are trying, and that matters.

Harry rests his chin lightly against the top of your head. “I called Mum downstairs,” he says.

You go still. “You cancelled?”

“No.” He hesitates. “I told her we were both exhausted and that dinner might be takeaway on the sofa instead of whatever she was imagining. She laughed at me and said she assumed it would be takeaway anyway because she knows we got home this morning.”

You close your eyes. “Of course she did.”

“She also said she can come tomorrow if tonight’s too much. No drama.”

You pull back to look at him. “What do you want?”

He pauses, taking the question seriously this time. “I want to see them,” he says. “Just for a bit. An hour or two. I don’t need a proper dinner. I don’t need you cooking. I don’t need anything to look nice. I just… I want to hug my mum and annoy my sister in person.”

“Okay,” you say.

“Only if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. But we order food.”

“We order food.”

“From somewhere good.”

“Your choice.”

“And we don't pretend the house is tidy.”

Harry glances around the walk-in closet and the bedroom, where suitcases and half-sorted clothes have staged a quiet rebellion. “That ship has sailed.”

“And you help me finish enough of this that I can close the suitcases and stop thinking about them.”

“Done.”

“You shower first, though.”

He looks down at himself. “Fair.”

“You smell like that one pond in Hampstead Heath.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

He smiles, and it's tired, but real. You touch the front of his shirt lightly. “I’m sorry I made you feel like seeing your family was a problem.”

“I’m sorry I made you feel like your exhaustion wasn’t important.”

You nod, and then, because it still feels a little too fragile, you step closer again and wrap your arms around his waist. Harry responds immediately, holding you like there is no argument in the world he wouldn't rather end this way.

“I hate fighting with you,” you mumble.

“Me too.”

“We’re bad at it.”

“We’re very good at making up, though.”

You huff a small laugh into his shirt. “Not the time.”

“I meant emotionally.”

“Suuure.”

He laughs softly, and the sound helps more than either of you says.

A few minutes later, after he has showered and changed into clean clothes, the two of you stand side by side in the walk-in closet, tackling the last suitcase together. It goes faster with four hands. He folds his own t-shirts badly, and you refold two of them when he is not looking, then get caught on the third.

“I saw that,” he says.

“You folded it like a used napkin.”

“It was fine.”

“It had corners where there shouldn’t be corners.”

“Clothes have corners.”

“Not like that.”

Harry holds up another shirt. “Would you like to supervise?”

“I would like you to improve.”

“I’ve had a long day.”

“So have I.”

He looks at you, and for one second both of you remember the argument, then his mouth curves. “Then we’re doing brilliantly.”

You take the shirt from him and fold it properly. “We’re surviving.”

“Same thing sometimes.”

He's right.

The room slowly returns to order. Jewellery in trays, clean clothes stacked, laundry sorted into piles for tomorrow because you're finally willing to admit not everything has to be done today. Harry carries the last empty suitcase to the storage cupboard, then comes back and finds you standing in the doorway, looking at the now mostly clear floor.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod. “Better.”

He slips his arms around you from behind and rests his chin on your shoulder. “Thai or Italian?”

“For dinner?”

“Mhm.”

You lean back against him. “Thai.”

“Good choice.”

“Extra spring rolls.”

“Obviously.”

“And that coconut soup Anne likes.”

“Look at you hosting.”

You turn your head to glare at him, but Harry just kisses your cheek before you can commit to it. “Too soon?”

“Extremely.”

“Noted.”

But you smile anyway, and he does too.

Downstairs, the house is still not perfectly tidy. The washing machine will need emptying, the garden still has clothes hanging in the late afternoon air. Anne and Gemma will arrive later to takeaway containers and a sofa dinner rather than anything elegant, and that is fine. And for the first time all day, fine feels believable.

Harry’s arms tighten around you, just once. “Quiet night after?” he asks.

“Early bed?”

“Definitely.”

“No more surprise invitations?”

“No more surprise invitations.”

“No runs that last two hours while I unpack your life?”

He winces. “Deserved.”

You pat his arm. “Glad we agree.”

“I’ll do the next load of laundry.”

“You don’t even know which setting to use.”

“I can learn.”

“You once shrank my jumper.”

“One jumper.”

“It was cashmere.”

“A tragic lesson.”

You laugh properly then, small but genuine, and Harry’s relief is so visible that it nearly makes you emotional all over again.

He turns you gently in his arms and kisses you, slow and apologetic and full of the tenderness both of you had forgotten to use earlier. You meet him there, hands resting against his chest, letting the hurt ease into something manageable.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“We’re alright?” he asks quietly.

You nod. “We’re alright.”

“Promise?”

You brush your nose against his. “Promise.”

He kisses you once more, then takes your hand and leads you out of the closet, leaving the last tiny pile of unmatched socks on the chair for later.

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.