#harry dabble

Harry stiffened. For a fraction of a second, his heart leaped, maybe she came back. Maybe she realized she forgot something.

The door slid open. But it wasn't Y/N.

It was Mrs. Higgins, his Saturday housekeeper. A stout, no-nonsense woman who had cleaned up after his parties for a decade without blinking an eye, she stepped in carrying her caddy of supplies only to stop dead.

"Good morning Mr. Styles. I..."

Her voice trailed off. Her eyes swept over the floor, taking in the twenty-foot radius of shattered glass and the overturned papers on the coffee table before finally landing on Harry. He sat there disheveled and bleeding, looking like a deposed king.

Her eyes widened. "Oh my god. Sir? Are you alright?"

"I am fine," Harry croaked. His voice was ruined. Clearing his throat, he stood up, swaying slightly. "I am fine, Mrs. Higgins. Just a mishap."

"A mishap?" She bustled forward, setting her caddy down with a clatter. "It looks like a war zone in here. Did someone break in? Should I call security?"

"No," Harry snapped. The volume hurt his own head, so he lowered his voice. "No one broke in. I dropped a bowl. That is all."

"You dropped a bowl," she repeated, eyeing the debris field that clearly indicated the bowl had been thrown with the velocity of a missile.

She didn't argue. She knew better. Sighing the sigh of a woman paid very well to deal with rich men's tantrums, she reached for the broom on her cart.

"Well, go get yourself some coffee, sir. I will have this cleared up in a jiffy. You do not want to step on this barefoot."

As she began to sweep, the sound of stiff bristles dragging glass across wood, scrape, scrape, clink, sent a sudden, irrational surge of panic through him.

She was erasing it.

She was sweeping up the violence, cleaning away the evidence of the only real emotion that had happened in this room in months. If she cleaned it up, the room would return to being perfect. It would go back to being a museum. And if it was a museum, then Y/N had never really been here at all.

Mrs. Higgins swept a pile of glass toward the coffee table, reaching down to pick up the scattered papers, the contract.

"Leave it," Harry barked.

Mrs. Higgins froze, hand hovering over the document. "Sir?"

"Do not touch the papers," Harry said, stepping forward and ignoring the glass crunching under his boots. "And do not sweep under the sofa."

Mrs. Higgins looked at him like he had lost his mind. "Sir, there is glass everywhere. It surely skittered under there."

"I said don't." His voice was low, cold, and leaving no room for argument.

He knew what lay hidden in the dust bunnies under the sofa, the brass key. He had knocked it there last night in his rage. If Mrs. Higgins swept under there, she would find it, pick it up, and place it on the hook by the door. She would treat it like a common object.

But it wasn't a common object. It was the only thing Y/N had left behind. It was the heavy, tangible proof that she had chosen to walk away, a shrine to his failure. He couldn't bear the thought of anyone else touching it.

"Clean the open floor," Harry commanded, running a hand through his messy hair. "Leave the area around the sofa. Leave the papers. Leave the table."

"Mr. Styles, I cannot leave a pile of broken glass in the middle of your..."

"You can if I pay you to," Harry cut her off. Pulling his wallet out of his back pocket, uncomfortable after sleeping on it, he extracted three fifty-pound notes and dropped them onto her cart. "Clean the kitchen. Clean the bathrooms. Change the sheets. Do not touch this room."

Mrs. Higgins looked at the money, then at Harry’s bloodshot eyes. She nodded slowly.

"As you wish, sir."

Taking her broom, she retreated to the kitchen.

Harry stood alone in the center of the living room, looking down at the contract splayed open on the table like a dead bird. He looked at the spot under the sofa where the key was hiding in the dark.

A wave of nausea rolled over him. He was safe. He had done it. He had successfully driven her away, protected her reputation, and secured her future. He had won.

Walking over to the bar, he picked up the empty bottle of scotch and dropped it into the recycling bin.

Clank.

He needed a shower. He needed a shave. He needed to go to the office and make a million pounds to remind himself that he was Harry Styles and that he didn't need anyone.

He turned his back on the mess and walked toward the stairs. But as he climbed, his hand brushing the railing where hers used to rest, he realized with a sinking horror that the silence in the house wasn't empty.

It was screaming.

The smell hit her first.

It wasn't the rich scent of expensive leather or the crisp fragrance of eucalyptus. It was the damp, cloying odor of wet towels and burnt toast, underpinned by the chemical tang of Lynx body spray.

Y/N rolled over in the narrow single bed, wincing as the springs screamed in protest. A sharp, metallic grating that tore her from restless sleep.

Staring up at the ceiling, she traced the familiar water stain in the corner, a map of a nonexistent country. Above it, a spiderweb swayed gently in the draft from the window that refused to close.

It had been two weeks.

Two weeks since she had dropped the heavy brass key on the glass table. Two weeks since she had walked out of the elevator.

For six months, her life had been a tale of two cities: Monday to Thursday, a student in a shoebox. Friday to Sunday, a princess in a Mayfair castle. Now the castle was gone, leaving only the girl in the shoebox.

A crash from the kitchen, followed by a burst of raucous laughter, shattered the quiet.

"Oi! You stepped on my charger!"

"Mate, watch where you are going!"

Josh. Her roommate.

At twenty-three, Josh was perfectly nice. He was studying sports management and possessed the energy of a golden retriever that had just consumed an espresso. And Y/N hated him.

She hated herself for it, knowing it was unfair. But every time Josh laughed at the television at 8 AM or left his sneakers in the middle of the hallway, a physical tightness constricted her chest.

God, she missed the silence.

She missed the fortress-like solitude of the townhouse. She missed the way Harry moved through a room like he owned the air inside it. Harry didn't leave sneakers in the hallway. Harry didn't yell about chargers. Harry was a man. Josh was a boy.

Dragging herself out of bed onto creaking floorboards, she shuffled down the narrow hallway to the bathroom. The tiles were cracked and cold under her feet.

She turned on the shower, waiting as the pipes groaned before spitting out a stream of lukewarm water. The pressure was pathetic, barely enough to wash the soap off her skin. Standing under the drizzle, she closed her eyes, trying to conjure the memory of the rainfall showerhead, the steam, the heated towel rack.

She had walked away from it. She had chosen the sticky floors and the freedom. But freedom, it turned out, felt a lot like being cold and tired.

Half an hour later, she sat at the wobbly kitchen table, her laptop screen the brightest thing in the room.

Josh walked in, wearing nothing but boxer shorts and a t-shirt that read Beer Me.

"Morning Y/N," he chirped, opening the fridge to swig milk directly from the carton.

A wave of irrational nausea rolled over her.

"Morning Josh," she mumbled.

"You look rough," he noted helpfully, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Rough night?"

"Something like that."

"You should come out with us tonight. Me and the boys are going to Wetherspoons. Pitchers are two for one."

"I am busy," Y/N lied.

"Suit yourself. More cheap booze for me." Grabbing a slice of toast, he wandered back to his room.

Y/N turned her attention back to the screen.

Thank you for your interest in the Assistant Editor position. Unfortunately, we have decided to move forward with other candidates. We wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors.

Delete. Delete. Delete.

The rejections were piling up. Despite the honors degree and the dissertation praised by her professors, the real world saw her as just another twenty-two-year-old with zero experience and no connections.

Harry could have made a call.

The thought intruded before she could stop it. Harry knew everyone. One word from him, and she would be sitting in an office at Bloomsbury right now. He would have handled it. He would have smoothed the path.

Opening her banking app, she stared at the number on the screen.

It was large. Six months of allowance saved diligently. It was enough to pay rent in this dump for two years, to buy a new wardrobe, or to book a holiday to Bali.

She hadn't spent a penny of it. Once a high score, a safety net, it now felt like a bomb.

It was the only thing keeping her alive. She had quit the café to focus on finals because Harry had told her to. Focus on your studies, he had said. Let me handle the finances. So she had.

Now she was unemployed, relying on the money of a man she had dumped. Every time she bought a carton of milk or paid the electric bill, she felt like she was stealing. It was blood money, and she was terrified of the day it would run out.

Closing the app, she looked around the messy kitchen. The sink was full of grey water and Josh’s cereal bowls; the window looked out onto a brick wall and a row of overflowing bins.

This was reality. This was the "normal" life she had screamed at Harry that she wanted.

She wanted to cry.

She wanted to call him. She wanted to tell him that she was sorry, that the light he talked about was actually just fluorescent and flickering, and that she missed his darkness. She missed his protection.

Harry hadn't just been a lover. He had been a shield, standing between her and the ugly, difficult parts of the world. Now the shield was gone, and she was exposed.

Y/N picked up her phone again, opening their message thread. The last text was from April.

I am not hungry.

Her thumb hovered over the text box.

I miss you. I made a mistake. Please come get me.

She typed the words out, staring at them. They looked pathetic. They looked like defeat.

She erased them.

Placing the phone face down on the table, she took a sip of the bitter black coffee. She hadn't bought milk because she was too scared to dip into the savings for luxuries.

She had made her choice. Now she had to live with it, even if living with it meant watching Josh drink from the carton while her heart broke a little more every single day.

The restaurant was quiet. The kind of quiet that cost three hundred pounds a head.

The air smelled of truffles and old money. In the corner, a harpist plucked at something unrecognizable while waiters moved like ghosts across the plush carpet, terrified of disturbing the peace.

Harry sat at the best table in the house, wearing a Tom Ford suit that fit like armor. He had shaved, styled his hair, and curated an appearance worthy of a Forbes cover.

Across from him sat Victoria.

Victoria was perfect. Forty-two years old, the daughter of a Viscount, and the ex-wife of a hedge fund manager, she was a study in elegance. Her blond hair was blow-dried into submission, her teeth were blindingly white, and her pearls were tasteful.

She was appropriate.

She was exactly the kind of woman a man in Harry’s tax bracket was supposed to be with, a partner whose presence at a board meeting signaled stability, a woman fluent in non-dom statuses and offshore accounts.

Harry wanted to scream.

"And then Charles said that the merger with the German firm was dragging on simply because of the unions," Victoria was saying, taking a delicate sip of her white wine. "Can you imagine? Holding up a billion-pound deal because of pension disputes. The working class is becoming so entitled."

She laughed, a light, tinkling sound like ice hitting glass.

Harry forced the corners of his mouth up. "Terrible."

"Exactly," she beamed. "So I told him to just liquidate the subsidiary and be done with it. It’s cleaner on the balance sheet."

She paused, looking at him expectantly. She was waiting for him to agree, to talk shop, to discuss the ruthless efficiency of capitalism.

"Liquidation is certainly efficient," Harry said, his voice sounding flat to his own ears.

"It is," she agreed. "Speaking of efficiency, I saw the quarterly reports for your firm. Your aggressive acquisition of that tech startup? Brilliant. Ruthless, but brilliant."

Harry picked up his wine glass and drank half of it in one swallow.

Looking at her, he acknowledged the facts: she was beautiful, smart, and successful. She spoke his language, the dialect of money, assets, and liquidity.

But she was suffocatingly boring.

His gaze drifted to her hands. Her nails were manicured in a pale, perfect pink.

Instead of admiring them, he remembered Y/N’s hands. He remembered the ink stain on her thumb from taking notes in the library, the way she gripped a pen like a weapon, the way she tapped her fingers on the dashboard when a song she liked came on the radio.

"Harry?"

He snapped his head up. Victoria was frowning slightly.

"I am sorry," Harry said. "I was miles away."

"I asked if you play tennis," she said. "The club has a mixed doubles tournament next month. I need a partner who can actually serve. My ex-husband had a wrist like a wet noodle."

"I don't play," Harry lied. He played very well, usually every Sunday with his banking friends.

"That is a shame," she pouted. "You have the build for it."

The waiter arrived with their appetizers: a single scallop sitting in a pool of foam.

Victoria looked at it with delight. "This looks divine. I love this chef. He keeps the portions so... manageable."

Harry looked at the scallop.

The memory hit him instantly: Y/N forcing him to eat a kebab at 2 AM on a street corner in Soho. The grease on her chin, her laughter when he dropped garlic sauce on his five-thousand-pound coat, her voice saying, It’s not food if you don’t need a napkin, Harry.

Victoria cut a tiny piece of the scallop and chewed slowly.

"So," she said. "I heard you’re looking into buying that property in the Cotswolds. The estate next to the Beckhams?"

"I am thinking about it," Harry said.

"You should," she nodded. "It’s a good investment. Land is the only thing that holds value these days. Besides, you need a place to escape the city. London is becoming so... crowded. Don't you think?"

She gestured vaguely to the window, to the streets below where normal people lived.

"Crowded," Harry repeated.

"Yes. Too much noise. Too much grit. I prefer the quiet."

Harry stared at her.

Y/N loved the grit. She loved the noise, the sticky floors, the mess of life. She made him feel alive because she dragged him into the crowd, not away from it.

Victoria was offering him a sterile, quiet, perfectly managed life where scallops were small, people were "manageable," and no one made bad decisions.

It felt like a coffin. It felt like death by small talk.

If this was the "appropriate" life he had sacrificed his happiness for, then he had made a terrible mistake. He didn't want the quiet estate in the Cotswolds. He wanted the argument. He wanted the passion. He wanted the girl who challenged him on literature and stole his t-shirts.

He could not do this. He could not sit here for another hour and pretend that he cared about property values or pension disputes.

Harry signaled the waiter.

"Check please," he said.

Victoria looked stunned. "Harry? We haven't even had the main course."

"I am not hungry," Harry said, pulling out his heavy titanium black card and dropping it on the table.

"Is something wrong?" Victoria asked, her smile faltering. "Did I say something?"

"No," Harry said. He stood up and buttoned his jacket. "You were perfect, Victoria. You were absolutely appropriate."

He looked down at her.

"That is the problem."

He didn't wait for the receipt. Turning on his heel, he walked past the harpist, past the maitre d', and out into the cool London night.

The air smelled of exhaust and rain. It smelled real.

He was alone, miserable, and definitely going to die in his big empty house with his millions in the bank. But at least he didn't have to talk about tennis.

The wifi in the flat was a test of patience, buffering constantly as Y/N sat on the bedroom floor.

She leaned against the radiator, hoarding its meager heat, wrapped in a crew neck sweatshirt she had stolen from Harry months ago. It no longer smelled of his expensive cologne or the unique warmth of his skin; now, it just smelled of her cheap laundry detergent.

With one final, agonizing refresh, the page loaded.

It was a grainy paparazzi shot taken from across the street, but the subject was unmistakable.

Harry.

He was walking out of that Mayfair restaurant with the three-month waiting list, wearing the charcoal suit she loved—the one with the silk lining. Even in low resolution, he looked devastating.

But he wasn't alone.

Beside him was a woman. Tall, blonde, and draped in a cream coat that likely cost more than Y/N’s entire student loan debt. She was laughing, head thrown back in an elegant display of joy.

Harry Styles, Chief Executive Officer, Vanguard Holdings, spotted dining with Victoria St. Clair, heiress to the St. Clair shipping fortune.

The caption was simple, yet it felt like a slap: New Power Couple?

A cold stone dropped into Y/N’s stomach.

It had been only three weeks.

Three weeks, and he was already out dining with heiresses, slipping back into the world of cream coats, pearls, and tax brackets that matched his own.

Victoria St. Clair looked perfect. She looked like someone who knew exactly which fork to use for the fish course and had never eaten instant noodles in her life. Y/N looked down at herself, sweatpants with a hole in the knee, toast for dinner, unemployed.

Zooming in on Harry’s face, she searched for a sign. He wasn't smiling. His expression was the unreadable mask he wore when closing a deal, but the context was clear. He was there. He was moving on.

She closed her laptop and pulled her knees to her chest, feeling incredibly, stupidly small. She had walked away to save herself, but looking at that photo, she realized she hadn't saved anything. She had just vacated the seat for someone who fit the mold.

Across the city, 9:00 PM found Harry still sitting in his office long after the cleaning crew had come and gone. Below him, the city lights of London sprawled like a circuit board, cold and distant.

He ignored the view. He ignored the merger documents on his desk. His attention was fixed solely on his computer screen.

A secure window was open. One requiring two-factor authentication and a biometric scan to access. It was the portal for his personal accounts. And hers.

He hadn't revoked his access. He told himself it was an oversight, a forgotten administrative task after the contract ended. But that was a lie.

He scanned the transaction history for Y/N’s account.

Tesco Metro - £12.50

TfL Oyster Top Up - £20.00

Pret a Manger - £3.50

Rent Payment (Theo Miller) - £600.00

Harry stared at the name. Theo Miller.

A flare of irrational, burning jealousy scorched through him. Who was Theo Miller? The landlord? A boyfriend? The guy with the nose ring from the pub?

He looked at the amount. Six hundred pounds. In London, that bought you a closet with mold on the walls and drafty windows.

Yet, the balance remained high. She hadn't touched the bulk of the allowance from the last six months. It just sat there, accumulating interest. She was living in a shoebox with some guy named Theo, eating Tesco meal deals while sitting on a small fortune.

Why? Why was she punishing herself?

Harry moved his mouse, hovering the cursor over the Transfer Funds button.

He could double it. Triple it. He could send enough right now to buy her a flat of her own, making her life easy again with a single click. His finger twitched over the mouse. He wanted to play the hero. He wanted to fix it, because throwing money at a problem was the only way he knew how to show love.

But then he remembered her voice.

I don't want a normal life! I want you!

She had rejected the money and the ease. Sending funds now wouldn't be a gift, it would be an insult. It would be a declaration that he didn't believe she could survive without him.

He couldn't do that to her. He had to respect her choice, even if watching her struggle felt like physical pain.

Closing the browser tab, the screen reverted to his generic landscape desktop background.

Swiveling his chair around, he faced the window and the city beyond. She was out there somewhere eating cheap food, living with Theo Miller, probably hating him. And he was up here in his glass tower, safe, rich, and completely empty.

He picked up his phone, scrolling past photos of potential real estate investments and art pieces until he stopped on a photo from six months ago.

It was accidental, blurry, taken in his kitchen on a Sunday morning. Y/N was wearing his t-shirt, laughing, her hand coming up to block the camera as the sun hit her hair. She looked happy.

Harry stared at the photo until the screen dimmed. He missed her so much it felt like bleeding out.

But he stayed in his tower, and he let her struggle. Because that was what she wanted.

The music wasn't just sound. It was a physical sensation. A relentless, thumping rhythm shook the floorboards and rattled the bottles on the bar, thickening the air with the smell of spilled lager, sweat, and cheap vanilla body spray.

Standing by the bar, Y/N lifted her boot, grimacing at the audible peeling sound as the sole separated from the layer of dried alcohol coating the wood. Her feet were literally stuck to the floor.

"Chug! Chug! Chug!"

Nearby, Josh stood on a stool, tilting a pitcher of something neon blue into the mouth of a girl Y/N didn’t know while Sarah cheered him on.

Y/N took a sip of her vodka cranberry. It tasted like rubbing alcohol and sugar syrup, warm and watery because the ice had melted twenty minutes ago.

She checked her phone: 11:15 PM.

In her old life, 11:15 PM on a Saturday meant sitting on the velvet sofa with Harry. It meant a glass of Pinot Noir that cost more than her rent, quiet conversations about books or politics, and the weight of his hand resting warm and heavy on her knee.

Here, it meant getting jostled by sweaty strangers in a room that smelled like a locker room.

"You look like you are at a funeral."

The guy sliding into the space next to her was cute enough, floppy hair, a nice smile, and a t-shirt that was a size too small. He smelled of vape smoke and Lynx.

"I am just tired," Y/N shouted over the bass.

"I’m Liam," he shouted back, leaning in too close. "I’m Josh’s mate from uni."

"Y/N."

"I know," he grinned. "Josh said his roommate was hot. He wasn't lying."

Y/N forced a brittle smile. Six months ago, this would have been flattering. A cute boy her age hitting on her in a bar. This was supposed to be the dream, the "normal life" Harry had insisted she needed.

"Can I get you a drink?" Liam asked. "You look like you need something stronger than that."

"I am okay."

"Come on," he insisted, signaling the bartender without waiting for her answer. "Two tequila shots! The good stuff!"

The bartender poured two shots of the house tequila, which was definitely not the good stuff. Liam handed her one, clinking his glass against hers so hard that liquid sloshed over her hand.

"To being young and dumb!" he cheered.

Y/N stared at the sticky liquid coating her knuckles.

Harry never spilled. Harry moved with a grace that bordered on supernatural. He would have handed her a glass by the stem, toasting to her eyes, her intelligence, or her future.

"Cheers," she mumbled, throwing the shot back. It burned all the way down.

Laughing, Liam wiped his mouth with his sleeve and leaned his elbow on the sticky bar.

"So," he yelled. "Josh says you just graduated. English lit, right?"

"Yeah."

"What are you gonna do with that? Teach?"

"I want to work in publishing," she said.

"Publishing," he nodded, glancing around the room as if already bored. "Sounds intense. My cousin tried to get into that. Said it pays peanuts."

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, checking a notification while she was still talking.

"Anyway," he said, shoving the phone back. "You wanna dance? This song is a banger."

He reached out and grabbed her waist.

His hand was sweaty. His grip was clumsy.

Y/N froze.

The memory of Harry’s grip crashed over her, the size of his hand, the way his thumb would stroke the sensitive skin of her hip bone, the heavy, possessive weight of his touch. It felt grounding. It felt like he was anchoring her to the earth.

Liam’s touch just felt clammy.

She pulled away sharply. "I can't."

Liam looked confused. "What? Why?"

"I have to go."

"Go? It’s not even midnight. The night is young!"

"I am not," Y/N said.

She pushed past him. She pushed past Josh, who was now wearing the empty pitcher on his head like a hat. She shouldered her way through the wall of bodies and noise, stumbling out of the club and onto the pavement.

The air outside was cool and wet. It was raining again.

Y/N leaned against the brick wall of the club, burying her face in her hands.

She was ruined.

Harry had ruined her. Not with malice or cruelty, but by being perfect. He had shown her what it felt like to be treated like a woman, to be listened to, cared for, and touched with reverence. Now, every other man on the planet felt like a child in comparison.

Looking up, she watched the boys stumbling out of the club. They were loud, messy, and exactly who she was supposed to be with.

But she didn't want them.

She wanted the silver hair. She wanted the lines around the eyes. She wanted the man who drank scotch, read Jane Austen, and made her feel safe.

"I hate you," she whispered to the empty street.

Wiping the tears from her face with the back of her sticky hand, she started the long walk back to the cold flat with the screaming roommate and the empty fridge.

The tray was heavy, loaded with flutes of cheap prosecco trying very hard to pass as champagne. Y/N balanced it on her left hand, feet throbbing in the cheap black flats she had bought at Primark only because the gallery manager insisted all temporary staff wear "sensible black footwear."

She was not an assistant editor. She was not a writer. She was "Event Staff."

It was a temporary gig. Two nights a week, ten pounds an hour plus tips. It barely covered the cost of her travel card, but it was money that didn't come from Harry’s bank account, so she took it.

The gallery in Soho was a white box with concrete floors and track lighting bright enough to perform surgery. The art on the walls was incomprehensible, a collection of red squares and twisted metal that cost more than most people earned in a decade.

Y/N moved through the crowd, keeping her head down, trying to make herself invisible.

Then the room went quiet.

It wasn't a total silence, but a shift in atmospheric pressure. A sudden drop in volume that started at the front door and washed over the crowd like a cold wave. Heads turned. Whispers started. The energy in the room shifted instantly from bored pretension to electric alertness.

Y/N looked up. Her heart didn't just stop, it plummeted through the floorboards.

Harry was standing in the doorway.

He looked like a weapon in a bespoke suit. Dressed entirely in black—shirt unbuttoned at the collar to reveal the tops of his tattoos, blazer with sharp lapels, his hair was pushed back, and his rings caught the harsh gallery lights.

He wasn't looking at the art. He wasn't looking at the frantic gallery owner buzzing around him. He was scanning the room, his eyes dark and predatory. He was hunting.

Y/N froze, hugging the tray of glasses to her chest like a shield as she stood near the center of the room, surrounded by people in furs and tuxedos.

Harry’s eyes locked onto her.

He didn't blink. He didn't look away or check to see if anyone was watching. He just started walking.

Cutting through the crowd like a shark moving through water, he ignored the people stepping out of his way, the whispers, and the pointing fingers. He walked straight toward her with a terrifying, singular focus.

Y/N’s breath hitched. She felt exposed, like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming train.

Harry stopped less than a foot in front of her.

He was so close that his scent, tobacco and expensive wood, overpowered the smell of the cheap wine, creating a sudden intimate vacuum in the middle of the crowded room.

The gallery owner hovered a few feet away, looking nervous, but Harry ignored him. The guests were staring openly now, watching Harry corner a waitress.

But when Harry spoke, he lowered his voice so that only she could hear him.

"Put it down," he murmured, a low vibration she felt in her chest.

"I am working," she whispered back without moving her lips. "I can't put it down."

"You are not a servant, Y/N," he rasped, eyes furious.

"I am tonight," she hissed. "People are staring, Harry."

"Let them stare." He took a half step closer, invading her personal space completely and forcing the world to disappear. "I don't care if they stare. I don't care if they take pictures. Look at me."

She looked up at him. His eyes were wrecked.

"You look thin," he accused quietly. "Are you eating?"

"I am fine."

"You are lying," he whispered. "I checked your account. You haven't touched the money. You are living on pennies and paying rent to some idiot named Theo Miller."

Y/N felt her face burn. "Harry, stop it. Not here. Theo is Josh's first name"

"I drove across the city because I saw the shift roster for this event," he confessed, voice raw and aching. "I came here to see you. Not to see art. Not to drink bad wine. Just you."

"You can't do this," she pleaded softly. "You can't just walk in here and act like you own me."

"I don't own you," Harry said. "But I am responsible for you. And seeing you like this... serving these people... it is killing me."

He reached out.

In full view of the room, he lifted his hand, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her cheek for a heartbeat. A gesture that was possessive, tender, and told everyone watching that they knew each other. But the words remained a secret between them.

"Come home," he breathed into the space between them. "Please."

Y/N looked at him, seeing the desperation in his eyes. She saw that he had broken every rule he had ever made about privacy just to stand here and ask her that question.

"I can't," she whispered. "I need to do this."

Harry’s hand dropped. The rejection hit him hard. Stepping back, the bubble burst, and the sounds of the room rushed back in. He looked around as if remembering where he was.

He turned to the wall beside them, staring at the massive black canvas with the red dot.

"This is garbage," he announced. His voice was loud now, carrying clearly over the murmuring crowd.

"It is titled The Void," Y/N said automatically, falling back into her role though her voice shook. "It is fifty thousand pounds."

"It matches your mood," Harry muttered low enough that only she heard it.

He looked at her, a dark humor flashing in his eyes.

"If I buy it," he asked loudly, "do you get a commission?"

"No," she said. "I am just the help."

"Pity."

Harry turned to the gallery owner, who was watching with his mouth open.

"I will take it," Harry said, pointing at the black painting. "Wrap it up. Send it to this address."

Pulling a card from his pocket, he scribbled something on the back and handed it to the owner. Then he looked back at Y/N, holding her gaze one last time.

"Don't let them work you too hard," he said softly.

He turned and walked away, cutting through the crowd that parted for him, leaving Y/N standing in the center of the room with a tray of champagne and a heart beating so hard it hurt.

The next morning.

Y/N was sitting in the kitchen eating dry toast. Josh was playing FIFA on the sofa.

There was a knock at the door.

"I'll get it!" Josh yelled.

He opened the door.

"Holy shit," he said.

Y/N walked into the hallway.

Two men in blue coveralls were standing there. They were holding a massive crate.

"Delivery for Y/N," one of them said.

"For me?"

They carried the crate inside. It barely fit in the hallway. It took up the entire living room.

Josh grabbed a screwdriver. "What is it? A fridge?"

They pried the lid off.

Y/N stared.

It was the painting. The black canvas with the red dot. The fifty thousand pound garbage.

There was a small white envelope taped to the front.

Y/N pulled it off. Her hands were shaking. She opened it.

Inside was a note written on heavy cream cardstock. The handwriting was messy and all caps.

IT IS PRETENTIOUS GARBAGE. HANG IT OVER YOUR WALL. - H

Y/N looked at the painting. She looked at the note.

"What is it?" Josh asked staring at the black canvas. "Is that art? It looks like a spot."

"It is," Y/N said pressing the note to her chest.

The painting was a problem.

Physically, it was a problem because it was four feet wide and six feet tall. In a gallery, it looked imposing. In a hallway that smelled of damp carpet, it was a monolith. It blocked the bathroom door. If you wanted to pee, you had to turn sideways and suck in your stomach to squeeze past it.

"We should sell it," Josh said for the tenth time.

He was standing in front of it, eating a bowl of cereal. He pointed his spoon at the red dot in the center of the black canvas.

"I Googled it, Y/N. The guy who painted this? Some Danish dude. His stuff goes for insane money. We could put it on eBay. Or Gumtree."

Y/N sat on the floor, her back against the peeling wallpaper, staring at the canvas.

She looked at the pretentious red dot. She looked at the aggressive black void. She remembered Harry’s face in the gallery. The way he had looked at it with such disdain, only to buy it ten seconds later just to make her smile.

He hadn't sent flowers. Flowers were cliché. Flowers died. He hadn't sent jewelry. Jewelry was a transaction.

He had sent a fifty-thousand-pound inside joke.

He had sent a massive, inconvenient, ridiculous object just because they had shared a moment of snark about it. It was the most absurd, excessive, "Harry" thing he could have possibly done.

A bubble of laughter rose in her chest.

It started as a giggle, then bubbled up into a full, wet laugh. She covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking.

"What?" Josh asked, looking at her like she had lost her mind. "Why are you laughing? It’s just a spot."

"It’s not just a spot," Y/N gasped, wiping a tear from her eye. "It’s a love letter."

"A what?"

"It’s him," she said, shaking her head. "He’s insane. He’s absolutely insane. And he squeezed this giant thing into my tiny life just to remind me that he’s there."

She stood up. The laughter settled into a warm, glowing resolve in her chest. The coldness she had felt for three weeks evaporated.

Harry wasn't trying to buy her. He wasn't trying to starve her out. He was trying to flirt with her. He was poking her from his ivory tower, waiting to see if she would poke back.

"I’m going out," she announced.

"Where?" Josh asked. "To sell it?"

"No," Y/N said, grabbing her coat. She checked her reflection in the hallway mirror. She didn't look tired anymore. She looked like a woman with a plan. "I’m going to return the receipt."

"The receipt?"

"I’m going to negotiate, Josh," she said, a wicked smile spreading across her face. "Don't sell the painting. I think it really ties the room together."

The building was a fortress of glass and steel.

Vanguard Holdings occupied the top ten floors of one of the tallest skyscrapers in the City of London. It was a building designed to intimidate. The lobby was three stories high, filled with polished marble and security guards who looked like they were ex-SAS.

Y/N stood outside the revolving doors.

She looked down at herself. She wasn't wearing an interview suit. She was wearing wide-leg jeans rolled at the ankle, a crisp white tank top, and a long, structured black coat. A black baseball cap was pulled low over her hair, and a leather crossbody bag was slung across her chest.

She looked young. She looked like the kind of person who didn't belong in a place like this, which made her stand out even more.

She pushed through the revolving doors.

The air inside was cool and smelled of expensive sanitizer. The noise of the city vanished, replaced by the hushed murmur of commerce. Men in blue suits walked with purpose, checking their phones. Women in heels clicked across the marble.

Y/N walked straight to the reception desk. The receptionist was beautiful, intimidating, and wearing a headset.

"Can I help you?" she asked, not looking up from her screen.

"I am here to see Harry Styles," Y/N said clearly.

The receptionist stopped typing. She looked up. Her eyes swept over the jeans, the baseball cap, the trainers. It was a look of dismissal.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No."

The receptionist gave a small, pitying smile. "Mr. Styles’ calendar is booked months in advance. I can't just—"

"Tell him it’s Y/N," she interrupted, leaning slightly onto the high desk. "Tell him I’m here about the commission."

The receptionist blinked. "The commission?"

"He’ll know what it means."

The receptionist hesitated. There was a spark in Y/N’s eyes that suggested she wasn't a random petitioner. She looked like trouble.

"One moment."

The receptionist picked up the phone. She dialed a number. She spoke in a hushed voice, turning her chair slightly away.

"Yes... a woman named Y/N... No, no appointment... She says it’s about a commission?"

Pause.

The receptionist went pale. Her eyes went wide.

"Yes. Yes, sir. Immediately."

She hung up the phone. She looked at Y/N with wide, terrified eyes. The pity was gone. Replaced by awe.

"Mr. Styles says you are to go up immediately," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "Top floor. The private elevator is to your right. Scan this pass."

She handed Y/N a plastic card.

"Thank you," Y/N said, tucking the pass into her pocket.

She walked to the private elevator. She scanned the pass.

The doors slid open.

There were no buttons inside. Just a single panel that lit up as soon as she entered.

Floor 45.

The elevator rose. Her ears popped.

She watched the numbers climb. 10... 20... 30...

Her stomach did flip-flops. She wasn't just going up a building. She was ascending back to Olympus. She was going back to the god who had thrown lightning bolts at her in a gallery and left her with a storm.

40... 45.

Ding.

The doors opened into a sleek, minimalist reception area. It was all glass and white marble. A severe-looking assistant sat behind a desk that cost more than Y/N’s university tuition.

"You are Y/N?" the assistant asked, looking her up and down with open disapproval. The baseball cap seemed to offend her personally.

"Yes."

"Mr. Styles is currently in a meeting," the assistant said coldly. "Take a seat. He will see you when he is finished."

Y/N didn't argue. She walked over to a black leather bench and sat down. She stretched her legs out, her trainers scuffing the pristine floor. She crossed her arms and waited.

Ten minutes passed.

Then, the large double doors to the inner office opened.

A woman walked out.

She was in her forties. She had perfectly coiffed blonde hair and was wearing a tailored navy suit that fit her like a second skin. She was carrying a leather portfolio and looked every inch the successful, "appropriate" executive.

She stopped when she saw Y/N.

Her eyes raked over the younger girl, the baggy jeans, the tank top, the baseball cap. Her lip curled slightly in a look of pure disdain. It was the look of someone who recognized an intruder. A tourist.

She shook her head slightly and walked to the elevator without a word.

Y/N watched her go. That was the competition. That was the life Harry was supposed to have.

The assistant’s phone buzzed.

"He will see you now," she said stiffly.

Y/N stood up. She adjusted her bag. She walked to the heavy double doors.

She pushed them open.

Harry’s office was massive. It occupied the corner of the building, with floor-to-ceiling glass walls on two sides. London lay spread out below like a toy set.

Harry was standing by the window.

He was wearing a suit identical to the one he wore to the gallary. It was perfectly fitted, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist. He was holding a tumbler of amber liquid. He looked breathtaking. He looked rich. He looked untouchable.

He heard the door close. He turned around.

He saw her.

He froze. The glass lowered slowly in his hand. His eyes swept over her, the coat, the jeans, the cap casting a shadow over her eyes. The contrast between her youthful, cool aesthetic and his severe, corporate surroundings was jarring.

He didn't smile, but his eyes lit up. It was the first time she had seen life in them in weeks.

"You came," he said.

Y/N didn't walk further into the room. She stayed by the door, her hand gripping the strap of her bag.

"Who was she?" she asked.

Harry blinked, confused by the lack of greeting. "Who?"

"The woman," Y/N said, her voice tight. "The blonde. The suit. The one who looked at me like I was the cleaning crew. Is that her? Is that the appropriate choice?"

Harry’s expression hardened. He set his glass down on the window sill with a sharp clink.

"That was Victoria," he said. "She is a client. We are discussing a merger."

"She looked like more than a merger," Y/N accused. "She looked like a Sunday morning. She looked like someone your parents would love."

"She is a bore," Harry said flatly. "She talks about tennis and pension funds."

"So you haven't moved on?" she asked. Her voice wavered slightly, losing its edge. "You aren't... replacing me?"

Harry laughed. It was a dark, humorless sound.

"Replacing you?" he repeated. He walked toward her, stopping just out of reach. He looked at her with an intensity that burned. "Y/N, I have spent the last three weeks staring at a wall and checking your bank account every hour. I went to dinner with that woman once and I left before the main course because she wasn't you. I haven't moved on. I haven't moved an inch."

Y/N let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. The knot in her chest loosened.

"Good," she whispered.

"Good," Harry echoed. He looked her up and down again, this time taking in the outfit with appreciation rather than shock.

"Ideally, I would have sent a courier," Y/N said, recovering her composure and walking further into the room. Her trainers made no sound on the plush grey carpet. "But the item in question is a bit difficult to transport."

Harry’s lips twitched. "Is it?"

"It’s four feet wide, Harry," she said, stopping ten feet from him. "It blocks the bathroom. I have to shimmy past fifty thousand pounds of Danish angst just to brush my teeth."

Harry chuckled. It was a rusty sound, but it was real.

"I thought it matched your mood," he said smoothly.

"It matches the damp spot on the ceiling perfectly," she countered. "Josh wants to sell it on eBay."

"He wouldn't dare."

"He might. He wants to buy a used Ford Fiesta."

Harry grimaced. "Please tell him I will buy him a Fiesta if he promises never to touch the canvas again."

"I’m not here to talk about Josh’s car," Y/N said.

"Why are you here?"

"I’m here to negotiate."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Negotiate? I didn't know we had an open deal."

"We do now."

She walked around the desk. She was now in his space. She was invading his territory just like he had invaded hers at the gallery.

"I have a counter-offer," she said.

Harry turned fully toward her. The playfulness dimmed slightly, replaced by an intense, hungry focus. "I’m listening."

"I am not signing a new contract," she stated.

"Okay."

"I am not taking an allowance for 'services rendered'."

"Okay."

"And I am not living in a schedule," she said. "If I want to see you on a Tuesday, I see you on a Tuesday. If I want to call you at 3 AM because I had a bad dream, I call you. No appointments. No shifts. No walls."

Harry looked at her. He looked at the fire in her eyes under the brim of the cap.

"That sounds chaotic," he murmured.

"It is," she agreed. "It’s messy. It’s unprofessional. It’s completely inefficient."

She took a step closer. She reached up and took off her cap, letting her hair fall around her shoulders. She looked up at him, baring her face.

"But it’s real, Harry. And I think you’re bored of perfect."

Harry stared down at her. He reached out and touched her hair, as if checking she was real.

"I am," he admitted softly. "I am bored to death of perfect. But I am also terrified of the mess.”

He looked up at her, and for the first time, the confident mask cracked completely. He looked vulnerable.

"You have to understand, Y/N... I don't know how to do that," he said, his voice rough. "I have lived my entire adult life in a contract. I understand terms. I understand boundaries. I understand ownership."

He stepped closer, his hands twitching at his sides as if he wanted to reach for her but wasn't sure if he was allowed to.

"I don't know how to do 'real'," he whispered. "I don't know how to handle the chaos without trying to fix it with money. So if we do this... if you want no walls..."

He took a shaky breath.

"You have to go slow with me. You have to be patient. Because this is new to me. And I am going to make mistakes."

Y/N softened. She saw the fear behind the power. He was a master of the universe, but he was a novice at love.

"I can be patient," she whispered. "As long as you are trying."

"I am willing to do anything to get you back," Harry swore. "I will burn the contracts. I will deal with the mess. Just... teach me how to do it."

"Deal," she whispered.

Harry looked at her mouth. He looked at her eyes. He looked like a man who had been holding his breath for a month and was finally exhaling.

"You missed a term," he said.

"Did I?"

"The living arrangements," Harry said, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "The painting doesn't fit in your flat. It’s a health and safety hazard."

"It is," she conceded.

"I have a wall," Harry said, stepping closer until their bodies were almost touching. "In Mayfair. It’s a very large, very empty wall. It needs something pretentious to tie the room together."

Y/N smiled. A genuine, blinding smile.

"Is that a job offer, Mr. Styles?"

"No," Harry said. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against the expensive fabric of his suit. "It’s a plea. Bring the painting back. Bring your toothbrush. Bring the chaos."

He lowered his head.

"Just bring yourself back," he whispered against her lips. "Because I can't survive another week of being appropriate."

"Deal," she whispered.

Harry didn't kiss her immediately.

He rested his forehead against hers, closing his eyes and letting out a shuddering breath that seemed to empty his lungs of all the stress and distance of the last month. His hands moved up her back, large, warm, and firm. One hand slid into her hair, cupping the back of her head, holding her like she was something precious he had almost lost in a fire.

Then, he tilted his head and captured her mouth.

It wasn't aggressive. It wasn't a demand. It was worship.

His lips moved against hers with a slow, devastating tenderness. He kissed her like he was memorizing the shape of her mouth all over again. He tasted like relief. He tasted like home.

Y/N melted into him, her hands clutching the lapels of his jacket, rising on her toes to get closer. The cold, sterile office faded away. The view of London disappeared. There was only the heat of his body and the beat of his heart against her chest.

Harry groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against her lips. He deepened the kiss, pouring every ounce of his fear, his need, and his unspoken love into it. It was a promise signed not in ink, but in breath and skin.

He pulled her tighter until there was no air left between them, kissing her until her knees went weak and she had to cling to him just to stay upright.

Then, the shift happened.

He didn't pull away gently. He tore his mouth from hers with a sharp exhale, his forehead knocking against hers. His hands gripped her waist hard enough to leave marks.

"Three weeks," Harry rasped. It wasn't romantic; it was an accusation. "You vanished for three weeks."

"I had to," Y/N breathed, trying to find her footing. "I had to see if I could do it."

"And?" Harry demanded. He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye. His gaze was dark, dilated, and terrifyingly focused. "Could you?"

"No," she admitted. "I hated it."

Harry let out a rough sound, half-laugh, half-groan.

"You have no idea," he muttered. "You have no idea what you did to me."

He grabbed her hips and lifted her effortlessly, backing her up until she hit the edge of the desk. He set her on top of it, stepping between her legs to get closer. The friction of his expensive suit against her denim jeans sent a jolt of heat straight to her core.

"I stopped going home," Harry confessed. He ran his thumbs over her jawline, holding her face still so she couldn't look away. "I stayed here. I slept on the sofa in the back office."

He leaned in, his nose brushing hers.

"I haven't slept more than three hours a night since you left," he said, his voice low and gritty. "I stare at the ceiling and I wonder where you are. I wonder if you're cold. I wonder if you're with someone else."

"There was no one else," Y/N promised.

"Good," Harry growled. "Because I don't share."

He didn't wait for more words. He crashed his mouth back onto hers.

This wasn't a soft reunion. It was a collision.

He kissed her like he was starving. His mouth was hot and demanding, his tongue sweeping into her mouth with a possessive rhythm that made her head spin. It was messy, desperate, and necessary.

Y/N met him with equal force, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him flush against her. She tangled her fingers in his hair, tugging hard, needing to feel the reality of him.

Harry groaned into her mouth. He tilted her head back, exposing her throat. He buried his face in her neck, but he didn't kiss the skin gently; he bit down lightly on the sensitive cord of muscle, scraping his teeth against her pulse.

"Harry," she gasped, her back arching off the desk.

"I hated it," he murmured against her skin, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss over the spot he had just marked. "I hated every second of the quiet. Don't ever do that to me again."

"I won't," she breathed.

"I mean it," he said, pulling back. His lips were red, his hair was a mess, and his tie was askew. He looked thoroughly unraveled. "We figure it out. We fight. We negotiate. But you don't leave."

"I'm not going anywhere," she swore.

Harry stared at her for a second longer, cataloging the truth in her eyes. Then he nodded—once, sharp and decisive. The mask of control slid back into place, though his eyes remained wild.

He smoothed his tie with a hand that was still shaking slightly.

"Get off the desk," he said, his voice rough. "I'm taking you home."

Harry walked over to the intercom on his desk. He pressed the button with a heavy finger.

"Sophie?"

The assistant’s voice crackled through the speaker, crisp and professional. "Yes, Mr. Styles?"

"Cancel the board meeting," Harry said calmly. "Cancel the dinner with the investors. Cancel tomorrow morning while you are at it."

There was a stunned silence on the other end.

"Sir? The board meeting is regarding the Q3 projections. They are already seated in the conference room."

"Tell them something came up," Harry said. He looked at Y/N. He looked at her messy hair, her oversized coat, and the defiance still lingering in her eyes. "Tell them I am handling a volatile asset."

He released the button.

He grabbed his long wool coat from the rack and shrugged it on over his suit. He buttoned it once, his movements sharp and efficient.

He didn't ask if she was ready. He didn't offer his hand like a gentleman asking for a dance. He reached out and captured her hand. His grip was firm, warm, and absolute. It wasn't an invitation; it was a claim.

He pulled her toward the door.

They walked out of the inner office. Sophie was standing behind her desk, looking pale. She stared at Harry, then at Y/N in her baseball cap and trainers, and finally at Harry’s hand clamped possessively around the girl’s fingers.

"Sir," she stammered. "Should I reschedule for Monday?"

"Yes," Harry said. He didn't stop walking. "And Sophie?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Send someone to the address I am about to text you. There is a large black painting in the hallway. Have it transported to the townhouse. Carefully."

"The... painting, sir?"

"Yes."

Harry guided Y/N into the elevator, his hand moving to the small of her back to usher her in. The doors slid shut on Sophie's bewildered face.

They rode down in silence. It wasn't awkward. It was the charged, heavy silence of two people who had just narrowly avoided a collision.

When the doors opened in the lobby, the security guards straightened up. Usually, Harry walked through the lobby like a ghost—fast, focused on his phone, acknowledging no one.

Today he slowed down.

He kept Y/N firmly at his side. He walked her past the reception desk, past the marble columns, and through the revolving doors out onto the street. He didn't look at anyone else. He made it very clear that the only thing in the building that mattered was the woman wearing the baseball cap.

His driver was waiting at the curb. Harry opened the door for her, waited for her to slide in, and then got in beside her.

"Home," Harry said to the driver.

The car pulled away into the grey London traffic. The interior was quiet, sealed off from the noise of the city.

Y/N leaned back against the leather headrest, the adrenaline finally fading into exhaustion. She turned her head.

Harry was sitting in the corner of the seat, watching her. His arm was resting on the window ledge, his hand covering his mouth as if he was thinking. His eyes were heavy, dark, and unblinking.

"What?" she asked softly.

Harry dropped his hand. He didn't smile.

"I missed you," he said. It was a statement of fact, devoid of poetry.

Y/N let out a small breath, a corner of her mouth ticking up. She reached over and tugged lightly on the end of his tie, which was still crooked from their collision in the office.

"A volatile asset?" she teased softly. "Is that what I am now?"

Harry caught her hand before she could pull away, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. A ghost of a smirk finally touched his lips, bringing the light back into his eyes.

"High risk," he murmured, interlacing their fingers on the leather seat. "But very high reward."

Golden people. Gold-touched lives. Everyone so sure of themselves, so hungry for attention. Cameras flashed in the corner where someone was pretending not to pose. It was beautiful and hollow and exhausting.

His fingers drummed against the stem of his glass.

“Do you hate it that much?”

The voice cut through his thoughts. Soft, amused, female. Different.

He turned slightly and found you leaning toward him, chin propped on your hand, watching him like you’d been doing it for a while.

“Excuse me?” he said, the edge of his accent curling around the words.

“The party,” you said, lips twitching. “You look like you’d rather be hit by a car than finish that wine.”

He let out a short laugh, dry and surprised.

“You’re not wrong.”

You smiled—tilted and knowing—and lifted your own glass toward him in mock salute. “Cheers to being held hostage by fashion royalty.”

“Cheers,” he muttered, clinking your glass with his before taking a sip he didn’t want.

“Let me guess,” you went on, “you got talked into this by someone you couldn’t say no to.”

He gave you a slow look. “That obvious?”

“Only to the other prisoners.”

He should have noticed her earlier.

Not because she was loud or glittering or trying to be seen—quite the opposite, in fact. She was still, poised, like the eye of a storm. Not the kind of stunning that shouted. The kind that crept up on you slowly, then all at once, like an ache in your chest you only noticed when it was too late.

Her dress was simple. Black, maybe navy, with thin straps and a low back. Nothing flashy—yet it hugged her in a way that made his throat tighten. Her skin glowed under the soft chandelier light, and her hair was pinned up with a few loose strands curling against her neck. She wore no jewelry, except for a thin gold ring on her middle finger and a watch that looked vintage.

Harry blinked. How had he missed her?

He was usually more observant than this. But then again, he’d spent the first half of the night counting down the seconds until he could leave.

Now he found himself leaning in, just slightly.

“You work for Alessandro?” he asked, voice low, suddenly curious. Genuinely curious.

Her eyes, ringed with a subtle sweep of liner, flicked up to meet his. “Mm. Assistant designer.”

“Dream job?”

She tilted her head. “It was.”

Something about the way she said it made him pause.

“And now?”

“Now I’d kill for a glass of water, a hot shower, and a bed that isn’t covered in tulle and half-finished sketches.” She smiled, not bitter—just tired. “But yes. Still the dream.”

He huffed a soft breath of a laugh through his nose. “So, what—you didn’t want to be here either?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Please. I came straight from backstage. I’ve been in four-inch heels since six in the morning. I didn’t even know this dinner was happening until someone shoved a change of clothes at me and said, ‘Smile, you’re going to dinner with celebrities.’”

Harry grinned. “I’m honored.”

“You should be.” She took another sip of wine, then set the glass down and leaned her cheek into her palm again, eyes on him. “But I still would’ve rather gone home.”

He let his eyes linger on her face now, less guarded than before. There was a smudge of fatigue beneath her left eye, just beneath the makeup. Her lipstick had worn off in the center. Her posture was relaxed, casual in the way only people who don’t care to impress can be.

It was disarming.

“You know,” he said slowly, “I think I finally found someone at this table I don’t want to strangle.”

A soft laugh slipped from her lips, not practiced like the others he’d heard tonight. Real.

“Careful,” she said, eyes dancing. “That almost sounded like flirting.”

He tilted his head, lips twitching. “Almost?”

“You’ll have to try harder, Styles.”

And for the first time all evening, he didn’t want to leave.

They stayed there for hours.

The party thinned out slowly, the glamorous slipping away in pairs and groups, laughter trailing like perfume in their wake. Alessandro blew Harry a kiss across the table before disappearing with someone whose name Harry didn’t catch.

But she stayed.

And so did he.

They talked. About the collection. About the chaos backstage. About their favorite places in Italy—hers, a tiny coastal town she refused to name, as if sharing it would make it too real.

He told her he was tired. Not just tonight, but lately. Tired of being watched. Of being on. Of people calling his name who didn’t know him at all.

She didn’t pity him. She just nodded, like she understood something deeper than he’d said aloud.

At some point, her shoes came off. She tucked her legs beneath her on the velvet banquette, wine forgotten, chin resting on her hand again. Her lipstick had vanished entirely, and the pins in her hair were starting to fall. There was a thread coming loose at the hem of her dress, and she didn’t seem to care.

She was stunning. Devastating, even.

He didn’t flirt. Not really. The mood had changed. Something softer had settled in the space between them—something quieter than attraction, heavier than curiosity. He didn’t want to charm her. He just wanted to keep her talking.

But then her phone buzzed.

She glanced at it, sighed. “I’ve got an 8 a.m. fitting. I should—”

“Yeah,” he said, though he didn’t mean it.

She slipped her shoes back on, slow and reluctant, then stood and smoothed her dress. He stood, too, just to feel a little less like a fool.

She reached for her coat, but he caught it first and held it out for her.

“Thank you,” she murmured as she slid her arms into the sleeves.

There was a moment. A brief one. She turned to face him, eyes flicking up to meet his, her breath caught halfway through some unspoken sentence. She looked like she was going to say something more.

But she didn’t.

“Goodnight, Harry,” was all she said instead.

He watched her walk out of the private room and through the ornate archway until she disappeared completely.

He didn’t ask for her number.

And the moment passed.

He was supposed to leave Milan the next morning.

Supposed to escape to the quiet hills of Tuscany, to sun-drenched stone walls and good wine and solitude. That had been the plan.

But now—now all he could see was the curve of her smile under chandelier light. The faintest crease in her brow when she talked about working too hard. The tiny scar on her wrist she hadn’t noticed him noticing. The way she looked at him like she saw him, not the version of him everyone else paraded around.

He couldn’t get her out of his head.

And it drove him mad.

By noon, he’d canceled his flight.

The next morning, Harry sat on the edge of the hotel bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the half-packed suitcase in front of him.

She hadn’t even told him her name.

He didn’t know why that bothered him most. Maybe because it made the whole thing feel like a dream—unreal, hazy around the edges. Like if he blinked too long, he’d forget the sound of her laugh. The way she’d looked at him across the table, unfazed and uninterested in everything except the conversation between them.

He picked up his phone before he could talk himself out of it.

“Alessandro” answered on the second ring.

“Tesoro,” he said in that theatrical lilt that meant he hadn’t looked at the caller ID but assumed it was someone who owed him something. “If this is about last night, I—”

“It’s Harry.”

A beat.

“Ah. Mio caro. You survived.”

“Barely.” Harry exhaled, thumb rubbing against the hem of his T-shirt. “Listen. Can I—can I come by the atelier?”

Alessandro paused. “Why?”

“I just…” He hesitated, then chose honesty. “I met someone. I think she works with you.”

That caught his attention.

“Oh,” Alessandro said, drawing the word out with interest now. “La ragazza. You mean the one with the tired eyes and the sharp tongue?”

Harry’s lips twitched despite himself. “That’s the one.”

“Mmm. She’s good. Too good for us, really. Always trying to fix everything. Always working too hard.” He clicked his tongue. “You want me to give you her number?”

Harry hesitated. “No. I’ll just… drop by. If that’s okay.”

There was a pause on the line. Then Alessandro said, suddenly enthusiastic, “Actually, it’s perfect. I’ve got a few pieces I want to try out. I need a body that photographs like sin.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but smiled. “That’s a yes, then?”

“Come in after lunch. But don’t distract my staff, capito?”

Harry ended the call, stomach churning with something too restless to name.

The atelier smelled like steam, fabric glue, and espresso.

When Harry walked through the glass double doors, heads turned instantly. Conversations stuttered mid-sentence. A model standing near the sewing station almost dropped her coffee. One of the interns gasped audibly and clutched a pin cushion to her chest like a shield.

Harry was used to being stared at. But this felt different—more intimate. Like they hadn’t expected him here, in this space. And truthfully, he hadn’t expected it either.

He wore wide-leg black trousers and a soft ivory button-down left slightly open at the chest. The fabric fluttered as he walked, breezy and effortless. His sunglasses were tucked into the collar. His sleeves rolled up messily to his elbows. Tattoos peeked through like secrets.

He looked like someone who didn’t belong in a workspace—but owned it anyway.

“Dio santo,”Alessandro’s voice echoed from the back of the room. “Someone tell me I didn’t die and go to heaven.”

Harry turned just as his friend appeared dramatically from behind a curtain of unfinished muslin, arms open wide.

“Still so dramatic,” Harry drawled.

“And yet you’re the one walking into my atelier dressed like a poet who fucks.”

Harry barked out a laugh. A few interns nearby did too, before pretending to be horrified with themselves.

Alessandro clapped a hand on his shoulder and pulled him in for a kiss on both cheeks. “You look good. Tired. But good.”

“Long night.”

“Was she that good?” Alessandro winked, already walking him toward the back of the studio. “Come. I’ll make you a coffee. You can tell me everything—slowly, and with descriptions.”

“I didn’t sleep with her.”

Alessandro turned around so fast his oversized rings clicked against each other.

“You what?”

“I talked to her. That’s it.”

“And now you’re here, stalking her at work?”

Harry gave him a look. “Not stalking.”

“Obsessing?”

“…Maybe.”

Alessandro beamed, pleased. “You really are a poet.”

They passed bolts of fabric, mannequins mid-draped, and models half-dressed for fittings. A few assistants whispered and turned away quickly when Harry caught their eye. The space was loud but focused—everyone moving, measuring, correcting, perfecting.

When they reached the back office, Harry paused.

His eyes had caught something.

It was on the worktable—half-buried under fabric swatches, loose sketches, and someone’s espresso cup. A sheet of paper with sharp pencil strokes and smudged charcoal, clearly drawn quickly. Instinctively.

A sketch

Of him.

It wasn’t perfect—his jaw was too sharp, and the slope of his nose exaggerated—but it was him. The shirt he’d worn last night. The curve of his hand wrapped around the stem of a wine glass. The thoughtful tilt of his head.

It was him, seen through someone else’s eyes.

“She did that?” he asked quietly.

Alessandro leaned in, raised a brow, then laughed. “Dio. She said she couldn’t sleep.”

Harry didn’t say anything for a second. He just kept looking.

She’d shaded the eyes last. It was the only part of the sketch untouched by smudges. Carefully defined. Focused.

As if she’d started drawing a stranger and ended up sketching someone she couldn’t look away from.

“You’re in trouble,” Alessandro murmured, watching him.

Harry didn’t argue.

The sketch sat between them like it had a heartbeat.

Harry’s fingers hovered just above the edge of the paper, not touching, not daring to. It felt too personal—like reading a diary he hadn’t been meant to find.

“She sees things,” he murmured, voice lower now.

Alessandro leaned against the edge of the desk, arms crossed, watching him with interest. “Mmhmm. That’s what makes her so good. She notices what others miss. Details. Stillness.”

Harry swallowed. His gaze lingered on the slope of the sketch’s neck, the way she’d captured the slight tilt of his head. He hadn’t even known he’d sat like that. Had she been watching him the whole time?

“I have to go back to Tuscany,” he said after a long silence.

Alessandro sighed, almost theatrically. “Always running away to your Tuscan hills. You and your romantic recluse act.”

“I need the quiet.”

“And yet… here you are,” he said, gesturing loosely to the sketch, to the space between them filled with something unsaid. “Chasing the girl who kept you talking all night.”

Harry didn’t deny it.

“I want to know her,” he said, soft but firm. “But how do I ask her that? It’s Milan Fashion Week. She’s working herself into the ground. Everyone wants something from someone here.”

Alessandro tilted his head. “And what would you want from her?”

Harry exhaled slowly. “A name. A real conversation. Not the kind that disappears when the wine wears off.”

His friend studied him for a moment. Then, instead of teasing, he said with rare quiet, “Then wait. Let her breathe. You’re not the only one who hasn’t stopped moving.”

Harry gave him a look. “You’re unusually wise today.”

“I’ve been moisturized, well-fed, and slightly tipsy since nine a.m. I’m glowing with clarity.”

Harry huffed a laugh, leaning back slightly, eyes still on the sketch.

The rest of the atelier buzzed around them, models being pinned into half-finished garments, music humming low, scissors snipping in rhythm. But in this small corner of it all, time felt still.

Harry didn’t know her name.

But he knew how she saw the world. And he wasn’t sure he’d ever had someone look at him like that before.

Y/N pushed the atelier door open with her shoulder, arms full of garment bags, phone pressed to her ear, and a headache blooming just behind her right temple.

“No, I didn’t forget the zippers,” she hissed into the phone. “I reminded Martina three times—yes, okay, I’ll check again. I’m literally walking in right now—”

She stopped.

Mid-step. Mid-sentence.

The call disconnected without her even realizing it.

He was there.

Standing near the back of the room, in soft sunlight streaming through the tall windows, his sleeves still rolled to his elbows, one hand lazily tucked into the pocket of his black trousers.

Harry Styles.

From the dinner party.

From the night that hadn’t left her mind since she’d walked away from it.

He was staring at something on the table. Her table.

No—her sketch.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

For a second, the atelier faded. The sewing machines, the models rehearsing runway turns, the steady hum of caffeine-fueled assistants. It all went still.

He looked up slowly. Like he’d felt her walk in.

His eyes met hers across the room. And for a second, neither of them moved.

Then Alessandro appeared beside him with a dramatic little flourish, voice ringing across the floor.

“Amore! You’re late. He’s been waiting.”

“Waiting?” Her voice came out softer than she meant, throat still tight.

Alessandro grinned. “Yes. For you.”

Her stomach flipped.

Harry straightened but didn’t come closer. He didn’t speak yet, either. Just watched her. His expression unreadable, but his eyes were soft. Curious. A little uncertain. The same way they’d looked across the dinner table the night before, in the quiet lull between laughter and the end of something unfinished.

Y/N crossed the floor carefully, trying not to trip over herself—or her thoughts.

She stopped a few feet away. Close enough to see the faint smile at the corner of his mouth. Close enough to see that he was holding the sketch now.

The paper looked delicate in his hands.

“I didn’t think you’d…” she started, then stopped. “I didn’t know you were still in Milan.”

“I wasn’t supposed to be,” he said.

“And now?”

His eyes met hers again. Calm. Clear.

“I changed my plans.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. The atelier felt too loud. The moment too quiet.

Then he held out the sketch to her.

“I don’t usually let people see me like this,” he said. “But you already have.”

Y/N stared at him, pulse fluttering wildly in her chest.

Somewhere near them, Alessandro sighed and muttered, “I swear to God, if you two don’t kiss by Friday, I’m firing someone.”

Neither of them laughed.

They were still staring.

Waiting.

Y/N felt heat creep up the back of her neck.

It was ridiculous—blushing, at her big age, in the middle of Milan Fashion Week, in front of Harry Styles holding her sketch like it meant something.

But he was looking at her like it did.

His eyes dipped back down to the page, then up again, and she knew—knew—he recognized the vulnerability in it. Not just his likeness. Her gaze. How she’d seen him.

She didn’t know how to explain that. Or if she even wanted to.

“Scusate!” Alessandro called out, breaking the tension with the subtlety of a cannon blast. “Enough of the romantic staring. We have clothes to fit and muses to dress!”

Y/N blinked, startled.

Alessandro waved dramatically toward a nearby rack. “The garments for Harry are there—adjustment pile. I need you to help him try them on. And be gentle, he bruises like a peach.”

“I do not,” Harry said mildly, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Go on, go on,” Alessandro pushed, already turning on his heel like he had six more crises to attend to. “Take him to the blue room. Away from the nosy eyes and gossiping mouths.”

Y/N hesitated, then moved toward the rack, pulling out the few pieces with Harry’s name labeled in chalk on the tags. When she turned, he was already beside her.

“Blue room?” he asked, voice low and warm.

She nodded, trying to play it cool. “This way.”

They walked together down the hallway—past racks of sequins and silk, assistants threading needles, interns whispering in corners. She could feel the glances, but no one dared say anything with Harry next to her.

She opened the door to the blue room—a fitting space draped in soft navy velvet, with tall antique mirrors, gold hooks on the walls, and a plush settee in the corner.

It was quiet.

Safe.

She set the clothes on a nearby stool, then turned to him, still blushing but trying not to show it.

“I can step out if you want to change.”

He shook his head gently. “Only if you want to.”

Y/N hesitated—long enough for the air to grow heavier between them.

Then she crossed to the wall and busied herself with unzipping one of the garment bags.

Behind her, she heard the soft rustle of fabric, the click of buttons.

Neither of them said a word.

But the silence wasn’t awkward.

It was full.

Of everything they hadn’t said the night before.

Y/N kept her eyes fixed on the garment bag even after the zipper was all the way down.

She could hear him behind her—slow, unhurried movements as he peeled off his shirt. Fabric slipping from skin. The rustle of trousers. A belt unlooped.

She swallowed and cleared her throat lightly. “We’ll start with the navy wool suit. Alessandro’s trying to decide between that and the double-breasted.”

“Which one’s yours?” Harry asked, voice low and casual, but something in it tugged.

She turned to face him and felt her breath hitch for half a second.

He stood in just his boxers, toned and freckled and barefoot on the velvet carpet. His tattoos looked darker in this light, ink swimming across golden skin. He didn’t smirk, didn’t tease—just looked at her like he wanted to know the answer.

She held out the navy jacket first.

“That one,” she said. “I adjusted the silhouette last week. Softer at the waist. You’re broader than the model who fit it originally.”

Harry stepped forward, close enough that she had to tilt her chin up slightly.

She lifted the jacket, letting him slide his arms into it. He moved slowly, watching her face the whole time. When she reached to smooth the fabric at his shoulders, her fingers brushed the warm curve of his neck.

He didn’t flinch.

Neither did she.

Her hands trailed down to the lapels, tugging gently, then smoothing them flat. She could feel his breath now. Could smell whatever cologne clung faintly to his skin—clean and woodsy and a little sinful.

“Too tight?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“No,” he said. “Feels good.”

She glanced up and met his eyes—greener than they had any right to be, soft at the edges.

He didn’t look away.

“Pants next,” she said, trying to gather the tension and place it somewhere more manageable—like professionalism. But her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the waistband of the trousers and held them out.

He stepped closer to take them, and when his fingers brushed hers, it was brief.

But not forgettable.

He turned, and stepped into the trousers. She waited, staring down at her hands as if they might do something stupid on their own.

When he turned back, the pants hung too low at the hips.

“Come here,” she murmured, reaching for a box of pins on the small table nearby. “I need to mark the waist.”

He stepped toward her again, and she knelt slightly, fingers brushing the waistband, folding the fabric gently before pinning it.

His breath caught when her hand brushed the sharp line of his hip.

She looked up at him—so close now her breath stirred the fabric of his shirt.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

He looked down at her, lips parted.

“No,” he said, without hesitation. “Not really.”

The pin hovered in her fingers, forgotten.

Her fingers still rested lightly against the waistband of his trousers, pin tucked into the fabric but forgotten.

Harry was looking down at her like he was trying to memorize the shape of her face. Not in a performative way. Not like a man used to getting what he wanted. More like someone who had stumbled into something unexpected—and didn’t want to move too fast and ruin it.

Y/N swallowed.

She was still crouched just enough to be level with his chest, close enough to feel his body heat roll off of him in quiet waves.

“Not really?” she repeated, voice barely above a whisper.

Harry let out a slow breath through his nose.

“I thought I’d forget you when I left that dinner.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his.

He wasn’t smiling.

“I told myself it was just the wine. The lighting. The moment,” he said, voice soft and steady. “But I haven’t stopped thinking about you. Not for one second.”

The pin slipped from her hand, landing soundlessly on the carpet between them.

Her hand remained against the fold of his trousers, unmoving.

“I don’t even know your name,” he added, like it physically pained him to admit it.

She blinked slowly. Her voice, when it came, was quiet—delicate around the edges.

“Y/N.”

His lips parted. He said it once, just to feel it. Like a secret he’d been dying to be told.

“Y/N,” he repeated. “You said goodnight like you didn’t want me to follow.”

“I didn’t,” she murmured. “Because I didn’t think you would.”

Silence bloomed again, thick and real.

She stood slowly, rising to meet him.

Now they were eye to eye.

The pinned waistband rested between them. Her hands hovered, unsure whether to stay or fall away. But he didn’t move. Didn’t break eye contact.

“You still leaving for Tuscany?” she asked quietly.

He studied her for a long moment. Then, with a small breath:

“Not yet.”

And somehow, that said everything.

Before either of them could say another word—before Harry could reach for her, or she could step back and figure out what to do with the storm suddenly curling in her chest—the door burst open.

“Dio mio, do I have to do everything myself—”

Alessandro froze in the doorway, a bolt of silk slung dramatically over one arm, an iPad in the other, sunglasses still perched on top of his head like a crown.

He blinked at the scene in front of him.

Y/N standing a breath away from Harry, her hands still near his waist. Harry staring at her like she held every answer to questions he hadn’t known he was asking.

Alessandro’s gaze flicked to the fallen pin on the floor. To the tension thick enough to cut with his shears.

“Oh,” he said simply. “Oh.”

Harry stepped back a little, but not far. His fingers grazed the hem of the jacket, suddenly all too aware of how exposed he still was.

Y/N blinked fast, like she’d been yanked out of a dream.

Alessandro didn’t even pretend to hide his smirk. “Should I… come back later? Or bring champagne and officiate?”

Y/N flushed. “I was just pinning the trousers.”

“Of course you were,” he said with a dramatic wink. “And I’m just here for the invisible lining specifications.”

Harry cleared his throat. “You needed something?”

“Oh yes!” Alessandro snapped back into motion, waving the iPad like it held state secrets. “The double-breasted. We need to compare it with the navy one. And also—press people are asking if you’re still in Milan and where you are. I told them you were having a moment of spiritual clarity and couldn’t be disturbed.

“Thanks,” Harry said dryly.

“Anytime, tesoro mio.”

Y/N was already bending to retrieve the pin, carefully smoothing her features back into neutral.

But something had shifted.

Harry saw it in the way her hands moved more slowly now. The way she didn’t quite meet his eyes.

And he hated that they’d been interrupted.

Alessandro handed over the second jacket, still talking, oblivious to the invisible thread still pulling tight between the two of them.

But Harry knew.

So did she.

The rest of the fitting passed in a blur.

Y/N did her job—focused, efficient, eyes trained on fabric, not him. But Harry felt her in every moment. In the way her hand brushed his sleeve when she adjusted the shoulder seam. In the way she quietly handed him a glass of water while Alessandro chattered away about lapels and runways. In the way she never quite looked at him the same after that moment in the blue room.

By mid-afternoon, the atelier had thinned out. Models gone. Garments tagged and bagged. Lights dimmer now, casting warm amber shadows across the floor.

Harry stood near the back hallway, one hand in his pocket, the other idly playing with a pin she’d left behind on a table.

He heard her before he saw her.

Her steps were softer now. Slower. Less hurried.

She turned the corner and froze, a tote slung over one shoulder, her phone in hand.

“You’re still here?” she asked softly.

He looked up. “Didn’t feel like leaving.”

A beat passed.

Then: “You always this persistent?”

Harry tilted his head, lips curling. “Only when I’m interested.”

She leaned against the wall across from him, the distance between them quiet and humming. The hum of two people who hadn’t let go of the moment, even after the door had slammed open and the world had resumed spinning.

“I wasn’t expecting you today,” she said.

“I wasn’t expecting you last night.”

Her eyes flicked up. Met his. Steadier this time.

He took a small step closer.

“I meant what I said,” he told her. “About not being able to forget you.”

She exhaled slowly, as if trying to keep her chest from shaking. “Why me?”

Harry looked at her like it was obvious.

“Because you didn’t try to be anything you’re not. Not last night. Not today. And because I liked the way you looked at me.”

She blinked.

“That sketch,” he said quietly.

Her throat bobbed.

“I didn’t think you’d ever see it.”

“I don’t think I was supposed to,” he added. “But I’m glad I did.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

It was weighty.

Soft.

Important.

Y/N shifted slightly, hugging her tote tighter to her shoulder.

“I’m not good at this,” she admitted. “Whatever this is.”

Harry smiled. “Neither am I.”

Another beat.

Then she said, voice quieter than before, “I get off at eight.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly.

She shrugged. “There’s a café two blocks down. No cameras. Good pastries. Better wine.”

Harry nodded. “I’ll be there.”

She turned to go, then paused, glancing back once over her shoulder.

“Wear something less poetic.”

He laughed, eyes crinkling. “No promises.”

And just like the night before, she walked away.

But this time, he had her name.

And a place to find her.

The café sat on a quiet side street tucked behind an ivy-covered wall, the kind of place that didn’t bother with signs or menus in English. Inside, it smelled like espresso, warm bread, and rain-soaked stone.

Harry got there first.

He chose a table near the window—half-shadowed, half-lit by the amber glow of a single pendant lamp above. The table was small. Intimate. Like the whole place was built to protect secrets.

He wore a dark sweater this time. Hair tousled, sleeves pushed up, rings clinking gently as he turned his wine glass between his fingers. He hadn’t touched the drink.

He was waiting.

At 8:04, the door creaked open.

Y/N stepped in, cheeks flushed from the chill outside, her coat slightly damp at the shoulders. She looked like she didn’t belong in the curated dimness of Milan’s fashion scene. She looked like something real walking into a dream.

He stood as she approached.

“You came,” he said quietly.

“You waited,” she replied, slipping her coat off and draping it on the back of the chair. “That’s rare.”

He sat. Watched her settle in. She wore a soft grey sweater, sleeves too long, the neckline a little stretched. Bare-faced, tired, beautiful.

“I wanted to see you like this,” he said, almost without meaning to. “When you’re not working. Not running.”

She tilted her head. “And what do you see?”

Harry considered her for a long moment. “Someone I want to keep learning.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

It was warm.

Grounded.

The waitress brought them wine, then disappeared like she knew better than to linger.

They talked. About nothing and everything. Favorite songs. Childhood cities. Her first sketch that got noticed. His first panic attack on tour. The kind of conversation that skipped small talk entirely and went straight to the parts people usually hide.

By the time they finished the second glass, the café had emptied out.

A bell chimed quietly as someone left. It was just them now, shadows long, voices low.

Y/N looked down at her glass, fingers tracing the rim. “This feels like a mistake,” she whispered.

Harry’s brows pulled together. “Why?”

“Because it feels too easy. And nothing good in my life has ever felt easy.”

He reached across the table, hand brushing hers. Slowly. Not to hold it. Just to be near.

“Maybe this time it’s not a trick,” he said. “Maybe it’s just… timing.”

She looked up at him.

And for once, she didn’t look away.

Her hand turned, gently curling around his. The touch was light, like a promise not to rush.

He stood then, still holding her gaze, and walked around to her side of the table.

She looked up at him, eyes wide, but not nervous.

He reached for her—slowly, giving her time.

And when she didn’t stop him, he leaned in.

The kiss was soft. Careful. His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing just beneath her ear. Her lips parted slightly in surprise, then eased into his like they’d been waiting all day. All week.

It didn’t last long.

But it said everything.

When they pulled apart, her eyes were still closed for a beat longer than his.

“You’re not going to disappear after this, are you?” she whispered.

He smiled, thumb still against her skin.

“No,” he said. “Not this time.”

The has changed everything.

But there was no dramatic shift. No confession. No morning spent tangled in bedsheets. Just a quiet parting in front of the café, a lingering glance, a smile that meant this isn’t over, and the warmth of his hand briefly resting on her back as he helped her into her coat.

But after that, something softened between them.

It began with messages.

Late at night. Between fittings and castings. Between hotel rooms and crowded trams.

H: Still thinking about that lemon tart you didn’t let me try.

Y/N: You could’ve asked instead of staring at it like a Victorian orphan.

H: Are you always this mean to people you kiss?

Y/N: Only the ones who show up in perfect lighting and ruin my concentration.

Then, it became time.

Shared quietly. Without labels. Without plans.

She stopped being surprised when he’d show up at the atelier with espresso and fresh cornetti.

He stopped being surprised when she showed up at his flat on a Wednesday night, hair in a bun, sketchbook under her arm, and no explanation at all.

It became a rhythm.

Late dinners in his temporary apartment—sometimes pasta, sometimes toast, sometimes nothing but red wine and stolen bites of chocolate. They’d sit on the floor with the windows open, music low, the city humming below.

She’d draw while he played her records. He’d watch her from the couch, fascinated by the way her mouth twisted when she concentrated, how her hands smudged graphite across her cheek.

He never kissed her again—not yet.

But he wanted to.

Every time she leaned close to show him a sketch.

Every time she laughed and touched his knee like it was nothing.

Every time she fell asleep beside him on the sofa, curled in his hoodie, toes tucked under his thigh, trusting him completely.

One night, they sat together on the balcony, shoulders brushing, a blanket wrapped loosely around both of them.

It had started to rain—just lightly, Milan glistening below.

She was quiet. Tired. Her cheek resting on his shoulder. The kind of tired that wasn’t just physical, but lived-in. The kind that came from carrying too much alone.

Harry didn’t speak.

He just let her be there.

With him.

He reached for her hand eventually, sliding his fingers between hers without looking down.

She didn’t pull away.

Instead, she said, voice low and unguarded, “I’m not used to this.”

He turned his head, brushing his lips to her hair.

“To what?”

“This,” she murmured. “The quiet. The kindness. The… waiting.”

Harry gave her hand the gentlest squeeze.

“I’m not in a rush,” he said.

And he meant it.

Because the truth was, he wanted to wait.

He wanted to stay in this moment.

Where nothing had to be said.

Where the kiss still lingered, unspoken.

Where the closeness meant more than anything they could’ve done in a single night.

It started with a headline.

She didn’t even see it first—Martina did, shoving her phone in Y/N’s face as they passed bolts of silk in the atelier’s back corridor.

“Who’s Milan’s Mystery Muse? Harry Styles Spotted Leaving Hidden Flat Night After Night.”

Below it: grainy, zoomed-in photos. A hand that could be hers. A blur of her coat. The outline of Harry’s profile as he stepped into the building’s side entrance.

“Is this you?” Martina asked, wide-eyed.

Y/N stared, heart dropping into her stomach.

Alessandro appeared minutes later, sunglasses pushed to the top of his head, iPad under one arm, espresso in hand. His usual chaotic energy was buzzing on a different frequency now—less flamboyant, more serious.

“I told you to be careful,” he said quietly, pulling her aside.

“I was.”

“Not careful enough. They always find you, cara. Especially when the man you’re seeing has a face made for Vogue covers and half the world on alert.”

Y/N closed her eyes for a second.

“It’s just gossip,” she said. “There’s nothing confirmed.”

“Exactly. Which means they’ll dig deeper.”

Alessandro sighed and placed his espresso down with too much force. “I can’t have drama around the show right now. I love him, but if this leaks further—if they start naming names—you will be the one who pays for it. Not him.”

She knew he was right.

That night, she didn’t go to Harry’s apartment.

She didn’t answer his text.

Or the one after that.

H: Did I do something wrong?

H: Is this about the article? I can make it go away.

H: Say something, yeah?

It wasn’t until the following evening that she finally gave in.

The city was loud outside. Her thoughts louder.

She stood outside his apartment building for ten full minutes before buzzing up.

When the door finally opened, he stood there barefoot, in joggers and a threadbare hoodie, curls pushed back from his face, tired written across his eyes.

He didn’t say anything.

Neither did she.

Not until she stepped inside and the door clicked shut behind her.

Then: “They found us.”

Harry didn’t look surprised. “They always do.”

“I didn’t sign up for that.”

“I know.”

“I work here,” she said. “In this world. I can’t afford to be the reason people talk. Not like that.”

Harry crossed the room slowly, voice steady but quiet. “You think I don’t know that?”

She blinked, stunned by the flicker of pain in his expression.

“I’ve spent years keeping people at arm’s length for exactly this reason,” he said. “But then you showed up. And for the first time in a long time… I didn’t want to.”

Silence bloomed between them again.

Then—softly:

“I missed you last night.”

Her chest ached.

“I was scared,” she admitted. “I still am.”

He stepped closer.

“Then stay scared with me,” he said gently. “I’ll wait. I’ll protect it. I won’t let them turn it into something it’s not.”

She looked up at him.

“I told you that I don’t know how to do this.”

Harry gave a soft smile. “We don’t have to know. We just have to keep choosing it.”

Another long beat.

Then, finally, her hand reached for his.

Their fingers laced together. Solid. Sure.

He didn’t kiss her right away — just looked at her like he was taking a photograph. Something in his expression said, This is the moment I’ll think about when you’re not here.

She stepped into his space, heart slamming behind her ribs.

“I don’t want to leave,” she whispered.

“Then don’t,” he said again — softer this time. Like a plea. “Stay. Just tonight.”

The walk to the couch felt like crossing into something irreversible. Neither rushed. Neither said a word.

When he finally kissed her, it wasn’t hesitant. It was slow but certain. Like he knew now — that she wanted him just as much, that she wasn’t going to disappear again.

Their mouths moved like they’d been made for this rhythm. Her hands curled behind his neck, into his hair, pulling him closer. His lips dragged down the column of her throat, over the hinge of her jaw.

He groaned softly against her skin. “You always smell this good?”

She smiled against his cheek. “Maybe you’re just obsessed.”

“God help me,” he muttered, mouth pressed to her collarbone. “I think I am.”

They sank into the couch in a tangle of limbs, heat blooming between them like a spark finally catching. His hands moved with reverence, palms splaying wide over her sides, thumbs brushing beneath the curve of her breasts as if asking, Can I?

She nodded. “Touch me, Harry.”

His breath caught.

He pushed her shirt up, dragging it over her head in one slow motion. She wore no bra. His lips parted like he’d forgotten how to speak.

“Jesus Christ.”

She flushed — and not from modesty. From the way he was looking at her. Like her body was art, something rare and unspeakably precious.

“Come here,” she whispered, pulling him in again.

His mouth latched to her breast with a groan, hand cupping the other as his tongue circled her nipple slowly, then suckled. She gasped, arching into his touch, fingers tightening in his hair.

“Fuck,” she whimpered. “That feels…”

“Yeah?” he asked, voice thick, mouth hot against her skin. “Tell me.”

She grabbed his hand, slid it down the slope of her belly, into the waistband of her jeans.

“Want your fingers.”

He exhaled sharply, eyes flicking to hers as he popped the button open. “Yeah darlin’? Been thinking about this?”

“All week,” she admitted, breathless.

He kissed her hard, groaning into her mouth as he pushed her jeans down, tugging her panties along with them. She kicked them off without grace.

His hand found her again — bare now, soft and slick and so warm.

“Fucking hell,” he breathed. “You’re soaked.”

She jerked in his grip when he dragged two fingers through her folds, teasing over her clit.

“Harry—”

“Shhh,” he soothed, kissing her jaw. “Let me make you feel good. I want to know what you sound like when you fall apart.”

Her eyes fluttered closed as his fingers slid inside — not rushed, just deep. Full. Familiar, but so much better like this.

He fucked her slow with his hand, thumb circling her clit in just the right way, his mouth on her neck, whispering praise between every shaky breath.

“You’re perfect like this, d’you know that? So fucking beautiful, so tight around me…”

Her thighs trembled. “I’m close—oh my god—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Come for me, baby. Come on, let me see it.”

She shattered in his arms with a gasp, legs clenching, hips bucking into his hand.

He didn’t pull away until she whimpered from the sensitivity.

Then he kissed her — deep, open-mouthed, like he was starving.

“Need to be inside you,” he rasped, forehead pressed to hers. “Need it so bad.”

She reached down, palm brushing over his bulge through his boxers. “Then take me.”

He didn’t move for a moment — just looked at her like she’d handed him something he didn’t deserve.

“You’re sure?”

She nodded. “Harry. I want all of you.”

That broke him.

“Condom?” she asked softly, already reaching for her bag.

“I’ve got it,” he murmured, voice tight, kissing her jaw as he stood long enough to grab a condom from his wallet, yanking his boxers down, cock flushed and leaking, so hard it looked painful, “Been carrying one around like an idiot. Just in case.”

She laughed—quiet and breathless.

She sat up, breath catching as she watched him roll it on. “Jesus.”

Harry laughed, low and wrecked. “Don’t look at me like that or this’ll be over too fast.”

He climbed back over her, kissing her lips, her jaw, her throat.

“Tell me how you like it,” he whispered against her skin. “Tell me what feels good.”

“I don’t care,” she gasped. “Just—want to feel you.”

He nudged at her entrance, pushed in slow — so fucking slow — and cursed as her body stretched around him, taking him inch by inch.

“You’re—fuck—you feel unreal.”

Her hands fumbled for him, needing to hold something as he bottomed out.

They stilled together, both breathing hard.

Then he began to move.

Rhythmic, smooth, dragging every ounce of pleasure out of every stroke. She whimpered beneath him, gripping his arms, nails biting into his skin.

“Faster,” she whispered.

“You sure?”

“Yes, god—Harry—please—”

He obeyed.

The sound of skin on skin filled the room, along with her moans, his low grunts, the sharp edge of his voice every time he said her name like a prayer.

She pulled him down, kissing him desperately. “Don’t stop. I’m—shit—I’m gonna—”

He reached between them, thumb circling her clit again, and she came with a sob, clenched around him so tight he had to stop moving for a second.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna come—”

“Got you,” he groaned, thrusting once, twice more before spilling into the condom, his body going rigid above her, head bowed, hair falling into his face.

When he collapsed beside her, he pulled her into his arms immediately, breath still uneven.

They stayed that way for minutes — nothing but skin and breath and warmth.

She pressed a kiss to his chest.

“I think we just broke the world,” she whispered.

Harry laughed, hoarse and happy. “I’d do it again.”

Y/N woke slowly.

Not to an alarm. Not to the click of her heels across the tiled hallway of the atelier. Not to the dull ache behind her eyes from lack of sleep or too much wine.

But to warmth.

Soft sheets. The smell of Harry’s skin. Her cheek pressed to his chest, his arm curled securely around her back, his fingers tangled in her hair like he hadn’t let go all night.

She blinked, heart heavy with something she didn’t know how to name yet.

Harry was still asleep — or half-asleep, at least. His breathing was slow, steady. His lips slightly parted. The corners of his mouth curled just enough that she could tell his dreams weren’t bad.

She watched him for a long moment.

The room was bright now. Morning light poured in through the slatted blinds, casting soft golden stripes across the hardwood floor. His coat was still draped over the armchair where she’d thrown it. One of her earrings glinted on the floor. Her clothes were in a heap by the couch.

They’d never made it to the bed.

She smiled to herself.

Carefully, she shifted, propping herself up on one elbow to get a better look at him. The angles of his jaw, the curve of his neck, the tiny pink scratch near his shoulder she hadn’t remembered leaving.

Her heart ached. In the good way.

Harry stirred, lashes fluttering open.

She expected something groggy, a mumble, a sleepy blink. But his eyes found hers almost instantly.

Like he’d already known she was there.

“Morning,” he rasped.

She bit back a smile. “Morning.”

He stretched beneath her, groaning softly. “What time is it?”

She shrugged. “Does it matter?”

His hand slid down to the small of her back, palm spreading wide, warm and grounding.

“No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”

They stared at each other.

There was no rush between them. No awkward tension. Just a stretch of silence that felt more like understanding than anything else.

Y/N broke first. “Last night…”

Harry raised a brow. “Yeah?”

“I don’t think I can go back to pretending it didn’t mean something.”

He studied her carefully. “You thought I could?”

“I don’t know,” she said, honestly. “You’re used to this. The press, the afterparties, the camera flashes. I’m just… me.”

“You think that matters?”

She looked down. “It should.”

Harry reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I’ve had a lot of people in my life,” he said quietly. “People who wanted things from me. People who stayed as long as the lights were bright.”

She looked up again.

“But you?” His thumb brushed her cheek. “You were gonna disappear. Not because you didn’t care, but because you did. Because you were scared. And you still showed up anyway.”

“I didn’t want to,” she said, voice cracking. “I wanted to go back to my apartment. I wanted to shut the world out.”

“But you didn’t.”

She shook her head. “No.”

Harry exhaled, like something in his chest had been unknotted.

“Then stay,” he said.

She stilled. “What?”

“I don’t mean just today.” His eyes locked with hers. “I mean… stay. With me.”

Her heart was thudding now — a steady, pounding rhythm in her ribs.

“I’ll go back to Tuscany,” he said. “We can lie low if we have to. Or stay in Milan, if you want that. You don’t have to give anything up that you’re not ready to. But if you are… if you’re willing…”

She leaned in, pressing her forehead to his. Their noses brushed. Their breaths synced.

“I’d leave it all behind,” she whispered. “I’d walk away from everything if it meant I could wake up like this everyday.”

Harry closed his eyes, pulling her closer.

“Then let’s not waste another fucking second.”

She laughed — breathless and warm and a little teary.

“Okay.”

And just like that, without fanfare or declarations, something between them clicked into permanence.

Not a fairytale.

But a beginning.

Cheers erupted, and the Islanders surged toward the entrance, Y/N caught up in the tide of enthusiasm. As they gathered at the door, playful jabs and speculation flew about the new contestant, each guess more outrageous than the last.

When the door swung open, a wave of heat rolled through the villa. In walked Harry, tall and confident, with tousled dark curls that framed his face and tattoos peeking out from under his arms. He was clad only in dark swimming trunks, showcasing his fit physique. The moment he stepped in, it felt as if the air shifted—a palpable energy filled the space.

“Hey, everyone!” he called, his voice warm and inviting. “I’m Harry. I’m 26, a travel photographer, and I’m here looking for someone special.”

As the group responded with cheers and applause, Y/N felt a jolt of excitement at his casual charm. He seemed so at ease, as if he belonged there, and she found herself drawn to his confidence.

“Travel photographer?” Zara chimed in, her tone flirty. “Sounds glamorous! What’s your favorite place you’ve been?”

“Honestly? It’s tough to pick,” he replied, flashing a charming smile that made Y/N’s stomach flip. “But I’d say Greece has its magic. The sunsets there are something else”, He glanced at Y/N as he said this, and for a moment, their eyes locked, sparking an unexpected connection.

As introductions continued, Harry moved down the line, exchanging light banter and laughter. When he reached Y/N, his gaze lingered, a genuine curiosity dancing in his green eyes.

“So, what’s your name?” he asked, his tone sincere.

“Y/N,” she replied, feeling her heart race under his attention. “Nice to meet you, Harry.”

“Great to meet you, too, Y/N,” he said, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.

As the evening wore on, the villa transformed into a cozy gathering spot under the twinkling lights. Y/N found herself outside by the pool, trying to catch her breath from the whirlwind of introductions. The water shimmered invitingly, but her thoughts were consumed by Harry—the way he carried himself, how he seemed genuinely interested in everyone, and that spark in his eyes when they’d connected.

To her surprise, Harry sauntered over, casually lowering himself onto the lounge chair next to her. The warmth of his presence felt comforting, like a breath of fresh air.

“Mind if I join?” he asked, his tone light, but there was a deeper warmth in his voice that made her heart flutter.

“Not at all,” Y/N replied, a smile breaking across her face.

Harry stretched out on the chair, his relaxed posture revealing a confidence that made her feel at ease. “So, what do you make of all this?” he asked, glancing around the villa.

“It’s beautiful,” she admitted, glancing up at the stars. “But it can get a bit repetitive. I mean, we’re all here looking for something, but sometimes it feels like we’re just... drifting.”

He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “I get that. what’s kept you in here so long?”

She looked up, surprised by his directness. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You don’t strike me as the type who’d settle for just anyone. So, I was curious why you’re still here.”

She smirked, crossing her arms. “You get all that just from looking?”

“Maybe,” he replied casually. “Or maybe I’m just observant. Part of the job, you know.”

Their conversation deepened, revealing snippets of their lives. Y/N found herself sharing stories about her childhood, her passion for art, and how she’d dreamed of traveling but had never found the right person to explore with. Harry listened intently, nodding along, his gaze fixed on her as if she were the only person in the world.

“What about you? What made you want to come on the show?” Y/N asked, genuinely curious.

He hesitated for a moment, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his face. “Honestly? I wanted to step out of my comfort zone.” He paused, a soft smile forming. “So far. I am very interested”.

Y/N felt her cheeks heat up at his compliment, her heart racing.

As the evening wore on, they exchanged teasing remarks, laughter bubbling between them. With each shared moment, Y/N felt a connection growing—a sense of camaraderie and understanding that she hadn’t felt in a while.

“Well,” Harry said after a while, pushing himself up from the chair, “I guess I’ll see you around”.

“Definitely,” she replied, her smile lingering as he walked away, a sense of excitement coursing through her.

The sun rises on another day in the villa, and it’s not just the temperature heating things up after last night’s new arrival. Our Islanders may have started with some clear choices, but Harry’s arrival has shaken things up... especially for Tom.

The villa was buzzing with morning energy as everyone moved around the kitchen, filling glasses with orange juice and grabbing breakfast. Y/N sat on a lounger, enjoying a quiet moment with her coffee before the day’s inevitable whirlwind of chats. She noticed Tom watching her from across the patio, looking a bit anxious. He made his way over, rubbing his hands together, as if trying to psych himself up.

Tom might have been Mr. Confident last week, but it looks like he’s feeling the heat now that Harry’s in the villa. Will Y/N’s current couple get through this twist unscathed, or will Tom’s nerves get the best of him?

“Morning, Y/N,” Tom greeted, taking a seat beside her. His usual relaxed smile seemed a bit forced today.

“Morning, Tom,” Y/N replied, sipping her coffee and meeting his gaze. She could sense he wanted to say something, and he looked like he was wrestling with the words.

“Listen,” he began, leaning forward. “Last night, with Harry showing up and all... It’s got me thinking. I just wanted to see where your head’s at.” His voice was steady, but she could sense the nervousness under it.

She nodded, giving him a reassuring smile. “I get it. It’s all moving fast, isn’t it? I mean, I didn’t expect someone like Harry to walk in and shake things up.”

Tom shifted in his seat, his gaze flicking between her and his hands. “Right. He’s... yeah, he’s something. But, uh... I just want to know if you’re, well, interested. In him. Like, romantically.”

She took a moment, carefully choosing her words. “Honestly, I’m not sure yet, Tom. Harry’s interesting, and he’s definitely got that confident energy. But I’m still figuring things out. I mean, you and I have had a great connection.”

Tom relaxed a little, his shoulders loosening as he nodded. “Yeah, yeah. I thought so too. We’ve been getting on really well. I just—well, I know how this place works. It’s all about testing things and seeing if connections are genuine, but…” He trailed off, his eyes searching hers for reassurance. “I just don’t want to feel like I’m getting left behind, you know?”

Y/N reached over, resting a hand on his knee to ease his nerves. “Look, Tom, I’m here to find something real, and I do want to see where we could go. But I also don’t want to close myself off from getting to know Harry. It’s early days, and I feel like it wouldn’t be fair to either of us to ignore a potential connection.”

And there we have it, folks. Y/N is caught between Tom’s steady interest and Harry’s unpredictable charm. With Tom hanging on by a thread, will Y/N let go or keep her options open?

Tom’s lips tightened, and he gave a small nod. “Fair enough. I can’t stop you from seeing where things go. I mean, you’re right—it is early days. Just… give me a heads-up if you start to feel like it’s going somewhere else, yeah?”

“Of course,” she assured him, offering him a warm smile. “I’ll always be honest with you, Tom. That’s a promise.”

He smiled, though it looked a bit forced, then let out a sigh, looking back towards the villa. “Right then. Just have to up my game a bit, won’t I?”

Y/N chuckled, nudging him. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Just keep being you.”

But will that be enough, Tom? With Harry’s arrival in the villa, we might just see if Tom can hold his own—or if his steady confidence starts to crack.

After Tom walked off, Y/N settled back into her lounger, taking a slow sip of her coffee. The warmth of the morning sun was comforting, and she let herself enjoy the peace, though her mind kept drifting to Harry.

Across the patio, Harry was surrounded by a small group of girls, each one caught up in his easy charm. There was Georgia, always the first to get a word in; her dark hair bounced as she laughed at one of his jokes, flashing him a look that said she was more than intrigued. Beside her was Chloe, who toyed with her braid as she angled closer, her gaze fixed on him, and Lila, who had barely left his side since his arrival. They all hung on his every word, their laughter blending with his deep chuckles.

Y/N watched him, noticing the way he seemed effortlessly at ease, making each of the girls feel like they were the only ones there. He was charming, no doubt, and that little smirk of his told her he knew exactly what he was doing. There was something magnetic about him; he was the kind of person you couldn’t help but notice.

Then, as if sensing her gaze, Harry’s eyes lifted, meeting hers across the patio. The moment their eyes connected, a playful glint flickered in his. His smile softened, turning into that cheeky grin she was beginning to recognize. He said something to the girls that made them all laugh again, and then, with a quick apology, excused himself from the group.

Y/N’s heart gave a little jump as she saw him walking towards her, the confidence in his stride obvious as he crossed the patio. When he reached her, he didn’t sit right away. Instead, he leaned forward, his arms resting on the back of her lounger, his face close enough that she could catch the faint scent of the sea on his skin.

“Morning,” he said, his voice smooth, that smirk never leaving his lips. “Didn’t expect to catch you staring.”

Y/N let out a soft laugh, raising an eyebrow. “Staring? I was just observing… thought I’d get a better sense of what all the fuss is about.”

He chuckled, settling himself on the edge of her lounger without breaking eye contact. “Ah, so you were curious, then. Good to know I’ve got your attention, even if just a little.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she replied, though the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her. “I was just checking to see if you were actually as charming as you think you are.”

He tilted his head, feigning contemplation. “And? What’s the verdict, then?”

She shrugged, pretending to consider it. “I think it’s too early to tell. But I’ll let you know if you manage to impress me.”

Harry leaned back, grinning. “Challenge accepted. I’m a big fan of keeping things interesting. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t come over here to see if I could learn a bit more about you too.”

“Oh, really?” she teased, crossing her arms as she watched him. “So, the big mystery man’s got questions?”

“Maybe one or two.” His gaze softened, the playful edge giving way to a hint of sincerity. “Like, what exactly is a girl like you looking for in here?”

She held his gaze, considering her answer for a moment. “Honestly, someone genuine,” she said, her tone earnest. “It’s easy to get caught up in all the surface stuff, but I’m hoping to find something real. Something that lasts.”

He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. “Right. Thought I’d take a risk, try something new.” His voice softened, a touch of vulnerability creeping in. “Been a while since I let anyone in.”

Their eyes locked, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to fade. She felt a spark, a warmth that hadn’t been there before, and she knew he felt it too.

“Alright then, Harry the risk-taker,” she said, breaking the silence with a playful smile. “Let’s see if you’re as good as you say.”

Harry’s cheeky grin returned, the playfulness back in his eyes. “Oh, you’ve got no idea what I’m capable of, Y/N.”

Looks like Y/N’s little morning coffee break has turned into something a bit more steamy than she bargained for. With Tom on edge and Harry moving in, she may have her hands full. So, who’s in it for the long haul? Stay tuned.

Y/N bit her lip, looking at her reflection as she adjusted her dress. “I mean, he’s fit, yeah. And the way he carries himself… I don’t know, there’s something about him.”

“Something about him,” she says. Go on, love, you can admit it—you’ve already got it bad! But what will Tom think if he catches a whiff of this little chat?

Chloe raised her eyebrows, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. “Listen, all I’m saying is, if he pulled me for a chat, I wouldn’t mind... but don’t worry, he’s all yours.”

“Oh, stop it!” Y/N said, nudging Chloe’s shoulder with a laugh. “Tom’s going to be fuming if he catches us even mentioning Harry.”

Chloe smirked, flipping her hair. “Let him fume! You’re here to find the one, not keep people happy. And besides, it’s not like Harry’s shy about showing he’s interested in you. Half the villa saw him making his way over to you this morning.”

Half the villa, you say? Well, folks, sounds like Tom may have some competition brewing—and Y/N’s the prize.

The door swung open, and in came Georgia with Lila and Amber, their voices spilling in like a burst of energy.

“There you are!” Georgia exclaimed, hands on her hips as she spotted Chloe and Y/N. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you two.”

“Oi, we’re right here!” Chloe laughed, exchanging a look with Y/N.

Georgia’s face lit up as she plopped down on the bench beside them. “I just have to say it… I really, really fancy Harry. Like, he could actually be the one.”

Chloe glanced sideways at Y/N, eyes widening, clearly trying not to laugh. Y/N looked away, keeping her expression neutral as she fiddled with her bikini strings.

“Oh, absolutely, babe,” Lila chimed in, grinning. “If you don’t make a move, I’m definitely giving him a shot.”

Georgia tossed her hair with a laugh, waving her hand. “Oh, go on then. I allow it. But you better be quick about it, or I’ll be the one nabbing him first.”

The girls dissolved into laughter, but then Georgia’s gaze turned thoughtful, and she leaned back, crossing her arms. “But seriously, though… no one in a stable relationship should be getting involved with him.”

A brief silence fell over the group as the words hung in the air. Chloe raised her brows, glancing again at Y/N with a knowing smile that didn’t go unnoticed.

Y/N chuckled, keeping her tone light. “Well, good thing it’s early days, yeah? Plenty of time for all of us to figure out what we want.”

Ooh, sounds like there’s a bit more at stake here than we thought. With the girls all vying for a piece of Harry, looks like things might heat up faster than anyone bargained for.

Amber crossed her arms and gave Georgia a skeptical look. “Hang on, that makes no sense, Georgia. Isn’t the whole point of Love Island to explore connections? Harry’s the one who should be deciding who he wants to be with, not us making some rule about it.”

Georgia raised an eyebrow, looking a bit taken aback. “Alright, Amber, but I’m just saying, it’s a bit out of line for someone in a solid coupling to be sniffing around him, don’t you think?”

Amber shrugged, not backing down. “If Harry wants to pull me for a chat, I’m not about to follow your silly rule, Georgia. And if he expresses interest in me, I’m definitely not holding back.”

Georgia’s jaw tightened, and she put her hands on her hips. “You know what, Amber? That’s not exactly being a ‘girls’ girl,’ is it? We’re all supposed to be on the same page here.”

Amber rolled her eyes, not missing a beat. “Girls’ girl? I’m here to find a connection, not to stick to some imaginary rulebook.”

Chloe and Y/N exchanged glances, struggling not to laugh at the sudden tension.

Looks like Georgia’s ‘rules’ aren’t quite going over as planned. Will Amber’s bold stance earn her a shot at Harry, or will Georgia’s “girls’ girl” code keep things from getting messy? Well, only time will tell—on Love Island, it’s every girl for herself.

Y/N mouthed “Wow!” at Chloe, eyebrows raised in disbelief. With a quick laugh, she picked up her sunglasses. “Right, I’m heading downstairs to tan and actually enjoy my book. Coming?”

“Absolutely,” Chloe grinned, trailing behind her. The two of them slipped outside and settled by the pool, stretching out on the loungers as Y/N flipped open her book.

Chloe leaned over, her tone quiet but full of curiosity. “So, what do you reckon about Georgia? She’s… a lot.”

Y/N sighed, sliding her sunglasses up her nose. “Yeah, Georgia’s definitely going to be an issue. Her and Tom both. It’s like… they’re more focused on the drama than actually getting to know people.”

Chloe laughed. “Spot on. Can already see her kicking off if Harry so much as looks at anyone else.”

Just then, their best mate in the villa, Callum, strolled over, plopping himself down beside them with a grin. “Alright, ladies. What’s all this gossip without me, eh?”

Y/N chuckled. “Nothing, don’t worry. Just a bit of Georgia talk. You know how it is.”

Callum raised an eyebrow, glancing between them. “I can imagine”

Chloe rolled her eyes. “Tell me about it. What about Tom, though? You talk to him this morning?”

Y/N sighed, closing her book for a moment. “He’s… sweet, but he’s already worried about where my head’s at. Keeps asking if I’m interested in Harry.”

Callum chuckled, shaking his head. “Not surprised. He’s definitely feeling the heat.”

Y/N nudged Callum with a playful grin. “Listen, if you go and tell the other lads any of this, I’ll kill you.”

Callum raised his hands in surrender, laughing. “Alright, alright, not a word. My lips are sealed.”

Chloe leaned in, curiosity glinting in her eyes. “So… what’s the verdict then? What are you feeling?”

Y/N sighed, adjusting her sunglasses as she stared out over the pool. “Honestly? Tom’s… he’s lovely. He’s comfortable, you know? Comforting, even. But there’s no spark, no real passion there. I don’t feel a real connection.”

Chloe nodded, giving her a knowing smile. “That’s exactly it, though, isn’t it? If there’s no fire…”

Callum grinned, nudging her again. “So what you’re saying is… it’s not exactly end game with Tom, yeah?”

Y/N shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. “Not unless something changes, and fast.”

Well, folks, looks like the door is still wide open for a certain newcomer to spark a little fire in Y/N’s heart. And with Tom in the dark… this just might be the calm before the storm.

t’s challenge time in the villa! And today, it’s all about secrets. The game? Simple: each boy will slide down a massive ramp of slime, grab a card with a girl’s secret written on it, and read it out loud for the whole villa to hear. Then, he’ll make his guess by planting a kiss on the girl he thinks it’s about. Easy? Hardly. With secrets this juicy, the sparks are about to fly.

First up, it’s our very own new boy, Harry. Let’s see what he’s got…

Harry positioned himself at the top of the slippery ramp, a playful grin plastered across his face. With a cheeky shove, he launched himself down the slimy slope, landing with a splash at the bottom. He quickly grabbed the card, shaking off some goo as he read it aloud.

“This girl once went on a date with two different guys on the same night and accidentally mixed them up when they texted her later.”

The villa erupted in laughter, the girls exchanging wide-eyed glances as they tried to suppress their giggles. Harry scanned the group, his gaze landing on Y/N with a playful sparkle in his eyes.

With a confident stride, Harry stepped forward, closing the gap between them. He leaned in, capturing Y/N’s lips with a kiss that was anything but casual. It was deep and steamy, igniting a spark that sent a wave of heat rushing through her. The laughter faded as everyone watched, mouths agape, the chemistry between them palpable.

As he pulled back, a satisfied grin spread across Harry's face. “Well, I had to be sure,” he said, his voice low and playful, leaving Y/N breathless and the others in stunned silence.

The card was flipped, revealing that the secret actually belonged to Lila, much to everyone’s surprise.

Harry laughed, shaking his head. “Shit”.

And there you have it, folks! A kiss that lit up the villa and sent shockwaves through the competition. Harry may have missed the secret, but that kiss? That’s a score for Y/N, and things are just heating up in the Love Island villa!

Next up, it’s Tom’s turn to take the slippery plunge into the chaos of secrets. With a determined look on his face, he approaches the ramp, ready to play his hand in this game of revelations. Will he manage to impress Y/N with his guess, or will he fall flat?

Tom launched himself down the slimy ramp, landing with a splat and swiftly grabbing the card. With a flourish, he read aloud, “This girl once swiped right on her ex’s best mate just to make him jealous, only to have them both show up at her door the next day!”

Laughter erupted in the villa again, and the girls exchanged knowing glances. Tom looked around, scanning the group, and finally settled on Y/N, a cheeky smile on his face. “Alright, let’s see if I can take a shot at this.”

Y/N felt a flutter of anticipation but quickly squashed it down. As Tom stepped toward her, she allowed him to lean in, but she knew she wasn’t feeling the same spark she had with Harry.

Tom’s lips met hers, and while it was nice, it didn’t ignite the fire she had hoped for. It was a brief kiss, lacking the intensity that had come from Harry just moments before. She forced a smile as he pulled back, trying to mask her disappointment.

Tom grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “Was that you?

The card was flipped, revealing that the secret belonged to Chloe.

The room erupted into laughter again, and Y/N couldn’t help but roll her eyes, a small smirk on her face.

Harry shifted uncomfortably, his thoughts racing. Tom’s kiss had seemed so casual, so easy, and yet it had struck something deep within him. He thought back to the kiss he shared with Y/N, how electric it had felt, and how much he wanted to feel that again.

Harry's mind was a whirlwind of confusion and determination. He had only just arrived, yet here he was, feeling the pressure of this unexpected connection. He had to figure out how to navigate this budding relationship amidst the chaos of the villa.

As the laughter continued and the next boy prepared for his turn, Harry caught Y/N's eye across the room. She looked back at him, a curious smile on her lips, and in that moment, he knew he couldn’t just stand by. Something was pulling him towards her, and he needed to act on it before it was too late.

With the game still unfolding and emotions swirling, it was clear that this summer was going to be anything but ordinary. Let the drama begin!

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the villa, the atmosphere shifted from playful competition to a more intimate vibe. Y/N stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the straps of her long, tight red dress that hugged her curves perfectly. She felt confident and ready to make a statement, the color a bold choice that echoed her desire to stand out.

Just as she finished primping, a loud voice boomed from downstairs. “I’ve got a text!”

Y/N’s heart raced as she hurried to the top of the stairs, the anticipation hanging in the air. She peered down to see Harry holding his phone, a mischievous grin on his face, surrounded by the other contestants who were equally eager to hear the news.

Harry glanced at the message, a mix of excitement and tension flickering across his face. “Alright, here goes…” He cleared his throat dramatically before reading, “Harry, the time has come for you to choose whom you will be coupling with tonight!”

A hush fell over the group as the weight of the announcement sank in. Y/N felt her stomach drop at the implications of Harry's choice. The tension in the air was palpable, and she could see the other contestants exchanging nervous glances, the gravity of the situation setting in.

“Right, so it’s all on me, then,” Harry said, his playful demeanor giving way to a more serious tone. “No pressure at all, right?”

Y/N’s heart raced at the thought of being chosen—or worse, being left behind. Would Harry choose her? The thrill of the unknown buzzed in the air as she felt the weight of the moment pressing down on her. She wanted to believe that their earlier connection meant something, but the uncertainty lingered.

The warm glow of the fire pit flickered against the backdrop of the villa, casting a cozy ambiance as the night deepened. The contestants sat in their couples, anticipation palpable in the air, their faces illuminated by the dancing flames. All eyes were on Harry, who stood at the front, his usual confidence slightly wavering as he prepared to make his choice.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, his nerves evident as he took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Alright, everyone,” he began, his voice steady but laced with a hint of apprehension. “This is a bit nerve-wracking, isn’t it?”

Laughter rippled through the group, easing the tension just a bit. Harry glanced at Y/N, who sat among the others, her eyes focused on him, a mixture of hope and anxiety swirling within them. He felt a rush of warmth as he continued.

“I’ve had a brilliant time here so far, and it’s all thanks to the amazing people around me. But there’s one girl in particular who’s really stood out to me,” he said, his gaze drifting toward Y/N. “She’s lovely, funny, and everything just feels so easy with her. It’s like I don’t have to force anything; it just flows naturally.”

“I know that we haven’t had a lot of time to get to know each other yet,” Harry continued, “but I feel a real connection with her, something I haven’t experienced in a while.” He paused, letting his words sink in as he gauged the reactions around him.

“And that’s why,” he said, a smile breaking through his nervousness, “tonight, I’ve decided to couple up with Y/N.”

A cheer erupted from the others, and Y/N’s heart soared at his declaration. Relief washed over her as she exchanged a glance with Harry, their eyes locking in a moment that felt electric. The fire crackled beside them, mirroring the excitement in the air, and Y/N couldn’t help but grin as she moved closer to him.

“Looks like Harry has made his choice, and it’s a choice that might just set the villa ablaze!” the narrator’s voice chimed in, the playful tone adding to the vibrant atmosphere. “But with new flames igniting, what does this mean for the other couples? Stay tuned, because the drama is just beginning!”

let me know if you would like me to add you to the tag list!

TAGLIST: @st-ev-ie, @harrystyleshotwife, @valuunit, @familyshow-orisit

Tom scoffed, shaking his head. "It’s not like that. It’s just—I thought we were solid enough to stick it out a bit longer, you know? This is barely the second week and she’s already runnin' off with Harry."

Lucas gave him a sympathetic look. “Can’t blame her too much. You said yourself you weren’t feeling that spark with her.”

“Yeah, but…” Tom struggled to find the right words. “It’s just a kick in the teeth, that’s all. Feels like I’m bein’ made a mug of.”

Lucas patted him on the shoulder. "Look, you’ve still got options. The girls are already buzzing about you—Layla’s practically been eyeing you since the first day. And don’t forget Max and Callum, they’ve got your back too.”

Tom’s jaw tightened as he looked around, catching Max and Callum’s sympathetic glances from across the pit, while Jamie joined their little group, clapping Tom on the back. "Forget it, Tom," Jamie said. "This whole thing's a game, right? Y/N's just playing it. Tomorrow, find a way to play back."

Tom forced a smile, trying to brush it off. "Yeah, maybe. Guess we’ll see."

As the boys exchanged a few more quiet words, the rest of the villa settled into their new dynamics, unaware of the brewing tension that would no doubt play out with even more intensity in the days to come.

“Ah, the sweet sting of rejection,” the narrator's voice chimed in with a touch of mischief as the camera panned over Tom’s tense expression. “Looks like not everyone’s feeling quite as ‘coupled up’ as they were this morning. But hey, this is Love Island—where loyalties change as quickly as the cocktails get poured.”

“With Tom stewing by the fire pit and Harry sharing stolen glances with Y/N, it’s safe to say we’ve got ourselves a love triangle in the making. So, who’s playing the game? And who’s about to get played? Only time will tell… and maybe a few sneaky chats by the pool tomorrow.”

As the night settled in and the villa quieted down, Y/N and Chloe slipped away from the others and made their way into the dressing room, heels clicking softly on the tile floor. Chloe nudged her with a cheeky grin as they reached the mirrors, settling in front of them with makeup bags and brushes scattered around.

“Alright, spill it,” Chloe whispered, eyes sparkling. “What’s going on with you and Harry?”

Y/N laughed, rolling her eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Chloe raised a brow, smirking. “Please, everyone saw the way he was looking at you during the recoupling. You’re both already causing a stir, you know.”

Y/N’s cheeks warmed, and she bit her lip, trying to play it cool. “Look, Harry’s… well, he’s a bit different, isn’t he? There’s this energy about him—it’s easy to talk to him. He makes you feel like the only person in the room.”

“Mm, dangerous.” Chloe teased, reapplying a bit of lip gloss. “So, does that mean you’re done with Tom?”

Y/N sighed, leaning on the counter. “I think I am. Tom’s sweet, but it just feels too… comfortable, you know? And then there’s Harry. I just don’t know where it’ll go. But it’s Love Island, right? I’ve got to see what happens.”

Chloe nodded thoughtfully, nudging Y/N with her shoulder. “Fair enough. Just don’t let Georgia or Lila get in your head—they’ll be on him like hawks.”

Y/N laughed, brushing it off, but there was a hint of nerves behind her smile. “I know”.

t’s the end of a long day in the villa, and with the recoupling finally done, couples are settling into bed—some with more excitement than others. Y/N and Harry, freshly paired up and very much the center of attention after Harry’s bold choice, head to the bedroom together, laughter and nervous smiles exchanged between them.

They climb into bed, adjusting the duvet and settling in. The tension is thick, a mix of nerves and excitement crackling between them as they lie shoulder to shoulder. Harry glances over at Y/N, a cheeky smile tugging at his lips.

“Quite a day, yeah?” he murmurs, turning to face her a bit more, his hand resting between them on the duvet.

Y/N grins, brushing a bit of hair behind her ear as she looks back at him. “Yeah, wasn’t expecting that.” She pauses, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Didn’t think you’d pick me.”

Harry chuckles, his eyes meeting hers in the low light. “You’re surprised? Really?” he asks, feigning shock. “Couldn’t you tell?”

“I mean…” she shrugs, but her smile widens. “Maybe a little. But you’ve got the whole villa talking now, you know. Even Georgia was making claims.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” he says, rolling his eyes with a grin. “But I’m here, aren’t I?” He leans a little closer, their faces only inches apart. “Thought it was obvious I wanted to get to know you. Really get to know you.”

They share a charged look, each of them feeling the spark in the small space between them. Y/N’s pulse quickens, but she keeps her cool, meeting his gaze with confidence.

“Alright,” she teases. “Let’s see if you’re as smooth as you think you are.”

Harry laughs, playfully nudging her shoulder before leaning back. “Careful, or I’ll start showing off,” he whispers. Then he lets the moment settle, his hand gently resting near hers under the duvet, their fingers almost brushing.

They lie in companionable silence for a moment, each of them acutely aware of the other’s presence, as the lights dim throughout the villa.

The narrator’s voice floats in, a knowing chuckle evident.

“It looks like our newly-minted couple are starting to find their rhythm… but this is Love Island, after all, and things never stay simple for long. With Y/N catching Harry’s attention, will sparks fly, or will rivalries start brewing? Get ready for some sleepless nights and see who’s getting closer... and who’s getting jealous.”

As the morning sun rises over the villa, Y/N is the first to stir, carefully slipping out from under Harry’s arm as he sleeps soundly beside her. She lets a small smile escape as she notices his relaxed expression, feeling a flutter of excitement as she heads to the kitchen to make herself a smoothie. The villa is peaceful, the calm before the inevitable storm of another day.

Taking her smoothie out to the sun deck, Y/N settles in with her book, enjoying the quiet moment alone. She relishes the warmth of the morning sun and the rare stillness in the villa, her mind drifting back to the night before, replaying the feeling of Harry’s arm around her as they fell asleep.

Half an hour later, the villa begins to come alive. She can hear voices and laughter drifting over from the bedrooms, and soon enough, footsteps approach her.

“Y/N,” Tom’s voice cuts through her quiet time. She looks up to see him standing beside her, his expression intense.

“Oh, morning, Tom,” she greets, setting her book down and bracing herself for what she knows is coming. His brows are furrowed, and it’s clear he’s got something on his mind.

“Do you mind if we have a chat?” he asks, hands on his hips as he stares down at her.

She gives a small nod, gesturing for him to sit. “Sure, let’s talk.”

Tom sits beside her, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, looking almost nervously at the floor before meeting her eyes. "Listen, Y/N, I’ve just got to ask… after last night, where’s your head at?” He exhales, clearly unsettled. “I mean, after Harry chose you like that, I just… I need to know where we stand.”

Y/N pauses, feeling the weight of his gaze on her. “Tom…” she starts carefully, gathering her thoughts. “I won’t lie, things are a bit… complicated now.” She sighs. “Last night didn’t exactly go as expected.”

Tom shifts, swallowing, but nodding, his jaw set. “So… are you still interested? Or are you moving on?”

She looks at him, appreciating his honesty but feeling the awkwardness of the situation. “I’m just figuring it out, you know? I think we owe it to ourselves to see how things feel with other people too. That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”

Tom’s expression shifts, his eyes narrowing as he processes her words. His posture straightens, and he crosses his arms, clearly frustrated.

“Wait—so that’s it? You’re just… seeing how things feel with other people now?” he asks, his tone edging into anger. “After everything we’ve been building? Just because Harry waltzes in, you’re ready to throw it all away?”

Y/N lets out a small sigh, trying to keep her voice steady. “Tom, it’s not about throwing anything away. We both came here to meet people, right? I thought we were on the same page.”

Tom scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, but I didn’t expect you to just… drift off the second someone else showed interest.” His voice rises slightly, his frustration boiling over. “Feels like I’ve been wasting my time if you’re just going to move on that easily.”

“Tom, I’m not just moving on,” she says, trying to keep her tone calm despite his anger. “We’re meant to be exploring connections here. That doesn’t mean what we had wasn’t real. It just means… I have to be open to the process.”

Tom shakes his head, his jaw clenched. “Open to the process? Sounds like an excuse. You know what? I’m not buying it.” He stands up, his face flushed with anger as he glares down at her. “Maybe I should’ve seen this coming. Maybe you’re just like everyone else here, out for yourself.”

Y/N flinches at his words, feeling the sting, but before she can respond, Tom turns on his heel and storms off, leaving her alone on the sun deck, her peaceful morning now shattered.

“Looks like Y/N’s got her work cut out for her, and with Tom on edge, it’s only a matter of time before the villa feels the heat. Will Y/N be able to smooth things over, or has Tom’s fuse finally burnt out?”

Y/N’s gaze follows Tom as he strides toward the kitchen, his jaw tight, shoulders tense. Harry, blissfully unaware, is busy preparing two cups of tea, one for himself and other, for Y/N. He’s humming softly, a faint smile playing on his lips—clearly in a good mood.

Tom approaches him with an air of simmering frustration and barely contained irritation. Without missing a beat, he nods at the extra cup in Harry’s hand.

“That’s for her, isn’t it?” Tom says, his tone sharper than usual.

Harry glances up, his brow lifting in mild surprise at Tom’s confrontational tone. “Yeah, it is,” he replies, unfazed, as he continues stirring the tea. “Why?”

Tom huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Just didn’t peg you as the type to swoop in the second someone’s available.”

Harry’s smile falters, and he sets the spoon down, giving Tom his full attention. “I don’t think I’m swooping in, mate,” he says, his tone calm but with a slight edge. “We’re here to see if there’s something there, yeah? Same as everyone else.”

“Right, of course,” Tom says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “But she and I were building something. And now, you’re what? Just gonna step in and see if you can do better?”

Harry’s jaw clenches for a second, but he keeps his voice steady. “Look, Tom, I didn’t come here to cause any issues. I’ve got to trust that Y/N knows what she wants. So if she’s interested… well, that’s her choice, isn’t it?”

Tom’s eyes narrow, the frustration boiling over. “Choice? Yeah, well, maybe I think it’s a bit easy to make that choice when you’ve got someone like you throwing yourself at her.”

Harry’s eyes flash, but he remains composed, taking a calming breath. “Listen, mate,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. “I’m not throwing myself at anyone. I respect Y/N, and if she wants to spend time with me, I’m not going to stop her. Simple as that.”

There’s a tense silence between them, each refusing to look away.

“Ooh, trouble in paradise! It seems Tom’s feeling a bit threatened by our new islander, and let’s just say Harry’s not exactly backing down. With two guys eyeing the same girl, it looks like sparks are set to fly—just not the romantic kind.”

As Tom’s frustration starts to draw even more attention, Lucas steps in, placing a firm hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Mate, c’mon,” he says, guiding him away from the kitchen. “Let’s get some air, yeah? Cool off a bit.”

Tom clenches his jaw, but after a beat, he allows himself to be led away, shooting one last glare in Harry’s direction. As the two disappear toward the sun deck, Harry lets out a quiet sigh and turns his attention back to the tea he was making. Just then, Y/N approaches, having seen most of what transpired from across the villa.

“Hey,” she says softly, offering him a small, apologetic smile as she glances in the direction Tom had gone.

Harry hands her the cup he prepared, his expression softening the moment he looks at her. “Morning,” he says, a little smile creeping back. “Here, thought you could use a good cup of tea after… all that.”

Y/N takes the cup gratefully, blowing on it before taking a sip. “Thanks. And… sorry about that,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Tom’s just… well, he’s been feeling a bit blindsided, I think.”

Harry gives a little nod, leaning against the counter and watching her. “No need to apologize,” he says gently. “It’s not your fault if he’s upset. Besides, it’s not like you owe anyone anything here.”

Y/N gives a soft, contemplative nod, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. “Yeah, I know. It’s just—Tom’s comfortable, you know? He’s a nice guy… but I’m not sure there’s anything beyond that.”

“Doesn’t sound like you’re too sure,” Harry says, a hint of a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Just a little comfortable, is he?”

She chuckles, shrugging lightly. “Maybe too comfortable. There’s no spark, no real excitement.” Her gaze lifts to meet his, and for a moment, they both linger in the silence. “With you, though,” she starts, feeling her cheeks warm a little, “I think I do feel something… different.”

Harry’s grin widens, his gaze locked on her with unmistakable interest. “Is that right?” he says, his voice soft and low. “Glad I’m not the only one, then.”

She bites her lip, glancing down for a second before looking back at him. “Guess we’ll have to see where it goes, won’t we?”

Harry takes a small step closer, his voice dropping even lower. “I’d like that.” His hand lingers by hers, almost touching but not quite, as if savoring the tension between them.

“Looks like the tea’s not the only thing heating up this morning! With Tom sidelined and sparks flying between Y/N and Harry, it seems our villa’s newest couple might just be on the verge of something big. Stay tuned, because in here, anything can happen…”

Y/N takes a slow sip of her tea, glancing up at Harry with a slightly nervous smile. "So," she begins, setting her cup down on the counter. "What made you come here? To Love Island, I mean."

Harry leans back, crossing his arms as he thinks about her question. “Guess I just thought it’d be a bit of a laugh, to be honest.” He chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. “Never done anything like this before. My sister convinced me, actually—said I needed to do something that’d take me out of my comfort zone.”

Y/N smiles, intrigued. “So what is your comfort zone, then?”

He smirks, thinking. “You know, work, mates, a good pint at the local…” He pauses, his gaze softening. “I guess I don’t usually put myself out there, especially with relationships. I’m… guarded, I s’pose. I don’t let people in that easily.”

She nods, understanding. “I get that. It’s hard to open up, especially when you’ve been hurt before.”

Harry’s eyes meet hers, something vulnerable in his gaze. “Yeah, it is. That ever happen to you?”

She hesitates, looking down at her cup. “Yeah,” she says softly. “Had one or two of those, too. I’ve always felt that… if I’m gonna be with someone, I want it to be all-in, you know? Like, I don’t want to waste time on half-hearted feelings.”

“Exactly,” he replies, his voice steady. “That’s it for me, too. People are so casual these days, like everything’s disposable. But I want someone who actually wants to be there, through all of it.”

Y/N looks up at him, feeling the intensity of his words sink in. “I didn’t expect you to say that.”

“What? Thought I was just here for a holiday fling?” he teases, a grin breaking through the serious moment.

She laughs, shaking her head. “Not exactly. But it’s nice… to see you’re after something real.”

Harry tilts his head, studying her. “What about you? Is there anything you’re hoping to find here?”

She takes a deep breath, then nods slowly. “Yeah, I think there is.” She looks away for a second, gathering her thoughts. “I’ve spent so much time focused on what everyone else wants from me, you know? And I think… maybe it’s time to figure out what I actually want.”

Harry’s hand rests on the edge of the counter, close enough that she can feel his presence. “ It’s like, everyone has expectations. Sometimes, you just want a clean slate, a chance to be yourself.”

They hold each other’s gaze, the air thick with something unspoken. Harry leans in just slightly, his voice a soft murmur. “I reckon we’re both looking for that spark, then. Something that feels real… not just ‘comfortable.’”

Y/N swallows, her cheeks warm. “Seems like we’re on the same page.” Her smile turns playful as she raises her eyebrows. “Guess that means you’ll have to impress me, though.”

Harry laughs, eyes twinkling. “Oh, I’ve got my work cut out for me, have I? No pressure, then.”

They share a laugh, but beneath the humor, there’s a sense of understanding, a spark that neither of them can deny.

The girls gathered on the sun loungers, sipping their drinks and chatting about the day’s events. Georgia, with her sharp gaze fixed on Harry and Y/N across the yard, leaned in closer to Lila and Amber, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Look at them, all cozy and sweet over there,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Can you believe it? Y/N really thinks she’s won the jackpot, doesn’t she?”

Lila squinted towards the couple, where Harry and Y/N shared a laugh, the sunlight catching Y/N’s hair. “They do look a bit... comfortable, don’t they?”

Georgia scoffed. “Comfortable? More like she’s turned him into her little puppet. I mean, really—what does she even have?’

Amber leaned back on her lounger, a smirk forming on her lips. “You’re just jealous, Georgia. You’ve made it pretty clear you’re interested in Harry too.”

“Jealous? Please,” Georgia shot back, crossing her arms. “I wouldn’t waste my time on someone who’s already taken. It’s pathetic. She’s just playing the sympathy card”.

Lila shook her head, frowning slightly. “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think? She is nice.”

Georgia raised an eyebrow, her tone dismissive. “Nice doesn’t get you anywhere in here, Lila. Nice girls finish last. Harry deserves someone who’s actually worth his time, not some sad little backstory.”

Amber leaned forward, intrigued. “What’s the real issue here, Georgia? Is it just about Harry, or do you feel threatened by Y/N?”

Georgia’s expression hardened. “I’m not threatened. I just don’t think she belongs here. She’s too soft. This is Love Island, not a charity case. And let’s be real, Tom was way better suited for her. But she just had to run off with Harry, didn’t she?”

Lila shook her head, glancing between Georgia and Amber. “But that’s how this whole thing works, right? If there’s a connection, you go for it. It’s not her fault Tom couldn’t keep her interested.”

Georgia huffed. “Whatever. I just think it’s weak. And I’m not going to sit here and pretend I’m happy for her when she’s clearly trying to stake her claim on Harry like it’s some kind of prize.”

Amber raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “So, what’s your plan? Just sit here and sulk while they flirt?”

Georgia smirked, the corners of her lips curling in mischief. “Oh, don’t worry. I have a few tricks up my sleeve. I’m not done just yet. I’ll make sure Harry knows exactly what he’s missing. And if that means shaking things up a bit, so be it.”

Ah, the sweet scent of jealousy in the morning! Someone get Georgia a mirror—she clearly needs a reality check!

let me know if you want to get added to the tag list xx

TAGLIST: @st-ev-ie, @harrystyleshotwife, @valuunit, @familyshow-orisit, @ellaorchard, @loverrryxo, @dashingday

Y/N turned her head. A girl with messy blonde hair and black eyeliner was dropping into the seat next to her, unbothered, smiling like they’d done this before. She wore a denim jacket over a black hoodie, silver rings stacked on her fingers. Her boots looked like they’d seen every corner of the city.

Y/N blinked. “I—yes.”

“I’ve seen you in here,” the girl said. “You always sit alone.”

Y/N’s cheeks burned. “I just like this row.”

“You’re new.”

It wasn’t a question, but Y/N nodded anyway.

“Thought so. I’m Liv.” She held out a hand, bangles jangling against her wrist.

Y/N shook it. “Y/N.”

“Pretty name.” Liv looked her over, head tilted. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

Y/N managed a tight smile. “I listen more than I speak.”

“Right.” Liv grinned, wide and unapologetic. “One of those. Cute.”

The professor arrived, setting down her briefcase with a thud, and the room shifted into a loose hush. Liv leaned in just a little as the lecture started, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You doing anything tonight?”

The question caught her off guard. She shook her head slowly. “No. Why?”

Liv’s smile curved like she already knew the answer. “There’s this thing I’m going to. Bit off the map. It’s kind of… exclusive.”

Y/N blinked. “What kind of thing?”

Liv shrugged. “You’ll see.”

That made Y/N nervous. “I’m not really—”

“It’s nothing crazy,” Liv said quickly, but her grin said otherwise. “Just come. You can leave whenever. You don’t even have to talk to anyone.”

Y/N hesitated. Her mother’s voice rang in her ears: Don’t follow people you barely know. Don’t go out late. Don’t be stupid.

“I shouldn’t—”

“It’s one night,” Liv cut in, soft but insistent. “And you look like you need one.”

Y/N didn’t answer. She stared down at the lines in her notebook, heart knocking against her ribs. Liv didn’t press her after that, just passed a torn scrap of paper across the desk with a time and a station scribbled in smudged ink.

“Text me if you decide to go” Liv whispered.

Y/N hadn’t told her parents she’d moved into student housing.

They still believed she was commuting from her aunt’s flat in Clapham. That she took the Tube each morning and was back home by dinner, curled under a blanket, phone fully charged, doors locked.

It wasn’t a lie exactly. Not the worst kind. Her aunt did live in Clapham, and she had stayed with her for the first week. But she’d craved the silence, the independence. Craved something she didn’t have a name for yet.

So she’d moved.

Her parents didn’t know. They wouldn’t understand.

Growing up, her world had been small. Safe. Her father was a strict man with soft eyes who believed in structure, who said that routines kept a family together. Her mother homeschooled her from the age of five, and her education had been rich in detail, precise and thorough—but narrow. Everything outside their four walls felt like a warning. She was never allowed sleepovers. No television past nine. No unchaperoned visits to the shops. No boys.

“Too much of the world too soon can rot the mind,” her mother once told her.

So Y/N stayed soft. Careful. She read obsessively—books about people who lived wildly, recklessly, freely. She filled journals with lines from poetry she didn’t always understand. She baked bread from scratch. She studied the Psalms. She knew the difference between a pressed pleat and a bias cut. She still folded her underwear into neat little rows.

Her rebellion, if she could even call it that, was quiet. Choosing to study philosophy when her parents had pushed for English. Sitting alone in the lecture hall instead of trying to fit in. Saying nothing when her mother asked for a tour of the uni halls and changing the subject instead.

She wasn’t brave. Not really.

But she was curious.

Sometimes, late at night, she’d sit on the floor of her room with the curtains drawn and scroll through photos other girls at uni posted. Loud nights. Flashing lights. Smudged mascara. Arms slung around boys’ necks. Kisses stolen in club bathrooms. Glitter stuck in collarbones. She didn’t want all of it. But she wanted something.

She didn’t know what.

And now there was a scrap of paper in her notebook. A time. A name. A chance

Later that night, Y/N sat on the edge of her dorm bed, the crumpled scrap of paper warming in her palm. Outside, the hallway was silent except for the faint hum of the building settling into the night. Her roommate’s light was off. No one was supposed to be out this late.

The note had a time and a name — Liv — and a vague meeting place: just outside the dorm’s main entrance.

That was all she knew.

She didn’t know where Liv was taking her. She didn’t even know what she was walking into.

Her parents’ warnings echoed loud in her mind — Don’t go out late. Don’t trust people you barely know.

But Liv’s words floated beneath it all, soft and tempting. You look like you need one.

Y/N folded the note carefully, tracing the ink with her thumb. She felt the familiar pull of nervousness tightening in her chest — the same nervousness she’d felt all her life, at the edge of something new and scary.

Her fingers shook slightly as she mapped out a plan to leave the dorm unnoticed.

Wait until the hall is empty.

Keep my phone silent but with location tracking on.

Wear something dark.

Take the quickest route.

If anything feels wrong, leave.

She exhaled slowly. Maybe this was reckless. Maybe it was a mistake.

But maybe it was also exactly what she needed.

The hallway outside Y/N’s room was empty when she slipped out, every step measured and quiet. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, loud enough to drown out the creak of the old wooden floor beneath her feet.

She hugged her jacket tighter around her, breath forming small clouds in the cold night air as she pushed open the dorm’s heavy front door.

There, waiting just beyond the flickering streetlamp, was Liv. Her silhouette looked sharper than ever—hands shoved into the pockets of her leather jacket, black boots tapping impatiently against the pavement.

Liv’s head turned, and her dark eyes caught Y/N’s instantly. A slow smile curved across her lips.

“Thought you’d chicken out,” Liv said softly, voice low, like sharing a secret.

Y/N shook her head, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I’m here.”

“Good.” Liv stepped closer. “You ready to have fun?”

Y/N hesitated, cold fingers curling into a fist inside her pocket. She had no idea what she was about to walk into. But the night already felt different—charged. Dangerous. And thrilling in a way she’d never imagined.

“Let’s go,” Liv said, grabbing Y/N’s hand and pulling her toward the dark streets of London.

The city breathed around them—damp, restless, alive. And somewhere in the distance, a low roar rose through the night.

Liv led Y/N down the street, her grip firm but gentle, pulling her into the night that thrummed with a restless energy.

Around the corner, two figures waited by a battered black taxi.

The first was a tall, lean man with dark hair slicked back, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. His leather jacket was scuffed, sleeves pushed up to reveal tattoos—snakes coiled around his wrists and numbers inked like a secret code. He gave Y/N a brief, assessing look before flicking the smoke away.

The second was a girl with a shock of bright red hair tied messily in a ponytail. She wore a patched denim vest over a hoodie and carried an easy, knowing grin, like the city had whispered its secrets just to her.

“This is Tom,” Liv said smoothly, nodding at the man. “And Jess.”

Tom gave Y/N a slow nod — a silent greeting or perhaps a challenge — while Jess winked, playful and mysterious.

Liv’s eyes flicked back to Y/N. “They’re part of the crew. You’ll like them.”

Y/N’s stomach fluttered with nervous anticipation and uncertainty, but Liv’s steady presence was a comfort she didn’t expect.

“Do you guys… go to uni with Liv?”

It came out a little too hopeful. A little too desperate for connection.

Jess’s head snapped toward her, and she burst out laughing. Loud and sudden.

Tom smirked. “Us? Nah, sweetheart.” He ran a hand through his hair, eyes glinting. “We’re in a different kind of education.”

Y/N blinked. “Oh… like what?”

Jess leaned in, chewing gum like it was part of her attitude. “The kind they don’t put in brochures.”

They both exchanged a look that made Y/N’s skin prickle—like they shared a joke she would never be let in on.

Liv, beside her, just grinned. “Don’t worry about them. They’re harmless.”

But somehow, that didn’t make her feel any better.

They walked toward the Tube station together, the streetlights casting long shadows behind them.

On the platform, Liv’s voice dropped to a low, teasing murmur. “So. What do you think you’re coming to see tonight?”

Y/N shrugged, voice barely above a whisper. “I… don’t really know.”

“That’s the point,” Liv said with a grin. “Not everything in life needs to be spelled out, you know.”

The train screeched into the station, and the four of them squeezed into a carriage, the city blurring past outside.

“Is it dangerous?” Y/N asked, unable to hide the tremor in her voice.

Liv looked at her sideways, eyes gleaming. “Depends on how you handle it.”

Tom and Jess exchanged a glance but stayed silent.

Y/N stared out the window, heart pounding. She didn’t know what was waiting for her at the end of this ride — but somehow, she felt she was about to find out.

The train rattled and groaned beneath the city as Y/N stared out the window, the familiar London skyline replaced by grimy brick walls and flickering neon signs.

They were in East London now. The air felt heavier here, colder, sharper. It carried a bite that made Y/N pull her jacket tighter around her shoulders.

Outside the station, the streets were quieter, narrower, and shadows gathered thick between the dim streetlights. The usual hum of nightlife was replaced by something rougher — the distant clatter of footsteps, the low murmur of voices, the sharp edge of something unspoken.

Y/N’s stomach twisted. She felt exposed, like a small animal caught in the open. Every instinct whispered warning.

Liv’s footsteps were steady beside her, calm and confident.

They stopped in front of a squat, weathered building with no sign out front. A heavy metal door stood closed, cold and unwelcoming.

But from behind it came the thump of music — deep, pulsing bass that vibrated through the concrete beneath Y/N’s feet.

“It’s just a club,” Liv said, sensing Y/N’s tension. “Wait till you get inside.”

The door creaked open before Y/N could answer, and a rush of heat and smoke spilled out, swirling colored lights slicing through the haze.

The room beyond was dark, crowded, and alive — thick with bodies moving to the rhythm, faces barely visible through the smoke and flashing strobes.

Y/N blinked, overwhelmed. This was nothing like the neat, quiet world she knew.

She clutched Liv’s arm, heart pounding louder than the music.

“Just breathe,” Liv whispered. “You’re okay.”

But Y/N wasn’t sure she was.

Inside, the heat hit Y/N like a wave. The air was thick with smoke and the sharp scent of sweat and something sweet—maybe alcohol or perfume—mixing together into a haze she wasn’t used to. Colored lights sliced through the fog, casting strange shadows on faces she couldn’t quite see.

The bass throbbed in her chest, each beat a punch that made the room feel alive and dangerous.

Tom and Jess flanked her like guards or guides. Jess grinned and nudged Y/N gently. “You want a drink? Something to calm the nerves?”

Y/N shook her head quickly. “No, thank you.” Her voice barely carried over the music.

Tom leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. “Come on, just one. You’ve got to loosen up a little.”

Y/N smiled politely but pulled back. Her throat felt tight, and the loud music made it impossible to hear clearly unless someone spoke right in her ear. She felt like a fish out of water, lost in the current of movement and noise swirling around her.

Jess laughed and tossed her head. “She’s shy, huh?”

Tom’s dark eyes flicked to Y/N, a teasing spark lighting up his gaze. “I like that,” he murmured, stepping a bit closer, his voice low and smooth.

Y/N’s cheeks warmed, but her attention wasn’t on him. She scanned the crowd, feeling small and exposed under the flashing lights.

Liv caught her eye and gave her a quick nod—a silent promise that she had her back.

Still, Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that she didn’t belong here.

The pounding music pressed against Y/N’s chest like a living heartbeat as she swayed slightly to the rhythm, her arms loose at her sides. She wasn’t a dancer—never had been—but somehow, in the heat of the room and the rush of it all, she’d let herself move, just a little.

A couple of drinks had found their way into her hands over the night—mostly from Jess’s insistent prodding—and though she wasn’t drunk, a gentle warmth bloomed beneath her skin. It loosened her tongue just enough to make the endless chatter around her seem less intimidating, less like a wall she couldn’t climb.

Still, the bass hammered in her ears and her pulse thrummed in her temples, making her glance down at her phone more than once.

She found the screen dimly glowing in her pocket and pulled it out, squinting at the time. Almost midnight.

Her stomach twisted. This wasn’t how she’d imagined her first night out would go—or maybe it was, but not like this.

She edged closer to Liv, who was leaning against the bar with that calm, unreadable expression that had been a lifeline all evening.

“I should go,” Y/N said, voice just audible over the music. She glanced at her phone again, then around the room. “It’s getting late. I have a class early tomorrow and… I think I’ve had enough.”

Liv’s eyes flicked to Y/N, sharp and calculating. Then she smiled—a slow, knowing smile that sent a shiver down Y/N’s spine.

“You can’t leave yet,” Liv said softly, voice low enough that only Y/N could hear.

Y/N frowned, taking a step back. “Why not?”

Liv leaned closer, the noise swallowing her words but the meaning clear. “Because the main event hasn’t started.”

Y/N blinked, confusion pooling in her chest. “Main event?”

Liv’s smile deepened, but she didn’t answer. Liv tugged Y/N’s hand firmly, steering her away from the pulsing center of the room where bodies had been dancing, lost in the pounding music. The crowd thickened, pressing in around them, but Liv led her toward a narrow space against the far wall, where the air was cooler and the chaos dimmed to a dull roar.

Suddenly, the music cut sharply, replaced by an expectant silence that rippled through the crowd like a wave.

Two blinding lights snapped on, slicing through the smoke and darkness, illuminating the middle of the room with harsh white beams.

A man appeared, gripping a microphone like a weapon. His voice boomed out, amplified and commanding:

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the real show.”

The crowd erupted into cheers and whistles.

Liv’s grip on Y/N’s hand tightened.

The man paced slowly across the floor, eyes shining with excitement.

“Tonight’s fighters are ready to put it all on the line. Only one will walk away the victor. And remember there’s only one rule in here,” he shouted. “No fuckin’ rules.”

Y/N’s breath hitched.

The announcer’s voice lowered, but carried over the noise like a knife.

“ In the red corner…” he called, drawing out the pause like a showman feeding blood to wolves, “you know him, you hate him, you can’t kill him—Marcus ‘The Butcher’ Dale!”

A wave of chaos surged through the room. Screams, whistles, fists pounding against walls and floors.

A man stepped into the light from the opposite side—tall, with broad shoulders, with thick arms covered in brutal, angry tattoos. His face was twisted into a cocky smirk, blood already dried across one knuckle.

Y/N’s stomach twisted.

This wasn’t some theatrical show. This was real.

“And in the blue corner, five-time underground champ. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t lose.” He grinned. “The King of the Cut — Harry fuckin’ Styles.”

A roar exploded around them. People were shouting his name, clapping, stomping.

Y/N’s eyes locked onto a figure stepping into the light—tall, solid, tattooed arms gleaming under the harsh glare. His buzz-cut hair caught the white light, and those cold, piercing eyes swept the room like a predator.

Everything inside Y/N froze.

This wasn’t a club. It wasn’t a party.

This was an underground fight.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, a mix of disbelief and awe swirling in her chest. The roar of the crowd was a distant thunder, and yet all she could focus on was him.

He stood in the center of the ring, a living storm of controlled power. His buzz-cut scalp gleamed under the harsh lights, every sharp line of his jaw set like stone.

Tattooed arms flexed as he shifted his weight, muscles coiled beneath the skin like a panther ready to pounce. Silver rings glinted on thick fingers, catching the light with every movement.

His eyes—cold, calculating, fierce—scanned the crowd before settling briefly on the entrance.

Y/N felt those eyes slice through the haze and land on her, just for a fraction of a second, but enough to make her heart leap.

There was something raw and dangerous in him, an intensity that seemed to pulse from his very bones. But beneath it all, she sensed a quiet hardness—a man who had been through fire and come out harder.

She had never seen anyone like him.

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, and for a moment, the heat blossoming in her skin wasn’t from the room or the drinks—it was from something far more electric.

As the announcer continued, the crowd’s cheers surged again, but Y/N’s world had narrowed to that single figure standing tall and unyielding before her.

The announcer raised his free hand, waiting for the crowd to settle—just enough to be heard again.

Y/N’s hand shot out and found Liv’s without thinking, her fingers closing tight.

Liv looked over, eyes dark and steady, and gave her a single, reassuring squeeze.

“You okay?” she asked, her mouth close to Y/N’s ear.

Y/N didn’t answer. Her heart was in her throat. The reality was setting in like ice water.

This was violence.

And Harry—Harry, with the cold eyes and the inked skin and the motionless stance—was about to step into it without flinching.

Y/N’s grip on Liv’s hand tightened until her knuckles ached.

The announcer had vanished into the crowd, swallowed whole by the heat and noise, and the two men stood face-to-face beneath the harsh white lights. No gloves. No headgear. No rules.

Harry hadn’t moved. His expression was unreadable—stone, carved from the coldest parts of him. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, muscles tense and still. The other man—Marcus—was pacing, shaking out his arms, smirking like he’d already won.

Y/N’s voice cracked as she leaned toward Liv. “Why did you bring me here?”

Liv didn’t answer at first. She was watching the ring like it mattered more than the air in her lungs.

Y/N tugged on her sleeve, voice rising, urgent now. “Liv.”

Liv finally turned, her eyes shining in the dim light, something wild flickering there. “Because I wanted you to see what real looks like.”

Before Y/N could process it, the bell rang.

Not a clean boxing bell—an actual iron bell slammed by someone’s fist.

The crowd erupted, bodies surging forward, a roar rising up around them so loud Y/N could feel it in her chest.

Marcus lunged first—fast for his size, all brute force and rage. He threw a heavy right hook aimed straight at Harry’s jaw.

But Harry didn’t flinch.

He ducked cleanly, silent and sharp, then answered with a lightning-fast jab to Marcus’s ribs. The sound of it cracked through the air—flesh meeting flesh, knuckle meeting bone.

Marcus stumbled back, face twisted. He hadn’t expected the counter.

Y/N’s eyes widened.

Harry moved like a shadow—fluid, controlled, terrifying in how calm he was. No showboating. No wasted steps. Just raw precision.

Blood sprayed from Marcus’s nose as another punch landed, and the crowd screamed louder. Someone near Y/N shouted Harry’s name again and again like a prayer or a curse.

She couldn’t look away.

The lights overhead flickered slightly, the smoke rising from the crowd curling around the ring like steam over a fire.

It was chaos—pure, unfiltered violence—but somehow… there was beauty in the way Harry moved. Not just strength. Discipline. Intention.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

He was terrifying. And he was magnificent.

Her heart pounded louder than the crowd.

And she had no idea what kind of world she’d just stepped into.

The fight escalated fast.

After the first few blows, Marcus no longer looked amused. The smirk had vanished, replaced by something far uglier—frustration. Maybe fear.

He rushed forward again with a roar, throwing a savage combination—left, right, then another right meant to break someone’s jaw.

Harry blocked the first two, absorbed the third with a subtle turn of his shoulder, then answered with a brutal uppercut to the gut. Marcus doubled over, gasping, and Harry didn’t wait.

He stepped in. One. Two. Three hits. Clean, fast, calculated.

Each punch echoed like thunder.

The crowd around Y/N was a blur of motion—screaming, fists pumping in the air, bodies jumping and shoving. Some were chanting Harry’s name. Others were yelling for blood.

Y/N stood frozen, her back to the wall, eyes locked on the ring. Her ears rang, not just from the noise but from the sickening, wet thuds of fists colliding with flesh.

Marcus tried to land a knee, wild and desperate. But Harry caught him mid-motion, wrapped an arm around his neck, and slammed him hard into the floor with a move so fast Y/N barely registered it.

Gasps. Cheers.

Marcus writhed, cursing, trying to rise—blood spilling from his nose, his lip split wide. But Harry didn’t let him.

He straddled him in a controlled mount, knees planted firm, and drove a single punch—straight to Marcus’s jaw.

And then another.

And another.

The crowd counted aloud. “One! Two! Three!”

Y/N’s breath hitched.

Marcus’s head lolled slightly, dazed, mouth open, eyes unfocused.

The bell rang again.

Loud. Final.

Harry stopped. Immediately.

He rose slowly, blood streaking his knuckles, chest heaving, but his expression unchanged—calm, cold, unreadable.

The room exploded around him.

People surged toward the ring, some climbing over barriers, others throwing money, coats, and drinks into the air. The lights strobed wildly.

Y/N stared at him—this man who had just dismantled another human being without blinking. Not out of cruelty. Not for spectacle.

But because that’s what he came to do.

He didn’t look proud. He didn’t look relieved. He looked exactly the same as he had when he walked in—haunted, sharp, and terrifyingly composed.

Y/N’s pulse roared in her ears. Her skin felt too tight for her body. Her mouth was dry.

She had never seen anything like him.

And she had never wanted answers more than she did now.

Harry disappeared into the crowd like smoke.

One second, he was there—standing over a broken man, chest rising slow and even, blood splattered across his skin like war paint. The next, he was gone. Swallowed whole by bodies pushing inward, cheering, chanting, desperate to touch something that felt untouchable.

Y/N stayed frozen in place, still gripping the edge of the wall like it might keep her upright.

Around her, the atmosphere had shifted. The violence was over, but the energy in the room hadn’t calmed—it had sharpened. Louder music kicked in, harder and heavier than before. Drinks were passed hand to hand. People laughed and shoved and screamed like it was a party.

A celebration.

But Y/N couldn’t celebrate.

She couldn’t drink.

She couldn’t breathe.

The image was stuck in her mind—Marcus lying there, dazed and bleeding, struggling to sit up, the skin of his face swollen and cracked. His mouth had opened like he was trying to speak, but nothing came out. Just blood. Just pain.

And Harry’s fists, silent and cold and exact.

Y/N blinked hard. Her eyes stung.

She turned quickly, pushing through the crowd, her hands trembling as she passed a group of people laughing and rewatching a recording of the fight on someone’s phone like it was a highlight reel.

Her throat closed.

She didn’t know what door she was looking for—just that she needed out. Needed air. Needed to get the sound of bone hitting flesh out of her head.

The first door she reached wasn’t marked. She shoved it open anyway.

The noise cut off like a switch had flipped.

She stumbled into a narrow alleyway. Dimly lit. Quiet. Concrete walls slick with condensation. She could hear the dull hum of the bass behind her, but here, it was muffled. Like it belonged to a different world.

Y/N leaned back against the cold wall, her hands gripping the edge of her jacket, pulling it tight around her chest. Her eyes welled, unblinking.

She didn’t know why she was crying.

She hadn’t been the one hurt. She hadn’t even known Marcus. She didn’t know the rules of this world, didn’t know what he’d done to deserve it, if anything.

But it didn’t matter.

She’d seen pain. Real pain. Up close. And everyone else had clapped for it.

“You okay?”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

Harry was only a few feet away. Still shirtless, the blood on his torso now dried to rust. A cigarette dangled between his fingers, lit at the tip, the smoke curling lazily in the cold night air. His other hand rested low on his hip, relaxed.

He hadn’t looked at her yet, not fully. His gaze was angled down, watching the cigarette burn.

She hadn’t heard him come out.

Had no idea how long he’d been there.

Y/N’s voice was barely a whisper. “You scared me.”

Harry glanced at her then, his eyes shadowed but sharp—cut from something darker than the rest of him.

“Didn’t mean to,” he said.

He took a slow drag from the cigarette, the ember lighting the edge of his cheekbone, his expression unreadable.

Y/N’s back pressed tighter against the wall, her voice soft and shaking. “Why would anyone cheer for something like that?”

Harry exhaled the smoke through his nose. A pause. Then, finally: