#harry styles reader insert

She stops recording and glances at you. “You look sad.”

“I am not sad.”

“You are aggressively neutral. Which is worse.”

You pull at the sleeve of your sweater. “It’s been three weeks.”

“Three weeks since the breakup,” she says, hopping onto the counter across from you. “And you are still defending a man who thought oat milk was a personality.”

You huff out a small laugh despite yourself. “He was not that bad.”

“He was that boring.”

The thing about Camille is that she could have said I told you so months ago. She saw the cracks before you did. Instead she let you figure it out, and now she is careful with you, even when she’s teasing.

“You need a distraction,” she says, softer now.

“I have work.”

“You write about city council meetings.”

“I like writing about city council meetings.”

“I know you do,” she says quickly. “I’m not diminishing your civic passion. I’m saying you deserve something that makes your stomach flip in a good way.”

You give her a look. “That sounds dangerous.”

She grins and reaches for her phone. “It is.”

You already know that expression. It’s the one she gets right before she convinces you to do something you swore you wouldn’t.

“Camille.”

“Raya.”

You laugh immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because that is for models and DJs and men who own boats. I am a writer for an online newspaper. I am painfully normal.”

She slides off the counter and comes to stand in front of you, arms crossed. “First of all, you are not painfully normal. You are emotionally literate and hot. That’s a rare combination. Second, I have an invite code.”

“How do you just have an invite code?”

She shrugs. “It circulates.”

“That is not an answer.”

“One of the stylists I worked with last month had extras. Influencer privilege. It resets every so often.”

You stare at her. “Your life sounds fake.”

“And yet here I am, using it for good.”

She types something quickly and your phone buzzes in your hand.

“Camille.”

“Just download it. You don’t have to use it. Think of it as exposure therapy.”

“I do not need exposure therapy. I need to stop wanting to text my ex.”

“Exactly,” she says, like you just proved her point. “This is you moving forward without actually moving forward. Low stakes. No expectations.”

You look down at the string of letters and numbers on your screen. A code. A tiny door you did not ask for.

“You’re going to make fun of every man on there with me, aren’t you.”

“Respectfully,” she says. “Yes.”

You slide off the counter and open the app store before you can overthink it. Camille watches like she’s overseeing a soft launch.

When the app opens and asks for photos, you hesitate.

“Use the one from Emma’s birthday,” she says immediately.

“I look shiny.”

“You look dewy. Big difference.”

You scroll anyway, choosing three that feel honest. You laughing mid sentence. You walking down a street. You at your desk with coffee and a stack of papers.

It asks for your job.

You type: Writer, online newspaper. You pause, then add: Painfully normal.

Camille leans over your shoulder and smiles. “That’s charming.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s self aware. People love self aware.”

“I do not want people loving anything. I want them mildly intrigued at best.”

She nudges you. “You say that now.”

You finish setting it up. The profile exists. A version of you sitting in a digital room full of strangers.

“Now what,” you ask.

“Now nothing,” she says. “Close it. Let it breathe. You don’t have to dive in tonight.”

You study her for a second. “You’re being surprisingly chill about this.”

She softens. “I’m not trying to throw you into chaos. I just don’t want you shrinking.”

The words land heavier than the joke did.

You swallow and nod once. “Okay.”

That night, the app sits on your home screen. Small. Unassuming. You open it once, just to look. Profiles slide past. People with glossy photos and inside jokes in their bios. It feels like a room where everyone already knows each other.

You close it. You are not ready. The next day you don’t open it at all. Or the day after that. But you don’t delete it either. You don’t open the app again.

Not when you’re bored on the train. Not when you’re half tempted to text your ex and need a distraction. It just sits there, tucked between your news app and your notes, quietly existing.

A week passes.

Then Camille texts: Girls night. Emergency vibes. Bring pajamas.

You show up at her apartment with a tote bag and low expectations. She’s already in matching satin shorts she claims were gifted but absolutely bought herself. There’s a charcuterie board that looks suspiciously sponsored but isn’t, and a bottle of wine breathing on the counter.

“You look alive,” she says approvingly as you kick off your shoes.

“I showered.”

“Growth.”

You roll your eyes and accept the glass she hands you. The apartment smells like whatever expensive candle she’s currently pretending not to be emotionally attached to. Music plays softly in the background. It feels easy.

You talk about work first. You tell her about a piece you’re drafting and how your editor keeps asking for more bite. She tells you about a brand dinner where a micro celebrity tried to explain crypto to her for twenty minutes.

By the second glass of wine, you feel looser. Not reckless. Just less tight in your chest.

Camille studies you from across the couch. “Did you delete it?”

You know exactly what she means.

“No.”

Her eyes light up. “So you kept it.”

“That does not mean anything.”

“It means you’re curious.”

“It means I forgot.”

She gives you a look that says she does not believe you for a second.

“Open it.”

“Camille.”

“Open it. We’re in a safe environment. I will curate.”

“You are the least neutral curator alive.”

“Correct.”

You hesitate, then reach for your phone. The app opens faster than you expect, like it’s been waiting.

Profiles start sliding past. A director in Berlin. A DJ in Miami. A guy whose bio is just a single black square emoji.

Camille narrates like it’s a sport.

“Absolutely not.”

“He looks like he says ‘let’s circle back.’”

“Oh he owns a boat. You were right about the boats.”

You laugh more than you have in days. It feels harmless. Distant. These are just faces on a screen.

You swipe left. Left. Left. Then you pause.

Camille notices immediately. “What.”

“Nothing.”

“Show me.”

You turn the phone toward her.

The first photo is candid. Slightly blurry. Sunglasses. A half smile that feels familiar in a way your brain takes a second to process. The second is him on what looks like a boat, wind pushing his hair back. The third is simple. Black shirt. Direct eye contact with the camera.

There’s no over the top bio. Just his name. Harry. A few understated details. A song playing in the background of the profile that you recognize immediately.

Your stomach drops in a way that has nothing to do with wine.

Camille blinks. Then blinks again. “Is that…”

“Yes.”

She grabs your wrist. “Oh my god.”

“It’s fake.”

“It does not look fake.”

“It’s absolutely fake.”

The photos don’t look like press shots. They look like someone handed a friend a phone. The prompts are understated. Almost boring. Which somehow makes it worse.

Camille leans closer to the screen. “Location?”

You glance at the top. It lists New York, but there’s a small note about frequent travel.

Your heart is beating faster now, and you hate that it is.

“This is stupid,” you say, more to yourself than to her.

“Swipe right.”

“No.”

“Why not.”

“Because what if it matches.”

“That is the point of the app.”

“Camille.”

She softens, just slightly. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. But if you’re going to tell this story one day, you’re going to wish you swiped right.”

You stare at the screen. At the small, digital version of a man you have only ever seen on stages and magazine covers. It feels ridiculous. Unreal. He is just another profile. Just another person in a room full of people.

You swallow.

“This is insane.”

“I know,” she whispers, grinning.

You swipe right.

The screen barely has time to settle before it flashes.

It’s a match.

You and Camille freeze at the exact same time, staring at the glowing words like they might rearrange themselves into something more reasonable.

“No,” you say immediately.

Camille grabs your arm. “No way.”

The phone is still in your hand. Still warm. Still real.

You both scream. It’s not cute. It’s not controlled. It’s loud and sharp and slightly panicked. Camille knocks over her wine glass in the process and you fling the phone onto the couch like it just burned you.

“Oh my god,” she says, half laughing, half hyperventilating.

“This is not funny,” you say, backing away from the couch like the phone might start speaking.

“You matched with him.”

“It’s fake.”

“It literally says matched.”

“That does not mean anything. People hack things.”

She lunges for the phone. You lunge too. You both miss and it slides off the couch and lands face down on the rug.

You stare at it.

“Pick it up,” she whispers.

“You pick it up.”

“It’s your life.”

“It was your code.”

She laughs in this nervous, stressed out way that makes everything feel ten times more unhinged. “Okay. Okay. Breathe. This is fine. You’re fine.”

“I am not fine.”

She scoops up the phone and flips it over. Still there. His name at the top of the screen. The little notification bubble waiting.

“You have to message him,” she says.

You actually yell. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No. Absolutely not. I am not messaging him.”

“You cannot match with Harry Styles and then just sit there.”

“I can and I will.”

She shoves the phone toward you. “Say hi.”

“I don’t know how to say hi to that.”

“You say hi like you would to anyone else.”

“That is objectively untrue.”

You grab the phone from her and clutch it to your chest like you’re protecting it from her.

“What if it’s not him,” you say quickly. “What if it’s someone pretending to be him and I say something normal and they screenshot it and it’s humiliating.”

Camille squints at the profile again. “The photos look real. The prompts look real. It’s understated in a way that feels real.”

“That is not comforting.”

She tilts her head. “Do you want him to message first?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t control that.”

You glance down at the screen like it might betray you at any second. “This was supposed to be funny.”

“It is funny.”

“It is not funny. It’s deeply stressful.”

She grins despite herself. “You are glowing right now.”

“I am panicking.”

“Same,” she says brightly.

Your thumb hovers over the message bar. Blank. Waiting.

“Okay,” Camille says, suddenly serious. “If you don’t message him, you’re going to think about it all week. If you do message him, worst case scenario he doesn’t respond and we move on.”

“And best case.”

She smiles slowly. “We get a story.”

You look at the phone. At his name. At the tiny space where words are supposed to go.

You feel ridiculous. You feel curious. You feel a small flicker of something that does not feel like your ex.

“I hate you,” you tell her.

“I know,” she says sweetly.

Your thumb taps the keyboard. Then you panic and throw the phone back onto the couch again.

“No. I can’t.”

Camille bursts out laughing and dives for it before you can. “You are impossible.”

“Do not send anything,” you warn, scrambling after her.

“I won’t. I promise. I’m just looking.”

You both collapse onto the couch, shoulders pressed together, staring at the screen like it’s a live wire.

The message bar is still empty. Waiting. You stare at the blinking cursor like it’s personally judging you.

Camille is practically vibrating next to you.

“Okay,” she says carefully, like she’s negotiating with a wild animal. “Give me the phone.”

“No.”

“You are spiraling.”

“I am thinking.”

“You have been thinking for ten full minutes.”

You glance at the clock. She’s right. It has been ten full minutes of you typing something, deleting it, typing something else, deleting that too.

“What if I say something weird,” you say.

“You won’t.”

“What if I black out and accidentally propose.”

She snorts. “Then at least it would be memorable.”

You press your lips together and look back down at his name. It still feels surreal. Too big for the tiny screen.

“Okay,” you say slowly. “You can send it.”

Her eyes widen. “Really.”

“Yes. But nothing embarrassing. Nothing flirty. Nothing that sounds like I’ve ever listened to music in my life.”

She grabs the phone gently, like it might shatter. “Relax.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

You watch her thumbs hover over the keyboard. Your heart is pounding again, which is ridiculous. This is a dating app. People message each other every day. This is normal.

Painfully normal, you remind yourself.

“Just say hi,” you whisper.

“That’s boring.”

“Boring is safe.”

She thinks for a second, then starts typing. You crane your neck to see.

Hi. I was told this app was for models and DJs and men who own boats, so I’m slightly confused.

You stare at it.

“That’s actually good,” you admit quietly.

“I know.”

“It sounds like me.”

“Because I am a genius.”

She looks at you one more time. “Last chance.”

You take a breath. The worst that happens is nothing. The worst that happens is it is him and he doesn’t respond. The worst that happens is you wake up tomorrow and your life is exactly the same as it was this morning.

“Send it,” you say.

She taps the screen. The message flies off into the void. You both immediately scream again and she drops the phone onto your lap this time.

“It’s done,” she says, laughing in that stressed out way that makes everything feel unreal. “You did it.”

“I didn’t do it. You did it.”

“You approved it.”

You stare at the chat. The message sits there, small and harmless looking. Sent. Now you wait.

Camille leans her head against your shoulder. “See. That wasn’t so bad.”

You swallow. “It was terrible.”

She smiles. “Admit it. You’re curious.”

You are.

There isn’t an immediate response. Of course there isn’t.

You and Camille stare at the screen for a full minute like something dramatic is supposed to happen. It doesn’t. The chat just sits there with your message hanging in polite, digital silence.

Camille eventually clears her throat. “Well. He’s busy.”

“Right,” you say quickly. “He’s… him.”

“He could be in a studio. Or asleep. Or on a boat.”

“Stop mentioning boats.”

She laughs, but after another minute of nothing, the intensity fizzles. The wine settles. The night moves on. You order takeout. You watch something mindless. You do not check the app again before you fall asleep on her couch.

The next morning, you half expect a notification. There isn’t one. And weirdly, that makes it easier.

Life resumes.

You go to work. You draft headlines. You sit in meetings where someone says the phrase content vertical without irony. The Raya message drifts to the back of your mind, filed somewhere between embarrassing and funny.

Every few days, Camille checks in.

“Any movement?”

“No.”

“Are you checking?”

“Not obsessively.”

“That is not what I asked.”

You roll your eyes at her texts and keep walking down the street, coffee in hand. It becomes a bit. A running joke. The time you matched with Harry Styles and nothing happened.

You stop opening the app altogether. You don’t want to see the unchanged chat. It feels cleaner to leave it unopened than to confirm the silence.

A week passes. Then another.

The sharpness of it dulls. You stop imagining what you would say if he responded. You stop replaying the message in your head. It becomes a story you’ll tell someday. Remember when.

One evening, you’re walking up the stairs to your apartment, juggling your tote bag and your keys. It’s been a long day. You stayed late finishing a piece and your brain feels like static. All you want is a shower and something easy to eat.

Your phone buzzes in your hand.

You don’t even look at the screen at first. You assume it’s Camille. She tends to text around this time, usually something chaotic like I have a new theory about men.

You push your door open with your shoulder and glance down casually.

It’s not iMessage blue.

It’s the Raya icon.

Your heart drops so fast you actually miss the doorway and bump your hip against the frame.

You stare at the notification. Harry sent you a message.

For a second, you just stand there in your dim apartment hallway, door half open behind you, keys still in your hand.

You genuinely consider not opening it. Preserving the possibility instead of facing whatever is actually there.

Your phone buzzes again. Another message.Your throat goes dry.

You step inside slowly and close the door with your foot, like you’re trying not to disturb something fragile. The apartment is quiet. The only sound is your own breathing, suddenly louder than it should be.

You unlock your phone.

Your thumb hovers over the app.

You think, absurdly, I thought this was Camille.

It isn’t.

It’s him.

You open it before you can talk yourself out of it.

The chat loads.

Your message is still there at the top, slightly smug now that it has company.

Below it:

I don’t own a boat. Feels important to clarify.

You stare at it.

Then the second message.

But I am slightly offended I got lumped in with DJs.

You let out a sound that is half laugh, half something close to hysteria.

It’s him. It has to be him. The tone is dry. Understated. Not trying too hard. Not grand.

You drop your bag on the floor without meaning to.

Your brain immediately starts overanalyzing. How long ago did he send this. You check.

Three minutes.

Three.

He is currently on the app.

Your heart begins beating in a way that feels wildly disproportionate to a dating app notification.

You pace once across your living room. Then back.

You consider calling Camille. You absolutely cannot call Camille. She will scream and make this worse.

You look back at the messages.

There are no emojis. No exclamation points. Just clean, simple sentences.

You sit down on the edge of your couch and type.

I appreciate the clarification.

It feels neutral. Slightly amused. Safe.

You hesitate for only a second this time before hitting send.

The message delivers.

You immediately lock your phone and toss it onto the couch like distance will regulate your nervous system.

It buzzes.

You freeze.

You turn slowly and pick it up.

That was faster than I expected. I thought you might have forgotten about this place.

Your stomach flips.

You type back before you can overthink it.

I did. Briefly.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Fair. I disappear for weeks at a time. Occupational hazard.

You swallow. Occupational hazard. He’s referencing it without naming it. Casual.

You lean back into your couch now, letting yourself settle into it.

Hazard implies danger. Should I be concerned.

The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.

Only if you’re afraid of slightly inconsistent texting habits.

You actually smile.

That feels honest. Not polished. Not trying to charm.

You decide to push, just slightly.

And what exactly is the occupation that causes that.

You stare at the screen after sending it. It’s a normal question. Completely normal.

The three dots take longer this time.

Then:

I sing sometimes.

You laugh out loud in your empty apartment.

Sometimes.

You rest your head back against the couch and type:

Ah. Casual.

A pause.

Then:

And you’re painfully normal, if I remember correctly.

Your cheeks warm.

Writer. Online newspaper. I cover city council meetings sometimes. No boats involved.

Three dots.

That sounds more interesting than boats.

You blink at the screen.

You weren’t expecting that.

Before you can respond, another message appears.

How did you end up on this app if you’re so painfully normal.

There’s no judgment in it. It reads curious. Respectful.

You hesitate for a second, then decide honesty is easier than crafting something cool.

A friend passed along an invite code. She said it would be character building.

You add, after a beat:

I haven’t decided if she was right.

The typing bubble appears again.

I respect a friend with connections. Sounds efficient.

You smile at that.

Your apartment feels different now. Lighter somehow. Charged in a quiet way.

It stays small. Contained. Two people in a digital room, testing the edges.

And for the first time in weeks, your chest feels full of something that isn’t grief.

It’s curiosity.

And it feels dangerously close to excitement.

You stare at the screen for a second longer than necessary, letting the fact that this is happening settle somewhere in your chest.

You decide to keep it light.

She would be thrilled to hear that. She considers herself very well connected.

The typing bubble appears almost immediately.

Sounds intimidating. Should I be worried about her vetting process.

You smile.

She’d absolutely run a background check if she could.

That feels fair.

The ease of it surprises you. There’s no heavy flirting. No performance. Just conversation.

Another message appears.

So. Writer for an online newspaper.

You shift on the couch, tucking one leg under you.

Yes. Very glamorous.

What do you write about.

You consider giving him the short version. Instead, you answer properly.

Local things. City council meetings when they matter. Housing issues. Small business stories. Restaurant openings. The kind of pieces people actually click on at eight in the morning while they’re drinking coffee.

You pause, then add:

Sometimes it’s more human. I interviewed a man last month who’s been feeding the same stray cat outside a laundromat for nine years. That one did surprisingly well.

The typing bubble appears quickly.

That sounds more interesting than most things I’ve read today.

You blink at the screen.

It’s not glamorous. But it’s real.

A moment passes.

Real is better.

You feel that one land somewhere you weren’t expecting.

Then:

What got you into it.

It isn’t surface level. He keeps asking follow ups like he actually wants to know.

You think about it before answering.

I like paying attention to things that would get ignored otherwise. Small decisions. Small people. The stuff that doesn’t trend but still matters.

You hover over the screen, suddenly aware you might be revealing more than you planned to.

You send it anyway.

The typing bubble lingers.

That doesn’t sound painfully normal to me.

Your cheeks warm.

You’ve exchanged maybe fifteen messages with me. That’s not a thorough character study.

I work well with limited data.

You laugh under your breath.

You decide to pivot.

And you. You “sing sometimes.” Is that what you put on tax forms.

A beat.

Depends who’s asking.

I’m asking.

There’s a slightly longer pause this time.

I travel a lot. I write songs. I spend more time in airports than I’d like.

It’s understated. No résumé. No ego.

Then another message appears.

I’ve been spending a lot of time in Italy lately. I’m there now.

You sit up a little straighter.

Oh.

Work. I tend to stay longer than planned.

You picture it without meaning to. Warmer air. Different language. A life that moves at a different speed.

That sounds better than New York in February.

It’s quieter. Less arguing outside the window.

You smile.

On impulse, you switch languages.

Quindi ora sei ufficialmente italiano? (So are you officially Italian now?)

You immediately wonder if that was too much.

The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.

Capisco un po’. Not enough to get in trouble. (I understand a little.)

Your eyebrows lift.

That’s suspiciously vague.

It’s strategic.

You laugh.

How much is “un po’.” (“A little.”)

A beat.

Enough to order dinner. Not enough to win an argument.

You shake your head, smiling into your phone, alone in your apartment but suddenly not feeling it quite as much.

You stare at the last message for a while.

Enough to order dinner. Not enough to win an argument.

You type a response. Delete it. Type another. Delete that too.

You don’t want to overextend it. You don’t want to drag the conversation into the early morning just because you can. He said it was late there. You can feel the natural pause settling in.

So you send one last thing.

That feels like the correct level of fluency.

The message delivers.

You lock your phone before he can respond.

Not in a dramatic way. Just deliberately. You don’t want to sit there watching the typing bubble. You don’t want to turn this into something frantic.

You set your phone on the coffee table and lean back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.

Your apartment is quiet again.

It feels different though. Charged. Like the air shifted a few degrees.

You tell yourself you’re being normal. You had a conversation. That’s it. People have conversations every day.

Still.

After a minute, you reach for your phone again.

You don’t open the chat.

You open his profile.

The first photo loads. Slightly blurry. Sunglasses pushed up into his hair. A half smile that looks unguarded. The kind of picture that feels like it was taken by someone standing too close, not a press photographer.

You swipe.

The boat photo. Wind in his hair. Sun on his face. He looks relaxed in a way that feels almost private.

You swipe again.

The black shirt. Direct eye contact with the camera. No exaggerated expression. Just him.

You exhale slowly.

He’s beautiful.

Not in a distant, untouchable way. In a human way. In a way that feels almost unfair when it’s paired with the quiet, thoughtful messages you just read.

You zoom in slightly before you can stop yourself, studying details you would absolutely make fun of Camille for noticing. The curve of his mouth. The line of his jaw. The softness in his eyes that doesn’t fully translate on stage but shows up here.

Your stomach flips again.

You close the app.

Open it again.

Just to look one more time.

You’re not desperate. You’re curious. There’s a difference, you tell yourself.

You set your phone down for good this time and stand up, pacing once across your living room.

This is ridiculous, you think.

You give it a few days.

Not on purpose at first. Just life moving the way it does. Work piles up. Your editor sends back notes. You spend an entire afternoon interviewing a bakery owner who insists on telling you her full life story before answering a single question.

You do not open the app.

You think about it, though.

In line for coffee. On the train. When your phone buzzes and your heart does something irrational before you check the notification and it’s just a news alert.

You tell yourself this is healthy. Measured. You are not spiraling. You are not glued to a screen waiting for a typing bubble.

You are taking it slow.

By day three, you’ve convinced yourself that leaving space makes you mysterious.

By day four, you realize you are just nervous.

Camille texts you on Thursday night.

Are you alive.

You stare at the message.

Yes.

That’s it? she replies. Suspicious.

You hesitate, then type:

He messaged.

There are three dots immediately.

WHAT.

You call her before she can send anything else because you know she will escalate.

She answers on the first ring.

“You cannot just text ‘he messaged’ and leave it there,” she says, already breathless.

“It was normal,” you say quickly. “Very normal. Calm. Human.”

“Define human.”

“We talked about work. Italy came up.”

“Italy,” she repeats, like it’s a plot twist in a show she’s invested in.

“He’s there.”

“I hate that.”

“I know.”

She goes quiet for a second. “So what’s the problem.”

“There isn’t one.”

“Then why do you sound like there is.”

You sit on the edge of your bed, twisting the hem of your shirt around your fingers.

“I just… I don’t want to ruin it.”

“Ruin what.”

“I don’t know. The tone. The ease.”

Camille softens.

“You’re allowed to enjoy something without pre ruining it.”

“I’m not pre ruining it.”

“You’re rationing it,” she says gently.

You look at the floor.

She’s not wrong.

“I haven’t opened the app in a few days,” you admit.

“On purpose?”

“Kind of.”

“Why.”

You search for the right words.

“Because if I answer too fast, it feels like I care too much. And if I answer too slow, it feels like I’m playing a game. I don’t want to play a game.”

Camille exhales.

“You are overthinking this.”

“I know.”

“He is a man. On a dating app. You are a woman. On a dating app. You are allowed to respond when you want to respond.”

“It’s different.”

“Because he’s famous.”

You don’t answer.

She continues, softer now.

“Is he talking to you like he’s famous.”

“No.”

“Is he acting like you should be impressed.”

“No.”

“Then stop assigning weight to it.”

You lean back onto your bed and stare at the ceiling.

“I’ve just been taking it slow,” you say finally.

“Slow is fine,” she replies. “Slow is sexy. Slow is mysterious. Slow is emotionally regulated. But slow is not avoidance.”

You laugh quietly.

“Which one am I.”

“A little of both,” she says.

You glance at your phone on your nightstand.

It hasn’t buzzed.

But you know the conversation is still there. Waiting. Not in a demanding way. Just existing.

You shift on your bed, tucking the phone tighter between your shoulder and your ear so you can free up one hand.

“Don’t,” Camille says immediately.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to. I can hear it.”

You roll your eyes even though she can’t see you. “I’m just looking.”

“You are absolutely about to open the app.”

You don’t deny it this time. You pull the phone away from your ear for a second, switch to speaker, and open Raya.

The screen loads.

Your thumb hesitates before you tap the chat.

Nothing new.

The last message is still there. Calm. Unmoved. No typing bubble. No fresh notification.

You stare at it longer than you should.

“Well?” Camille asks through the speaker.

“Nothing.”

There’s a small pause.

“That’s okay,” you add quickly. “He’s busy.”

Camille hums in a way that says she’s watching you spiral from miles away.

“Yeah,” she says. “He probably is.”

You exit the chat but don’t close the app right away. You linger on his profile picture at the top of the screen like it might offer some kind of reassurance.

“He said he disappears for weeks sometimes,” you say, trying to sound unaffected. “Occupational hazard.”

“You remember the exact phrasing,” she points out.

“Stop.”

You finally lock your phone and set it on your nightstand.

“I don’t want to be the girl who waits around,” you admit.

“You checked once,” she says calmly. “While actively talking to me.”

“That still counts.”

“It counts as being human.”

You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling.

“It’s fine,” you say again, softer this time. “He’s in Italy. It’s late there. He probably has a life.”

Camille laughs gently. “I hope so.”

You smile despite yourself.

“It was one conversation,” you continue. “A good one. But still.”

“And if that’s all it is, that’s still nice,” she says.

The week stretches longer than you expect.

Not in a dramatic way. Just quietly.

You stop checking every day. Then you stop checking at all. Work fills the space. You finish the bakery piece. You sit through a zoning meeting that runs forty minutes past what it should. You have dinner with Camille where neither of you says his name out loud.

It settles into something that almost feels finished.

You tell yourself that was nice. A good conversation. A small reminder that the world is bigger than one breakup.

You don’t delete the app.

You just let it exist.

It’s the following Tuesday when it happens.

You’re on the train, wedged between a woman reading a thriller and a man aggressively eating almonds out of a plastic bag. You’re half listening to a podcast, half staring at nothing.

Your phone buzzes in your hand.

You glance down automatically.

Raya.

Your stomach drops so fast you actually miss your stop announcement.

You stare at the notification without opening it.

Harry sent you a message.

The train keeps moving. Someone coughs. The world continues like this is not a seismic event.

You open it.

The chat loads.

The last message is still yours. Then below it, new.

Sorry. I disappeared.

Your throat tightens.

Another message comes through.

You were right about the argument thing. I lost one in Italian. Very humbling experience.

You let out a soft, startled laugh on the train, earning a brief look from the almond man.

It’s been a week.

A full week.

And yet the tone is exactly the same. Dry. Casual. Like no time has passed.

You type slowly, deliberately.

That does sound humbling.

You stare at it.

Then add:

I assumed you were busy.

The typing bubble appears almost immediately.

I was.

A pause.

Didn’t mean to vanish.

There’s something in that. Not defensive. Not overly apologetic. Just acknowledging.

You lean back against the train pole, trying to keep your expression neutral.

Occupational hazard, you write.

Three dots.

Exactly.

Another pause.

How’s New York.

You smile to yourself.

The fact that he remembers where you are.

Still cold. Still loud. No progress on the arguing neighbors.

The typing bubble.

I admire their commitment.

You laugh softly.

The train lurches and you grab the pole with your free hand, heart still beating faster than it needs

The train rattles forward and you stay where you are, letting two stops pass without even thinking about it.

Your phone buzzes again.

Did you write anything interesting this week.

You blink at the screen.

It’s such a simple question. And yet it doesn’t feel like filler.

You shift your weight and type carefully.

I wrote about a bakery that almost closed because of a rent increase. The neighborhood showed up for them. It worked.

There’s a pause.

Then:

That’s a good story.

You smile.

It felt like one.

Another message appears before you can overanalyze.

Do you ever want to write something bigger.

You hesitate.

Bigger how.

More glamorous. More visible. Less local.

You decide not to shrink.

Sometimes. But I like knowing exactly who I’m writing for. It feels less abstract.

The typing bubble lingers.

That makes sense.

Then:

Abstract gets lonely.

That lingers quietly.

You swallow.

The train announces the next stop. Yours. You step off, weaving through people while still holding your phone low against your chest.

Lonely in what way, you type as you climb the stairs to street level.

A longer pause this time.

You reach the sidewalk just as the reply comes through.

You play to a lot of people. It doesn’t mean they know you.

Your steps slow.

The city noise rushes around you. Taxis. Conversations. Wind cutting down the block.

You type carefully.

Do you want them to?

Three dots.

Disappear.

Reappear.

Not all of them.

There’s something steady in that answer. Not self pitying. Not dramatic.

You walk toward your apartment, pulse still elevated.

Selective, you write.

Almost instantly:

Exactly.

You smile.

There’s a rhythm now. A comfort.

Another message comes through.

What are you doing right now.

You glance around at the sidewalk, at the guy walking a dog in a tiny sweater.

Walking home. It’s disgustingly cold.

Italy would like to offer an alternative.

You laugh.

That feels like a marketing pitch.

It is.

You shake your head.

What are you doing?

A beat.

On a terrace. It’s late. I should be inside.

You can almost see it without trying. Warm air. Quiet. Different sky.

And yet, you type.

And yet I’m not.

There’s a softness to that.

You unlock your apartment door and step inside, shutting out the noise of the street.

Why not, you ask.

The typing bubble appears almost immediately this time.

Because I’m enjoying this conversation.

Your breath catches just slightly.

You sit down on the edge of your couch again, like your body instinctively knows you need to brace for impact.

You stare at the screen.

Then, slowly:

Me too.

There’s no immediate response.

Just the quiet hum of your apartment and the faint echo of traffic outside.

Then:

Good.

It continues like that.

Not intense. Not dramatic. Just steady.

A few messages in the morning. Sometimes late at night. Sometimes nothing for a full day, then a casual reappearance like no time has passed.

You fall into a rhythm without meaning to.

How’s the bakery.

Thriving. The power of carbs.

Impressive.

—————

How’s Italy.

Still warm. Still confusing me grammatically.

Have you won an argument yet.

Absolutely not.

—————

What are you writing today?

Housing piece. Slightly less charming than stray cats.

You make it sound charming.

—————

Some days it’s just:

Morning.

Morning.

Or:

You alive?

Barely.

It never tips into too much.

He disappears occasionally. Reappears with something small and thoughtful.

Heard a song today that felt like something you’d write about.

Saw a café that would make a good scene in an article.

You don’t ask for proof. You don’t demand consistency. You just let it exist.

Camille notices the shift before you say anything.

“You’re calmer,” she observes one night over dinner.

“Am I.”

“Yes. You’re not spiraling. You’re just… talking.”

That’s exactly it.

You’re just talking. Having fun even.

No declarations. No flirting that feels forced. Just pieces of each other exchanged in manageable amounts.

He tells you about long studio days without naming locations. You tell him about a zoning vote that got unexpectedly heated. He sends a photo once, unprompted. A blurry shot of a street at night. Warm lights. Stone buildings.

It’s quieter than New York, he writes.

You send back a photo of your street. Snow piled against the curb. A bodega glowing under fluorescent light.

It’s louder, you reply.

The time difference becomes familiar. You start to recognize when he’s likely awake. He learns your routine too.

You’re usually on the train around now, he texts one morning.

You pause at that.

Observant.

Limited data, he replies.

You smile.

It’s been three weeks.

Three weeks of casual conversation. Of checking the app without panic. Of feeling something build slowly instead of crashing all at once.

There are no grand gestures.

Just consistency.

It’s a random Wednesday afternoon when it shifts.

You’re at your desk, halfway through rewriting a paragraph for the third time, when your phone buzzes.

You glance down automatically.

Raya.

You open it without thinking now. No dramatic pause. No pacing.

I’m coming back to the States for a bit.

Your fingers still over the keyboard.

You stare at the message for a second.

Then:

Oh?

The typing bubble appears quickly.

Yeah. A few weeks.

Your heart picks up, just slightly.

Where.

A pause. Not long. Just long enough for you to become aware of your own breathing.

Los Angeles.

You lean back in your chair.

Of course.

Work? you type.

Promo. New album coming out. Record meetings. The usual chaos.

You smile at the understatement.

That sounds mildly busy.

It’ll be fine, he replies. Just loud.

You glance around your small office. Your muted computer screen. The hum of fluorescent lights.

You thrive in loud, you write.

There’s a pause.

Sometimes, he replies. Sometimes it’s just noise.

You sit with that for a second.

Then:

When are you back.

Next week.

Your stomach flips. You hate that it does.

Next week feels close. Close in a way Italy never did.

You try to sound casual.

That’s soon.

Yeah.

Another pause.

Will you be in New York at all, you ask before you can talk yourself out of it.

There’s a slightly longer beat this time.

Possibly. Not sure yet. Schedules are still moving around.

You nod to yourself like that makes it less vague.

Fair.

The typing bubble appears again.

Would you want to know if I am?

Your breath catches.

You read it twice.

It’s not a grand gesture. Not an invitation. Just a question.

But it feels like one.

You swallow and type carefully.

I think I would.

There’s no immediate response.

Just the faint hum of your office and your own pulse in your ears.

Then:

Okay.

Life keeps moving.

He flies back to the States and the day he lands your phone buzzes mid afternoon.

Made it. LA is aggressively sunny.

You smile at your desk.

Welcome back to chaos.

A photo comes through. Blurry palm trees from the window of a car. Another of what looks like a studio. Cables. A mic stand. Nothing flashy.

Proof of life, he writes.

You send one back without overthinking it. Your laptop open. Notes scattered across your desk. A coffee cup with lipstick on the rim.

Proof of deadlines.

He replies almost instantly.

Yours looks more organized than mine.

That’s a generous interpretation.

The weeks in LA settle into the same rhythm you built before. Messages between meetings. Late night replies when he’s done for the day.

Long one today, he texts one evening.

Good long or exhausting long.

A bit of both.

He sends a photo of a sunset over the hills. The sky pink and unreal.

You send back a photo of your street in the rain. Reflections in the pavement. A taxi splashing through a puddle.

Still louder, you caption it.

Still warmer here, he replies.

It feels steady. Not performative. Just two lives running parallel with small windows into each other.

You don’t talk about meeting. Not directly. It floats unspoken between you.

Until one night.

It’s late afternoon. You’re already in bed, half asleep, when your phone buzzes on your nightstand.

Raya.

You squint at the screen.

You up.

You blink, suddenly awake.

Unfortunately yes.

The typing bubble appears immediately.

I’m in New York.

You sit up in bed so fast you almost knock your lamp over.

What.

Another message.

One night. Early meetings tomorrow. Flying back out after.

Your heart is pounding now. Loud in the quiet of your apartment.

That’s… random.

Very.

You stare at the screen, trying to slow your breathing.

Where in the city, you type.

A pause.

Midtown. Hotel near the park.

Of course.

You swallow.

The distance between Italy and New York felt theoretical. LA felt far enough to be safe.

But this.

This is different.

Another message comes through.

Thought you’d want to know.

You stare at that one for a long time.

Your city. His one night.

The possibility hanging there.

You stare at Thought you’d want to know until the screen dims.

Your heart is beating too loud for how quiet your apartment is.

You could ignore the implication. You could say that’s exciting, hope it goes well. You could play it safe.

Instead, you sit up straighter and type carefully.

Busy schedule? Or do you get to pretend you’re a normal person for a few hours.

You erase it.

Too pointed.

You try again.

Any plans after your meetings.

Neutral. Almost casual.

You hit send before you can overthink it.

The typing bubble appears quickly. Disappears. Comes back.

I was hoping you might ask that.

Your stomach flips.

Then, another message.

No plans yet.

You inhale slowly.

He doesn’t leave it there.

Do you want to get a drink?

There’s no hedging. No vague maybe we should. No soft landing.

Just direct.

Your pulse kicks up again.

You stare at the message, reading it twice to make sure you didn’t invent it.

This is real. He is in your city. For one night.

You type back, forcing your fingers to stay steady.

That depends.

A pause.

On what.

You smile despite yourself.

On whether you’ve improved your argument skills.

Three dots.

I can lose in English too. Very versatile.

You laugh quietly.

Then you type what you actually mean.

What time?

It takes a few seconds longer this time.

I’m free after nine. I can come to you. Or we can meet somewhere you’re comfortable. If that’s not too late.

There it is again. Direct. But careful.

Not assuming.

Your chest feels tight in a way that isn’t panic. It’s anticipation.

You glance around your apartment like it might offer guidance.

There’s a place near me. Quiet but nice. Not Midtown chaos, you write.

The reply comes quickly.

Send me the name.

Another pause.

See you at nine.

Your breath catches at the simplicity of it.

No overcomplicating. No dramatic build.

Just a plan.

You lock your phone slowly and stare at your reflection in the dark window.

One night.

Nine o’clock.

The second you lock your phone, the calm dissolves.

You stand in the middle of your bedroom staring at your closet like it personally orchestrated this.

“This is ridiculous,” you mutter.

It is one drink. One man. One normal human interaction.

Except it is not normal and you know it.

You start pulling hangers aside too fast. Sweater. No. Too casual. Black dress. Absolutely not. That feels like you’re trying too hard. Jeans. Maybe. But which ones. The good ones. Obviously the good ones.

You sit on the edge of your bed and take a breath.

Cute and comfy. Well dressed. Effortless.

You settle on high waisted tailored trousers and a soft cream button up that drapes just right. Simple gold hoops. Loafers. Hair down, brushed out, not overly styled.

You look at yourself in the mirror.

You look like you. Just slightly steadier.

“Okay,” you whisper.

At 8:45 you’re pacing. At 8:50 you grab your coat. At 8:55 you’re walking faster than necessary.

The bar you chose is dim and narrow and usually quiet on weeknights. You push the door open at exactly 9:00.

No one else is there.

Just the bartender wiping down the counter and a couple in the corner booth speaking in low voices.

You swallow and walk to the bar, sliding onto a stool.

“Can I get you something?”

“Just a glass of red.”

Your phone sits face down on the bar in front of you.

9:02.

That’s fine. Two minutes means nothing.

You take a small sip of your wine and try not to look at the door every time it opens.

9:05.

He’s in Midtown. Traffic exists. Elevators exist. Security exists.

9:08.

Your stomach starts doing something uncomfortable.

You flip your phone over casually.

No new messages.

You open the app.

Nothing.

The last thing he said still sits there.

See you at nine.

You swallow.

9:10.

The bartender glances at the door when it opens. It’s not him. Just someone picking up a takeout order.

Heat creeps up your neck.

This is fine. You are early. Or he is late. That happens. That’s human.

9:12.

You open his profile again without meaning to. The same photos. The same half smile.

A ridiculous thought creeps in.

What if this is the long game.

What if you have been talking to someone who is not him. What if this is the punchline. What if you are about to become a story Camille tells at dinner parties.

9:15.

Your chest feels tight now.

You pick up your phone and hover over the chat.

You could send something casual.

You alive.

Too pointed.

All good.

Too needy.

You lock your phone again and place it back down carefully.

You will not spiral in public.

9:17.

The door opens again.

You look up automatically.

And for a split second, before your brain catches up, you think you might actually be getting catfished.

The door closes behind him and the cold air follows.

For half a second your brain doesn’t register anything except tall.

Then the details come into focus.

Black coat. Slightly windblown hair. That same half smile from the photos, only less curated. More real. His eyes scan the room quickly, adjusting to the dim light.

And then they land on you.

Recognition is instant.

Not confusion. Not hesitation.

Recognition.

Your stomach drops in a completely different way.

He walks toward the bar without rushing. Calm. Almost casual. Like this is just another Wednesday night and not the culmination of three weeks of careful conversation.

You are suddenly very aware of how you’re sitting. Of your hands. Of your face.

He stops a few feet away.

“Hi.”

His voice is softer than you expected. Warmer.

You blink once like your body needs to reboot.

“Hi.”

There’s a flicker of something in his expression. Relief, maybe. Like he wasn’t entirely sure either.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Elevator situation.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “That tracks.”

He smiles properly at that.

Up close, he looks exactly like himself and not at all like a screen version. There’s texture. Movement. A small crease near his eyes when he smiles.

“Is this seat taken?” he asks, nodding to the stool beside you.

You shake your head. “No.”

He slides onto it and shrugs off his coat, draping it over the back. The bartender appears immediately.

“Whiskey,” he says, then glances at you. “That okay?”

You nod, like you have any authority over it.

There’s a small beat of quiet once the bartender steps away.

This is the moment that could be awkward.

It isn’t.

He turns slightly toward you.

“You look like yourself,” he says.

You blink. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It means I wasn’t catfished.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself.

“That was absolutely my fear fifteen minutes ago.”

His eyebrows lift. “Really.”

“9:15 was dark for me.”

He laughs softly at that, shaking his head. “I should’ve sent a message. That’s on me.”

“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “You’re here.”

The simplicity of that lands between you.

He studies you for a second in a way that doesn’t feel invasive. Just present.

“You’re real,” he says quietly.

“I could say the same.”

He smiles again, smaller this time. Less public. More private.

The bartender sets his drink down. He thanks him absentmindedly without breaking eye contact with you.

For a moment the noise of the bar fades into the background.

It’s just the two of you. No typing bubbles. No time difference. No distance.

Just this.

He takes a sip of his drink and tilts his head slightly.

“So,” he says. “Hi.”

And somehow it feels like the beginning all over again.

The thing was, you had been totally professional about it, kept your cool, did as you were told… well mostly.

Like the professional you were, you were the one holding the clipboard to your chest like a shield. You had answered emails. You had coordinated craft services and kept the water station stocked, confirmed the car service for his team, and even double-checked the lighting setups with the photographer and done every single tedious task your job required of you—all while Harry Styles ran laps on a desert highway in nothing but five inches of printed fabric and a pair of Nikes.

The running magazine shoot had been booked for months. The standard editorial, you had been told. Fitness-focused; the typical lifestyle angle your team usually offers. What nobody had mentioned—what nobody had “warned” you about—was the creative direction. Which was, apparently, make him look like a fantasy you would have at mile seven of an overheated treadmill run when your brain starts doing weird things from all the oxygen deprivation.

He had been good-natured about all of it. Grinning through the shoe changes, cracking jokes between setups, doing that thing where he would stretch his arms over his head between takes, where every tendon in his torso would shift under the ink, and you would have to physically look at the horizon line and think about anything else but the “v” running into his waistband, anything else but the fucking bulge that filled the front of his shorts.

Over the course of the day, you had maybe exchanged fifteen words with him directly, nothing major, just the “Hi, nice to meet you.” “Water?” “Sunscreen’s on the table.” “Your team’s in the trailer whenever you need them.” Keeping every interaction clipped and efficient because you were a professional, and also because every time he looked at you, you forgot how your mouth was supposed to work.

But here’s the truth and what nobody wants to fucking tell you about a twelve-hour shoot in the desert: When it finally ends. Everyone packs up. The crew disconnects cables and collapses the reflectors—all the while the photographer is shaking hands with their client, saying goodbye, and jets off to their rental because the job is done. Then someone has to do the final check-in. Someone has to knock on the talent’s trailer, confirm the schedule’s wrapped, and ask if they need anything else.

And that someone was you.

Outside his trailer, you knocked twice, listening as the sound echoed. His manager, Jeff, opens the door, already mid-sentence to someone on the phone, and waves you in without breaking stride. The trailer was small and bright, the AC cranked to accommodate the glistening sweat streaking the body of the client. Harry was sitting on the low bench against the wall, still in those ridiculous shorts, a towel draped over his shoulders, his hair damp and pushed back. He was holding one of those yellow Nikes, untied in his lap, and was pulling at the laces absently when you walked in.

“Hey,” he said, glancing up, completely casual, like he hadn’t been posing half-naked in the glow of the golden hour light for the better part of the early evening while you slowly lost your grip on reality.

“Hey. Just doing the final rounds.” You told him, trying to keep your voice steady, eyes on the clipboard. “The crew’s wrapping up, and the cars are confirmed for seven. Is there anything you or your team might need before we close out?”

That’s when you felt the vibration of the hollow ground, Jeff pacing toward the door, phone still pressed to his ear, mouthing “I’ll be right back” to no one in particular. You stepped aside, making room for him to get by, taking a few steps closer toward Harry. Harry’s stylist was already zipping a garment bag, and the hair guy—whose name you had forgotten three times today—was packing his kit into a rolling case.

“I think we’re good,” Harry said, watching his team filter toward the door in a choreographed exit, you guessed they were used to. “Jeff’s sorting out the details on our end… looks like everyone’s heading out.” He answered, eyeing his crew.

“Thanks, guys. See you tomorrow. Great day out there,” He added.

That’s when the stylist squeezed past you with a “great working with you” smile playing at his lips as the hair guy followed, pushing you closer to Harry. Jeff was waiting at the door, opening it as he ducked out with a “back in ten, H,” hand covering the mouth of the phone, but you could tell by the look on his face that it was clearly going to be longer than ten. The door clicked shut behind them, and all at once the trailer went silent in a pressurized way, enveloping you in the type of silence that filled your ears with the beating of your own heartbeat, leaving you both in only the hum of the AC unit and the soft chatter of whatever was cooling down outside with the crew.

And then it was just you. And him. And the lingering visual torture of watching him run in slow motion as the photographer yelled, “Yes, exactly that, don’t stop,” while youinternalized every word, wishing it was you shouting that same line back at Harry while he was inside you.

Harry leaned back against the wall and looked at you for a long moment, maybe for the first time all day, really taking you in. This wasn’t a glance. Not the polite, mid-shoot half-smile you had gotten during the water breaks. This was a real, full, and unhurried look. His eyes moved over your face like he was doing his own version of what you had been doing behind the safety of a clipboard all afternoon, and you swallowed hard, afraid to move a muscle.

“It’s been a long day, yeah? Everyone was very professional, considering I’ve had to be in these short shorts all day,” he joked with a laugh, but you were too caught up in the way he said ‘professional’, the way it drifted with his British drawl, making your stomach flip.

“Yeah, you’d be surprised what we see, but it’s literally my job, no big deal.”

“Mhm.” He hummed, dropping the shoe to the floor, and it thudded softly, making your heart race. “So professional that you barely looked at me.” He mused, sending you a smirk.

You pushed a laugh through your nose, the sound breathy as you shifted your gaze to your feet, feeling shy suddenly, “Trust me…I looked at you plenty. Everyone was looking at you. That was the point of the shoot.” You finished looking back up. 

“But not like that though…” he said, his voice dipping lower. “It just kind of felt like you kept looking at me like you were trying not to, or something.”

Out of nowhere, the AC made a loud gasping sound, as if it were struggling to keep up with the heat, causing you to jump. But you didn’t say anything because he was right, and you both knew it. That’s when you realized how small the trailer was and how very close you were, Harry still not wearing a shirt, even though the clothes he was going to change into were sitting right next to him.

“I was being professional,” you said again, forcing the words past your dry throat.

“Yeah.” He sat forward, elbows on his knees, and you watched as the towel slipped off one shoulder, yet his eyes never left yours. “And now the shoot’s over…” He told you with a smile, dimples dipping, sucking you in even further. 

That’s when you made your choice, reading the room, and you set the clipboard down on the counter—the feeling almost ceremonial, like putting down a weapon, ready to surrender.

“It is.” You whispered, trying not to lose your fucking mind.

“And everyone’s gone.” He added.

“Well, everyone in here is gone.” You agreed, your pussy clenching on nothing, clit pulsing. 

He smiled again, noticing the shift in your posture, probably, “So what did you actually want when you were avoiding my gaze all day?”

Fuck, you were about to lie when the honest answer was obviously him. Immediately. On every fucking surface of this trailer. You knew in your mind that the professional answer should have been “nothing, goodnight, see you never…” But that wasn’t what came out of your mouth:

“One thing,” You answered, confident this time, returning the smile. His eyebrows lifted then, interest piquing his curiosity.

Impatient, you didn’t wait for his response, and you crossed the few feet between, closing the distance. His hands flew to your hips before you had fully stopped moving, pulling you down into his lap in one fluid motion, his hand instant like maybe he had been thinking about this since the moment you walked through that trailer door. Your knees hit the bench on either side of him as his fingers dug into the fabric at your waist, and fuck, it was all a rush, his mouth so close, tilted up, his bottom lip parted slightly—

“Been thinking about this since like—hour two,” he pushed against the corner of your mouth, lips hovering. His breath was warm as you breathed in the smell of sunscreen and the dry heat of his clean sweat.

“Minute one for me,” you confessed with a laugh, and then he kissed you, all patience going out the fucking window.

His hand came up to the back of your neck, and he pulled you in with his whole grip, his mouth hot and open, burning with the peppermint gum he had been chewing between setups. You made a sound against his teeth, a sound that slipped with no shame, no fear, and he swallowed it as his other hand slid under the back of your shirt, palm flat and dry against your spine, slowly moving up the damp skin of your back.

He was getting hard beneath you—dick already beginning to press through those tiny shorts; hiding absolutely nothing, no sense of ambiguity left, just the hard bulge of his shorts and your mouths moving. Curious, you shifted your hips, moving just enough to test the waters. His breath caught, fingers tightening on your neck, and he pulled you down hard, lifting his hips just enough to make contact with the heated apex of your thighs. 

“That—Fuck—” He breathed into your mouth. “Do that again.”

So you did it again. Slowly rolling your hips forward, dragging across the length pressing through the thin fabric, and he dropped his head back against the wall, exposing the sweaty crook of his throat, all that tan skin and the edges of ink, and you kissed it—mouth opened and messy. His pulse was hammering under your lips, and you jutted out your tongue, greedy for him, and licked a strip just to taste the salt slowly drying there, needy to hear him gasp.

“We should—” He swallowed. “Fuck—the door. Is it locked?”

That’s when you stood, Harry rising with you, hands never leaving your waist as he followed. Then you flipped the latch, the clicking loud in the quiet, and when you turned to face him, his eyes went dark.

“So efficient, love,” He smiled.

“It’s literally my job.” You shot back. 

He grinned, then he flipped you, moving one arm around your waist, pivoting so your back hit the bench as he moved over you—and god, up close like this, the scale of him was insane. Shoulders blocking out the overhead light, arms braced on either side of your head, tattoos everywhere, as the chain around his neck swung forward and brushed over your cheek.

“Tell me what you want,” he forced, kissing down your jaw, your neck, to the collar of your shirt, his hand sliding up your thigh. “Be specific, love. I want you to be sure.”

“I don’t think you need directions.” You giggled when his breath hit your neck, and you lifted your hips, trying to meet his body.

You listened as he clicked his tongue, “No…” He answered, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your leggings. “I need to hear you say it.”

Deprived of his mouth, you pulled him down by the chain, pulling with a delicate hand, not wanting to break it. He came easily, grinning against your mouth, and you bit his lower lip, feeling his whole body react; feeling the shudder that ran through his torso as his hips pressed into yours involuntarily, and fuck, you could feel all of him now, his cock thick and insistent through those stupid little shorts.

“I want you,” you finally said, right against his ear, “to stop being polite...”

He didn’t need to be told twice. In one desperate, frantic motion, he shoved his hands into your waistband and peeled your leggings down, taking your underwear with them so fast it burned a friction stripe high up on your thigh. You yelped, the tug burning across your skin as you moved with him in shock, the pain a delicious sting blooming behind your eyes, turning you into something wild. Harry moved his mouth to yours, sealing any other sound behind your lips as he began to kiss you, his hands coasting over your ass, spreading you open, fingers cold and rough.

“Jesus—fuck” he breathed to himself, as you squirmed under his touch, your nerves caught between laughter and hunger. You curled your knees on either side of his hips and lifted your pelvis. With the motion, his hard-on shifted into you, pressing flush through a single layer of that ridiculous runner’s nylon, teasing you. Trying to brace your elbow on the bench to sort your breathing, you thought you had a moment. But before you could regain your equilibrium, he hooked a hand under your knee and bent it even higher, cranking your body open so wide it was almost fucking embarrassing—like you were a plaything under his touch, Harry completely in control.

For a second, you thought He could have just yanked his shorts down, but he didn’t. Instead, he teased you even further, making a show of it. His hand reached between your bodies, palming his length through the shorts, like he wanted you to see, just for a second, though, like he needed to tame the calm that you had ruined when you turned him into an animal. But that didn’t last long, and before you knew it, he was ripping down the front of his shorts, the band snapping off the head of his cock as his thick length thudded against your pussy.

You didn’t realize how huge he was until it was there, flush against you, the skin so silky and perfect it made you bite your lip. “Is that for me?” you said, or tried to, but your brain was stuck on a loading screen, the heat flashing red behind your eyes.

He grinned down at you and kissed your cheek, then your mouth. “You sure?” he whispered, voice rough.

And even though you nodded, he stressed the question again, “No, say it.”

“Yes—” you gasped, the sound desperate between you, like you had been holding your breath since the sun came up.

As you sucked in a breath, he lined himself up and pressed in. It wasn’t gentle, just a slick, hot punch of pressure that made every thought you had ever had dissolve into a saturated form of pain and pleasure. Your nails raked his back, marks scoring along his shoulder blades as he split into you, thick and slow, filling you so tight that your vision splintered as he kissed the side of your face, lips brushing your eyelashes. As if a kiss could make it all better, but your only reaction was to moan out, your pussy clamping around haulting him from pushing any faster. 

“You have to keep quiet,” he whispered, letting out a strangled laugh.

Here you were pinned to the trailer’s bench as the outside world went on. It was a crazy concept, the act of staying quiet; you could hear the crunch of boots and a distant clang of metal, the shouts of the crew packing up. But inside the trailer, it was just your ragged breathing and the trim percussion of the AC, as the sound of him fucking into you played out with every steady, deep stroke he pushed, your walls finally loosening enough to let him in.

Harry’s hands clasped around your hips, fingers digging in to keep you from shifting the whole bench every time he bottomed out. He pulled you flush against him, your thighs probably bruising as the tips of his fingers left evidence for later when this was all said and done. His cock was deep now, so deep you could feel it prodding behind your navel, making you clench around him, and he groaned, low and helpless as you sank your teeth into his shoulder to keep from screaming.

Sucking in a hard breath as the pleasure hit, you inhaled him—every inch of sweat and musk, and whatever was left of the desert’s sunlight burning off his skin—the raw sourness of salt caught in his collarbone. The smell of him wiped your fucking thoughts away, like he was rewriting your brain at creature level, past logic, past the veneer of dry professionalism. Your legs trembled around his hips, each breath an almost-whimper you tried to choke back as he rolled in deep, pulling out slow so your slick would catch him and then slamming home so it knocked another moan out of you. 

Every time he pressed in, your pussy grew wetter, the wetness audible and filthy, your slick coating his cock and everything under your ass, soaking into the cheap pleather of the bench so the next thrust was a slide, a messy wet slide—the slap of skin on skin growing sharp enough to drown out the noise of the crew outside. If they walked by, if they even paused for a second outside the thin metal shell of the trailer, they would know, instantly, because there was nothing left to the imagination.

It made you hunger for more, that risk, that possibility of exposure. The pressure of him inside you forced a low, ugly ahh out of your mouth, and you made the mistake of glancing up at his face—he was watching your reaction with a bottomless satisfaction, tongue darting out to lick the sweat off his top lip. “Fuck—that pussys getting so wet for me, love,” he huffed, one hand kneading the meat of your thigh, keeping you splayed for him. 

His words had you shuddering; every single word from his mouth landed somewhere between a promise and a demand that you knew he was going to keep. He leaned forward, pressing his chest to yours, and you felt a fresh spill of sweat off his shoulder and into the hollow of your throat. You wanted to taste it everywhere, to leave your mouthprint on every stretch of skin.

That’s when his hips snapped harder, like now he wanted to see if it would break you. The friction of your clit against his pelvis was lightning, shrill little bursts that made your sight flash white at the edges. Without even knowing when it happened, you had started to babble, short high gasps and a string of “oh fuck, oh fuck, yes, yes, don’t stop, please—” until Harry’s hand clamped over your mouth. Hard. Not playful, not careful—just his wide palm, fingers spanning across your cheek, nearly covering your whole jaw as he stifled the sound of your shameful surrender.

“Got to be quiet now. You’re so fucking loud it’s going to get us caught,” he hissed against your ear. The hand over your mouth muffled any words you had left, so he used the leverage to angle your head back, exposing your throat so he could bite his way down, marking you with no intention of hiding it later. You bucked into him, and he laughed, the sound low in his throat as he fucked you deeper, grinding his cock in small circles to force every last inch into you.

It was so much at once, like you could feel him everywhere. Feel the force of each hit, the slap of his balls, the stretch of him knocking you even further open every time he bottomed out. You felt the carved edges of his hips grinding into you, the rip of his abs tight and flexed, your own core clenched and spasming around him until every muscle in your body was electric, a bright, stinging stroke of sensation that didn’t let up or let you breathe, it just kept building, and building—

And there was something else—a hard rapping—three sharp knocks on the door, the kind that said the moment was over as every cell in your body tensed, the sound snapping through the inside of the trailer, and you froze, eyes wide, limbs locked, his cock still pressed so far inside your pussy it felt like there was no way you could hide it, not if you tried.

Harry’s hand stayed pressed against your mouth, his body going rigid, his knuckles white-hot, grip tight around your jaw. He didn’t slow, didn’t even pretend to stop, just nudged his face into your neck, lips right at your earlobe.

“Don’t move,” he hissed under his breath. His hips stilled, but the grip on your body was absolute, holding you planted to the spot, your cunt still spasming around him as you tried to recover your mind enough so that you weren’t a shrieking mess.

Another knock, this time softer, like the knocker was trying to be polite but also kind of annoyed. “H?” came the unmistakably familiar voice muffling through the thin metal: it was Jeff, his fucking manager, sounding exasperated and defeated already. “You decent?”

You made a squeak under his palm, humiliation boiling over every inch of your skin, but Harry did not miss a fucking step. Instead of pulling out, he bucked his hips slowly and carefully, just enough to keep you throbbing, to keep you full and desperate. That’s when his eyes met yours, and he smiled, his grin wicked.

“We’re here,” he called, so calm it could have killed you. Like he was just lounging, scrolling his phone, not impaling you to a sticky pleather bench with every inch of his famous, gorgeous cock. “Jeff. Give us a second.”

“We’re?” Jeff echoed, clearly clocking the “we,” but Harry just kept his body locked around yours, daring you to even twitch.

“I’m with…” he trailed off, clearly thinking. “One of the crew. Don’t come in, just wait.” His hand stroked your cheek in a parody of comfort, his thumb tracing your jaw while his cock pulsed relentlessly inside you, refusing to give you back your dignity or composure.

Jeff sighed, and you heard footsteps shuffle away, but not far, just a few paces from the door, and the moment he was gone, Harry let out a soft, hot laugh.

“Didn’t stop, did I?” he teased. His hand shifted, tracing down to your throat, his fingers loose but possessive, as if he could press in and feel himself through you. “Knew you liked the risk. Could feel it—fuck—you were close, weren’t you?”

You exhaled a hard breath through your nose, nodding your head, already teetering toward that edge again, because holy fuck, this man was sick and twisted, but you needed this, needed to finish what you both had started. You sputtered out a laugh under his palm, feeling your own pulse in your fingertips as you reached up and grabbed him by the nape, fingernails digging just enough to make him twitch. 

When his hand fell away, you told him, “Keep going,” or tried to—but your voice was a raw whisper, and he heard you. His lips crashed into yours, everything rough and messy as his hips restarted their rhythm with a slow grind that ramped so quickly you couldn’t keep up. Every pressure point in your body was lit, every drag of his dick a reminder that this was actually happening, a fantasy so intoxicating you hardly registered the pain, just the need.

“Don’t hold back,” he said, voice choked. “Come with me. Want you to—fuck—want you to let go.” Then he ground into you, each thrust more urgent, his hand snaking between your bodies to rub your clit as the slick sound filled the space, his fingers drawing tight, ruthless circles, driving you crazy.

You tried to lock it down, tried to stay quiet, knowing any noise now would be fully hearable for whoever was left outside this box, but when the orgasm hit, the noise ripped out of your lungs, a strobing white noise behind your eyes that blurred the world. The muscles of your pussy clamped down hard, fluttering so tight you felt him lose all composure, his body jolting as he shot inside you, every spasm pushing you further into the bench. You felt the second it hit him, the way his whole body arched, his breath falling apart, his voice just a hot, desperate groan as he emptied himself into you, fucking you so deep you almost made him stop just to slow the overwhelming rush sweeping your body.

Between your thighs, a slow warmth spread, leaking as he squirmed and pumped the last of his load into you, leaving you limp, yet completely alive, and you let your head fall back as a hysterical laugh bounced from your chest. But he didn’t stop you, just kept kissing your face, the side of your jaw, and down to the curve of your shoulder.

The trailer went silent again, the only sound both of you gasping and the whooshing of the AC, together in an unreality so intense it felt like an afterimage burned onto your retina. Sweat cooled in the cruxes of your skin; you could feel the sticky collapse of your bodies, his cock softening inside you as your heart hammered.

“Damn,” you forced, not knowing what else was left to say.

Harry leaned back just enough to look at you, the wildness gone from his face, replaced by a tender, dopey smile and the kind of open affection that would make you laugh if you weren’t lying there ruined.

 “You good?” he asked, brushing your hair from your forehead with a thumb.

You nodded and laughed, your hands still shaking as you touched his arm, tracing a lazy pattern over the inked-sweat skin of his biceps. “Better now,” you said, “but I think you broke the bench.”

He rasped out a laugh, glancing down at the battered vinyl. “They had it coming.” Then he pressed his forehead to yours and stayed there a long minute, like he couldn’t remember how to move or maybe didn’t want to. 

“I think I just nearly lost my mind when Jeff knocked at the door.” You told him, coming up to your elbows.

“Same, I think we both did…” he answered, testing his range of motion with two gentle hitches of his hips, making you wince and then giggle again. “Just means you’ll remember me next time you sit on this broken bench.”

“Like I’ll ever forget this,” you said, closing your eyes and letting the aftershocks fan out over your skin like the mirage of heat still radiating off the desert outside. You could already feel the soreness. The way you would have to clench your thighs at the memory, days from now, weeks from now, every time you caught a whiff of sunscreen, or the phantom echo of his sweat on your palms.

Although you should have rushed, Harry waited a minute, breathing in the same hush with you, then pulled out slow, careful, like he wanted to make sure you could take every last pulse. He fumbled with his shorts, wiping the mess from your thighs with what must have been the red t-shirt slung across the table, and you watched in a weirdly tender awe as he tried to clean you up with more care than you would have expected, considering the fact that this was only just a quick fuck, that nothing would come from it.

You were only half-situated, pulling your leggings up over sticky skin when there was a third, softer knock at the trailer door. This time, Jeff’s voice was all business, barely keeping a lid on his impatience. “We need you in ten, Harry. Car’s here. I’m ready to go.” 

The ache between your legs had already sunk into your bones, your body broken open and loose, and you used what was left of your balance to push off the bench as Harry righted his shorts and ran a hand through his hair. For a second, there was an odd anti-climax, like neither of you really knew what to do with yourselves now that the animalistic urge was gone. Maybe, you thought, it was supposed to be awkward. Maybe that was okay.

Then he shrugged your lanyard back over your neck, picked the clipboard up for you, and held it out like a peace offering of some sort, and you blinked, taking it, and for the first time since you clocked in, you realized you had put your own name tag on upside down.

“You need a ride to town?” he asked, like that was something people did, like you had just finished any regular debrief, like your body wasn’t still occupied by the ghost of what he had just done to it. 

The crazy thing was, you shook your head no, your mouth dry, and there was a realization that struck you both, reality finally setting in. “I have to stay until the last person is gone,” you told him, “But thank you, and thank you for…

He laughed, shaking his head, “Don’t finish that sentence… I get it…” He answered, pulling a clean shirt over his head.

“We’re both professionals, yeah?” He added. 

“Yeah…” you replied, feeling yourself getting drawn back in, “Professionals.”

Then he reached for your hand and brought it to your mouth, “Maybe I’ll see you around…” 

Feeling shy at the gesture, you bit your lip, “Maybe the next time you see me, I’ll be the one behind the camera.”

He raised a brow at that, lowering your hand as he held it tight, “Well then, I guess until next time…hoping that’s one day soon.” He breathed, leaning in to kiss your cheek.

“Yeah…Until next time…” You repeated. When he finally let go of your hand, he walked to the door. You watched him unlock it, then take his first step out, peeking over his shoulder one last time before he was out and shutting the door behind him.

And as you stood there, mind reeling over everything that just happened, you realized you were going to make that dream come true no matter what it took, and here was your motivation. Because maybe all you needed was a quick fuck in a trailer to relight that fire within, and as you looked down at your upside-down name tag, you laughed, thinking, “Holy shit… I just fucked Harry Styles.”

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Staring at his nearly naked body reminds you of last night, of both your panting breaths, both your sweaty bodies rubbing against one another, his hard cock pounding deeper inside of you. Your cunt clenches at the memory, remembering the pulse of his head, the warm come he unloaded over your fluttering lips, painting you with his release before diving back inside. Last night had been so intense, you were surprised he even went out for a run this morning, figuring he would be too tired.

Biting your lip, your eyes roam over Harry’s body, no longer thinking about last night. The way his stomach rises and falls, making the moth flutter, the sweat that melds his hair to his forehead, his spread legs that force his shorts to climb even further up his thighs. As you keep watching him, your legs tighten together, desperate to feel like you had last night.

Your steps wake Harry from his post-run rest and a tired smile pulls at his lips seeing you wearing one of his old vintage shirts. “Morning, love,” he greets warmly, unaware of your intentions. He leans up to meet your lips in what he expects to be a lovely morning welcome. But the harsh press of your lips when they connect, your hands tugging on his wet hair, and the needy way your body pushes him back against the couch, creating room for yourself on his lap, has Harry chuckling into your mouth. “Jesus, love, calm down,” he laughs as he breaks away from your persistent kiss. “Did I not give you enough last night?” Even though his tone is light and playful, there’s a breathlessness that only drives you crazier.

You don’t bother with answering him, your lips don’t even leave his body, pressing kisses along his cheek, up to his ear, then trailing down to his jaw. The salty taste of his skin seeps into your mouth and, without thinking, your tongue dips out and licks at the drops of sweat slowly dripping down his neck.

Harry moans as you lap at him, his hand curving around your hips, his finger digging into your flesh. He doesn't mean to, it's just natural, but his grip pulls you closer, tugging you into him. In response, you start aggressively humping him, grinding your crotch against his thigh, alerting Harry to the fact you weren’t wearing any underwear. And even though it kills him to do it, Harry has to hold you back. “I’m exhausted,” he says. “I need a break.”

“That’s okay,” your words rush out before licking a stripe up from his jaw to his ear, lapping at his sweaty hairline. Leaning back, you pull at the hem of your shirt until you reveal yourself to him, showing off your throbbing clit. “You don’t need to do anything. Just sit there, and let me have my fun.” With hooded eyes, you wet your fingers with your tongue before rubbing them against your clit. Your folds twitch against his thigh, arousal beginning to seep out and wetting his leg. As your fingers keep up their even pace, you start to rut against him, sliding along the thick muscle.

Awe overtakes Harry as he watches you hump against his leg, running his thumbs along your hip bones. “Oh baby,” he groans, his eyes flicking between your pussy and your face, unable to keep his eyes focused on one thing. Between your quivering lips that glide along his leg and your gasping mouth, your fluttering eyes that threaten to close, Harry can’t choose which he wants to watch more, entranced by every bit of you. “God, you look so beautiful.” His hand travels from your hip to underneath the shirt you’re wearing, his shirt, until it's cupping underneath your tit. The shirt rides up and Harry finds a quirky intimacy in seeing your belly button. “Look so pretty getting yourself off on me.”

The compliments only fuel your thrusts, picking up speed. His leg hair tickles the inside of your own thighs as you glide across him. With a sigh, your mouth curves up into a smile as you keep grinding.

“That’s it, baby,” he encourages. “Take what you need.”

Slicking up his leg as you slide back and forth, your fingers slip across your clit faster. Your mouth opens to let out a breathy moan before your teeth bite down into your lip, silencing the sound.

“Don’t stop, baby, please. I wanna hear you. Need to know if it feels good,” he begs you, his voice frantic, his eyes desperate.

“Oh, it feels sooo good, Harry,” you whine. Your hips stutter against him and your thighs clench around him as your orgasm rises up inside you.

Harry watches mesmerized as you leak all over him. “Can I…?” he trails off, dragging his hand down your body until it’s hovering above your circling fingers, pressing into your pelvis. “Can I touch you?” he asks reverently. Instead of answering, you stop rubbing yourself and grab his wrist, leading him to your unattended clit. “Oh, thank you baby.” His finger glides across your nub, barely pressing, as if he's scared to touch it. The light brush of his thumb teases you closer to your release.

A bead of sweat starts its gradual descent down Harry’s forehead, curving around his brow. You hone in on it before leaning forward and capturing it with your tongue. The salty droplet melts in your mouth, a pant of a whimper fans across his face and your pussy twitches against his thigh. Needing to taste more of him, you nuzzle your face into his neck, swiping your tongue across his collar bones. His skin is still sun warmed, the heady musk of him engulfs your senses.

“You like getting me wet, don’t you, baby?”

You exaggerate the nod of your head, your tongue trailing along up and down, lapping over the swallow until the sweaty shine is replaced with the wet remains of your spit.

Throwing his head back, Harry groans as he exposes more of his neck to you. “Oh, God, baby,” he moans into your hair, his thumb circling faster around your clit. “So pretty, so perfect.”

Rutting against him, your legs twitch, tightening around him, shivering as you rush towards that tipping point, on the precipice of unleashing your orgasm. It creeps closer and closer, your eyes rolling back as it nears.

“Please, baby, need to make you feel good, need to feel you, please, come all over me, baby, please,” Harry pleads into your hair.

That’s all it takes. Gasping into his neck, you release on him, your hips faltering as you lose your rhythm. Your teeth dig into his skin, biting at the swallow on his chest, then you lick at the indents left behind. Through your nose, your breath putters out of you, attempting to even itself out.

Harry pets your hair, soothing you. “There you go,” he mutters. “Thank you, baby." Puckering his lips, he kisses the side of your head. “Did so good for me.” He lets you rest atop him, shivering your way down from post-orgamic bliss. “If you want, I can go shower and we could go for round two.”

“No!” you panic. “No shower!” Harry raises a brow at you, a smile burgeoning on his lips. “You’ll just get sweaty all over again, right?” The excuse is thin, weakened even more when your tongue involuntarily sticks out and presses against the other side of his neck.

Chuckling at your insistence, and your probing tongue, Harry relents, “I can’t argue with that.”

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You barely slept.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. You’d turned over, fluffed your pillow, closed your eyes and forced yourself to breathe slowly like that was somehow going to quiet your brain. Like it would somehow take you out of the life altering decision you just had to partake in.

Because you just really couldn’t have done the right thing and said, hey, maybe we shouldnt fuck over the phone. You know, since I work for you.

But every time things got quiet, your mind just… replayed it. Over and over. Every word, every second, every choice.

Your choices, more specifically. The way you complied without question. The way you took it over the top too—adding your own twinge of sexual grossness that he certainly did not ask of you.

By the time your alarm went off, you were already awake, staring at the ceiling with that same tight feeling in your chest.

Now you’re here. Speed walking through the long-halled building and finally making it to your desk.

You take a quick seat and a giant huff of air once you’re settled, staring up at the clock and dropping your head in your hands.

It was too early.

Embarrassingly early.

Of course you showed up early—what else were you supposed to do? Stroll in at your normal time like nothing happened? As if you hadn’t completely humiliated yourself in front of the one person you’re supposed to be the most put together around?

You smooth your hands over your outfit for what has to be the tenth time, even though there’s nothing wrong with it.

A black skirt. White button up. Maybe a little too tight for your own good, and maybe a few too many buttons unraveled. But it was nowhere out of the realm of what you usually wore. You always had fun with what you had on. You’d like to think it wasn’t for Harry’s benefit, but at this point, how would you know.

Everything is exactly how it should be. How it always is. Neat. Professional. Controlled.

“Okay,” you think out loud, staring at your computer screen without actually seeing anything. “You’re fine. You’re going to act normal. Everything is normal.”

Normal.

Right.

Because acting normal is so easy when your brain keeps helpfully reminding you of the fact that you drenched your own fingers while your mind convinced you it was a dick.

Like literally a dick. Your mind genuinely was tricked into thinking your boss was fucking you in your bed, so much so to where you came quicker than you ever had before.

The tone of his voice. The velvet draw of his laughter. The split second where you realized—too late, I’m fucked.

You squeeze your eyes shut briefly before speaking aloud once more. Just to yourself. There was no one even close to near.

“Maybe it wasn’t actually that bizarre.”

Immediately, your brain disagrees.

“No, very bizarre. Definitely abnormal assistant behavior.”

Your fingers hover over your keyboard, still and frozen in place.

“Okay, so we made a mistake. That’s fine. People make mistakes all the time. It doesn’t mean anything.”

You couldn’t even pretend to be taking yourself seriously. There was no comparable situation to what you two engaged in last night in this world.

He’s your boss.

There are lines. Obvious ones. More importantly, strict career ending ones. And somehow you managed to trip right over one like you had a half a brain and a dick of your own.

You let out a quiet breath and glance towards the door that lead into your office.

Still closed.

The room set up was private. A door that lead to your office, and then a door that was in your office that lead to his.

Creating a horribly unavoidable situation in which he would have to pass by you in order to get to his office.

Probably something that should have been further considered before you begged for his cum.

But, it was early. He wouldn’t be coming in soon. Which just gives you more time to sit here and think.

“Maybe you should say something when he comes in.”

Your stomach immediately twists.

“No, no. That would make it worse. If you bring it up, it becomes a thing. If you don’t bring it up… maybe it just fades away.”

You know, they way all sexual encounters in the workplace end up flying under the radar.

You were kidding yourself.

You tap your pen lightly against the desk, the soft rhythm doing nothing to calm the restless energy under your skin.

You still hadn’t started any work.

“But what if he brings it up?”

That thought lands heavier than the others. That one you can’t escape from.

Your posture straightens instinctively and your face tenses, legs crossing over one another as you sink into your anxiety.

“Then what? Do I apologize? Take accountability? Pretend I don’t know what he’s talking about?”

None of those options feel right. None of them were right. And you were just wasting time now.

You glance at the clock.

Too early.

Again.

Even too early to get his coffee. It’d be ice be the time he arrived.

You exhale through your nose, forcing your shoulders to relax and your brows to release their tension.

“Okay. New plan.”

You sit up a little straighter, folding your hands together like that alone might make you feel more composed.

“You’re going to be professional. Calm. Normal. You’ll greet him the way you always do. You’ll go over his schedule. You’ll do your job.”

You know, the normal thing to do.

“And if he says something…” you pause, your fingers tightening slightly, “you’ll handle it. You always do.”

That part, at least, is true. You are good at your job. You’re organized, reliable, composed…

…or at least, you usually are. Apart from shoving 4 fingers deep inside of you as you nearly snapped your arm backwards.

You also decided it was time to stop talking to yourself. As to not seem so disturbing to anyone who may come in.

Your eyes dart up to the door again.

Still closed.

But not for long.

“Morning.”

The door pressed open smoothly, a tall Harry walking through with a bag slung over his shoulder and a polite smile on his face.

You were dumbfounded. And very clearly not as prepared for the initial greeting as you thought you’d be.

“You’re in early,” he continues, shutting the door softly behind him and staring down at you at your desk.

He was dressed perfectly neat—slick ironed pants and a long sleeved button up that was nicely folded up his forearms.

And, worst of all, a smug grin that was only one thing.

Knowing.

“I—um, yes,” you say, and it comes out a bit more formal than you would’ve liked. So, in typical you-nature, you ramble on, “I just wanted to make sure everything was in order today. I didn’t realize you’d be in early too, I’m sorry. I haven’t gotten your coffee.”

There’s a small pause as he watches you speak. Him standing, you sitting. Your eyes were glossed up at him in an innocently sweet manor, and he breathed out slow at your little apology.

And then he was thinking about you. The way you were so generous to him and wrapped up in the pleasure you had given to yourself.

The sweet noises that slipped through the speaker and swarmed around his pumping fist. He felt his pants tightening at just the thought.

“Everything usually is,” he says, referring to your faux reasoning for coming in early.

It was a simple statement. And somehow, it had your stomach twisting into itself until it was locked in a knot.

“I know,” you say, too insistent, “I just thought I’d get a head start.”

He continues to watch you. Delightfully amused and analyzing your every move. The little tick of your eyelids and the way your thumb scratches against the side of your index finger. The way your eyes struggle to hold their contact with his no matter how firm his gaze is on yours.

It was nothing harsh, nothing critical.

Just…observant. Interested.

Your pulse picks up as the silence stretches over you. You reach for the nearest file on your desk, flipping open to the schedule for today and searching for something to fill the gap.

“Your nine o'clock is confirmed,” you start, “I sent over the updated notes for you early last night.”

A brief mention of the night before. Granted, you sent them over before the call, but the two words had your skin tinged.

“Mm.”

“And your branch clients are scheduled for 12:00,” you continue in a nervous rush. Like if you kept talking it would give you less time to think, “there was a slight change in the afternoon so-”

“You don’t have to rush through it,” he cuts you off, gently reminding you that no, you don’t need to inform him of his entire day within the first minute of seeing him.

Something you’ve also literally never done before. You always update him periodically. When needed.

He hasn’t moved much, still relaxed and still adorned in the smug smile of a man who knows he has a cute young thing wrapped around his finger.

“I’m not rushing,” you say, which would have been more convincing if you didn’t say it so quickly.

The corner of his lips deepen into his smile, lips still held together as his dimple presses further inward.

“Right.”

You loosen the tight grip on the file you were holding as you take a small breath, desperately trying to pull your shit together and enter this normalcy that he’s somehow achieving.

“I can go over your day in more detail later then, if you’d like,” you restart, carefully this time. “Or I can send a revised outline to your email.”

He watches you for a second longer than he should after your sentence wraps up, like he’s weighing something in his head.

Or maybe just taking you in. You weren’t sure. Neither was he.

“That won’t be necessary,” he says, “I trust you’ve handled it.”

And then there was that feeling again. The heat on your cheeks and the ping between your legs that you only felt when he praised your work like this.

He noticed your subtle shift, and it only further spurred on the dark thoughts that had been thudding against his skull since the moment he walked in.

“Of course,” you nod, clamping your thighs tight and suddenly finding it more than difficult to look directly at him.

There’s another pause, and it’s quieter this time around. It almost feels purposeful. Like he’s trying to make you feel deliberately nervous.

You expect him to turn around, walk past you and head right to his office. This would usually be the time he’d do it. He’d stay in there and wouldn’t see you again until his nine o'clock clients arrived.

But he didn’t. He stayed perfectly still and unwavering by your desk.

You didn’t know if he was looking at you, you couldn’t bring yourself to check. You were faced down towards your desk, flipping through random papers and trying to look busy.

You weren’t.

Your eyes flick up again before you can stop them, and you immediately regret it when you catch that same look—calm, steady, and unmistakably knowing. Like he’s taunting you with the memory of your misconduct.

“You’re tense.”

It was matter-of-fact as it rolled off his tongue, as if it was an observation he wasn’t particularly concerned about.

Your breath hitched for just a second.

“I’m not.”

You sounded adorably unconvincing, and he couldn’t help himself when he took just a step closer. Maybe an inch. Maybe two. Nothing to freak out over. But still enough for you to feel sick.

Then, softer, with even more amusement, “You are.”

You don’t try to argue this one. You’re already flustered enough and the lack of awareness of last night is seriously starting to weigh on you.

If he wasn’t going to mention it, you’d prefer him to just leave. Instead of sit here and toy with you.

Even if part (all) of you enjoyed it.

Finally, there’s a shift in the energy as he takes a step back towards his office. Slow and steady as he walks with a hand in his pocket.

Relief flickers over you for just a moment—fragile and prepared to snap the next time you have to interact with him.

And then, it shatters.

“Bring those files in here.”

He said it like it was nothing. Like he’s ever once in his whole life asked you to bring your work inside of his office.

He hasn’t, by the way.

Your hands still for a second, “Right now?”

There’s another beat of silence as he looks at you, taking in your flushed cheeks and your shaky hands and the way your eyes pressed further out of their sockets. Just barely.

He remained calm. Composed and completely unbothered by the fact that your whole nervous system just spiked within a half a second.

“If you’re not too busy,” he adds.

There’s something intentional in the way he says that part. Like he already knows that you’re not busy in the way you’re so desperately pretending to be.

It really was almost sarcastic.

“I’m not busy,” you respond a little too quickly, immediately embarrassed by your haste and cringing when you notice his smirk.

“Good,” he replies.

Just that. One word and a small nod.

He turns and walks into his office like he hasn’t just completely derailed your ability to think straight. His strides slow and long and hands still melded softly in the rich material of his pants.

You follow a moment later, files clutched a little too tightly in your hands, trying to convince yourself this is normal.

Part of you says it is. You are his assistant after all. It’s not totally out of realm for him to ask you to bring him something you’d been working on.

It was slightly abnormal that he needed you to come with it, but for the sake of your soaked panties and your swarming mind you chose to ignore that.

You instinctively shut the door behind you, which you immediately regret. The last thing you wanted was for Harry to fall under the impression that you were seeking privacy with him.

It was too late to go back now.

And Harry was quite pleased with your mindless decision.

“Um,” you clear the cracks from your nervous voice, “I can show you some of what your Milan schedule will be, if you’d like. I’ve started to make confirmations so I have a pretty good idea on how it’ll go.”

He nodded, dropping his bag onto his chair and leaning up against his long desk. You were standing in front of him like you didn’t have a clue of where to go, mouth dry and thoughts dangerous.

“You can mention it, you know,” he ignored your offer, folding his arms as he looked at you.

You froze.

This is precisely why you needed more time to prepare yourself.

“Mention?” You gulp, thick and trembling as you fight away your stress.

It was one of those red hot moments where you could feel the heat rising to your cheeks and just get flooded with thoughts of how red you must look. How stupid you look in front of him and how obviously embarrassed you were.

“Us. Fucking, on the phone.”

As if it was the most mundane thing to have ever happened.

You take a small breath, forcing yourself to stay composed as you break your gaze from his in a quick instinct.

“Um, I think-”

Y/n,” he cuts you off, leaning down to try to catch your wandering gaze, “can’t listen to you if you’re not looking at me.”

You nod quickly, itching your bottom lip with your teeth for a moment before blinking your way to his face. He was pleased to see his request, or demand more like, be granted so easily.

He was also pleased to catch the not-so-subtle gulp of saliva down your throat and the quick clamp of your thighs.

“I think, um, it would be best to not dwell on it, sir. I’m sorry to have violated my professional limits.”

You were proud of that one, actually. Clean. Simple.

All bullshit.

He knew it, too.

He shook his head, in no hurry, as his eyes fell down to you through low lids. Pink lips pressing together in a small line as he uncrossed his arms.

“Wasn’t bringing it up for an apology.”

You swallow harder, shutting your eyes for a moment in a sad attempt to remind yourself of reality. To not get completely and totally wrapped up in the seductive sway of Harry’s voice and the deep vanilla musk that swam around him.

“I value my position here,” you continue, ignoring his insinuation, “and I respect you, Mr. Styles. I guess we should just…move forward as usual.”

And the second his name slung its way up your chest and out of your lips, you had unknowingly put yourself in a game. In his game.

You could see it in the way his eyes darkened and his brows fell into each other, just barely, like your words had turned him to putty.

Another pause. Heavier than before.

Your pulse ticks up, but you hold his gaze, refusing to look away now. You’re sucked into the thrill of the forbiddenness of it all, the way the four small walls seemed to shrink and the room blurred.

Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth lifts again. Deep this time, like he’s finally decided what his next move is.

“You always are very efficient.” He said, as if he was weighing between the options of keeping you as his perfect assistant or further crossing the line.

“I try to be,” you answer softly.

And then he exhales—long, deep and drawn out in an overly dramatized way. Like he had made his decision and accepted his fate.

“You do,” he nods, “and you are. Really, you do such a good job.”

And just like that, your gig was up. You had accepted your fate too.

“Thank you,” you smile, cheeks rosy and eyes falling for a moment in a bashful tick.

He takes another small breath as he settles further back against his desk, practically sitting on it now as his hands are stabilized against the same edge.

“You’re efficient. Organized. You know what I want without having to ask. You never fuss, either,” he continues, shaking his head for just a minute as if overwhelmed with pride.

He watched as you shifted in front of him, tugging against the inside of your cheek and picking at the sides of your fingernails. He could tell you were fighting back a smile, the crowns of your cheeks darkening and flinching for just a moment.

You don’t know what it is; maybe the way he’s looking at you or maybe the way he’s leaned against the desk. But, suddenly, you felt your last wall come down with a sharp ache between your thighs.

“I like to fulfill your needs, sir. I couldn’t fuss.”

The second the words leave your mouth, you both get slammed in the chest with the shift. His smirk deepens, your eyes round.

He doesn’t even attempt to hide his growing erection. And with the way he was leaning against his desk—hands gripping the ledge behind him—it was on full display. Hips jutted out and the thin material of his fine pressed pants tenting upwards.

He was big. You could tell. Anyone with two eyes and half a brain could tell. The shadow on his crotch was deep and the curve of his cock was delicious. So much so that you forgot how long you’d been staring.

But he liked to watch you soak him in. He liked when you lingered where you shouldn’t, wide and a little unfocused like your brain forgot to tell you to look away.

There was this brief, flustered pause where your lips parted like you were about to say something but completely lost it; and it hit him all at once. The desperation.

Your breath catches as you lift your gaze too quickly to be smooth, fingers immediately fidgeting with whatever’s in front of you while a faint warmth creeps up your neck and across your cheeks.

“Is that so?” He mutters with a tilted head.

You nod slowly.

“Yes, sir. I take a lot of pride in what I do. I just…want to make you happy with my work.”

He lets out a barely audible chuckle, not criticizing. Just pleased—shocked even—by the little nervous thing in front of him. So quiet and so polite, clawing at him for just a drop of praise.

“I’m aware,” he nods, “you have me more than pleased, y/n. You’re exceptional.”

You practically whimper at that one.

He notices.

“And you know what else?” He leans off of his desk to stand in front of you, “you’re shameless. You were so good to help me out that way last night…but I think we found a place for your own pleasure too. Is that right?”

He was towered over you, eyes turned into themselves as they landed on your face and darted around it like they couldn’t find a place to stop. Yours were glassed as they peered up at him, soft skin shining and heart thudding.

“Y-Yes. Yes, sir.”

He nods, nose practically touching yours as he slips his hands back into his pockets.

And then there was another silence. But this one was different—it was full. So heavy and laced in the fucked up nature of whatever was brewing in this dimmed office.

There's a flicker of something in his expression that you’ve never really seen before. Not up close like this, anyway. Not quite hesitation, not quite intent, but something that makes your pulse spike anyway.

Like he’s on the edge of doing something he shouldn’t. Like he knows you’d give in immediately if he did it. He knew the ball was in his court.

Your body goes still, caught between reacting and not knowing how to. Your fingers toy with the hem of your little skirt as you stare up at him, waiting—but you weren’t totally sure what for.

And then it stops.

You see it happen in slow motion—the subtle shift, the way his jaw tightens just slightly before he exhales, slow and controlled, like he’s grounding himself. Stopping whatever he was so compelled to do without even starting it.

Whatever the hell that moment was, it disappeared just as quickly as it came.

He steps back, turns, and walks to his desk like nothing happened.

The change is almost jarring.

No—it is jarring. Sickening, really.

One second prior, everything was charged, heavy. You even thought he might just…you know, do it. Throw all professional boundaries out the window and close the gap that was already too small to begin with.

And the next, he’s sitting down, opening the file in front of him, his focus dropping to the pages like that’s all that matters.

Like you didn’t just feel that. Like he didn’t either.

The silence that settles is thick.

You’re still standing where you were, your mind trying to catch up with the sudden shift. Do you leave? Do you say something? Were you supposed to follow him? Was that his way of confirming that yes, this is entirely unprofessional and more than wrong.

You hesitate, shifting your weight slightly, hands hovering like you’re about to move but can’t quite decide how.

Then he looks up.

Not fully— his head stays tilted downwards. Just his eyes lifting from the page to you.

There’s no words, no gesture. Just a brief glance toward the chair across from him, subtle but deliberate.

An expectation. An instruction.

Both things that you strived to obey and both things that he knew you always followed through with.

Your stomach sinks into itself, but you nod slightly, even though he didn’t actually say anything. You move to the chair, sitting down a little more carefully than usual. Like you were scared to make too much noise or to scratch the expensive wood of his desk.

You pull the files you brought in closer, aligning them in front of you like you need the structure, the routine, something to ground yourself.

Because you really did. Your mind was mush and your muscles were jelly.

He’s already working. Flipping through pages, scanning, focused. All things that you usually never saw. This was always on the other side of the door, from your perspective.

You’re more than unsure of his goal here. To work silently across from each other? For what, the whole day? Were you supposed to just stay here until his nine o'clock clients arrived?

There would be no one at your desk to greet them. Were you meant to excuse yourself 15 minutes prior to the meeting? No, that feels rude. He’ll tell you to go. But what if he doesn’t? What if your colleagues scope you out? Is it weird that you’re working here with him?

In an attempt to not, you know, break out in a full blown panic attack, you take a breath and look down at your work.

You follow his lead, opening the next file, forcing your attention onto the words in front of you—even though you’re only aware of everything else but.

The quiet. The space between you. The way it still feels like something unresolved is sitting just beneath the surface.

Neither of you say anything. There’s just the soft sound of paper shifting, the occasional scratch of a pen, the steady rhythm of work filling the room in place of everything that almost happened.

And somehow, that’s worse.

Because now it’s contained.

But very much still there.

“You liked listening to me last night,” he breaks the silence, keeping his gaze on the work in front of him.

Your mouth opens, closes, and opens again.

“Yeah,” you nod, pushing your head down and swallowing your anxiety. As much as you can, anyway.

Which isn’t much.

He smiles at this. How easy it was for you to admit it. Eyes still down at his desk.

“Were you picturing it? Me?” He lifts his stare now, meeting your nervous eyes and watching as they stutter until they land on a place to settle.

He leans back in the chair like he owns the space without trying to, shoulders settling into it with confidence that somehow makes him look even more composed than before. His hands rest loosely in his lap, posture relaxed in a way that feels intentional rather than casual.

Nothing about him is rushed, nothing about him is uncertain. Just steady. Controlled.

And it does nothing to help you think.

Wrong words. All of them feel wrong.

Your fingers press lightly into the edge of the file in front of you, grounding yourself in something physical because your thoughts are doing the opposite of that. The silence stretches just enough to make you aware of it, aware of him watching you wait for yourself to respond.

“You’re overthinking,” he says, calm as ever.

That only makes it worse.

“Sort of.”

He slouched further back into his seat, his grin still tugging upwards and his eyes hanging low. He was truly satisfied at your constant compliance. The way you always admitted your deepest embarrassments just because he asked or pointed them out. It was admirable.

“Do you want to watch?” He asks, low and gritted, as casual as ever.

Not a casual ask, by the way.

And then your gaze drops, along with your stomach, and you notice the subtle shift of his hands on his lap. The way his palms melt flat against himself and rub softly over the tented fabric of his pants.

You gulp, thick and heavy, though nothing really slides down your throat. Your mouth is dry and your head is dizzy, caving into itself as you piece together what could possibly be the correct response to this.

Because if the consequences were eliminated, you’d be practically frothing at the mouth and shouting yes yes yes until his pants are at his ankles and his cock is in his hand.

He knew that part, too.

But there were consequences. And you were both under company time.

So, you decide to land on something that you felt was a solid middle ground.

A nod.

Slow and unsteady and paired with an adorable little smile that Harry couldn’t help but grin at. There’s a quiet confidence in the way he looks at you now, like he can already see everything you’re trying not to show.

And you are showing it.

You don’t mind that he can tell.

Because your nerves are getting harder to hide the longer he just sits there watching you. Your fingers keep fidgeting with the edge of the file, then stopping, then starting again. You try to steady your breathing, but it doesn’t fully cooperate. Every second of silence feels like it’s pulling something out of you. Anticipation, maybe.

Or just the fact that you’re waiting for him to say anything.

“You’re doing it again,” he says finally.

Your breath catches, “Doing what?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches you for a second longer, like he’s deciding how honest he wants to be. Or deciding how he could get you as worked up as possible.

“Thinking too much.”

That makes your chest tighten in a way that’s almost frustrating, because he’s right and you don’t want him to be.

But you really can’t actually be frustrated.

Not when his hand continues to slowly rub against his lap in a mindless fashion, running over the hardened curve of his cock beneath his pants.

“I’m not,” you say quickly, but it comes out softer than you mean.

That faint smirk deepens just a fraction.

“You are,” he repeats, calm and with a small nod.

And somehow that calmness makes you feel even more on edge.

You try to focus on the file again, but it’s useless now. Your attention keeps slipping back to him, like you’re drawn to waiting for the next thing he’ll say. Or the next thing he’ll do.

You can’t possibly keep your eyes away from his wandering hands. The way they glide against himself with no effort at all. The way his hips jut upwards just a hair but enough for you to think about his thrusts.

You can feel it building in you—that mix of nerves and something else you don’t want to name, sitting right under your ribs.

Excited. Anxious. A little overwhelmed by how much he seems to notice without even trying.

He finally leans forward just slightly—not enough to change everything, just enough to make you more aware of him again.

“Relax,” he says, quieter now.

So you do. Well, try anyway. You take a deep breath, a nod, and keep your eyes on his.

You really do feel a bit more at ease. Your face has cooled, your breathing has regulated, your stomach has settled.

And then it snaps.

“Now unbutton your shirt.”

You actually choke on nothing, blinking at him like your brain didn’t process it correctly the first time.

You couldn’t have, right?

“I—what?” you manage, too fast, your voice catching slightly as your breathing returns to its prior erratic rhythm.

He doesn’t react too much to your reaction. Just watches you for a second, completely calm, like he’s observing the exact moment it hit you. He even seems amused. Like you just gave him exactly what he was looking for.

And you did. He loves to watch you get riled up like this. To watch your cheeks flush and your pretty pink lips part. It was honestly endearing.

His palm rubs harder against himself.

“Your shirt,” he nods towards your body, “aren’t you gonna let me see? It’s already too tight, anyway. But you knew that. Didn’t you?”

That’s the part that makes you go quiet.

Because it’s true.

You swallow, suddenly very aware of your hands, your posture, the space between you and the desk like it’s all being measured now.

You nod again, staring down at his working hands as they continue to press against himself.

And then, once you see them drift up to his belt and hear the clack of its metal, you comply.

Your shaky hands reach up to the first button of your shirt as you watch his veined fingers, your breath hitching within your chest and releasing in unsteady exhales.

His stare darkens as he watches you, pulling apart his belt and slipping it out of its hold through his pants.

You hook your fingers around the top button and start to open it, slower than you normally would, like speed alone might make you look more composed.

The button slips for half a second.

Of course it does.

You pause, adjust it carefully, then continue, your focus narrowing down to something very small and very controlled—just the act of opening the first few buttons. Nothing more. Just a view to your rounded cleavage and the dark black lace that lies beneath the fabric.

But you can see him watching. The way his jaw clenched with every new button and the way his nostrils flared outwards with every little movement.

His breathing had changed too. He was unstable, working to undo his button and pull down the zipper of his pants.

To say he was aching was an understatement. His cock was crying in pain and his hands were moving ridiculously slow, but he almost liked it this way. The drawn out nature of the beginning and the way your soft hands began to reveal more and more of your smooth skin.

And by the fifth button, he was thrown in a trance.

Your breasts looked so soft—round and firm and held perfectly in the loose restraint of the lace. Your nipples were hardened as they peeked their way through the black, a perfect bright pink that caught his eye without him even trying.

He goes quiet.

His hands pause their task at his zipper.

Not the normal kind of quiet where he’s just thinking. This is different.

His eyes stay fixed on your chest, an expression on his face that you’ve never seen in all your experience of this job. His brows draw in slightly, not tense, just focused in a way that slows everything else down around him. In a way that made him seem like his walls were crashing.

His lips part a little without him seeming to notice. Just slightly. Like his reaction slips out before he can control it.

You just sit there, chest heaving up and down in nervous breaths and bottom lip bitten between your teeth.

For a second, he doesn’t move at all. It’s like he’s caught.

Not frozen in a bad way, just… completely absorbed. Like the reveal of your perky tits has pulled all of his attention and nothing else is competing anymore.

You watch him, unsure if you should say anything.

His gaze shifts again, slower this time, like he’s making sure he’s really seeing it. Like it doesn’t make sense that it’s real, but it is.

And there’s this quiet breath he lets out, almost disbelieving.

“…shit,” he says under his breath, barely audible.

That alone makes your chest tighten a little.

He leans back slightly in his chair, still staring like his life depended on it.

His hands resume their movement as he tugs his zipper down in a haste, suddenly very desperate to give himself some relief.

His expression stays softened in that same stunned way, eyes a little unfocused now, like his mind is still caught in what he’s been gifted.

“I mean…” he starts, then stops again, shaking his head just slightly like he’s trying to reset himself.

When he finally looks at you, your face, it’s different.

Not distant.

Just honest.

“Do you want to see them?” You gain the courage to ask, voice sweet and ever so soft.

And there’s something in his reaction that makes it clear he needs it more than he’s saying.

You don’t wait for him to respond.

You undo the last of your buttons, quicker this time, before shrugging it off your shoulders and leaving you in the little black bra. Barely there. Already showing it all.

You watch him closely as he shrugs his pants down his thighs, his briefs clung tight against his erection and his eyes shutting in a brief moment of bliss.

And then you reach back, unclasp your bra, and just let it fall. No movement. No effort. You just let it slide down your arms until it pools to wrists and drops to the floor of his office.

He physically recoiled at the sight of your bare breasts ahead of him, a muted whine pressing up through his chest and his eyes turning inward.

“You’re—y/n. Fuck…” he stutters as he tugs on the spandex of his briefs, eyes locked on your perky tits and the way they curved so beautifully beneath themselves.

Of course he’d imagined this countless times. Well, he imagined them countless times. Not quite in this exact scenario. He dreamt of the creamy skin that coated them and the solid bud that rested in the center. He’d even cum to the thought more times than he could count.

But this?

It was unlike anything he’d ever seen or felt before in his life.

And if this was how he felt at just the sight of your tits, he was beginning to think he wouldn’t possibly be able to take it as far as he would want.

His hands mindlessly pull down on his underwear, revealing his cock in a slow tease that you couldn’t help but stare at.

And once you saw it, his erection bare and exposed, you couldn’t help the little gasp that slipped its way through your throat. You weren’t even sure if he heard it, but it was there.

He was long and thick and fucking hard. His cock slapped up onto his lower tummy at its initial release and then swayed slow and teasing as it adjusted to fresh air, glistening in a clear drip of what was to come.

Your chest heaved in an erratic rhythm as you took in his density, staring at it with your mouth agape and your cheeks flushed. It’d been awhile since you’ve been so struck by the sight of a good dick. Since you felt that little stab in your belly just at the sight of a heavy stocky cock.

And then there was his hand. Strong and veined and wrapped slowly around his length along with a drawn out sigh.

“Want you to keep working,” he sighs, “sit straight so I can look at you while I touch myself.”

You pull your eyes away from his cock at the sound of his voice, looking up at him with those big doe eyes and snapping your mouth shut.

So you did.

Well, you try to focus on what he asked of you. To work.

You really do.

Your eyes stay on the file, scanning the same line over and over like it’s going to suddenly make sense if you just look at it long enough—but it doesn’t.

Because every few seconds, your attention slips. Pulls. Drifts right back to the same place you’re trying so hard to ignore.

Him, his ringed hands tugging at his cock, his breaths heavy and his eyes locked to your exposed chest.

You shift slightly in your seat, straightening your posture like that alone might fix your distraction, like looking more composed will somehow make you feel more composed.

It doesn’t.

You drag your eyes back down, forcing yourself to read again, slower this time. Word by word. Intentional. Focused.

It lasts maybe three seconds.

His breaths pick up, heavier this time, and then you hear a sharp spit. He wetted his hand with his saliva before returning his feel, stroking smoother against himself this time with the added lubrication.

Then you feel it again—that awareness sitting right in front of you, impossible to ignore no matter how hard you try. Like your brain keeps circling back without permission.

The wet gush of his hand pumping against himself, lathered in his own spit and paired with the breathy sighs that come from deep in his chest.

You inhale quietly, steadying yourself.

“Focus,” he whispers.

Your fingers tighten slightly around your pen with a gulp as you underline something—anything—just to stay grounded in the task. It doesn’t even matter if it needs to be underlined. You just need something to do.

But even that doesn’t hold.

Your eyes flick up again.

Too quick.

His hand is pumping quicker. You keep your head faced down and your eyes flicked up, just peeking at what you so badly want to stare at.

You shift in your chair again, and this time you re-seat yourself with an accidental extra umph. Your tits shook at the repositioning, just barely but enough for him to notice.

Then you hear it—a groan. Deep and gravelled and gritted in his unprofessional pleasure and the sweet sight of his sweet little assistant’s tits jiggling against themselves. So soft and so full, pretty and unmarked and all for him.

And the second you process the sound that slipped through him, you drop your gaze just as fast, like you can undo it if you move quickly enough.

A heavy warmth creeps up your neck and between your legs, and you press your lips together, exhaling slowly through your nose as you try to pull yourself back into something steady.

You adjust the papers again, unnecessarily, aligning the edges with more care than they need. It gives your hands something to focus on, something precise and controlled.

But your mind isn’t cooperating.

Because you’re still aware.

Still distracted.

Still fighting the pull of looking up again.

You force yourself to stay down this time, eyes locked on the page, even though the words blur slightly at the edges.

You don’t look.

And then there’s that sound again. The low muffled groan of your boss, stroking his cock and bringing himself closer and closer to release. All while looking at you. The way you pretended to do your work, just to please him. The way your hard nipples shrunk into themselves and the way your little fingers froze at the edge of a page.

Your gaze lifts at the noise.

Just for a second.

And that’s all it takes. His eyes leave your chest to meet yours, brows furrowed and lips slightly parted. His chest was swelling and his cheeks were hot, hand pumping quicker as he locked himself to you.

You exhale sharply under your breath, heart thumping, dropping your eyes again and shaking your head just slightly at yourself.

This was just how he looked on the phone last night. This was how his chest stuttered and how his eyes fluttered open and closed. How his hand twisted and tugged at himself until his tip was a bright red, twitching in his hold as his balls tingled beneath him.

You press your pen to the paper again, writing something just to anchor yourself, even if it’s messy, even if it doesn’t fully make sense.

But you’re very aware that you’re losing the fight, little by little, every time your mind drags yourself back.

“Want you to look at me when I cum,” he breathes, “want you to watch my face.”

It really didn’t take much for you to agree. You dropped your pen and swallowed hard, watching his fist fuck down into himself in sloppy motions and strained veins.

His eyes dropped back down to your hanging tits as he brought himself to a close, pumping furiously and strangling his face. He quickly grabbed a tissue off of his desk and placed it right behind his tip, staring down at his own cock for a minute before looking back up at you.

He was so riled up and flustered that you felt faint, desperately squeezing your legs together for some sort of relief as you watched him reach his orgasm.

And with a long, drawn out groan and quick pinch of his eyes, his hand slowed and his body tensed, stilling as he came hard and intense.

It was the most beautiful sight you had ever seen in your life. You were even convinced he forgot you were there for a moment.

But he didn’t. Your being there only spurred his orgasm further, bringing him to new sensitivities that he really had only felt when he was young and naive.

He soaked into his orgasm for as long as he could, basking in the pleasure and pumping his length slow and concentrated. He looked so calm like this, even more than usual and so powerful before you. He had you stuck in his trance and you were in no hurry to get out of it.

As he came down, removing his hand and tugging up his briefs, he looked…breathtaking.

So breathtaking in a way that says he hasn’t quite come down from it yet.

There’s a faint flush across his skin, warmth still lingering from the effort, and his breathing hasn’t fully evened out. Slow, deep inhales that lift his chest before falling again, just slightly heavier than normal. A few strands of hair have come loose, sticking out just enough to show his behavior.

His posture is looser than usual, like some of the tension has been worked out of him but replaced with something quieter. Still there, lingering. There’s a subtle sheen along his skin, not overdone, just enough to catch the light when he moves.

You pick up your bra off of the floor and sling it over your arms as he regulates his breathing, his eyes still closed as you pull it up your shoulders and work at the clasp behind your back.

He drags a hand back through his hair, pushing it away from his face without really thinking about it, exhaling through his nose as he does. It’s not dramatic, not exaggerated—just the natural aftermath of exertion, where everything about him feels a little warmer, a little slower, a little more unguarded than before.

And then he looks at you.

Lazy and a little sleepy with that same smug smirk on his face.

He peers up at the clock that high on his wall before sitting up straighter in his desk, leaning over the wood as he looks at you in a firm glance.

“As much as I would love to play with you some more, my clients will be here soon.”

You frowned. Not on purpose, but it happened.

You know it’s not his fault, and based off of what just happened you know what he was telling you had some truth. But it was never a good feeling to get kicked out of a room after a moment of sexual vulnerability.

“Oh, right,” you nod, grabbing your shirt, “okay. I’ll send them in when they arrive.”

He notices it the second you stand.

That small shift in you—quieter than before, a little more reserved, like you’re pulling yourself back into something safer. Your movements are careful, almost too careful, as you button your shirt and gather your things and turn toward the door.

He watches you go. Not stopping you. Not interrupting.

Just… watching.

Your chest feels tight, like something’s sitting there that you can’t quite shake loose. You replay it immediately—every breath, every pause, every look—like if you go over it enough times, you’ll find the right way to process it.

You straighten a little, forcing your shoulders back, trying to pull yourself into something more controlled, more put together.

“Hey.”

You pause, glancing back over your shoulder.

He hasn’t moved much, still relaxed behind his desk, but there’s something lighter in his expression now. Not as intense.

“Don’t overthink it,” he says for the millionth time today, like he can see exactly what you’re doing.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the handle, and you give a small shake of your head, “I’m not.”

That earns a hint of a smile from his end. It was honestly unfortunate how hard it was for you to lie to him.

“Right,” he replies, not calling you out, but letting you know he sees right through you.

There’s a brief pause, just enough to soften the moment.

“Come back after my meeting wraps up, yeah?” He adds, tone ways, like this was just part of the routine.

It’s not phrased like a command. Not quite a question either.

Just like he already expects you to. Like he thought that was mutually agreed on but wanted to verbalize it in case it wasn’t.

You hesitate for half a second, then nod again, a small smile this time, “Okay.”

“Good.”

The weight in the room lifts—just enough to let you breathe a little easier as you step out and close the door behind you, his voice lingering a second longer than it should.

Good.

-

An hour has gone by.

He was still in his meeting.

You were sat at your desk, flipping through schedules and confirming cars and making reservations. As your day usually went.

But it doesn’t feel like working. Even if it was.

It feels like waiting.

Like every second has suddenly stretched out longer than it should, your thoughts filling all the space in between. You try to look normal—open a file, click through something on your screen, straighten a stack of papers that doesn’t need straightening—but none of it sticks. Your focus slips almost immediately, dragged right back to the same thought.

Come back after my meeting wraps up, yeah?

Your stomach flips and your thighs clench.

You glance at the time.

It should really only be a couple more minutes.

You exhale, leaning back slightly, then forward again a second later because sitting still somehow makes the pain between your legs worse.

Your fingers tap once against your desk before you stop yourself, pressing your hands flat like that might quiet everything going on in your head.

What is he even going to say?

Your brain doesn’t help.

It runs through every possible version of what could come next—some normal, some not—and none of them settle. Each one just makes your chest feel tighter, your thoughts faster, like you’re trying to prepare for something you can’t actually predict.

But every scenario has a happy ending. The promise of his touch and maybe even the treat of his cock.

He’s not gonna fuck you…right?

You don’t believe that.

You whimper to yourself at the thought of him nuzzled inside of you, that long dick you just stared at for so long lodged in deep and crashing into you repeatedly.

You swallow, glancing toward his office without meaning to, then quickly looking away like you’ve been caught doing something.

Your knee bounces once under the desk before you force it still, dragging in a slow breath that doesn’t quite steady you. You try to refocus again—pull up the document, read the first line, then the second—but the words blur together, meaningless.

You’re not here.

Not really.

You’re already halfway back in that office, stuck in the before of it, the waiting part that feels worse than anything else.

Your fingers hover over your keyboard, unmoving.

He’ll be done soon.

You exhale slowly, pressing your lips together as you stare at your screen without seeing it.

“Get it together,” you think out loud.

But your thoughts don’t slow.

If anything, they just keep racing—faster, louder—the closer it gets to the moment you have to stand up and walk back in there.

Voices spill out first, polite goodbyes muffled behind the door, the scrape of chairs, the soft shift of movement in his office. You look up just in time to see the group filing toward his office door.

And then he appears.

He’s already in motion, walking them out himself.

Calm. Composed. Completely in control of the space without needing to announce it. You watch as he shakes each hand in turn, exchanging brief, professional farewells, standing just in the doorway.

There’s something about the way he carries it all so effortlessly that makes you sit a little straighter and rub your legs together without meaning to.

One by one, they step out.

A final nod. A last polite smile. And then they’re gone.

And it’s just you and him.

The room quiets almost immediately after, like it’s exhaling itself.

He doesn’t close the door, he leaves it open.

For a second, he just stands there in the frame of it, glancing back into his office, and then straight to you.

It’s quick. Subtle.

But unmistakably meant for you.

It wasn’t a call, and certainly not a question. It never was with him.

Just a look that says now.

Then he turns and walks back inside. Like there was never any doubt you’d follow.

You hesitate for only a second longer than you should, then push yourself up from your chair, papers forgotten for the moment, and start across the room. Each step feels louder than it should.

By the time you reach the doorway, he’s already inside again, moving toward his desk like he hasn’t even looked back to check.

He doesn’t need to.

You’re there. He knew you’d be.

And as you cross the threshold, you feel that shift again. The quiet pull of the space snapping back into something private, something smaller, something that suddenly feels so wrong and so right.

He glances up just as you enter and watches as you shut the door behind you.

“C’mere,” he gestures, “I need you to summarize these notes for me.”

You nod immediately, trotting over to the desk and standing by the edge as you flip through the scattered writing.

You’ve gotten ridiculously good at reading his hand writing. No matter how sloppy it could get, which was bad sometimes, you had read over it so many times that you could translate in your sleep.

“Ok,” you nod, leaning into the desk a bit, “anything specific you want me to focus on? Or just brief overviews for all.”

“No,” he calls from behind you, “however you want to do it. I trust you.”

You cant ignore the hiss in your stomach at his praise.

You start scanning through his notes, trying to piece together the structure of the meeting from the shorthand he left behind. It’s messy in places—quick, efficient, not meant for anyone but him—so you’re translating as you go, quietly organizing it in your head.

You were good at this. He knew you were. It wouldn’t take you long.

You grab a clean sheet of paper from his desk and write up a quick header, underlining it two times before thinking out loud on how you’ll begin.

“Okay, so the first section is mostly basic overview, I can just trim it down to this middle section,” you start, more to ground yourself than anything else.

You hear him move before you see him.

A step closer behind you.

Then another.

You don’t turn around, letting the moment unravel until he’s close enough that you feel it more than register it. The shift in the air, the space behind you suddenly gone.

He leans in slightly to look at the page over your shoulder.

And then, his hand settles lightly at your lower back.

Not heavy. Not forceful.

But instead, sickeningly sensual. Like the one simple breach of space had broken you completely.

His hand was cold against your back, held so low and practically to the waist of your little black skirt. It was steady too, like it was barely a concern and more like a reflex.

Your breath catches instantly and entire train of thought disappears.

“I-um-” you choke on the word, your voice catching mid sentence like it’s been cut off. He loved to see you this way, and he knew you’d get like this too.

Your fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the paper, your posture going rigid without meaning to. Your mind blanks for half a second—completely empty—before everything rushes back in all at once.

Awareness.

But too much of it.

You’re suddenly hyper aware of everything: how close he is, the cooling shock of his hand through the fabric, the way you can feel his presence right behind you without even looking.

The way his front was inching increasing closer to your back, the front of his thighs grazing against the back of yours accidentally. Or at least you thought it was accidental.

“I was just—gonna go over, um..” you try again, but it comes out uneven, your words stumbling over each other.

You swallow, forcing yourself to look back down at the notes, even though the words blur the second you try to focus on them.

His hand drifts lower, curving over your ass gently.

“Um, the second part was mostly about—about timelines,” you manage, your voice still not fully steady.

Your heart is beating a little too fast now, your thoughts scrambling to catch up while also trying very hard not to drift toward the one thing you’re actively avoiding thinking about.

His hand doesn’t move for a moment. It stays firm over the curvature of your ass, holding solid pressure with his finger tips in a way that almost feels like he’s grabbing it.

And then he shifts lower. So low that he reaches the hem of your short little skirt, pressing his body closer to yours as he stood behind you.

You pause as you wait for him to slip underneath.

But he doesn’t.

Not immediately.

And that somehow makes it worse.

You inhale quietly, trying to steady yourself, forcing your brain back into something functional, “And then they shifted into—uh—budget adjustments,” you continue, a little more quickly now, like speed might help you regain control.

Your hand jots down a sloppy outline of the words you say, helplessly thin to what he had asked if you.

But the effort didn’t matter. It would all be thrown to shit. Because when his fingers slipped low off of your skirt and made contact with the bare skin of your ass, you lost it.

Close enough to where you needed him most that your thoughts won’t fully cooperate.

And you’re very aware that you’re trying to act like it isn’t affecting you at all.

So is he.

But he finds it endearing. You’re cute when you act like you’re stronger than you are. He had to hold back a smile at the way you continued to try and work, to do as he asked because you were sure to never fail him.

“Um, I’ll put any numbers in a chart to the left for you,” you muster out, taking a deep inhale as his fingers continue to drift.

Your back curves inward without thinking about it, pressing your ass out further into his hold and shuttering at the feeling.

And then, with the fabric against his palm, he shrugged it upwards in a smooth motion. All the way up until the loose skirt rested on your waist and your ass was bare and exposed in your little black thong.

You choked.

He goes still for a second behind you.

Not the usual kind of calm stillness, this is heavier, almost reverent, like now you’ve really caught him and there’s no way for him to get out.

“…fuck,” he murmurs, soft and almost absentminded.

You barely have time to process it before you feel the lightest shift—his hand moving, not leaving completely but easing just enough as his focus drifts towards the space between your legs.

His fingertips brush lightly over the fabric of your underwear, slow and careful, like he doesn’t want to disturb it.

It’s not rushed.

Not distracted.

It’s deliberate in a way that feels… different. So intense and slow that it’s suffocating.

His touch grazes over the surface—barely there, almost thoughtful—tracing along a line, then pausing, then moving again like he’s following something only he can see.

“So…soft..” he starts, then trails off, exhaling softly instead.

You were soft. You were young and smooth and everything was just as it should be. It’s been awhile since he felt this gifted. Like you had granted him something that no one could ever deserve.

And then he pressed his middle finger right onto the damp spread of your thong, applying a light pressure and sighing at the wet fabric.

A breath slips out of you before you can stop it.

Soft at first—then it deepens into something heavier, your chest rising and falling in a way you can’t quite control. It’s not loud, but it feels louder than it should in the quiet room.

Your fingers tighten slightly against the desk as the feeling settles in, unexpected and hard to ignore. It moves through you in a quick, subtle wave—enough to make your shoulders tense before they ease again.

“You’ve gotten yourself all wet for me. Good,” he sighs, lips up to your ear as his finger continues to explore the hot area. He slips himself up and down your clothed slit, pressing firm and keeping himself behind you against his desk.

You draw in another breath, sharper this time, like you’re trying to steady yourself, but it only half works.

A faint shudder follows—small, but noticeable—running through you before you can stop it. You straighten almost immediately after, like you can recover from it if you move fast enough, if you just act normal.

You’re acting like you’ve never been touched before in your life. Like this was your first experience being rubbed over the blanket of your thong. It honestly was embarrassing that you were this riled up without him even really touching you.

But then he does. Sudden and seemingly out of nowhere, sliding the thin panties to the side and letting the cold air of the room sting against your needy clit.

Your head falls, arms stabilizing themselves with a bit more effort as your hip bones pressed against the ledge of the desk.

Suddenly, there’s an absence by your ear and by your torso where he once stood.

And before you can process it, you realize where he’d gone.

He was kneeling behind you, slow and teasing until his knees were bent in half and his hands were gripping either side of your waist. You were on full display in front of him, dripping pussy all swollen in front of his face and your body leaned over the desk just barely.

If you weren’t nervous before, now you were completely helpless.

“Relax,” he coos, “let me taste you.”

His hands brace against your upper thighs, steady, like he’s anchoring himself there.

Your breath holds deep in your chest.

He takes his time—too much time—and that’s what throws you off. Nothing rushed, nothing careless. Just slow, deliberate movement, as if he’s completely unbothered by the way the moment stretches.

He was basking in the sight of your pretty pussy in front of him, so tight and puffy and dripping down your thigh in a desperate plea.

He lets out a small breath against you, slow, relaxed, hot.

You feel it more than you hear it, and it hits the space between you in a way that makes your thoughts stumble.

Your body reacts before you can stop it—a small, involuntary shift, your weight moving from one foot to the other like you’re trying to settle and can’t quite manage it.

And then, his tongue presses flat against your throbbing clit so firm that you nearly faint.

Your shoulders drop first, just slightly, like your body doesn’t fully trust it yet.

Then more. A lap around the bud. A subtle press into your hole with the tip of his tongue. A sigh that stems deep from his chest at the sweet taste of you on him after all this time.

Another breath leaves you—longer than it should be, heavier. You really had been holding it in without noticing. Your eyes fall shut, not on purpose, just because it feels easier than keeping them open.

You don’t have to think.

For the first time in what feels like forever, your mind actually… quiets.

He hums into you as he continues to lick you up, sucking on your swollen clit and lathering yourself around him.

Sure you’ve had a man between your legs before. Sure you’ve felt the warm sensation of a tongue slung inside of you and swirling around mindlessly.

But this was different. He’d been down there, on his knees, for nearly three minutes and you were already steeping your way to a release.

The tension on your clit eases, then spreads, unraveling through you in slow waves. It’s almost overwhelming—not in a bad way, just in that finally kind of way, like your body doesn’t know what to do with the absence of the sexual build from the last 12 hours.

A soft moan falls through when he nuzzles his face back and forth into you, groaning against your clit as he licked another run of your honeyed arousal.

You sink into it without realizing, letting yourself go a little more with each passing second. You’ve stopped bracing for something and just decided to accept it.

Everything feels warmer. Looser. Lighter.

And for once, you’re not forcing yourself to stay composed, not pulling yourself together, not fighting your own thoughts.

Instead, you’re just falling completely undone. Quaking against the desk as you fight to hold yourself upright, bending further over without thinking and pressing your ass further into his face.

And he loved it. He’d have your ass and your delicious pussy suffocating around him for days on end. Willingly. If anything, he’d beg.

You sucks harder at your clit, enough to the point where your legs start to wobble and your moans tangle within each other. Your torso leans further into the desk, now halfway bent over as you press your core into his face unknowingly.

“That’s it,” he hums, “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Mmm—” is all you can press out, knuckles whitened as you grip the desk and hip bones aching in their pressure against it.

Then, without warning, your hole fills with the sudden stuff of his two thick fingers. Thick and gritty and curling up into you like it was where they always meant to be.

“Ah—fuck!”

And you feel it. His smirk. Curving up against your wet pussy and leaving a trail of egotistical success.

“Hm,” he tuts, “that’s what you needed? My fingers?”

He was having fun now, watching you unravel and fall vulnerable in front of him. He only wished he could see your pretty face, so red and twisted and worked up.

“Y-Yes! God, yes, feels so good, Mr. Styles,” you groan, deep from your chest like it’d been trapped there for longer than you knew.

You don’t know why you call him that. Yes, you always have. But never when his face is shoved deep into your cunt and his fingers are jutting into you remorselessly.

But he likes it. He likes your undying respect and the way you worship him.

He also liked the reminder that this was a bad idea. The thought of someone walking in and seeing his assistant ass out over his desk had him aching in his pants for a second time today.

“Yeah? You gonna cum on my face? Get me soaked?”

It was his way of saying please, fucking suffocate me and drown me in your cum till I choke.

But he had a reputation to uphold.

So he kept that part in.

“Mmm, mhm,” you whine, leaning even further over the desk as your head untwists.

He felt how close you were, measuring the clench of your hole around his fingers and the slight vibration of your thighs that echoed through him.

His thrusts quickened, his lips sucked harder, and you were putty. Melting around him until your tummy bubbled with that familiar heat and your breaths stilled.

“I’m-I’m gonna—”

“Mm, I know, baby,” he hums, “do it.”

And as all of his asks went, it only took you half a second to comply.

You were shaking around his head as your orgasm flooded over you, coming in waves and leaving you frozen in front of him.

Your body stilled, your breaths held, your face reddened.

A light, floaty dizziness rolls through you, harsh and overwhelming. Your limbs feel heavier, but not in a bad way—more like they’ve finally stopped trying so hard to hold you up. There’s a loose, almost weightless quality to them, like you could stay exactly where you are and not move for a long time.

But then he keeps going.

Quicker.

More intense.

“Ah—I’m…” you trail off, twitching at the feeling of his tongue on your clit and the way his lips wrapped around it tighter.

Your body tenses instinctively, like it doesn’t know how to process it yet—your breath catching, your shoulders tightening, your fingers curling slightly as you try to hold steady through it.

It almost hurts.

Not sharp exactly, but overwhelming in a way that makes you pull in on yourself for a second, like you’re bracing against it.

“It’s too much,” you breathe out, twitching around him and falling further into the desk.

He just continues harder.

Your mind stumbles, trying to make sense of it, but there’s no space for clear thoughts. Just sensation, heavy and all at once, pushing past what feels comfortable.

“Breathe,” he sighs into you, “it’s not too much. You like it. Don’t act like you don’t.”

You inhale, a little shaky.

And then, it shifts.

Slowly at first.

That tight, overwhelming edge begins to soften, the intensity spreading out instead of pressing down. Your body starts to give instead of fight it, the tension easing little by little as you realize it’s not something you have to resist.

Your shoulders drop.

Your grip loosens.

The pressure that felt like too much just seconds ago turns into something warmer, something that settles into you instead of against you.

Another breath leaves you, longer this time.

“There we go,” he nods as he presses deeper inside of you, clit stinging and pulsing and swarming over you in new pleasure.

You let out a soft breath, almost a quiet stutter under it, like you don’t even recognize yourself in the moment.

“I’ve… never felt— it feels so good,” you admit, your voice a little lighter now, a little dazed around the edges.

It sounds strange even as you say it.

But it’s true.

You've never had a man bring you to an orgasm as quickly as he did, and you’ve never once had a man continue even after you’ve finished. Pushing you to your limits and watching you adjust based off of his preferences.

You shift slightly, still settling into that lingering warmth, that looseness that hasn’t fully left your body yet.

“I’m—shit,” you add, softer this time, like you’re still trying to process it.

And then you feel it, the rise of your second orgasm coming only within a couple moments from your last. Heavier this time, more intense than anything you’ve ever felt and taking up the whole of your body.

“Feel good? Tell me how I make you feel.”

Your voice drops, quieter, more honest, “so good, Mr. Styles. Thank you, it feels so good.”

He groans into your pussy, drowning in your respect and admiration and the way you were always so grateful for him.

You exhale slowly, sinking into the feeling again, like you’re chasing the last of it, hoping it doesn’t fade too quickly. Your shoulders stay relaxed this time, your body not fighting it anymore, just letting it settle wherever it wants.

“C’mon, you’re right there, give it to me again,” he whispers, licking quicker and curling into that spongy spot that has you spinning around yourself.

And in normal fashion, your mind agrees to his request immediately and your body follows with it. You shatter against him again, tensing and groaning and filling the wide office with the erotic noises of your pleasure.

He didn’t care if you got caught. He was floating with his tongue on you. There wasn’t anything in this world that would stop him from finishing the rest of your orgasm, the noises and the tensing too much for him to deny.

Your stomach falls completely flat over the edge of the desk now, cheek pressed against the wood and ass up high in his face. Your feet struggled to stay grounded as you bent in half, completely losing control of yourself and sinking into it all.

This was what he wanted. He wanted to watch his perfect little thing finally relax. You were always so tense, so eager to please him and always trying your hardest.

And yes, it was his favorite thing, to watch you try for him. Sweat for him until he was more than satisfied.

But this was different—new. You were loose, dropping your walls and showing him vulnerabilities you would’ve never dared to do in front of him.

And when he pulled his thick fingers out and finally removed the suction on your clit, you slipped into a breath of relief.

“Ok?”

“Mhm,” you nod against the desk, “ok.”

He stands from his spot on the floor, running a hand up your back until it lands on your shoulder. His face falls to the side of yours, lips near your ear as he rubs gentle circles onto your skin.

“M’gonna fuck you now,” he whispers, “slow and deep until you beg me for more.”

He flips you gently to your back before he continues.

“And I wanna see your face when I make you cum again.”

He says it so simply it almost passes like any other sentence, but you knew it was coming. Or at least part of you did.

Still, hearing it out loud makes your breath catch just a little. The way he casually lets you know that he’ll be fucking you now. Making you cum for a third time. Your boss, his assistant.

You don’t look at him right away.

Your eyes drop instead, a small, almost automatic reaction, like you suddenly don’t trust yourself to hold his gaze without giving something away. Like you feel it’s almost embarrassing how excited you are.

There’s a warmth rising in your face you can’t stop, spreading slowly, settling into your cheeks.

You nod.

Small at first. Then again, a little more certain.

“Okay,” you say quietly, your voice softer than you meant it to be, still recovering from what he had just put you through.

He smiles when you say it, a real smile, endeared at the sweet nature of your acceptance and the way you laid out on his desk in patience.

And once he gets the urge, he can’t stop himself.

He’s leaning down into you, quick, as if he doesn’t want to give himself time to rethink it, before his lips are on yours. Slow, careful. Like if he kissed you too hard he might just break you.

There’s a pause where you feel it—your own reaction, the way your chest feels a little lighter, a little warmer, like something just settled into place.

Everything felt peaceful for a moment. Like the heavy tension of what had started had faltered for a moment and instead turned into something domestic. Personal.

You bring a hand to the back of his neck without really needing to, just to have something to do, still not quite settling into it yet.

But there’s a faint smile there. Subtle. From both of you, unintentionally.

Like you’re trying to keep it in, but it shows anyway.

And when you finally pull back, it’s quick—just for a second—before you both fall back into each other, that same cohesive mesh, like you don’t need to say anything more.

His lips were soft and full against yours, coated in the residue of your last orgasm but you don’t mind. You tasted him through it. The deep mint, the strong patter of his tongue. It was intoxicating, and by the way he was kissing you back, you could tell he was feeling the same.

The two of you start to strip as you continue the kiss, your fingers working to unbutton your shirt once more and his undoing the buckle of his belt. His pants came next, then his shirt, falling down his arms and joining the others.

He shrugged your skirt down and off your legs, leaving you bare in just your bra which soon came next.

It was hasty, but tasteful. Slightly sloppy but also controlled, how it always was with you two.

And then you were both naked, your back pressed against his desk, his lips on yours and a hand tangled through your hair.

“Please, Harry,” you whispered, the first time you’d called him by his first name since the day you started working for him.

And that did it.

“Oh, y/n,” he kissed you deeper, a hand coming down to grab his own length, “been thinking about this for so long. So good to me, all the time. Want to give you what you deserve.”

You whine, slipping your tongue through his lips as he positions himself deeper between you. Your legs wrapped around his waist, his left hand holding your leg stable as his right works to align himself with you.

And once he presses in, slow, teasing, you freeze.

He was thick. So warm and inviting as he slid into your slick with the precision of a man who cares. Who cares about your pleasure and waits to work off of your reaction.

He was analyzing you as he pressed deeper, listening to little noises and pulling back from your lips for small moments just to glance at your expressions.

You felt so full, overwhelmed in the pressure but reveling in the feeling all the same. He was so thick and ridged inside of you, pressing past the tip and further to his base with every passing second.

“Tell me what you’re feeling, y/n,” he breathes out, “need to know if it feels okay. Don’t wanna hurt you.”

You shake your head immediately.

“No, feels so good, don’t stop, please,” you stuttered through a breath, legs tensing around his waist as your tits melted outwards as you laid on your back.

With that, he bottomed out, hips melding into yours in some smooth motion until you were both groaning out into each other.

He starts slowly, rolling in and of you in a loose rhythm that was contained in the way it should be.

You exhale in a wave of pleasure, shoulders loosening as you sink into it again. It’s not overwhelming like before, just steady, lingering. Full in a way you couldn’t quite describe.

Your thoughts quiet on their own, slipping into the background like they’re no longer needed.

You shift on the desk slightly, more comfortable now, not searching for where to put yourself anymore. Everything feels easier—your breathing, your hands, even the way your mind moves.

“Harry,” you moan, “Feels so good inside of me.”

He was sweating already, overwhelmed in the feeling of his thick cock nuzzled deep inside of your little pussy and not quite knowing how to process it.

“Yeah? You like my cock inside of you? This how it felt last night?”

You shake your head messily, “Mm-mm, no. Never as good as this, no.”

His pace quickened, just barely, but enough to give you a hint into what it could be.

Rough. Sloppy. Aggressive.

And suddenly, you needed it that way.

“Please, harder,” you groan, the words slipping out of you before you can really even think about it.

“Hm?”

“Harder, Harry, please! Fuck me harder, please, I want it,” you were tensing around his cock on purpose, prying for him in any way you could.

“What do you want?” He played, stretching you thin until you were a desperate mess.

He just didn’t expect it to come to him so easily.

“Your cock, please, I want it to hurt,” you yelp, “fuck me harder, Harry, please, I need it!”

He growled, squeezing his eyes shut to hold himself together at your filthy pleads. You were a wreck, already so worked up and he had barely fucked you yet.

Not properly, anyway.

With a huff, he paused his gentle rhythm before grabbing onto your left ankle, throwing it up on his shoulder until it slung there naturally.

You gasped at the shift, the difference stretching you out and letting his cock kiss your insides in a new way from before.

“Mm, f—”

You were cut short at the sudden slam of his hips against yours, rough this time and leaving little space for you to process a thing.

He was harsh and unforgiving as he slammed his way into you, again and again and again and again until you were drunk and dizzy with his dick and your eyes were to the back of your head.

“Oh, Harry! Fuck, yes! Yes! Yes!” You were ridiculously loud, neck strained as you grasped onto nothing in an attempt to steady yourself against the solid surface of his desk.

“Yeah? You like this better? Tell me you like it rough,” he groans, sweat forming on the line of his curls as he ruts into you harder.

“I do, fuck! Feels so good, so deep,” your words sounded like nonsense, thoughts rambling out of you with little to no processing time.

He presses his palm flat against your lower stomach, slapping onto the space where his tip tented the skin of your tummy and groaning at the feeling of him so deep in your insides.

He grabs your hand and places it on your stomach with his, watching as you now also feel his cock jutting in and out of you and pressing up into your skin.

“You feel that? You feel my cock fucking into your belly? S’where it belongs.”

“Mm, yes! Fuck, so good, don’t stop,” you were already close, and he hadn’t even touched your clit.

He wasn’t going to, either.

He wanted to know his dick was what made you cum. Nothing else.

He fucked you harder, deeper, every passing second growing more and more intense and even more aggressive.

You were…in heaven.

You’d dreamt of this for god knows how long. You knew he’d be the man to do it. He was big and strong and fucking you just right and handling you like the little thing you were.

“Tell me how good this dick is,” he spits, shoving himself deep into your cervix.

“It’s—it’s…shit,” you tried, really, you did.

But when he was slamming himself into you the way he was, table rocking and wooden legs squeaking, who could blame you?

And when you thought he’d be patient, let you take your time, you were slapped right out of that thought the moment you felt the chill of his rings around your neck.

His hand had you pinned down, gripping tight against your veins until your face reddened and your throat felt raw in ecstasy.

“Fucking say it,” he grits, “tell me how good it is. Tell me what you want.”

You were spinning above yourself, swarming in the mix of the stretch of your leg over his shoulder and the grip on your throat and the slam of his hips.

“So good! Fuck, your dick is so good Harry I need it. Want it all the time, please, want this cock everyday, all the time.”

You were rambling, but not in the way you did when you were nervous to send over his weekly schedule.

This time was different.

You were rambling like there was no end in sight. Like if you weren’t so distracted by the fuck of his hips than you would continue on and it would never stop. Just raving about how good he felt inside of you and how you wanted it forever and ever.

“Good, baby,” he hummed, “so fucking good to me, you know that? Never let me down, never. You’re perfect, so good for me all the time.”

You whimpered at the praise, his grip tightening against your throat as you struggled to keep your eyes open.

“And now you're taking me so well,” he continued through heavy breaths, “so tight around my big cock, hm? Best pussy I’ve ever felt in my life, you’re fucking unreal.”

And that was it.

He should’ve known it would get you there—how could it not when this is what you lived for? His praise, his words, the reassurance that he was happy with what you brought to him. That you were worth his while.

More than worth his while.

“Harry! I’m—”

“I know,” he quickened his pace, “let it out. Squeeze my cock till it stings, make me cum.”

You screamed, legs clenching and extended up around him and mouth falling open in pure bliss. It was the hardest you’ve ever come in your life, so wrapped up in the moment and pulling from the lack of blood to your head.

His grip on your throat loosened a bit as you came, giving you room to breathe and steady yourself so as to not pace out right on his desk.

Because that would be hard to explain to someone.

He replaced his dick with a thumb on your clit to help you ride it out, not wanting to cut it too close as he was there himself now and wouldn’t risk cumming inside of you.

No matter how badly he wanted to watch his insides drip out of your swollen hole.

“Fuckkk,” you groaned deep as he stroked himself onto your stomach, letting it paint your milky tits and drip down to your belly button in a careless fashion.

You both watched each other's faces—the way you curled and squirmed and tensed at every new dash of a feeling. It was so intense, so wrong, so good in the way that felt like it had to be a dream.

And because you just couldn’t help yourself, as you come down from your last orgasm, you swipe your finger up your stomach until you gather a healthy helping of his cum and press your finger onto your tongue. Lapping up the salty liquid until it hit your throat and you were humming in satisfaction.

He twitched at the act, still stroking himself out and groaning at your fucked up behavior.

You would be the death of him.

He lets grabs your ankle and takes your leg off of his shoulder, sighing as his head drops and he catches his breath.

You follow the same pattern, regulating your breaths and shutting your eyes in an attempt to revive yourself.

You both end up looking at each other at the same time.

There’s a beat—just a second—where it’s quiet.

And then it breaks.

A breathy laugh slips out of you first, soft and loose, like it just falls out without asking permission. He follows right after, the same kind of laugh—easy, unguarded, like neither of you has the energy to hold it in or question it.

It’s not in humor. It’s more in bliss. Like you both just can’t beleive how fucking good you feel and how fucking insane you both are.

It feels a little unreal, like you both just came out of something you weren’t expecting to feel that deeply.

There’s that shared look again.

Tired.

Relieved.

But happy. Really happy.

Your shoulders feel heavy in the best way, like all the tension finally burned off and left nothing behind but this loose, quiet calm. His posture mirrors it, less rigid, more open, like what just happened took something out of both of you, but gave something back too.

You peer up at the clock on his wall before looking back at him.

You exhale, still smiling, softer now.

“Your 12:00 will be here soon. I’ll let them in once you’re ready.”

He lets out another small laugh, shaking his head once like he doesn’t even have the words for it.

And for a second, neither of you tries to fill the silence. Because you don’t have to.

“Mm,” he leans to kiss you for just a quick second, “perfect.”

You shift slightly, exhaling under your breath. Looking at him through his flushed cheeks and his lazy smile. His messy hair and the way his body seems a little less tense than it usually is.

He’s satisfied.

And that thought sits comfortably. Like a box checked. Like something resolved.

Good.

That’s what matters.

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Then, it became both of you in motion. Good luck kisses backstage, late night car rides in new cities you had never been to (that he knew pretty well at this point), sleepless nights in the fanciest hotels. It's easy, in the honeymoon phase, to find the time, but as you get more settled into a long term relationship, and the world keeps spinning, it can be hard to keep up.

He was always present but, with the nature of his job, it felt like he was never fully there. These trips, although fun, were not a vacation with him. The goodluck kisses were interrupted by someone dragging him to the stage. The late night car rides were interrupted by work phone calls. The sleepless nights were ruined with early call times. It felt like if you stood still, he would pass right by.

“I’m so sorry, hun. I really wish I could stay here with you.” Harry leaned down, softly kissing you. He was fully dressed, having to catch an early studio session, while you were still in bed, naked from your escapades of the night before.

“Don’t worry about it.” you quietly replied, a sting of sadness piercing your heart, while you also knew it was not your place to be sad about your boyfriend doing his job. He kept kissing you, leaving the softest kisses all over your face with his flawless lips, an apology he didn’t need to make.

/Tokyo scene/

Tokyo slowed him down.

Not all at once. But the city demanded a different kind of presence from him. The noise was still there, the crowds, the lights, the movement, but somehow it didn’t reach him the same way. He was quieter here. Watching everything. Taking it in.

You saw him without the performance for the first time. Not Harry Styles, the brand, or Harry-on-stage or Harry-being-needed-by-everyone-all-at-once. Just Harry. Hands tucked into his coat pockets, smiling to himself like he was relieved no one expected anything from him, grabbing and embracing you, even in the most public of places.

Of course it wasn’t 100% quiet, his Japanese fans were still very adoring, but it wasn’t chaotic. It was simple.

There were no late-night parties. No chaotic after-hours plans. He stayed clean here, not just from drinking, but from disappearing into distraction. Mornings were slower. Meals were intentional. He ate like someone who wanted to remember the taste of things.

You started to fall into small rituals with him. Frequenting a vending machine outside your hotel that sold coffee in cans. Night walks where neither of you felt the need to fill the silence. Long conversations that didn’t go anywhere specific, just circled around thoughts he’d never said out loud before.

“I love you.” He blurted out at you, as you stopped for a moment on your morning walk.

You chuckled, he had said it before, but the randomness was amusing. “What was that for?” You asked, smiling up at him.

“I don’t know, I looked at you and…you’re just perfect.”

It felt unfamiliar. Almost fragile. Like if you named it, it might break. But this time, you didn’t feel like if you stood still he’d pass you by.

This time, he didn’t disappear.

/I wanna know what safe is / I won't stray from it/

Your love continued to manifest in different ways, very quickly in the shape of a shared space. For now, it was Harry’s home in London. You would leave notes on the counter for each other. Simple “I love you’s”, “Have a great day”. Shoes were kicked off by the door. Forgotten errands that somehow felt sweeter than big plans ever had.

Harry had learned, after years of traveling and work chaos, that stability didn’t need to mean boredom. Especially with you. You were both full of light and energy. This new stationary setting lit a fire in your relationship.

Stevie Nicks was playing softly from the speaker on the counter, something slow and warm, filling the kitchen with sound while you stood at the sink, rinsing vegetables, half-distracted, thinking about nothing at all. Harry hovered nearby, pretending to read something on his phone before suddenly setting it down.

“Come ‘ere” he said, already reaching for you.

You laughed, protesting weakly as he pulled you away from the counter, hands warm and sure as he tugged you into the middle of the kitchen. At first it was ridiculous…he spun you too fast, pulled you into a clumsy, exaggerated dance that made you snort with laughter. Your forehead bumped his chest. His feet stepped on yours. Neither of you cared.

Then he slowed it down. One hand settled at your waist, the other lacing his fingers through yours, your cheek resting gently against his chest. He swayed you back and forth like there was nowhere else he needed to be.

“I could stay in this moment forever.” he murmured, almost to himself.

/Aperture, let the light in/

There was no single moment where everything clicked into place, no grand decision that split his life into before and after. It came quietly, when you both slowed down. These mornings didn’t feel rushed. Waking up to you, in his bed, his arms wrapped around you, or yours wrapped around his, no alarm blaring in your ears.

Harry still wanted everything he’d always wanted, the tours, writing music. Music was still a hunger in him, still something he chased. But it no longer felt like something he had to outrun for the rest of his life.

He realized he didn’t want less, he just wanted it differently. Slower and with you.

He started choosing longer stays instead of quick turnarounds. Letting himself breathe instead of constricting himself to a tight schedule. Inviting you into the process, into the quiet parts of creation, into the spaces he used to keep separate. It wasn’t about giving anything up. It was about widening the aperture, letting more light in without fear of being exposed. You watched him learn how to live inside his own life instead of sprinting through it.

And standing there with you, it finally made sense. This was the balance he’d been looking for. This was how he wanted to live now.

/We belong together / It finally appears/

Love didn’t erase the chaos of his life, it learned how to live inside it.

Mornings started slow, even when the day ahead wasn’t. You’d wake up tangled together, his arm heavy around your waist, his face pressed into your shoulder like that was where it fit best. Sometimes his phone would buzz too early, schedules and calls and reminders pulling at him, and he’d groan softly into your skin.

“Five more minutes,” He’d mumble, voice thick with sleep.

“You said that ten minutes ago.” you’d Joke, fingers tracing the tattoos on his arm.

He’d hum, tightening his hold. “Still stands.”

On tour, life bent around the same rhythm. Backstage kisses before shows, you would watch from the wings sometimes, arms folded around yourself, pride blooming in your chest as the crowd screamed for him. Afterward, he always found you first…sweaty, breathless, eyes bright.

“There you are,” he’d say every time, like he hadn’t known exactly where you’d be.

Late nights meant hotel rooms and takeout eaten on white sheets, his legs stretched across your lap as you absentmindedly rubbed his calves. He talked about music the way other people talked about weather, constantly, instinctively. But with a passion of his own. You listened, always.

“Does it make sense?” he’d ask, suddenly unsure.

“It always does.” you’d say.

There were quiet days too. Grocery runs in baseball caps and sunglasses. You held the list while he pushed the cart, tossing in things you didn’t need.

“We already have pasta.” You’d say.

“Yeah, but not this pasta.” He’d reply seriously, earning an eye-roll and a laugh from you.

Sometimes you forgot who he was to everyone else. You remembered when strangers stared or whispered. He always reached for your hand then, grounding himself, and you.

One afternoon, weeks later, you were sprawled on the couch while he sat at the table pretending to check emails. You barely noticed when he paused, brow furrowing slightly.

“Hey, love?” He said casually.

“Mm?”

“What’re you doing Thursday?”

You shrugged. “Nothing, I think. Why?”

He smiled to himself, tapping something into his phone. “Just booked us an appointment.”

“For what?”

He looked up then, eyes soft, open, certain. “Thought it might be time we pick out some rings.”

Your breath caught. He stood, crossing the room in two strides, kneeling in front of you, not dramatic, not rehearsed. Just real.

“It’s only love,” He said gently, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “But I want it forever. With you. Everywhere.”

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“So—what’s something you learned about yourself during your break from music?” Harry purses his lips ever so slightly and squints his eyes as he tries to think of an answer to the question Zane just asked in his usual soft tone as the two of them sit across from one another at a table in a little cafe in Paris. “Doesn’t have to be groundbreaking I’m just curious if you found any new hobbies or—interests?” He adds with a chuckle as he notices the way Harry is still trying to think of an answer that would help people get an idea of what he was really up to during his time away without invading his privacy, a thin line that up until now Harry has expertly known how to tiptoe around and redirect conversations to avoid actually crossing it.

But much like everything else about this album, this interview feels different as if suddenly Harry doesn’t see the harm in giving out more intimate details of his life so people might have a better understanding of what this album is all about. That’s why he did something very unlike himself and went ahead and told Zane that there might be someone joining the two of them to discuss the album and what life has been like during his step back from music. Zane didn’t have any objections, instead feeling grateful that Harry trusted him enough to do something different and allow him to speak to whoever it is that’ll be joining them in their conversation.

“Uh I found myself clubbing quite a bit—I didn’t think I’d enjoy it as much as I did or—do.” He answers with a smile as he runs a hand through his hair, Zane just nods and acts as if he doesn’t notice the way Harry’s eyes glance towards the door of the cafe before bouncing over and meeting his. “I like the environment of a dingy club dance floor I think I’ve spent a lot of time on a stage that I never really got to appreciate the feeling of—of that togetherness you get when you’re just enjoying a band and letting yourself feel the music.” He explains as he tries to keep the real reason why he likes a dance floor so much from bubbling up and spilling out of his mouth. But he knows by the way he feels the corners of his mouth twitch upwards that his face is more than likely giving himself away so he rubs his lips together to hold off the need to smile at the thought of you, the girl he’s madly in love with and met in the middle of an overcrowded dance floor at a small club in London while you were visiting some friends almost three years ago.

The same girl he knows will be arriving any minute now.

“That’s an addictive feeling isn’t it? The freedom you have on a dance floor just being able to let it all out to some sick beat—” the sound of a bell jingling has both men pausing and looking over at the door and Harry can’t be bothered to stop the grin that spreads across his face as he slides out of the booth.

“Do you know how many cafes are on this street?” Your voice is breathy as if you were in a rush but still holds your usual gentle playfulness that has Harry letting out a laugh as he walks over to you. “Like really next time just give me the actual address or better yet just send a car.” He just nods as he places a hand on the side of your face, his thumb lightly brushing over your cheekbone as he takes in your slightly flustered appearance.

“Did you run here? Why are you all-”

“Run here? No I didn’t run here you’re the only one out of the two of us who doesn’t see running as a form of physical and psychological torture.” Your words get muffled by the cozy material of his sweater as he pulls you into his chest making you let out a sigh as his arms wrap around your shoulders so he can press his lips to the top of your head. “It’s called walking with a purpose and—” Harry quirks a brow as you pull away from his comforting embrace so you can look around, he follows your stare when he sees your eyes go big and your mouth snap shut in the middle of your explanation.

“Harry.” He can’t help but laugh at your very sad attempt at whispering once you look away from the camera that’s aimed directly at the two of you and back up at him, having no clue he has on a mic pack that’s tucked into the back of his jeans letting everyone in the room hear what you’re saying, even when you’re trying to whisper.

“Why are you whispering?” He whispers back with a laugh making you send him a glare as his hands drop down to your waist, giving you a loving little squeeze as you try to take in the situation you just walked into.

“You’re in the middle of—something and you told me to meet you here for lunch you jerk.” You tell him with a small swat to his chest that has the man behind the camera holding back a small laugh as he turns to pan over to Zane who is watching the two of you with a look of fondness and understanding in his eyes.

“Baby relax—It’s just an interview no big deal.” The casual tone of his voice has you letting out a groan as you rest your forehead on his chest while his hands start to run up and down your arms trying to soothe your worries away with each pass of his palms down the soft material of your sweatshirt. “I want you here,” he says softly as he places his hands on either side of your face so he can gently lift your head so you’re looking up at him. “I want you to be apart of this with me.” His lips are pressing against your forehead before you can even fully process the words that just came out of his mouth.

“You want—but this is for your album? I—why do you want me here when—I have nothing to do with kissing and discoing or well I mean—kissing maybe but discoing? No.” Zane laughs at your very obvious anxious ramblings while Harry just stands there and keeps his hands softly holding the sides of your face, his eyes locked on you as your hands reach out and mindlessly mess with his cross pendant. “I just—you really want me here?” You ask quietly as your hands wrap around his wrists making Harry smile and nod.

“I wouldn’t have an album if it weren’t for you so I think it’s only right that you sit in during at least one interview.” He explains as he leans in so he can bump the tip of his nose against yours.

“Fine but can I get some coffee first? Maybe a croissant or two?” Harry lets out a chuckle before pressing his lips against yours in a quick but sweet kiss.

“Already waiting for you at the table.” He informs you with a smug grin as he pulls away, you let out a sigh of relief as your hands fall to his chest while his slide down to your shoulders.

“Now I’m not like answering any questions right? I’m just here for moral support?” You ask as Harry uses his hold on your shoulders to turn you towards the small table he was just sat at with Zane.

“Feel free to jump in at anytime—do whatever you’re comfortable with.” Zane answers as he reaches a hand out. “Nice to finally meet you by the way—I’ve heard a lot about you.” Harry looks over at you as you smile and shake his hand before someone comes over with a spare mic pack as Harry moves out of the way and slides into the booth across from Zane.

“It’s lovely to meet you as well I’m a massive fan.” You tell him after getting your mic sorted, Harry smiles as you slide in next to him letting him drape an arm over your shoulders as you lean into his side. “Whatever he’s told you about me is probably only half true—he loves to embellish things to make them seem more dramatic.” Zane laughs while Harry lets out a scoff in an attempt to hide his own laughter.

“Good thing I got most of my intel from Niall then.” Your laugh has Harry’s face morphing into a small pout as Zane gives you a playful wink.

“Thank god—he’s a good one you can trust him.” Harry ignores your playful pat to his chest and rolls his eyes as he leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head as you get more comfortable in your spot.

“I’ll have to remember that but—before you arrived Harry was talking about how much he loves a dance floor.” You just nod as Harry hands you a cup of coffee that you take without even looking at him something Zane takes notice of because of the normalcy of it. But he also sees that there’s another layer hidden underneath the simple act of Harry handing you something and you having no hesitation in accepting it, it shows that you trust him and his ability to give you whatever you need in any given moment even if it’s just a cup of coffee. This gives him a small glimpse into your relationship together and it has him smiling as he leans back and gets comfortable on his side of the booth.

“Oh yeah he loves to get lost in the music on a dingy little dance floor.” You say with a smile after taking a sip of your coffee. “Anything can happen on a dance floor I mean you can bump into an old friend or-”

“Or meet the person you want to spend the rest of your life with.” Harry says cutting you off as he moves his arm so he can place a hand on the top of your denim covered thigh, you look over at him with a look that he’s seen a thousand times that has him biting back a grin because it’s one you give him when he says something that has the potential to make you cry, it’s a warning type look mixed with a loving sort of adoration because the words he just said are sweet but you’re not really in the mood for water works.

“I think that’s what I sort of wanted this album to be able to do—get people onto a dance floor or somewhere they can just feel free to be themselves and let loose because well—unexpected but amazing things can happen to you when you allow yourself to just…feel.” Harry adds trying to move the conversation along in a way that won’t have you turn into a sniffling mess, Zane looks away from Harry and over at you as you busy yourself with tearing off a piece of croissant that’s resting on a small plate on the table.

“I have to just say that Harry’s dancing has improved so much I mean— he’s come a long way from the aggressive shoulder shrugs haven’t you?” Harry lets out a groan as he runs a hand over his face while you fight off a laugh as you look up at him while Zane is chuckling to himself.

“Thank you love for bringing that up.”

“You are very welcome.”

“I take it you were a fan of One Direction then?”

“Oh she’s still a fan—she’s in the top what? One percent of the listeners in her end of the year wrap thingy that Spotify does.”

“That’s—that’s impressive so you were familiar with Harry when you two met?” You just nod as Harry looks down at you with a warm smile.

“Yes I knew who he was when he got a little carried away on the dance floor and ended up tossing his sunglasses at the back of my head.” Harry has a slight look of embarrassment on his face as you tell Zane the beginnings of the story of how the two of you met.

“I didn’t toss them they just flew off my head and I apologized like ten times I felt so bad.”

“He did apologize a lot but I told him it was fine he just needed-”

“She told me I needed one of those chains that keep people’s glasses around their neck that you see a lot of uhm—older people using for their reading glasses.” He says finishing your sentence for you making you just nod as Zane takes in the sight of Harry effortlessly reaching over and pulling the small plate your croissant is on closer to him so he can pick a piece up and hand it to you so you don’t have to reach so far for it all while never causing any awkward pauses in the conversation, enjoying the domesticity of the moment between the two of you that again reveals just a bit more of how the two of you are behind closed doors.

“Who asked for whose number?” Zane asks as you finish chewing your bite of food, Harry raises a brow as he looks down at you making you just roll your eyes before looking over a Zane.

“I did because well putting aside the fact I knew who he was—I mean come on—he’s fit as a fiddle and covered in tattoos and sings some of my favorite songs why wouldn’t I shoot my shot? The worst thing he could’ve told me was no.”

“But he clearly didn’t tell you no.”

“No he didn’t—thank goodness.”

“So the two of you met at a club so that’s a big inspiration for the album but what was it that had you really wanting to step back into the studio?” Harry gives your thigh a soft squeeze as Zane asks a follow up question that easily keeps the conversation flowing and natural sounding while also shifting gears to segway into discussing the album.

“I honestly wanted to have something to look back on and be able to feel and remember what I was going through in this portion of my life—a lot of things have happened to me over the last few years and I think using music and lyrics as a form of a diary of sorts is how I cope with all of it—the good and the bad.”

“So this album is more personal than people might expect?”

“Yeah I think—I think it might be the most personal one yet but it’s a nice mixture of being able to dance through the darker heavy bits while also letting yourself sit and enjoy the bright and happy moments as well.” You place a hand over Harry’s that’s resting on your thigh and lace your fingers through his so your palm is flat against the top of his hand so you can give it a squeeze.

“I think this album is going to surprise people.” Harry looks down at you as you tilt your head up to meet his gaze. “It’s different in the way it sounds but it’s the same in the sense that he left a piece of him in those songs—same way he does with every album and I just can’t wait for the world to get to see and hear this new side of him.” Harry gives you a smile and before he can stop himself he’s leaning down and placing a kiss to your lips that makes the producer sitting behind the camera let out an audible awe as he pulls away.

“Sorry I forgot where I was for a moment.” He says with a laugh as you look over at Zane who just gives the two of you a causal shrug before saying something that has you erupting into a fit of laughter.

“I mean it is called kiss all the time—disco occasionally.”

People filtered in. Around her, other interns clustered in small nervous groups. Some of them were already laughing too loudly. Some were scrolling on their phones. She could also see some of them pretending they weren’t anxious. She recognized the energy immediately because she was full of it too. It was ambition, but hidden behind politeness.

“Good morning, everyone!”

The HR coordinator clapped her hands gently, her heels clicking against the marble floor. “Welcome to Atlas Strategy & Communications. If you will follow me, we will head to the conference room.”

The interns entered the conference room. Y/N chose a seat near the middle of the long table, setting her notebook neatly down in front of her. As people continued walking in, she caught snippets of introductions. There were Ivy League names, business schools, marketing programs, international universities.

That was when he walked in. There was a quality about him. It felt as though he commanded every eye when he walked in. Tall and relaxed in his posture, he wore a navy blazer over a crisp white shirt. He scanned the room once before opting for a seat directly across from her. Their eyes met briefly, and Y/N was the first to look away.

“Alright. Let’s start with introductions. Name, university, and specialisation,” the coordinator said, smiling brightly.

It went around the table and when it reached her, she straightened slightly. She confidently gave her name, and the university she graduated from. “I finished my master’s in Communications and Digital Media. I focused on brand strategy and audience behavior research. It is an honour and a privilege to be here today,” she finished her introduction.

A few people gave him a polite nod before it was his turn to speak. He leaned back, looking completely at ease, and introduced himself with total confidence. That’s how Y/N found out his name was Harry Styles and that he was a fresh MBA grad in Marketing Analytics and Growth Strategy. He kept his introduction short and sweet, not wasting a single word.

She looked up again without really meaning to but this time he caught her. He just lifted an eyebrow, looking a little bit amused that she was staring. Caught red-handed, she looked away as fast as she could.

The rest of the session was just standard onboarding stuff like team setups and break times, the usual. She kept taking notes just out of habit, even though she knew most of it was already in the intern handbook. Then, finally, they got to the part everyone had actually been waiting for.

“Project groups. You’ll be working in pairs for the first month,” the coordinator announced.

As the coordinator pressed a key on her laptop, names appeared on the big screen. Y/N scanned the names quickly, only to find her name paired with… Harry. Her stomach did something that resembled butterflies. He looked up at the screen too, then back at her. A slow smile tugged at his mouth.

“Well... Looks like we’re coworkers,” he murmured once the room started buzzing again.

She tilted her head slightly. “Looks like it.”

He laughed under his breath. They were guided to a smaller breakout room with their assigned mentor. As they walked side by side, he glanced at her.

“So...You said communications, right?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. Does that mean you will make my slides sound smarter than they actually are?”

She shot him a look. “I don’t do charity work.”

“Damn. I was counting on free labour.”

She rolled her eyes playfully as he chuckled.

The mentor finally laid out the project given to them. It was a market entry strategy for a tech client. It was the full works like data analysis, and audience research, including campaign positioning. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and dove straight into a serious discussion with her. She realized then that he was actually incredibly sharp, picking up on strategies instantly and offering his own insights. With their mentor heading back to her office, the two of them started divvying up the workload.

“I’ll handle competitor analysis and projections,” he said.

“Okay, then I’ll take audience mapping and messaging frameworks.”

He looked at her with a teasing smile, “You talk like a consultant already.”

She shrugged. “So do you.”

He grinned. “Okay. Fair enough.”

By lunchtime, they had already built a rough outline of the task they were given. After drafting the first plan, he stood and stretched slightly and then turned towards her.

“Do you want to get coffee before we get buried in these spreadsheets?” he asked.

She hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Yeah, sure.”

They walked together down to the cafe across the street. The line was long and the noise inside the cafe was loud, different from the silence of their office.

“So, why Atlas?” he glanced at her, trying to make small talk.

She considered the question. “Hmm, well, I didn’t want to waste two years of grad school working somewhere that doesn’t actually build things, you know?”

He nodded slowly. “Same here. Also, the brand name looks good on my resume.”

She laughed despite herself. “At least you’re honest.”

They got their drinks and sat near the window. She noticed that there was a comfortable rhythm between them already. It was not forced or awkward, but easy and enjoyable. Which made her suspicious. When they returned to the office, their shoulders brushed briefly in the elevator. Though neither of them commented on it, it was clear that both of them noticed it. As the workday ended, she packed her bag slowly, already mentally preparing for the late nights ahead. Across the room, he looked up from his laptop.

“Tomorrow, we start destroying this project.”

She laughed. “Aren’t you a bit dramatic?”

“Dramatic? Me? Nah, I’d call it efficient,” he corrected.

She shook her head, walking towards the exit. For some reason, she had this strange feeling that this internship wasn’t going to be simple. And neither was he.

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By the end of the first month, Y/N and Harry had each other’s patterns down. They got to know one another through their routine of normal days and shared deadlines. That initial formality just kind of melted away the more they saw each other every morning. In the beginning, it was strictly business. Talking about project updates or file sharing, or sometimes an occasional comment during a brainstorm.

But then, one evening, she asked him for a hand with a messy data set she couldn't wrap her head around. The office was mostly empty since half the team had already headed home. Harry pulled his chair right up next to hers, and they sat shoulder to shoulder, scrolling through spreadsheets and tossing suggestions back and forth. Their ideas just clicked. When they finally cracked it, she couldn't help but let out a relieved laugh.

“You just saved me from rewriting this entire thing.”

“That’s my good deed for the day, you are welcome” he said lightly.

She laughed, “you're impossible.”

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It stayed that way for weeks, their small conversations layered on top of work. Their conversations started wandering everywhere, from office gossip and random interests to the deeper things like their fears and insecurities. They learned about each other in fragments. Different universities. Similar ambition. Different cities. Same restlessness.

Y/N started to see that Harry had the kind of discipline people really look up to. He was the guy who was always early, always ready, and never seemed to lose his cool. She was just as driven, but in a different way. She was focused and thorough, though pretty stubborn about doing things the right way, even when there was an easier shortcut staring her in the face. After the successful presentation of their first project, their mentor started pairing them together more often.

“You two complement each other, you push different strengths.” she said once.

As the weeks rolled by, the workload started piling up, and staying late became the new normal for them. The projects demanded it, and honestly, it felt a lot less draining when they were not the only ones left in the office. By the third month, the late nights were just part of their routine. Harry picked up on the way she would tap her pen against her notebook whenever she was deep in thought, and Y/N noticed that he would reread every single email at least three times before hitting send. They even started walking out of the building together most evenings.

In the beginning, it was just a coincidence, but eventually, it became a habit. Whenever tasks were being handed out, they were automatically paired up. And in the late hours, you’d always find them in the same spot, working side by side. By the fourth month, people around the office were starting to pick up on their dynamic.

Someone joked during lunch, “You two are basically inseparable.”

He laughed it off and she smiled politely. Neither of them denied it.

That was the month they landed their biggest project yet. It was a campaign proposal that would be reviewed directly by senior management. The pressure on them to do it well was heavy and it made the headlines tighter and the expectations higher. And it meant that they practically lived in the office now.

“You’ve been reading that same slide for the past fifteen minutes,” he said.

“Ughhh it just…” she muttered. “It refuses to sound right.”

He leaned over to look at her screen.

Their shoulders brushed again but neither moved away.

“Try cutting the first line. Go straight to the insight.”

She edited and reread it.

“…Okay. That’s better.”

“Ha! Told you.”

She glanced at him. “Don’t get used to being right.”

He smiled faintly and returned to his laptop. A few minutes later, her phone buzzed. Her mother’s name flashed on the screen.

She sighed and declined the call, and then typed something on her phone.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah. Just my mum, texted her that I'd call her back after getting home. My family thinks I’m being kidnapped by corporate life,” she rolled her eyes.

“Well, it’s a valid concern,” he shrugged.

She snorted.

It was almost ten and she felt her stomach growling loudly enough to embarrass her.

He looked up immediately. “You haven’t eaten, have you?”

“I had a protein bar earlier,” she said sheepishly.

“That doesn’t count.”

“There was chocolate involved. It absolutely counts.”

He shook his head, already standing. “Oh hell nah! Come on. There’s a place downstairs still open.”

“I just... I can’t afford another distraction.”

“You’ll work worse if you’re hungry.”

She hesitated and then closed her laptop, standing up and following him.

They ate sitting on the office steps outside, plastic containers balanced awkwardly on their laps. The city was full of traffic and there was music drifting from somewhere in the distance. There were people constantly passing by.

“This is nice,” she admitted.

“What? Eating burgers on concrete stairs?”

“No. Not being alone while doing this.”

He glanced at her. For a second, something passed between them that they both seemed to be aware of. There was something she couldn't quite name, a sort of pull that tethered her close to him like a magnet. And it felt like both of them understood what was happening but didn't know what to make of it or where to go from there. And then he broke it by stealing one of her fries.

“Heyyy.”

“You weren’t eating it.” He smiled playfully at her.

After finishing their meal, they went back upstairs and worked until almost midnight. When they finally packed up, she stretched her arms over her head, groaning. Her muscles were aching.

“I think my brain has melted.”

“Same. We should go before the rest of the people start coming in for their morning shifts.”

They walked toward the elevator together. The air was cooler outside.

She checked her phone. “Ughhhh…My bus left ten minutes ago.”

He paused. “I drove.”

She looked up. “You’re offering?”

“I’m not letting you walk alone at midnight.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”

His car smelled nice. The ride was quiet at first. There was this comfortable silence, it was not at all awkward.

“Are you always this intense about work?” she asked eventually.

He kept his eyes on the road. “I don’t like being average.”

She considered that.

“Well, I don’t think you are,” she said simply.

He glanced at her, surprised.

They reached her building too soon. She unbuckled the seatbelt slowly. “Thanks again. For today. And the food.”

“Anytime.”

She paused before opening the door and looked into his eyes. “We make a good team, don't we?”

He nodded. “Yeah. We do.”

She went inside her apartment with a strange warmth in her chest.

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It quickly became their thing, ordering burgers after late nights. During these breaks they would talk about anything and everything. She would tell him about her family. He would tell her about the pressure he felt to always perform and be good at everything he does. They would share vulnerabilities inbunfinished thoughts. During those days, honesty would slip through their exhaustion, bonding them closer.

She didn’t hesitate anymore before pulling her chair closer to his desk. He didn’t ask permission before stealing her charger when his laptop died. The following weeks followed the same rhythm. The dynamic between them had changed. There were now shared playlists and inside jokes about work. Even the car rides home became routine.

When the presentation day came, they stood side by side in front of a room full of people who controlled their future. She spoke first and he followed seamlessly.Their timing was perfect, their transitions smooth. They barely needed to look at each other, they completed each other's sentences, making the presentation successful. When it ended, the room erupted into polite applause. Their mentor beamed at them.

“Excellent work, both of you”

Relief washed through her so strongly her hands shook.

He leaned toward her slightly. “We did it.”

She nodded, smiling. “Yeah. We did.”

He leaned toward her slightly. “Told you we’d destroy it.”

She smiled back. “You were dramatic, but correct.”

They celebrated with takeout and coffee again that night. It was a small victory, but it meant everything to them.

“You ever think about what happens after this?” she asked suddenly.

“You mean the internship?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

He shrugged. “I want to stay here. Permanently.”

“Same.”

Their eyes met.

Later, as they packed up, he hesitated.

“Listen,” he said, quieter than usual. “The internship ends in two months.”

Her chest tightened slightly. “Yeah.”

“I just…” he stopped, then shook his head. “Never mind.”

She waited, but he didn’t continue. She didn’t push him for answers either. But as she walked home alone that night, for the first time since they’d started working together, she felt this weight of something left unsaid.

By the fifth month, the internship didn’t really feel temporary anymore. Rather, it felt like a life they were living together. They were completely in sync with each other’s schedules, moods, and energy. She knew he was stressed just by the way his jaw would tighten, and he could tell she was overwhelmed the second she got too quiet. He started dropping off coffee at her desk without even asking, and she would make sure to snag him snacks from meetings. They even had each other's backs in group discussions, keeping it subtle. Behind all that professional behavior was this deep connection they both knew was there, even if they weren't ready to admit it.

The final month of the internship hit a bit differently. Suddenly, all the breakroom talk turned into a countdown, with everyone obsessing over who would get a job offer and who would be packing up. One evening, she caught him just staring out the office window instead of at his screen.

“Hey. You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said automatically.

Then hesitated.

“I just… don’t want this to end.”

Her chest tightened.

“Me neither.”

They didn’t elaborate.

From that day on, the atmosphere between them shifted. Their conversations stretched out longer than before, their glances lingered just a second too much, and even their silences started to carry a new kind of weight. During that final week, they stayed late every single night. It was not because the work demanded it, but because neither of them actually wanted to leave.

On the last Friday of the internship, the office put together a little lunch for everyone. There were speeches and photos, and people exchanged those slightly awkward hugs while wishing each other luck. Y/N stood by the window, watching her coworkers swap contact info, suddenly hit by the realisation of how temporary it all really was.

He walked up beside her.

“Six months,” he said, “Feels longer.”

“Feels shorter,” she replied.

They smiled at each other.

That evening, as they walked out of the building together one last time as interns, neither of them said goodbye.

What they didn’t know yet was that this was the end of one version of them and the start of another.

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The farewell party on their last day at the office was louder than she expected it to be. Someone had booked the rooftop bar across the street from the office. Fairy lights hung loosely from metal railings, music thumped softly in the background, and everyone seemed a little too emotional. Y/N arrived late, nerves buzzing in her chest.

Harry was already there. She spotted him immediately. He was laughing with two team members, drink in hand, jacket off, sleeves of his white shirt rolled up again.

He looked relaxed and when he saw her, his eyes softened, and a dimply smile grazed his lips.

“You made it,” he said when she reached him.

“Barely. I almost talked myself into staying home.”

“Glad you didn’t.”

They stood side by side as people kept coming up to congratulate them on the campaign. It had reached the point where their names were being mentioned together more often than they were separately. Eventually, as the music surged and the crowd shifted around them, he leaned in closer.

“I have something to tell you.”

“What is it?” She asked

“Um…I…I got the offer,” he said quietly.

Her heart jumped. “You did?”

“Yeah. Full-time. Strategy associate.”

“That’s amazing,” she said immediately, genuinely happy for him.

He hesitated. “Have you heard anything yet?”

She shook her head. “No, not yet.”

He nodded slowly. “They would be stupid not to hire you.”

She smiled faintly. “Tell HR that.”

They stayed longer at the party than planned.

Drinks turned into desserts, as their conversations turned into softer laughter. Their shoulders brushed more often than necessary. When it was time to leave, the air between them felt heavy with unsaid things.

He held his keys up automatically. “I’ll drop you.”

She didn’t argue. The drive was quieter than usual. One final time before they part ways. When they reached her building, neither of them moved to open their doors.

“So,” she said softly. “This is it.”

“Yeah.”

“You start your real job on Monday.”

“And you’ll probably get your email soon.”

“Probably.”

They sat there, looking at each other.

Weeks of late nights, shared stress, inside jokes, and unnamed moments... All of it pressed between them now.

He spoke first. “I don’t want tonight to end like it meant nothing.”

Her chest tightened. “It didn’t mean nothing.”

He reached out slowly, hesitantly, giving her space to pull away. But she didn’t.

When their lips met, it was soft at first. He was careful.Then it became deeper, and heavier, like they had been holding back for too long; they were.

She laughed quietly against his mouth. “We probably shouldn’t.”

“I know.”

But neither of them stopped. And that was how they ended up at her place. Everything after felt blurred and warm and intense, hands, whispers, nervous laughter, and behind it all, the weight of knowing it was temporary.

They stumbled into her living room a mess of limbs. As soon as she closed the door, she was pinned onto it, his lips nailing her to it with soft kisses and nips. She pulled him away from her neck before pressing her lips to his again, one hand on his jaw and another one his throat. He moans at the sudden shift, before responding with the same passion and intensity. “Where's your bedroom?”, he asked in between kisses.

“Just down the hall”, she whispered.

Harry immediately scooped her up into his arms, and her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. The light flickered shadows across the walls as he carried her to her bedroom, kicking the bedroom door open with his boot. He threw her onto the mattress with a grin, already crawling over her while loosening his tie with one hand.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted this" he murmured huskily before crashing his lips back onto hers, teeth nipping at her bottom lip."Been imagining this every night since I met you." The confession slipped out between heated kisses as his hands roamed her body, tracing the curves and contours.

“The feeling is mutual,” she said, looking at him with a glint in her eyes.

His breath hitched sharply at her words, his green eyes darkening with something feral as he pulled back just enough to study her face. His thumb brushed over her lips.

His hands gently moved down her body, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. He let his fingers linger over her skin, trailing a path from her ribs to her stomach and back up. He kissed just below her ear, leaving a love bite on the sensitive skin, "I'll show you tonight just how much I've been wanting you, just how long I've been aching to touch you.”

She pulled him down and pecked him again in response as he tugged at her clothes, impatient to get her out of them. They undressed each other slowly, taking one another in with awe, the shyness and awkwardness of a first time lingering just long enough before desire took over them both.

His lips found her neck again and his hands roamed over her torso, tracing every dip and curve in her body like an addictive habit. He paused for a moment to admire the sight, drinking in her form.

"Perfect," he murmured against her jaw, her teeth grazing against her cheek."So perfect for me. You have no idea what you do to me, darling.”

Y/N was far too gone to say anything back. His voice carried an intense hunger that made her feel chosen, cherished, and wanted.

“Please,” she whimpered.

The desperation in her voice sent a shudder through him, his hands tightening on her hips as he pressed her deeper into the mattress, "Tell me what you want. Say it and it's yours. Always yours."

His fingers dug into her skin as he rocked against her, letting her feel exactly how much he wanted her. "Need to hear you say it, darling. Need to know I'm not the only one who's been fucking aching for this.”

“Want you inside me,” she said, her eyes hooded with desire.

A groan escaped his mouth, his hands flying to grip her hips. He pumped his hard cock a few times before lining it up with her entrance, pushing the head in slowly. He then leaned down to kiss her while slowly pushing the rest of his length in, swallowing the moans she let out.

“Fuck….Been dreaming about this, about how fucking tight you'd feel around me,” he groans as she mewls in pleasure.

"Christ…" his voice broke as he stills, hips trembling with restraint. "Even better than I imagined. Perfect for me." His hands cradled her face as he started to move, slow and deep, watching every flicker of pleasure cross her face. "All mine now, yeah? Say it.”

“All…yours” she whimpered, rolling her hips to meet his thrusts.

When they finally lay beside each other, trying to catch their breaths, the room was quiet. He held her close, staring at the ceiling.

“I’m leaving early tomorrow,” he said softly. “I have onboarding paperwork.”

“Okay.”

“I didn’t plan this,” he added. “But I don’t regret it.”

She turned toward him. “Me neither.”

But still, sadness settled between them.

Morning felt too bright. He dressed quietly as she sat on the edge of the bed, pulling on her sweater.

Before walking out the door, he stilled for a moment, and turned to look at her.

“This doesn’t have to be goodbye,” he said uncertainly.

She smiled sadly. “It kind of does. Different lives now.”

He nodded, jaw tight, and then he left. After he was gone, Y/N stared at the door for a long time.

Later that afternoon, her phone buzzed. She unlocked the screen only to find an email. Y/N froze. Her heart stopped.

Subject: Offer Letter – Strategy Associate Position

She opened the mail with trembling hands. They had hired her too! She was to start the next week.

Same department. Same floor.

She laughed out loud in disbelief. She wanted to call Harry and let him know, but she decided against it, wanting it to be a surprise.

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Monday came too fast.

She wore her best blazer. Her nerves were buzzing again, but it felt a bit different this time. When she stepped out from the elevator onto the floor of the office, she saw him immediately. He was standing near the coffee machine, talking to a senior associate. Then he turned and his expression froze.

“…What are you doing here?” he asked quietly when she approached.

She smiled, “I got the offer too.”

He blinked. “You’re serious?”

“ Yes.”

He stared at her, processing.

“Well,” he said finally, smiling at her,

“Looks like we’re coworkers again.”

Something that felt a lot like butterflies swarmed in her belly.

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After seeing him again in the office, Y/N felt like Harry had become someone else. Not entirely different , no. He was not exactly cold. It felt like he was more polished and everything.

At nine-thirty, he stepped into the office wearing a tailored blazer instead of his usual rolled-up sleeves. His hair was perfectly styled, and he carried himself with a new, rigid kind of confidence. When he spoke during meetings, his sentences were slow and deliberate, effortlessly commanding the attention of the entire room.

She noticed every single detail. He was still sitting near her and still collaborating on the same projects. But everything had shifted. He didn’t lean in to whisper comments during presentations anymore, and he stopped those absentminded brushes against her arm when they swapped files. The way he looked at her had changed, too. That specific warmth in his eyes that used to make those long nights feel manageable, had been replaced by a polite, polished professionalism.

They did not talk about that night at her apartment either. It shouldn’t have mattered, they had never labeled anything. But still, the absence of his friendship felt weird.

The next evening, when they packed up together out of habit, he cleared his throat.

“I’ll drop you,” he said, already grabbing his keys.

Her heart lifted instinctively. “You don’t have to.”

“I know. I want to.”

She smiled to herself.

The drive felt familiar again, the hum of the engine, and the soft music. The city lights slipped past the windows as she looked out. For a while, neither of them spoke.

“You’ve been… different,” she said finally.

He kept his eyes on the road. “Different how?”

“I don't know. More… corporate?”

He smiled faintly. “Is that a crime now?”

“No um…I just… it's just an observation.”

They stopped outside her building, and it felt like the night after the farewell party all over again. It was heavy with unspoken things. He turned to face her fully.

“About that night... I don’t want it to make things weird between us.”

Her chest tightened. “It already kind of has.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It's just that... We work at the same place now. People notice things. I can’t afford rumors this early in my career.”

There it was.

“So… what are you saying?” she asked softly.

“I’m saying we should keep whatever this is… separate from work, you know? Casual. No complications.”

She searched his face.

“Friends with benefits,” she said. It was not a question, she was trying to understand what he wanted.

He hesitated for half a second before nodding. “If you want to put a label on it.”

It stung. Of course it did. How could it not, when the things he said that night were anything but cold? His words had wrapped around her, warm and intoxicating, making her feel seen, wanted, and unforgettable. She told herself it made sense. They were young and ambitious. Newly hired. Maybe this was maturity. Looking out for the future was important. Maybe they both would soon realise that they want to be together.

“Okay, fine. But no pretending we don’t exist at all.”

He relaxed slightly. “Of course not.”

That night, he kissed her in the car. The kiss was slow, and familiar. It was gentle enough to blur her doubts. So she left it at that.

They started seeing each other again. He still dropped her off most nights, though he had started parking further away from the building entrance than before. Sometimes they would just sit in the car way longer than they needed to, venting about work, talking through their career goals, or admitting their fears about failing. Other times, they didn't say a word. They just kissed until the windows fogged up and everything outside that car vanished.

The hookups became a routine. He was exactly what she needed, but only ever in the shadows. He was hers behind closed doors, in the one space where she was allowed to matter to him. In private, he knew exactly how to hold her together.

Back at the office, he stayed careful. That version of him was serious and completely in control. Whenever their coworkers teased them about how well they worked together, he’d just laugh it off and effortlessly change the subject.

“She’s just competitive, you know? She keeps me on my toes” he would say casually.

It sounded harmless. But it slowly rewrote the way others saw her. In their view, she became “intense.”

Someone useful, who gets the work done.

She didn’t realise how much it hurt until one afternoon when she overheard two coworkers joking about them near the coffee machine.

“He’s definitely management material.”

“Yeah, and she’s like the work wife without the actual benefits.”

They laughed. She stood there holding her cup, forcing a smile onto her face when they noticed her. That night, when he showed up at her apartment, she didn’t open the door immediately.

“You okay?” he asked when she finally did.

“Yeah,” she lied. He didn't push her, but he kissed her like he meant it and that was that.

Weeks passed like that. She began waiting for his texts more than she wanted to admit.

He began cancelling occasionally. Apparently , there were now important meetings and networking dinners. He had a big list of reasons why he could not make it.

Every time, he promised to make it up to her, and usually, he did. Until the Friday of the partner firm visit. The office buzzed with excitement all day. The visiting team was important . They were potential long-term collaborators. She and him had been chosen to present again. They worked perfectly together. On stage, they were seamless. Their work was efficient and excellent, like always. After the presentation, people congratulated them both.

Someone joked, “You two should be the company’s power duo.”

He laughed politely. “We just work well together.”

Again, there was not even a glance in her direction. The after-party started on the rooftop again. And there was music, and drinks.

Y/N wore a deep green dress, not for him, not for anyone. She just wanted to feel good in her own skin. Harry arrived later, surrounded almost immediately by senior associates and visiting managers. She watched him from across the space. He was in his element, she could see the easy confidence and his practiced charm. He was wearing the version of him that belonged to rooms like this. She could see his growth, from an intern to someone who commanded the attention of the audience. She felt suddenly small.

Later, she stepped away toward the quieter corner near the railing, trying to escape the noise. That was when she heard him.

She knew it was him because she recognised his voice before she saw him.

“…you’re always together at work, you and Y/N.” Josh from the other department teased.

“Yeah, people keep shipping you two,” Rita, their colleague, laughed.

He chuckled softly.

“Come on, guys. She’s just intense about projects. Good teammate. That’s it.” he shrugged.

“Not your type?”

He paused long enough to make her chest tighten.

“She’s not… what I’d go public with,” he said finally, half-joking. “Let’s put it that way.”

The words hit harder than shouting ever could. That single sentence shattered everything she had been pretending not to see. She didn’t wait to hear the rest. She walked past them without being noticed and left.

That night, he texted her.

Where did you go? Are you alright?

She stared at the screen. She didn't answer; she couldn't. Her eyes filled with unshed tears.

An hour later:

Did I do something?

She turned her phone off. She had never left him on delivered, always choosing him first.

The next morning, he knocked on her door. She stayed silent inside, pretending she wasn't home.

On Monday at work, he tried to act normal.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said when he saw her near the elevator.

“I’ve been busy,” she replied flatly.

“You’re lying.”

She finally looked right into his eyes.

“Oh, and you're the one that decides it now?”

His expression changed to confusion. Before he could respond, someone called his name. He turned away. And she realised something painful and important at the same time:

He cared more about being seen than about being honest.

That night, he texted her again.

Come over.

She typed back slowly.

No.

It was the first time she had ever refused him. And it unsettled him more than he expected.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The first time she went home without him, he barely registered it as a loss.

It was a Wednesday. It was so busy that it blurred into every other workday. They had wrapped up late again, both tired and quieter than usual. He packed his bag slowly, responding to one last email, already assuming that she would be waiting near his desk like she usually did.

But when he finally stood up and looked around, her chair was empty. He spotted her near the elevators, sliding her phone into her bag.

“Where are you…” he started.

“I’m heading out,” she said, not meeting his eyes.

“Already?” he asked, surprised.

She nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got something to take care of.”

“Alright. See you tomorrow.”

She didn’t wait for him. The elevator doors closed before he could even process it. He told himself it meant nothing. People had lives outside work. They have responsibilities, friends, family. She didn’t owe him her evenings. He had been the one who insisted on boundaries, on caution, on not being obvious. This was just her respecting that.

Still, when he drove home alone that night, the passenger seat felt strangely loud in its emptiness.

The next few days passed differently than usual.

Harry and Y/N were assigned separate projects that week. They were on different teams. Different deadlines and different meeting rooms this time. He didn’t see her as often. But their desks were close enough that he could catch glimpses of her profile when she focused on her screen, brows slightly furrowed, fingers moving fast over the keyboard. She didn’t look at him. There were no lingering glances or shared jokes anymore. There were no smiles when meetings dragged on too long.

By Friday evening, he realized something that bothered him more than he wanted to admit. He hadn’t touched her in almost a week. That night, sitting alone on his couch, he unlocked his phone and typed without thinking.

Come over.

He stared at the message.

Waited.

Ten minutes passed.Ten became fifteen. Twenty.

Finally:

I can’t.

He got no explanation or apology from her. All she allowed him were just two words that started back at him from his screen. He frowned. The irritation surprised him. She had never turned him down before. Not once. Not when he texted late. Not when he cancelled plans and rescheduled at inconvenient hours. Not when he treated their arrangement like something that fit around his life.

Y/N was probably busy, harry said to himself.

Still, he couldn’t sleep easily that night. Saturday passed quietly. No message from her. Sunday too. On Monday morning, he walked into the office already scanning the room for her without realizing he was doing it.

She arrived ten minutes later.

“Hey,” he said automatically.

“Hey,” she replied politely. Too politely. The familiarity and softness she had reserved for him was gone. Now, her voice only contained professional politeness.

“You free tonight?” he asked casually, leaning against the edge of her desk.

She didn’t even pause. “No.”

He blinked. “No as in…”

“No as in no.”

Her tone was sharp. It contained a finalty that held no room for questions.

He laughed lightly, forcing ease into his voice. “You’ve been busy lately.”

“Yeah,” she said, eyes already back on her screen.

He stood there for a moment longer than necessary, then walked away but the discomfort began to settle in his chest. It was neither jealousy nor heartbreak but something worse.

He could feel the loss of control, the way she started slipping farther and farther away from his hold. He started noticing things he had never paid attention to before. How she packed up exactly at six-thirty now, every evening, no matter what. How she avoided staying late unless absolutely necessary. How she never waited near his desk anymore. How she didn’t look at him when they passed in the hallway.

The next evening, he made a decision. He finished his work early on purpose and closed his laptop. Grabbing his keys, he waited for her, near the elevator. He pretended to scroll through his phone while looking for her from the corner of his eye. When she finally stood up, slung her bag over her shoulder, and walked straight toward the exit without even glancing his way, he felt hurt. With long strides, he caught up with her in no time.

“You’re not riding with me anymore?” he asked.

She stopped.

Turned slowly.

“No.”

She wasn't defensive or angry. She just said it like a casual matter. Somehow, Harry felt like that hurt more.

“You always used to,” he said quietly.

She gave a small shrug. “People change.”

Then she walked away. He stood there longer than necessary, watching her disappear into the parking lot. That night, he tried texting her again.

Can I come over? I miss you.

The message stayed on read. There was no reply. He stared at his screen, waiting for a reply from her. It was the first time that Harry was left on seen.

The next afternoon, he confronted her again near the elevator.

“You’re avoiding me,” he said.

She didn’t say anything.

“I’m protecting my peace.”

“Protecting your peace. Since when did I threaten that?” he scoffed.

She looked at him then and he saw a fire in her eyes. Was it disappointment, maybe? It bothered him more than he cared to admit.

She did not even dignify it with a response. Before he could ask her more questions, someone called his name from across the floor, making him turn away. When he looked back, she was already walking away.

Friday arrived heavy with rain-soaked air and overcast skies. Y/N and Harry were working late again.The office slowly emptied, the lights were dimmed.

He finished early and looked over at her. She was still typing away on her computer. He decided to wait for her. This time, he watched carefully as she packed up. After getting all her stuff together, she walked past him, without even sparing him a glance. She didn’t even hesitate. Something in him snapped. He wanted to know what this was about. He couldn’t let her slip away without so much as an answer. So he grabbed his keys and followed her outside. It had started to drizzle. She was already halfway down the sidewalk by the time he got out of the office. She walked alone in the drizzle, holding her bag close so it wouldn’t get wet. Her head was slightly lowered. Streetlights reflected off damp pavement, casting soft golden light around her. She looked small and vulnerable.

“Y/N, wait,” he called.

She didn’t stop.

He jogged forward, stepping into her path gently.

“Hey. I’ll give you a ride, don’t worry about it.” He lifted his keys from his pocket. “I’m not going to let you walk.”

A moment of silence passed as she closed her eyes, letting her head fall back. He had no idea what it was doing to her – what it took to keep herself in check.

“I have to worry about it. You know we shouldn’t be seen together.” Her words were weaker than she wanted them to be but she could see the flash of hurt on his face.

Didn’t he know this was for his benefit, too?

Silence stretched between them.

Cars passed. Rainwater dripped from nearby trees.

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, you’re the one who made that rule, aren't you? You were very clear about not wanting to be seen with me.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said quickly.

“Then what did you mean?” she asked, finally meeting his eyes.

He opened his mouth but nothing came out.

She let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, frustration rising. “You disappeared without saying anything. You stopped talking to me. You keep pushing me away. What’s your issue?”

Her hands tightened around the strap of her bag.

“My issue?” she repeated slowly, turning to look at him, her expression incredulous.

She stepped closer. She stood close enough that he could see the exhaustion under her eyes.

“I heard you,” she said.

His stomach dropped.

“Heard me… what?”

“At the party,” she said.

“When you laughed about me. When you reduced me to a teammate. A convenience.”

His face drained of color.

“That’s not…”

“You said I was intense. That I wasn’t your type. That I wasn’t someone you’d publicly go with,” she continued, voice shaking slightly now.

“And then you came to my place that same night like I was still good enough in private.”

He swallowed hard.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“But you meant it enough to say it,” she snapped softly. “You meant it enough to protect your image instead of my dignity.”

She stepped back, creating space.

“I stopped riding with you because I got tired of pretending I was okay being hidden. I stopped sleeping with you because I realised I was giving you everything while you gave me convenience.”

His voice dropped. “You could’ve talked to me.”

“And you could’ve respected me. But you didn’t,” she shot back.

Her eyes burned with unshed tears, but she blinked rapidly, refusing to cry in front of him.

“I didn’t walk away because I stopped caring. I walked away because I finally started caring about myself.”

The streetlight flickered above them. He stood frozen. For once, he had no argument ready. For someone who thrived on commanding all the attention with his words, he had no defense prepared this time.

She stepped around him, walking into the darkness. And this time, when Y/N walked away, she didn’t slow down. She didn't hesitate, or look back.

Harry remained standing on the sidewalk long after she disappeared from view, chest tight, throat burning, finally understanding what he had done. The rain poured down, and he sat on the sidewalk, unmoving, letting it drench him completely.

⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐⋆⭒˚.⋆

Thank you for reading, lovelies! Feedback is appreciated. If you wanna be added to the taglist, please lmk. And if you have any requests, feel free to send them in!

Love, E ❤️

7:15 feels lightyears away, and you can only pick at the complimentary bread on the table for so long before the pitiful stares from the staff members start to burrow their way under your skin. You reach for your glass of wine to wash down the fresh sourdough— the second of the evening. You and Jesus would make a great pair. And he’d probably make a better companion.

The restaurant is swanky— they always are. The dim lighting allows for you to people watch without being caught to keep your mind off the fact that you may yet again look like a fool waiting for your dining partner to finally show his face.

He’s a whole thirty-three minutes late for your weekly “date night” that recently resumed, and all you can do is sit here and blame yourself. It’s been years of this, and he never changes. Just as you’re reaching under the table for your saddle bag hanging from the hook on the base of the table, you feel a presence behind you invade your space.

His hands frame your shoulders over top of the chair from behind, before he leans his face into the crook of your neck so his nose rests on your cheek, “Sorry I’m late, darling. You look beautiful.”

The dimpled smile he beams at you slashes the disdain you have for him in the moment as he removes his sport coat to sit in the seat opposite. You can’t see them, but you know the staff are relieved you’re not just another loser they can go home and include in a TikTok video recapping their serving shift. 

You meet his gaze, the expression a little lifeless. He smiles again, cocking his head and picking up the menu to begin browsing. He purses his lips as he looks down at the same words you’ve been staring at for forty minutes before looking back up at you when you don’t greet him back or start a conversation.

“What’s wrong, Bug? Don’t you like it here?”

You scoff, nose scrunching in the way that he always says makes you look like a bunny, “Harry. The reservation was at 7:15. I’ve had two glasses of wine by myself, and I’m pretty sure the staff were taking bets if I was getting stood up.”

Harry tucks his tongue into the side of his mouth so it protrudes from his cheek before retorting, “Two glasses of wine, huh? And that hasn’t loosened you up?”

You clench your jaw, jutting your chin at him as he snickers to himself. He always finds a way to call you uptight when you call him out. If you had any guts at all, you’d be snatching your purse and storming out of there, leaving the 29 year old man alone at the table.

But you don’t. It’s the routine. And you’ll always wait for him.

~

You met Harry during your freshman year of college. His room was diagonal to yours, and always the source of commotion on the floor when the Resident Assistants did their nightly checks. 

You were a shy girl throughout your entire life. A dutiful student dedicated to your work. Most of your school days were spent being overlooked by all of the boys you spent 12 years seeing everyday, and hovering just outside the circle of popular girls. They always said you were welcome to join them, but never actually bothered to pick up the phone and call you on a Saturday.

So, when a handsome, curly-haired frat boy knocked on your door to invite you and your roommate, Kate, to their room for a party, you ate up the attention. From that day on, the two of you were thick as thieves. You walked to class together, studied together, shared stories you wouldn’t have otherwise imagined leaving your mouth. He even dragged you to parties and bars that you would have avoided all of your college years.

You both got the looks. The questions. The wandering eyes. Classmates were nosy, always wondering if the two of you were hooking up or dating. You’d been introduced to each others parents and spent holidays together. But you were friends. Best friends. 

Until you noticed a pattern. 

Harry was affectionate with you. More-than-a-friend kind of affectionate. He was from the beginning.

If you were watching TV, he’d practically spoon you on the sofa. If you were studying in the library, he’d absently scratch your forearm or back with his dull nails while he read and annotated passages. If you were in his kitchen making lunch for both of you, he’d wrap his arms around your waist and rest his chin on your shoulder, openly critiquing your work like he’s the Iron Chef. I like my sandwiches cut into triangles, Bug. 

That was the other thing. The nickname. 

It’d formed organically, like most do. He’d been flipping through old photo albums at your house when he went home with you one weekend. When the photo staring back to him of your third grade self with glasses so thick they made your eyes bug out, that was the end of it. You were Bug from that day on.

Every time he said it, it send an explosion of butterflies to your stomach, and a slight twinge to your heart.

You’d never really found his behavior out of the ordinary. You never had male friends growing up, apart from your cousin that is only 2 years older. You just thought that’s how they operate. Without Harry, your phone every weekend would be void of any messages and your time would be spent studying, sleeping and probably crying. 

So, you went with it. Validation from him felt good.

You never asked if he goes on dates. You never asked who he’s hooked up with on campus, even though you knew it was happening— frequently. And you never dared ask if you were misreading the nature of your relationship. 

He never brought it up. So you didn’t either. He always made his way back to you.

Until one night, you were at the hockey house for a spring party. It was your Junior Year, so you were wrapping up a particularly grueling class load. You gave in and decided to join Harry for the night after his convincing pleas. It wasn’t your scene— it never was, but Harry was your buddy.

The hoards of bodies in the modest home made it impossible to find somewhere to sit, and the mixed jungle juice from the cooler was no longer cutting it for you as you watched people stick their used cups in the container to scoop up more. So, you decide to get some fresh air outside. 

Harry, just a few feet from you chatting with guys from his classes, notices you slip away. He always has his head on a swivel for you, in case you drain your social battery and needed to be taken home right away. It happened a lot back then.

He excuses himself to follow your high ponytail that you’d haphazardly done after the first bead of sweat dripped down your neck through the crowd. At least you didn’t have to make it a low colonial ponytail and look like George Washington the whole night in fear of making a crease in your hair. 

Harry is a little more than tipsy, he’d admit. So he feels like a puppy following his owner out to the backyard. There are a few sparse people out here, mostly smoking or also taking a break from the commotion. 

You startle when he speaks up behind you after he not so gently slams the sliding glass door. “What’re you doing, Buggy?”

Turning to face him, the glow from the twinkle lights hanging over the back yard (poorly strung like you’d expect from college boys) allows you to see his slightly glassy eyes and lazy smile on his face.

“Just taking a break. Nothing interesting was happening and it felt stuffy,” you sigh, finding a small stone retaining wall to sit on. He joins you a second later, plopping down and immediately invading your space. 

You can already tell he’s entering dangerous territory and he’ll be begging to come to your apartment and snuggle in your bed. But you have more blankets and pillows than me. Please?

“Ooookay,” he draws out lowly. “We’re taking a break.” He suddenly throws his red solo cup filled with the mystery mixture to the ground, splashing on both of your shoes.

“H!” you giggle, in slight disbelief. You were tipsier than normal, but you had a long week.

“Hmmmm,” he drunkenly hums, inching closer to stick his face into your neck. “You smell good.”

“Thanks, it’s sweat and jungle juice.”

To prying eyes, they’d see a young couple in love— or at least in lust. 

But you know it never leads to anything. And you’re too chicken to ask for it. 

You both fall into a comfortable silence. It’s not overrated— it’s just right. You’re just happy to have tame-drunk Harry rather than sloppy-drunk Harry. It’ll be easier to schlep his solid body back to your apartment. 

He’s staring at you intently in your peripheral vision before he speaks again.

“Buggy, why don’t you have a boyfriend?”

His question catches you off-guard. You even stop breathing for a second. “Uhm, I don— I don’t know? It’s just not a priority right now.”

You provide the same deflecting answer that you give the few girls that you hang out with every so often. Harry introduced you, of course. Because clearly you can’t do the most basic of things on your own, and you’re not capable of forming lasting bonds. Or that’s what you tell your therapist. 

“You’ve been kissed, though? Right?” he turns his body to face you, cheeks now in a rosy blush. And it’s not because it’s still a chilly spring evening. He lifts his right index finger to trace down the side of your neck. “Such a pretty face. Pretty neck.”

He’s babbling now, and if you held your hand over your heart and you know it could just fly out of your chest. How can your neck be pretty? 

You finally meet his gaze, and he’s looking at you with such intensity. “Yes.”

It’s not a complete lie. You’ve been kissed. Mostly because of a dare you were on the receiving end of. It was senior year of high school, which might as well be eons ago. But it counts. Have you been kissed by someone that’s shown true interest in you? No.

“What about sex?”

If you had been taking a sip of your drink, you’d have spat it out all over him.

“H-Harry. You don— you don’t know what you’re asking me,” you reply, gaze back down at your folded hands on your lap. Your toes don’t quite touch the ground from the height of the retaining wall.

“Yes I do. I’m perfectly fine. Z Y X W V U T S R—”

You cut him off. “What?!”

“It’s the alphabet backwards. If I was drunk, could I do that?”

You’re bewildered. “I don’t know?!”

“Well, I’m fine and I want you to answer my question.”

“Yes, Harry. I’ve had sex. And the questions stop there. I’m not answering who it was, where, or what position it was in,” your tone is edgy, and he must know he pushed a little too hard, because his answer to your lie is succinct and entirely too confusing.

“Good.”

Good? 

“Okay? I—”

“You’re the best person I’ve ever met. So lovely. I love spending time with you. And I never see you approach guys, or even other girls. S’okay if that’s what you’re into,” he holds his hands up in innocence.

“I’m not,” you reply begrudgingly. “Harry, what are you pressing me for?”

“Nothing. I know you’re shy and I drag you to everything. Just want you to have the world, Bug. You deserve it.” 

As heartwarming as this interaction is, your flight or fight mode is activating. You quickly stand up, “I’m ready to go home.”

He looks up at you, a little too longingly and nods slightly. He stands, slowly and wobbly, before grabbing your hand and leading you through the hockey house’s back gate. You let him hold your hand often, which is probably why everyone thinks you’re together. The alley is lit only by the illumination by the moon, and before you even realize it, Harry nudges you so your back is against the bricks that line the side of the home, and his arms are bracketing your shoulders.

You squeak, surprised by his movement. Your eyes and mouth widen at the same time, floundering for a response before he finally speaks.

“M’gonna kiss you, Bug.”

“W-why?” your voice shakes. His nose is so close to your face you could bite the tip. 

“‘Cause I’m your bestie and I want a kiss,” he smiles, his dimples popping. “C’mon, don’t you want to smooch me?”

Yes. God, yes.

When you don’t respond, he smiles again, pressing his lips to yours. The kiss was earnest and confident. His lips are surprisingly soft for a boy. Still reeling in your head, you let him take the lead (as you do for nearly everything you do together).

He opens his mouth to gasp for air a little, and his tongue snakes out to tap against your closed lips. 

This is it. This is your moment. And all you can do is pray your virgin-ness doesn’t slip out and that he’s not judging you for what you think is an obvious lack of experience. It’s supposed to be messy, right?

You let him in, just slightly, and he eagerly extends his tongue to mingle with the tip of yours. He hums absent-mindedly when your tongues begin to really interact. You feel a small amount of spit escape your mouth, wetting your lips. He pulls back to a messy, closed-lip kiss, your lips melding together before repeating the tongue action all over again. 

You can’t tell if it’s been four hours or four minutes since he started kissing you, but when he pulls away, it’s like you’ve been shot. Your heart is beating from your chest, and you may start heaving. 

“C’mon, Bug. Let’s get you home.” 

You nod, looking back down at his extended hand. It’s another beat before you realize you haven’t actually made a move to follow him. 

“What, did I suck out all of the oxygen from you or something?”

You look up at him bashfully, and you grab his hand. He tugs you along to the brick-lined sidewalk leading back to your apartment. 

The walk back is normal. Harry rambling on about everything and nothing, while you’re inside your own head. Your quaint, college town is quiet. The further you move from the party, your bravery slightly increases. It’s finally time to retreat back to your safe space. You haven’t looked at your phone in hours, so you’re not even sure what time it is.

Your racing thoughts aren’t quelled by the time you get to your apartment.

Is he going to kiss you again? Does he want to have sex? Will he know that you haven’t had sex? What if he asks you to suck his dick and you gag? What if the condom breaks? What will this do to your friendship?

You both halt at your front door in the dimly lit hallway. It’s deathly quiet, and all you can hear is Harry’s deep breaths as he watches you shakily unlock your door. 

Despite it being your home, the second you cross the threshold, Harry grabs your hips and pins you against the door like he owns the place. You’d walked in there as a pair hundreds of times over the course of your friendship, but today, it feels foreign.

His lips are back on yours in seconds, and you gasp some breaths between kisses. His tongue and saliva are laving yours, slowly and sensually. You can feel yourself get wet between your legs as your eyes shut. 

The gasps and slight chirps from your mouths are the only thing occupying the room. 

“Bug,” he whispers when he pulls back and cradles your face. “Do you—”

“Mhm, Mhm,” you squeak, nodding your head in his firm grasp on your cheeks. 

Sink or swim.

“Okay,” he leans his forehead to rest on yours. Harry reaches for your hand once again to lead you to your room. The room with the bed you’ve shared dozens of times. Innocently, because you’re best friends, of course. 

You feel like you’re watching what’s unfolding in front of you with VR goggles. It can’t be real.

But it’s completely real when Harry begins to gently nudge you to stand with your calves touching the bed, and reaches for your shirt. He softly pulls it over your head, your arms following soon after, leaving you in your white, lacy bra. He then reaches to gently pull your hair from the elastic it was in, allowing it all to flow over your shoulders.

He smiles, reaching for the hem of his own plain, black shirt. He pulls it over his head, revealing the start of what you’re sure will be a heavy collection of tattoos. It’s like he’s gotten one once a week since the two of you met. The craziest addition is the butterfly on his stomach.

You remember the night he came home with it. You thought he’d been at the library studying all day, but really spent hours getting this etched on him forever. 

“You’re crazy,” you laugh, tracing it as he lays shirtless on your bed. “You’re gonna really be an 80 year old man with a butterfly on his belly?”

“Mhm,” he chuckles, his stomach flexing beneath your fingers. His eyes are closed, loving the gentle touches you give him. If he could purr, you think he would. “Wait, don’t stop petting me.”

His head lifts from its flat position to glare at you when you pulled back.

Your thoughts are interrupted yet again when Harry reaches for the button of your jeans. This really is the moment of truth. There’s no turning back. 

Well, there is. And you know Harry would listen to you if you put the brakes on. But you don’t. You want this. Who wouldn’t want to lose their virginity to someone who actually shows them affection? 

That’s what love is. At least you think so. 

He unbuttons the trousers and pulls back so you can shimmy them down to your ankles, kicking them off with very little coordination. He laughs, his dimples showing again as he takes you in. 

While you’ve seen his practically naked body more times than you can count (Harry typically stays over, wakes up late for class, begs to use your shower so he can steal your cinnamon bun body scrub and subsequently walks around with the towel so loose around his hips you wonder how it even stays up), he has barely seen you. If he’s at your place while you shower, you bring your clothes to the bathroom to not even chance him seeing you in a towel. 

And when you’ve gone to the beach together, you keep it modest as if you’re going swimming with your grandmother. Harry, on the other hand, rolls his swim trunks up even further, revealing tattoos in intimate areas you didn’t even know he had. 

His fern tattoos peak out on his love handles above his tight, black jeans. Harry is built, surely, but the little bit of puppy fat he still carries is in his hips. You want to bend down and bite them, but your courage is waning by the second. The anticipation and adrenaline building in your bloodstream is sending it all straight to your head. 

He interlocks your fingers together has he kisses you deeply for the third time that evening. He nudges between your legs with a knee, silently encouraging you to sit at the end of the bed. Your lips separate as you plop down, now staring up at him.

You’ve never really seen him at this angle. He looks strong and powerful. He smiles softly back at you and lifts his hand to gently tap you on the shoulder. You instinctively lay back, even scooting further back towards your pillows and hoards of stuffies that Harry arranges into inappropriate positions when he comes over. You’ll never forget when your dad walked into your room to find your childhood rabbit stuffy on all fours being ‘Eiffel Towered’ by the elephant and golden retriever on your bed. Harry laughed for days over that. 

You guess if this is going to happen, it’s best that it’s in your own bed surrounded by your comfort items with someone you love. Or you think you love. Or maybe he loves you? Your 20 year old brain can’t decipher.

Harry finally knees onto the bed, bracketing his hands beside your head as your soft flowing hair fans out around you. He smiles cheerily again and dives in for more kisses. After a while, you slightly turn your head and his momentum sends his mouth to your neck, right below your earlobe. He thinks you want a hickey, so he bites down and begins to suck.

Your eyes fly open, “oh, oh!”

His head snaps to yours, “Oh? Is that not what you wanted?”

“No, no, that’s fine. I just wasn’t expecting it,” you lie. Now the evidence of this night will exist beyond the sunrise. “I-I was going to ask i-if you want me to suck your…”

Harry cocks his head, goading you. “My what, hm? What do you want, Bug?”

You want to smack the shit eating grin off his face. Or kiss it.

You murmur just above a whisper, “your dick.”

“Yeah, lovely. You can have it,” he runs his hands down your side, sticking his fingers in the waist band of your underwear to snap it back.

Before you can even register he left you, he is back on the bed, his pants now discarded. The bulge prominently displayed in his gray boxer briefs is bigger than you had ever imagined. Well, you knew it was big, especially when he rolls his trunks up. But having it within your reach and receiving permission to have your way with it is making you salivate.

He kneels over you, placing two thumbs in the waistband at each hip to roll down the fabric. His cock springs to life, the uneven curvature making it lean to the left. You balk at that, taking a deep breath to determine your next move.

“Take your time, Bug. Don’t try to show off,” he coaches you. He knows your tendency to overthink everything so well at this point in your friendship. Although, does this push you into situationship territory?

You nod, holding up your palm to your mouth to spit into it as he gently bunches your hair into a loose pony. You’d seen that in a porn video once. You know that it’s not an accurate portrayal of intimacy, but that is your only frame of reference now. A virgin has needs, too!

As soon as you make contact with his shaft, he moans. He’s mumbling to himself so much, you think he’s praying at first. You pick up the pace to see how he reacts.

“Ohhh my fu— ughhhh,” he cries out. This fills your chest with an immeasurable amount of pride. All of the lightbulbs about sex and pleasure are finally lighting up in your brain, and scratches an itch you weren’t even aware was there.

“Can you give it a little kiss, honey?” his head throws back as you obey and give his pink, wet tip a gentle kiss. It’s more sturdy than you ever would have imagined. “Ri—right there.”

You pump him a few times and pepper kisses all around the head and down his shaft before sticking it in your mouth about half way.You’re honestly at a loss of what to do next, so you continue on with your false confidence in hopes of him speaking up to give you your next set of instructions. And you only gagged once!

“Agh, ah, Bug, I’m gonna cum if you keep doing that.”

It had only been about 4 minutes since you began, so your ego continues to inflate. You let go, watching his penis swing back to its left leaning position. Harry maneuvers so he still has his knees on the bed, but his long arms are extended down to his pants on the floor, rustling through the pockets, assuming he’s looking for a condom in his wallet.

You stare up at the ceiling to use this moment to reset. To hype yourself up. To strategize. Your ribcage is expanding rapidly as you find your breath. Harry is still rooting around in his pocket. The jeans he wears are so tight, you wouldn’t be surprised if the wallet was under so much pressure it just disintegrated. 

He finally finds it, returning to his position above you. He tears at the foil packet, and suddenly the lesson you’d learned in sixth-grade health class comes flooding back to you. You watch as he orients the rubber to look like a sombrero, and rolls the covering over his bana—his cock.

You gulp silently, waiting for what’s next. He should know you’d probably be a pillow princess, so you try not to worry if he actually wants you in a more intricate position that you have no business performing. He taps under your thigh, signaling for you to pull your legs back toward your face. He positions himself and finally removes your underwear. The white fabric is practically see-through with how much arousal has leaked from you.

Harry lets out a low rumble deep from his chest, wanting nothing more than to stick the panties in his mouth and lap up every last drop. But he places his fingers over your pussy, rubbing your throbbing clit with firm pressure.

You inhale deeply, having never felt anything apart from your own fingers there before. Harry curses at himself at your wetness, and begins running his middle and ring finger down toward your hole. He starts with two fingers, which— he thinks you’re not a virgin, so you suppose that makes sense. He is intensely watching your facial expressions, searching for any sign of discomfort. 

You have your poker face on, so he continues fingering you and rubbing his long fingers along your inner wall. Your eyes just about roll back in your head, the pleasure outweighing the slight burn from the stretch. After another few minutes, he encourages you.

“Wanna hear you, baby. Don’t hide your sounds.”

You nod at him, even though your eyes are shut. He plants another kiss on your lips and inhales deeply through his nose when he pulls back. You whine when he pulls his fingers from you, using your slick to wet his covered dick. 

“I’m gonna explode if I don’t get inside you.”

You nod, one corner of your mouth curling up to offer him a half smile, hopefully to mask the fact that you’re scared shitless.

He grabs your hand to interlock fingers once more, and uses his other hand to line up his engorged cock with your entrance. Taking a deep breath, he slightly pushes his hips forward, placing his other hand beside your head, hovering over you in a plank position. 

When the tip of his cock breeches your entrance, you suck in a breath, and he aids the discomfort by kissing you again. It does the trick, and you’re not even aware he made another thrust, this time entering you even further. 

“Oh, honey,” he breathes into your mouth. “So good for me. Feels so good.”

“Mhm, m-me too,” you whisper back. “C-can keep going.”

“Okay,” he rests his forehead against yours like after the first kiss in the alley.

With a few more languid thrusts, you feel him reach down with his free hand to rub your clit. You gasp, having never felt penetration and clitoral stimulation at the same time. Your toes curl as you feel pressure building up in your lower pelvis. 

“Mhm, c’mon, Bug. Come for me. Give it to me,” he grits out, his thrusts becoming a little more choppy. The slight punching motion he’s doing doesn’t feel great, but you get through it. He kisses you again, and that’s when you let go. 

You’d had orgasms. But nothing like the explosion of pleasure and endorphins you just experienced. It was ecstasy. You have no idea if you cried out or silently rode out this high. You can barely hear or see.

Harry must be not far behind you, after your hearing returns. He pulls out, to which you wince and he pulls the condom off before giving himself a few more tugs. He’s rough with it— a note you’re making for later. You assumed you had to be gentle with it.

“Ugh, oh my godddd,” he releases over your stomach, pumping the last drops of him out and letting his head fall back.

You exhale, fully relaxing into the pillows behind you.

The woman was too stunned to speak, you think. Followed by Whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck wasthatrealwasthatrealwasthatreal.

Harry is kneeled above you again, lightly slapping your thigh and smiling at you when you make eye contact. His flaccid penis is slowly returning to its resting position. He hops from the bed to your attached bathroom to look for a towel. You hear the faucet turn on as he dabs the cloth under the warm water, returning to you shortly after. Somewhere in that time, he discarded the condom.

He’s gentle as he wipes the corners of the cloth around your bits and over your stomachs to collect his cum that’s now hardening on your belly. Your shyness is returning as you close your legs soon after. He tosses the rag to the side, joining you to lay back against the pillows. Sitting beside you, he grabs your hand.

“That was amazing, Bug. Wow. I can’t even believe that just happened. So pretty for me.”

You nod, mostly to the opposite side of the room to avoid eye contact, “Me either.”

“Do you need anything? Water? A snack? I saw you have some clementines on the counter.”

You almost snort. How does it already feel back to your usual friendship? That sounds like a question he would ask on any normal occasion.

“No, I’m alright. Just gonna go to the bathroom and pee. Then I wanna sleep.”

“Oh, yeah. Good idea. That can get dicey if you forget to pee. UTI n’all that,” he looks at you earnestly before grabbing his phone from the bedside table. Back to normal.

You shuffle to the bathroom wordlessly, quietly sliding the door closed behind you. Is this the turning point of your life? Is this where things finally fall into place? Will the two of you be more than just friends?

These existential questions hit you as you stare at your reflection in the mirror. It’s several minutes before you shake any fears or anxieties and actually pee like you intended to. Down there feels different. But not bad. It takes a second before your strong stream starts. After you wipe, you reluctantly look down to see if there’s blood in your pee. You crack one eye open to find it’s its normal yellow color.

Exhaling a breath you didn’t know you were holding, you continue on to washing your hands. You’re grateful your sixth-grade health teacher was wrong about getting your cherry popped. It clearly doesn’t bleed every time. Feeling uneasy about walking back into the room naked, you grab your pink dachshund robe and cover yourself. 

Sliding the door back open, Harry is still stark naked, now only holding your Eeyore pillow pet in his embrace. His eyes are shut, but he’s not asleep yet. Your eyes flicker to your Hatch alarm, showing it’s nearly four in the morning. 

You turn off your bedside lamp that you leave on when you come home from a late night out and join Harry in your bed. You scoot closer, and Harry wraps both you and the pillow in his embrace.

Just like he always does.

~

Things shifted that day. 

Harry woke up like normal. He kissed your cheek, hopped up to use your shower, rambled about things and stories from the party that you weren’t aware happened and jetted off to start his day.

No conversation. No awkwardness. No nothing. Just, Harry.

You stayed home from your measly campus job. You couldn’t stomach having to read over students’ papers on the same morning you reached a pivotal moment in your life. You were also scared other people would know. But how would they know?

You and Harry left together, hand in hand. And went and did something naughty. Every glance from a passerby would translate in your mind to whorewhorewhore, and you would be crawling out of your skin.

But you and Harry leaving a party together isn’t unusual at all. It’s actually almost a weekly occurrence. Why does it feel different this time?

After resuming normal activities for the rest of the week, you laid low and mostly stayed in your apartment, apart from class. After four days, you muster the courage to go to the dining hall for a late breakfast. You keep your sunglasses on, effectively hiding your identity. Sliding into a booth, you barely pay any mind to the people around you, until you hear a familiar name drop from someone’s mouth. 

Harry Styles.

You overhear Lucy Matthews from your Advanced English Literature course talking about his skills in bed. You weren’t facing the two oblivious girls, but you turned your neck ever so slightly to pick up more of what they were saying.

“Ang, his dick is so fucking big I couldn’t even fit it in my mouth,” she snickers, not quietly, mind you. “And he was ready for round two SO quickly. I bet it’s because he runs. His stamina was so high.”

“Is he single? I always see him at Starbucks and the library with that really quiet girl. I thought they were an item.”

“Yeah, I see them all the time, too. When we were done, I did ask that and he said they were just friends. I don’t think he’s into her like that.”

Your heart stutters, and you choke on the small bit of iceberg lettuce from your salad. You cough violently, immediately reaching for your sip of water. The two girls are oblivious to your hacking, so they continue their conversation.

“We hooked up on Wednesday, so, it’s like recent. Maybe she’s just for behind closed doors.”

Your chair makes a screech as you abruptly stand up and rush out of the hall, leaving your salad uneaten. 

The party was only on Saturday.

~

Staring at the grown man across the table in front of you, you feel transported back to that moment in the dining hall.You feel sad. Sick to your stomach. Dread is building up in your veins. 

“Bug, what’s up? Are you sick?”

You realize you’ve been staring at him from across the table for an unknown length of time. But it have had to have been a long time if Harry broke your trance by waving his hand in front of your face.

Your eyes snap back to meet his. You blink a few times before leaning back to take a deep breath. You’re fiddling with your hands rapidly, unsure what to say next.

Even though it’s been ten years, you never quite outgrew your shyness. It’s like Harry is your guide dog sometimes. You feel helpless, getting frozen in time because your thoughts are so paralyzing.

You walked directly behind Harry at graduation. Moved to the city after he’d gotten a job in Private Equity and you were still working as a waitress. He’d even gotten you your first job after he made some connections at work and gave your resume to one of his colleagues’ wives, that was an executive at a publishing house.

You wouldn’t be half the person you were without the man in front of you. But you’re unable to stomach the thought of looking at him right now.

You finally find your voice, and clear your throat before speaking. “W-why were you late?”

Harry crinkles his brows. A few fine lines have formed in between them, but he still looks like the 18 year old boy you met all those years ago.

“Hm? Oh, yeah, I guess I am more late than I thought. Juliette and I are on another break, so I was just dealing with that. She needed to come pick up her stuff. I’m sorry, Bug. I lost track of time.”

You purse your lips and nod incredulously. It’s why he invited you to dinner earlier in the week. 

The pattern.

In between girlfriends, Harry resumes his normal affection towards you. He sets up dinners, plans activities. You almost always hook up, as if no time has passed since the first time he fucked you.

He went on to date Lucy. Then Mallory. Then Callie. Then Mallory again. Then Francesca. Then Bianca. And for the last 8 months, Juliette.

With a little bit of Y/N sprinkled in between. 

Much like your naivety towards Harry’s displays of affection, you weren’t much wiser when it came to a relationship. If that’s what you’d call it.

You’d never had a boyfriend. You have no frame of reference. 

Harry, like clock work, would date these girls, break up every few weeks, and come running to you and repeat about 4 times before breaking up for good.

Do the two of you talk when he’s in a relationship? Well, that depends. You would say about every other girlfriend had a problem with Harry’s girl best friend. You still cringe when someone says that phrase.

Lucy didn’t mind that you were close, as you all were classmates. Mallory, however, forbade Harry from interacting with you, so you didn’t actually see one another until your final semester when they broke up for good. (He went back to her a year later. It was hell trying to endure that twice). For the rest of them, it was a mixed bag. Juliette is one that doesn’t mind their friendship. 

And Harry being Harry, this was your normal. No fuss. You’re 29 now. This pattern repeated well past your frontal lobe development. 

Your circle is still small, and it wasn’t until you’d made a friend at your second corporate job ever (without Harry’s help, mind you) that you realize your friendship with Harry is wrong. Toxic, even. 

Kylie pipes up as she stabs lettuce onto her fork, still chewing her previous bite, “Isn’t that kind of fucked up? And you’ve been doing this for almost ten years?”

You pause, staring at her. That’s not what you expected her to say after answering her question of are you seeing anyone? You never say anything when the other girls chat about stuff like that.

It’s just you and Harry. You don’t know any different. 

“Um, maybe? I-it works for both of us,” you mumble unable to look your new-ish friend in the eye. Sharing personal things at work is a big no in your book.

“How does it work for you? Because I’m not seeing any benefits. He gets to have a girlfriend, and then when things get rough, he falls back on you, gets the boyfriend treatment, and then runs right back to them. He clearly can’t let his bed go cold.”

That has you reeling.

What does it do for you? 

Harry is your gateway to socialization. Your sparse group of friends you managed to make are all introverts that once-in-a-blue-moon align and have the willpower to go out together, so it leaves Harry and his people. 

He pays attention to you. He treats you to nice things. He listens to you when you bitch about your mom. He texts you good morning and goodnight.

He cares about you. 

He’s why you’ve rarely dated in the last nine years. You’d go on dates, but everything always fizzled out by the third. The real test of a relationship, some say. It made for good material to unpack with your therapist.

Harry never bats an eyelash at the men you’d date. He’d shake their hand, chat with them and the cycle would repeat. You never asked his opinion on them, but he always gave it. 

He doesn’t have to spend any more time with them to know they’re not the one for you. Harry treats you right. He makes sure your needs are met. Why are you searching for something else? Oh right, because he’s not your boyfriend.

For the last few you’ve gone out with, the first words out of his mouth after they leave are, “Maybe the next one is it, Bug. Why don’t you come to mine and I’ll take your mind off it?”

Are you waiting for Harry to one day get hit in the head and suddenly have this life-altering realization that he’s in love with you? Or are you waiting until he finally does settle down with someone and your heart gets ripped out of your chest, still beating?

Kylie is still yapping away at how horribly Harry treats you, but you’re checked out.

It’s you and it’s Harry. It’s all you know.

~

That night, you join Harry’s family for dinner at their house about 35 minutes out if the city. His hand rests on top of yours in your lap, thumb gently swiping over the soft skin above your knuckles as he listens to his step-dad tell a story, making the whole table erupt into giggles. 

Your heart beats out of your chest as his hand on yours suddenly feels contaminated. You remove his hand, and wipe yours down the sides of your jeans, palms now sweating profusely. 

All of the thoughts and uncertainty your conversation with Kylie stirred up are causing bile to rise into your throat. Harry senses your discomfort and moves his hand to swipe over your back for a second before reaching for the remote control to lower the volume of the TV that’s playing soft rock songs.

He knows mixed sounds like this tend to get you overwhelmed, so he takes the music out all together. It’s why when a live band starts unpacking while you’re out at a restaurant, Harry pays the bill swiftly and the two of you head out. He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel him staring at you on your right. 

“Y’alright?” his lips ghost over your ear as his arm wraps around your shoulder. He pulls you closer so you’re almost in a headlock, the pressure of his solid body instantly making your racing thoughts still for a second.

“Mhm,” you exhale. The dinner conversation continues on as usual, as his family is used to your close contact.

“Let’s go back to mine tonight,” he whispers again. 

“Okay.”

The night continued on, and you and Harry bid his family farewell, until next time. He drove the two of you back to his apartment in the city, his blacked-out Range Rover maneuvering through the traffic with ease. You don’t talk much. Harry asks if you want control of the AUX, but you decline and opt to stare out the window. 

He jumps in the shower as you ready yourself for bed. Staring at the mirror across from you, you scold yourself internally. Why the fuck are you here right now?

You get under his covers, turning to the left to see a lip mask you assume is probably Juliette’s. You chew on the side of your thumb nail as your breathing gets more shallow in absolute disbelief that you willingly put yourself through this psychological torture. For years.

You lay down, facing away from the bathroom door and wait for the burst of steam to envelope you when he opens the door.

He returns to the foot of the bed, his curls dripping a bit and towels off before hopping under the covers on the other side. Harry invades your space immediately, sticking his face into your neck and wrapping his arm around your middle.

“Mmmph,” he sighs. “Long day. Some days, you’re the only person I want to ever be with.”

Your heart stops. You know it’s not what he means.

“Would you still wanna..?”

You turn your shoulder back towards him, but not before wiping away a stray tear that escaped. You run your hands along his chest and kiss him him deeply. 

The pivotal moment can wait.

Right now, you just need a little love.

~

Time passed quickly since the dinner and your lapse in judgement.

You had a fourth date you were excited for on Saturday morning. You hit it off with this guy last week, and have already seen one another three times within a five-day period.

You lost your confidence to tell Harry off. Instead of letting another relationship fizzle out (because you know they always do), you set a plan in place to see this one through. 

In the past, you’ve always had Harry in the back of your mind and never put in the effort dating requires and it often wasn’t taken well with the other party.

You weren’t ignoring Harry. You were being selective with your time.

It was about an hour and a half in when you got a text from Harry. Your date, Ian, went to the bathroom, so you took this time to read it.

I’m in the square. Meet me and join me for a walk.

You sigh, hovering over the buttons before opting to place your phone face down on the table.

I can see your location. Bring me a pain au chocolat.

Ian returns, and you throw your phone into your shoulder bag, ignoring the message from the growing ball of stress in your life.

“Hey, want to take our drinks to go and walk around the square?”

You smile at him and nod enthusiastically, not giving another thought to who you may run into.

It’s not but three seconds after passing through the gates to the square that you’re spotted. Ian threads his arm through yours.

“Bug!” Harry has his hands cupped around his mouth to amplify his voice, before lifting one hand into a wave. He has sunglasses on, but you can see his face scrunch when he realizes you’re not alone, and places his palm over his eyes as a visor to block the sun.

Ian looks behind you both, not seeing anyone else this guy could be shouting at.

“Is he yelling to you?”

You inhale through your nose, “Yes. I’m just going to say hi and we can keep going.”

The two of you approach Harry. His wool sweater and jeans make him look soft, cozy and handsome in the slightly damp, spring weather.

“Hi, Harry.”

You’re speaking, but Harry isn’t looking at you. He’s sizing up your date who’s a little taller and more built than even Harry is, which you didn’t expect to find in the wild. Harry extends his hand with a look that drips with sarcasm, one he gets frequently when he gets agitated by something.

“Pleasure. Harry.”

They shake, Ian offering just as strong of a hold and a friendly nod. “Ian.”

Whipping his gaze back to you, Harry has the audacity to pipe up, “Where’s my pain au chocolat? I texted you.”

Asshole.

“Well, Ian and I sat down for a coffee for a while, and the line got long again as we were leaving.”

Harry chews on the inside of his bottom lip and squares his jaw. Ian doesn’t help the situation by offering a harmless (to anyone but Harry) response:

“The cafe’s right there, man. They had plenty left for you when we were inside.”

You wish you had your camera out for the look on Harry’s face. The mirth mixed with disdain he shot your date was unbelievable. Harry never experienced you taking the side of another man. You would have never left that cafe without buying the pastry because you know he loves it.

Not wanting to turn this run-in into an absolute dog fight, you usher Ian along. 

“We’ll catch you another time, Harry.” 

Harry stares at you as you depart, then leans down to rest his elbows on his knees and stare straight forward.

It’s another few days before you see Harry again. You were invited to a friend’s (Harry introduced you, of course) birthday party. You came alone, but you aren’t shocked to see Juliette on Harry’s arm at the chaise end of the sectional sofa. 

You keep your distance.

~

Like clockwork, the tumultuous couple went on another break soon after. You heard this from a friend, so you were anticipating the affection from Harry to ramp up again like it always does.

You’re still seeing Ian. You haven’t defined the relationship, but you can feel it rapidly approaching.

Harry sends his usual good morning texts (that doesn’t stray, even if he is seeing someone) and has flowers sent to your apartment with a thinking of you message. It’s awkward when Ian arrives with a small bouquet that doesn’t quite live up to the grandiose arrangement Harry sent.

Even if you were out with Ian all day, it was always Harry’s bed you landed in some nights. The heartache of realizing having him in small bits when you can is easier to deal with than the thought of not having him at all.

You hate yourself for it.

Dinner? 7:15 at Martelucci’s

His message makes your heart hurt. But it’s time.

~

“Bug!”

Harry all but slams his fists on the table to get you to snap out of your bubble you fell into again. You startle at his slightly raised voice and remember you’re at Martelucci’s.

“I think I n-need to leave,” your voice steady, giving Harry a stern look.

“Are you okay? Are you going to be sick? Do you need to go to the ER?”

“I’m just gonna call an Uber,” your voice trails off as you reach for your phone on the tabletop. 

Bewildered, Harry flexes his hands up, “An Uber? When have I ever let you take an Uber?”

Harry always sends a car. Your sidepiece chariot.

“Y/N. You need to tell me what’s going on.”

You fiddle with your phone and manage to call a car. Fucking 11 minutes away.

“Harry,” your tone warning. “I don’t want to talk about this here.”

“Talk about what? That you’re having an aneurysm?”

You grab your coat and purse and make a beeline towards the exit without looking back at your friend. 

You hear his chair scoot across the floor just as you’re approaching the door. You close your eyes when your forearm presses down on the metal bar to open the door. When you open it, your feet are carrying you before your brain can even command them to move.

A large hand roughly grabs your elbow, spinning you to a complete stop.

“What the FUCK is going on? Y/N, answer me. Now!”

Harry is seething. If he were a dragon he’d be breathing fire. 

You rip your arm from his grasp and place your hands by your temples. “I can’t do this anymore, Harry!” 

He watches you as you pace in a circle within the parking lot of Martelucci’s. His expression is concerned, but he hasn’t said anything.

“Can’t do what? Eat dinner? Fine! We can switch to lunch!”

You shriek, moving your hands to grasp your hair in disbelief he is this stupid, “I don’t care about the fucking food!”

“Then WHAT is it?” his fists are balled at his side, lips snarled as he waits for your reply. 

You wrap your arms around your waist as an act of self-regulation and sit on the ground, back against the brick wall. The alley you’re in is so similar to the side of the hockey house where Harry first kissed you. You inhale a deep, shaky breath before finally murmuring something. 

“I can’t be your back up, Harry.”

“My back up? What the fuck does that mean?” He’s now crouched on the ground to meet your eye. You feel like you’re being scolded by your principal. Harry lays the back of his hand against your forehead to check your temperature, in case you’re having some medical crisis.

“You and Juliette,” you start, smacking his hand away and leaning your head back on the brick. “You’re on a break again, so you called me. The back up.”

He scratches the back of his neck, looking around to see if anyone is listening to you. When the coast is clear, he turns back to you. “Bug, I don’t know what you’re on about—”

This angers you. “What do you mean, ‘what I’m on about’?”

Your darkened demeanor concerns him immediately. He’s never seen you get angry like this before.

Defeated, you begin, “For almost ten years, I’ve just been on your hook.”

You shake your head, laughing a little to yourself. Looking down in shame, you swallow deeply and continue. 

“I’ve been pretending our relationship is normal. Healthy. That it’s totally fine for two best friends to spend all of their time together and fuck while you’re in between girlfriends,” you look up at him incredulously. “And I’m so fucking stupid for allowing myself to overlook how fucked up and abusive this is. Manipulative.”

Harry drops to his knees when you utter out the word abusive. He looks like he’s been punched in the gut. 

“Bug, pleas—”

“Stop! Don’t call me that right now.”

“Y/N, I don’t understand. Where is this coming from?”

“I woke the fuck up, Harry! We’re 29! I can’t play your waiting game anymore,” you shriek. Tears are now freely flowing down your cheeks. “I’ve been your emotional support animal because you can’t seem to ever be alone.”

He stares at you in bewilderment. 

“Bug, hey, hey,” he cradles his hand on the side of your face just the way you like. “I love you so much and my heart hurts seeing you like this. This doesn’t seem like you.”

You scoff. Of course he is saying he loves you. But in a friend way. Never in a real way.

“Harry, if you loved me, you wouldn’t fuck me, shower me with love and attention and then a week later go back to your girlfriend,” you quietly snuffle out. “Please let me go. I need to move on.”

He teeters his gaze, his pupils looking between both of your eyes to see if you’re kidding. When you don’t  loosen your facial expression, he starts to panic.

His fingers lock a little tighter around your chin, and it almost starts to hurt. He releases you and chortles a little, bringing his gaze to the ground.

“Let you go, huh? Back to who? Back to that cuck you’re seeing?”

“Harry, this has nothing to do with Ian. I’m setting a boundary,” your voice waivers. You’ve never had to stand up for yourself. Harry always did it for you.

You scoot to your knees so you can start to stand up, your dress now dirty and wrinkled. He follows you to a standing putting his strong arms on the walk so his large frame brackets you in. His face is so close to yours you can smell the wine he barely got to sip on.

“Bug, you don’t mean that. We’ve been together our entire adult lives, you and me. You’re just stressed out. Did someone tell you to say all this to me?”

“Please define ‘being together’ in relation to you and me,” you look him dead in the eyes now. You’re not cowering away.

“I can only laugh anymore when you introduce me to people as your best friend but then try to finger me on the drive back to your apartment,” you cross your arms to self-soothe. “This only works for you because I’m pathetic. And I think you know that I’ll always wait for you to come back. That’s why it’s abusive.”

Harry tightens his jaw. Looks like you just struck a nerve.

“And fuck you for thinking someone is putting me up to this,” you poke his chest HARD. “My heart can only be broken so many times, Harry. That’s why I’m speaking up.”

“Fine,” he throws his hands up and walks away from you. He turns back to you with a look of outrage and points to himself. “Don’t act like you don’t have everything in your life because of me. Your apartment. Your job. Your friends. It was all me. Where does that leave you if I’m out of the picture?”

His words are a slap in the face. You already knew he was a big reason behind most of your success, but you didn’t realize he was cognizant of it. While you’re reeling, he speaks up again.

“I’m not even going to fucking worry about this. You’ll come right back over tomorrow when you calm down,” he starts to head toward the parking lot where you’re sure his car is parked. “You’ll regret talking to me this way. Your friend. Your BEST friend.”

Your tears are rolling down in fat streaks. Pushing the lump that may now be permanently formed in your throat, you throw the last match onto this gasoline-covered conversation.

“Harry!”

He stops abruptly and turns to look back at you, hands out wide as if to say, ‘what?’

“You took my virginity that night after the party at the hockey house.”

His brows furrow and he starts to move toward you again, but you move back as if he’s on fire. The car you assume is your Uber arrives, so you grab your coat and purse and blow past him. He still hasn’t said a word.

Before your hand pulls at the handle of the vehicle, you whip around to face him again when you hear him call after you again.

Harry has an unreadable expression on his face. A face he makes when you reach for the gallon of milk to only find one sip left while Harry crunches on his cereal that is generously covered in said milk, waiting for you to screech at him for barely leaving you some.

“W-why did you bring that up?”

You swallow your lips into your mouth, “Because I wanted to tell you that I’ve regretted every second I’ve spent with you since.”

Harry is motionless listening to you. His face droops, reflecting an insurmountable amount of despair.

“I can’t believe one poor decision set me up for nearly ten years of bullshit,” you sob out. 

“It was finally the moment I was waiting for. Your affection turning into something physical you’d never shown towards me before. It made me feel wanted for the first fucking time in my life. It’s why I ate up every ounce of affection you ever gave me. It was all I though I could get. All I deserved. And believing that one day, being patient would pay off.”

“And you took advantage of it. It didn’t matter if your relationships worked out or not. You always had me on on your hook. Cooking you dinner. Completing your assignments. Doing your laundry. Taking me to family gatherings. All you had to do was throw me a bone by fucking me once in a while and I was eating out of your palm. But I wasn’t dateable, apparently. Just someone to keep your bed warm between girls.”

You’re not even sure you’ve ever spoken for this length of time before. It’s really evident from the way you’re huffing and puffing. It feels like you’re reading off a movie script.

The Uber honks, bringing you back to reality. Harry has tears spilling over his lashes now. The devastation is tangible. You rarely see him cry. Only when his childhood cat and his grandfather passed away.

“I can’t keep pretending it’s all coming up roses, Harry. It’s not fair. I keep waiting, and waiting and waiting. And it all adds up to nothing. Every fucking time.”

You leave it at that and get in the car without giving him another glance.

~

Harry is a wreck. The last ten years flashed before his eyes, and now the most important part walked right out of his life. His heart hurts in a way he’s never felt with any of the girls he’s dated.

He hasn’t shown up to his office in days. He works from home, providing minimal input in meetings he’s a key stakeholder in. He doesn’t give a fuck. He just wants you.

He knew he was taking your virginity. You’ve never been a good liar, and the minute you were unwilling to share specific details, he knew. Part of him wanted to ruin you for everyone else. Treat you so well that you wouldn’t seek out anyone but him. All while Harry could still get his dick wet and reap the benefits of your loyalty and kind nature.

It’s not that Harry preyed on your timidness, but it was certainly something he took into consideration when he invited you to his room for the first time. Leading up to that, he noticed you. 

You were quiet, mostly kept to yourself, and had routines he wasn’t sure you knew other people picked up on. You did laundry on Tuesday and Friday mornings, and always tapped your fingertips together while you read in the lounge on your floor.

You were his fascinating little wallflower. 

And he never lost that adoration for you. To this day, Harry would burn down all the corners of this Earth for you. After the fourth or fifth time you ever hooked up is when Harry started to feel icky about himself. 

About his choices.

He couldn’t quite put his finger on why, but you never said anything about your sexual encounters with him, so he just kept on. If you had any objections, he would have respected your boundaries. But, you didn’t. So it never stopped. 

There were no talks of this budding into a relationship on your end, so Harry sought them out, outside of you.

He’ll never forget the uneasy look on your face when he introduced Lucy to you as his girlfriend in the dining hall. Your mouth opened slightly, floundering to find a response. You’re always a little pale, but in that moment, Harry thought you looked ill. Physically ill.

You muscled out a nice and respectful response, and the lunch continued on. But he felt that energy shift from you, especially since it was only two weeks or so since you’d had sex with him. He felt bad about the whole thing and decided to show you affection when he was single again about 3 months later. And the pattern was born.

He cringes at the memory, but all he can do is blame his hormone-fueled 20 year-old brain. Turns out he didn’t get older and wiser. Only older.

Harry’s biggest problem with this whole thing is that you’re not wrong. Not even slightly. Harry did know he was manipulating you. But he’s an arrogant son of a bitch and couldn’t help but wonder, whatifwhatifwhatif?

What if the two of you actually dated? What if the two of you studied abroad together? What if you got married? What if you had children?

Harry thought about all of these things in regards to you over the years.

You’d be the perfect girlfriend. You already are Harry’s girlfriend, without the title.

You’d be the perfect travel partner. Overly organized with just a touch of adventure, and easy to poke fun at in front of other tourists.

You’d be a beautiful bride. Harry can close his eyes and see you waiting for him at the end of the aisle, and dancing with your dad to Chris Stapleton’s rendition of ‘I Hope You Dance’ on the reception dance floor. 

You’d be a wonderful mother. Patient, nurturing and always going above and beyond. You already do that for him.

“Oh, I’ve fucked this up so, so badly,” Harry whines to himself while moping on the sofa. He’s cried every day this week. But it’s what he deserves.

He’s so pathetic, he’s about to write into a Reddit page called, r/AIO to get advice about what to do. But he knows his ego is too fragile for the hard truths he’d receive. 

He’ll never forget the look he received from his mother when he brought you home for a weekend. The two of you were glued at the hip, spending every waking moment together at the lake house. Holding hands, hugging and even falling asleep in each other’s beds despite the no sharing rule his step-dad put in place.

That Sunday, you’d left to go back to school early, so Harry sat with his mom to watch the sunset.

“When did you two get together?” Anne asks.

“What?” Harry looks up from his phone to look at her. “We’re just buddies. We’re not dating.”

His mother’s death glare rivals that of when he would act up in the grocery store. One look and he would zip his lips, stand up straight and knock off the nonsense. That look actually makes him shiver. 

“Alright,” Anne sighs, deciding not to press further. But he could tell she was disappointed for some reason.

He wishes he took his mom’s look as a warning in this instance. 

Instead of sulking, Harry grabs an empty moleskin from his home office. In his scratchy handwriting, surrounded by tear drops, he pens:

100 Things I Love About Y/N

The topics ranged from serious things like your dedication to work and school, to trivial things like how you always eat sandwiches with a fork and knife. Once he started, it was impossible to stop. He didn’t count at the end, but he assumes he surpassed 100 easily. 

Swiping some gel in his hair and throwing on a clean outfit (Harry had been in his sweats for 3 days), his feet carry him outside before he can even blink. Going to the parking garage to hop in his car would take far too long, so he hoofs it to your apartment on foot. 

It’s ridiculous. Over the top. But it’s for you. It’s his Hail Mary.

Passing through the square, he stops at the flower cart to grab a bouquet of your favorites. Hydrangeas, Gerber Daisies and Baby’s Breath. 

His feet are pounding the pavement, nearly sliding when he arrives at your apartment entrance. He knows your code, so he inputs the digits and immediately heads for the stairs. Petals are flying, and by the time he reaches your door, the buds are a little sparse. 

Knocking like a crazy person, Harry gasps in a breath he’d been holding. The door swings open, revealing you with your phone between your ear and shoulder. 

“Mom, I’ll call you back.”

Harry, unsure of his next move, he opts to just stare at you.

“Harry, what are you doing here?”

He doesn’t know. But he can’t get past the fact that you look perfect and not at all wrecked and distraught like he’s been for the past several days. 

“Ah, um—” Harry stutters. “I want to talk. I needed to see you.”

“About what, Harry?”

He doesn’t like the way you’re using his name in every sentence. Even though he used to bask in the attention you gave him. He shoves the bouquet into your arms and blows past you and begins to pace in front of the fireplace.

“I’m sorry. First and foremost. You’re absolutely right that I took advantage of your friendship with me. And for ten fucking years at that. You didn’t deserve to be treated like that, and no matter how many times I say it, it’ll never make up for it.”

You nod, because, yeah. He’s right. 

Closing the door slowly, you brace yourself for what’s about to unfold.

“I wrote down 100 things I love about you, because that’s what I’ve come to the realization of. I love you, Y/N. I have the entire time. And I think I did more than 100, because there was too much to include.”

You’re in disbelief. The moment you waited for for years and years finally came, and you feel nothing. Well, you feel a jab in your heart. Harry coming to confess this to you is too little, too late. 

He shoves the moleskin in your hands, and you flip to a random page, scanning to the middle:

47. The way we balance each other out

48. Our cozy evenings

49. You are my biggest supporter

50. Your compassion for others

51. The way you look at me

You slam the book shut after seeing the last one. You always looked at harry with stars in your eyes. Even if what he was doing was slowly killing you.

“Harry, what do you want me to say?”

“I want you to say ‘I love you’ back, Y/N,” he retorts like it’s obvious, and he’s agitated she’s not getting the point. “Because I know you love me. That’s why you’ve stuck by me after all this time.”

That. That right there. He knew your loyalty to him is the most precious thing to you. The whole time he knew. And turned a blind eye to his actions anyway. He should sit himself down sometime. Really reflect.

“Harry, thank you for writing these things. It’s a really nice gesture, but—”

“A nice gesture? I’m sticking my neck out,here. I’m admitting feelings I’ve had for you since we met, basically.”

You laugh. Fully laugh at this man.

“Ten years. You had that long to admit this to me, and you wait until I finally grow a fucking backbone and call you out. Typical,” you scoff. 

You start to throw things in your bag as you talk, because Ian is coming to pick you up any minute. That’s who you were expecting. Not Harry.

“I know, it’s fucked that I strung you along. I fully recognize that. But you never said anything to me, either! It’s clear you had feelings from the start.”

“Don’t you fucking dare turn this on me, Harry! I’m not the villain here. You are. I know you’re used to being the martyr.”

Harry grabs his hair in frustration. He’s never fought you on anything like this before. Even when you thought Breaking Bad was better than The Sopranos. That struck a deep nerve, too. 

“Ian will be here any minute. I need you to go. Now,” you’re crying again as you curl up on your sofa and cover your face with a blanket.

Harry leaves without another word. He leaves the book and flowers on the coffee table.

~

You’re sat across from Harry in the same cafe where you met up with Ian. Your latte has gone cold, and he’s barely touched his pain au chocolat.

You both know what this is. 

It’s been two months since Harry showed up at your place, and you’ve barely spoken.

You have a boyfriend.

The word makes you giddy. And Ian is truly wonderful. Similar to Harry in many ways.

Harry has somehow managed to stay single during this time. You want to commend him, but it doesn’t feel like your business anymore. 

You break the silence.

“Thanks for meeting me,” you murmur. “I thought—I just thought we should check in. How have you been?”

Harry stares at her, a little stunned. How has he been? Absolutely miserable. 

“Uhm, yeah. Good to have a check in,” he decides on, rather than bursting into the tears of frustration he’s cried on the regular for the last two months. “I’ve been alright. Work is busy. Got to golf a little bit. Mostly hanging at home.”

Your heart twinges at that. Even you’ve been going out more. Meeting new people. Talking to the girls next to you in Pilates. It feels good to move through the world with confidence, instead of your happiness depending on the mood and actions of one person— a person that’s not even you. 

But you don’t want him to feel sad. You want him to learn from this. Grow. Get in touch with his emotions. Even though it crashed and burned, you still spent years watching Harry turn into the person he is. He’s not a bad person. He was just too caught up in it all.

You read the list he made every once in a while. It took you weeks to even feel the rough edges of the pages, let alone read the entire list. It made you laugh, cry and feel things you’d never felt before. But it felt too late.

“I talk to someone now. It’s some method— EMDR, I think? I don’t know, but I have to tap myself all over and it’s super weird.”

You laugh, trying to picture it. “That’s amazing, H. I hope it goes well for you. It’s good to talk to someone.”

“Yeah, well,” he trails off before picking up again. He pauses again. “I’m assuming this is goodbye?”

Caught off guard, you lift your head to look him in the eye. He’s looking at you with sad eyes, but also fondness. You purse your lips.

“Harry, I just wanted to make sure you’re really okay. The group says they haven’t heard from you in a bit. And it’s unlike you.”

Snitches. 

Harry’s brows furrow and he looks down at his shoes. He brings his gaze back to yours, his expression anguished. 

“Has this not affected you at all? Y/N, you were the closest person to me. Ten years of friendship. A relationship,” he corrects himself, even if that was never established. It was. “And it was over in seconds. A-and I know it’s all my fault. But I guess I just can’t believe that you’re so— so okay.”

You cover his hand with your own, “I’m not okay, Harry. It’s been so hard. And I can’t really talk to anyone about it. I guess I still carry some disappointment in myself for not putting a stop to it when it really started to hurt. Years before I’d ever vocalized it.”

“What, is Ian not a good listener?”

You snarl at him, soliciting a little chuckle. “How could I unpack a ten year situationship with someone I just started seeing? He’d be out of there in a second. And you know I can’t ask my mother. She took 25 years to divorce my dad.”

From his hunched position, he looks back up at you and grabs your hand to hold again. “I’m happy for you, Bug. Even if it kills me in the end. You deserve to be treasured. Just wish I wasn’t too dumb to realize. I’ll probably spend the rest of my life regretting this.”

You’re choking up, so you opt to pull him into a hug over the small metal table in the cafe that is definitely meant for outside. The chair makes a scraping sound and makes everything awkward and clunky. Burying your face in his neck like you always used to feels different this time. 

He’s not your lifeline anymore. The idea that the only time you had him was when he was right in front of you is gone. You can breathe.

“Thank you, H.” you murmur quietly in his ear.

Thanking him for what? You’re not entirely sure. But it’s better than saying goodbye.

He’ll always be a part of you. And you of him. You’ll probably always exist in the background, quietly checking in on him. Maybe the two of you will be friends in the future— real friends.

But now, instead of only choosing Harry and doing what Harry wants— you choose yourself.