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By the time Harry left for New York, Y/N had already learned that plants were much more demanding when they belonged to someone emotionally significant. 

It was insulting, really. 

She had moved to London. Actually moved. Not just talked about it in cafés, not just opened rental websites and closed them in fear, not just written dramatic things in her green notebook and pretended they were observations instead of decisions. She had done it. 

Her studio was small, expensive, and hers. 

It had one decent window, a kitchen corner that required emotional negotiation if she wanted to open the fridge and a drawer at the same time, and a shower that made a noise like it was reconsidering its purpose every morning. The building was newer than most of what she had looked at, which meant the walls did not seem haunted, the lift worked most days, and the heating had not yet personally betrayed her. 

It was not perfect. It was hers. 

That made it feel enormous. 

The first week, she had cried once over a suitcase that would not close, once over a supermarket receipt, and once because she had managed to make coffee in her own tiny kitchen before work and the sunlight had come through the window in a way that made the whole thing feel real. 

She had not told Harry about all three times. 

Only two. 

He had guessed the third. 

Annoyingly. 

“You cried over the coffee,” he had said on a video call from New York, face half-lit by the lamp beside his hotel bed. 

Y/N had stared at him through her phone screen. “I did not.” 

“You did.” 

“You’re making accusations across time zones now?” 

“You got quiet when you mentioned it.” 

“I was drinking it.” 

“You said it tasted terrible.” 

“It did.” 

“And then you smiled like it meant something.” 

Y/N had looked away from the camera. “Your face is becoming a problem.” 

“My face?” 

“Your ability to read mine.” 

Harry had smiled, tired and soft, and Y/N had hated the five hours between them more than she wanted to admit. 

The time difference became its own strange character in their lives. London was always ahead, which Y/N found symbolically annoying. When she was finishing work, Harry was still somewhere in the early part of his day. When he called after a show, she was often in bed, half asleep, phone propped against a pillow, pretending she was not waiting for the screen to light up. 

They spoke every day. Not because they had promised to. They just did. 

Sometimes for an hour. Sometimes for ten minutes. Sometimes with no real conversation at all, just Harry in a hotel room eating something from a bowl while Y/N folded laundry badly in her studio. Sometimes she worked with her laptop open and the phone beside it, and he stayed on the call silently while answering messages, warming up his voice, or looking through set notes. 

It should have felt strange. 

It did. 

But it also became normal with a speed that should have scared her more than it did. 

She had also, somehow, become responsible for his plants. 

It had started as a joke. 

Then Harry had handed her his house keys before leaving for New York and said, very seriously, “You’re the only person I trust with the cactus.” 

Y/N had looked at him in horror. “That is an unfair amount of emotional responsibility.” 

“It responds to you.” 

“It’s a cactus, Harry. It responds to drought and trauma.” 

“Exactly.” 

She had taken the keys, because apparently that was her life now. 

Twice a week, she went to his house in North London after work. The first time, she stood in the hallway for a full minute, looking around at the quiet, too-beautiful space, and felt the strange warmth of remembering herself there. Barefoot on the sofa. LEGO flowers on the table. His T-shirt soft against her skin in the guest room. His cologne caught in cotton. The kind of happiness that had arrived quietly enough not to scare her until the next morning. 

Then she had gone straight to the plants and pointed at the cactus. 

“You and I are not friends,” she told it. “We are professional associates.” 

She sent Harry a video. 

He replied within thirty seconds. 

It looks healthier. 

Y/N recorded another video, this time of her face. 

“That is because it is living under fear-based management.” 

His reply came as a voice note. 

“I respond well to that too.” 

She listened to it twice. 

Then refused to think about why. 

By the third week, the cactus had improved enough that Y/N accused it of showing off. One succulent had perked up. The leafy plant was thriving in a way that felt almost smug. Harry asked about them before he asked about her one evening, and she immediately looked offended. 

“Nice to know where I stand.” 

Harry, on the screen, had leaned back against a sofa in some backstage room in New York, curls slightly damp, hoodie pulled over his head. 

“You’re above the cactus.” 

“Barely?” 

“Emotionally, yes.” 

“That was not the reassurance you think it was.” 

He smiled. 

“I miss you.” 

Y/N’s hand froze on her mug. 

There were still things he said too directly. 

There were still moments where she wanted to turn the laptop off and walk around her tiny studio until her heart behaved. 

Instead, she looked at the screen and tried to sound normal. 

“That was a very sudden emotional left turn.” 

“I know.” 

“You can’t just go from insulting my rank in the plant hierarchy to that.” 

“I can.” 

“You shouldn’t.” 

Harry’s smile softened. 

“I miss you,” he said again. 

The silence that followed was not empty. 

Y/N swallowed. 

“I miss you too.” 

She looked away as soon as she said it, because apparently there were limits to how much emotional maturity she could perform on a Tuesday night. 

Harry did not tease her. That made it worse. Better. 

Both. 

A few days later, he suggested New York for the first time. 

Y/N was working from home, laptop open, hair tied up messily, wearing a jumper that had not belonged to him but unfortunately reminded her of one that had. Her phone was propped against a mug while Harry moved around a dressing room on the screen, somewhere inside Madison Square Garden. 

“You could come,” he said. 

Y/N looked up from an email. “To what?” 

“To New York.” 

She stared at him. 

Then slowly closed her laptop halfway. 

“Harry.” 

“I know.” 

“No, I don’t think you do.” 

“I might.” 

“That sentence has dangerous rich-man energy.” 

He leaned closer to the camera, trying not to smile. “I’m not trying to buy you a trip.” 

“Good. Because I’m not available for sponsored emotional tourism.” 

“I remember.” 

“Do you?” 

“Yes. No money. No rescue. No magical rent disappearance.” 

“And no international version of that.” 

“No international version,” he agreed. 

Y/N watched him through the screen. 

He looked tired. Not exhausted exactly, but stretched. Show-tired. New York-tired. The kind of tired that came with being surrounded by people and still missing one person in particular. 

“You have shows,” she said. 

“Yes.” 

“I have work.” 

“You work remotely most days.” 

“That is a dangerous sentence coming from a man with a private jet face.” 

“I do not have a private jet face.” 

“You absolutely do.” 

Harry laughed under his breath. 

“I’m not asking you to drop everything.” 

“It sounds a lot like you are.” 

“I’m asking if you want to come for a few days. Work from here. See the show.” He paused, then added, softer, “Not from the crowd this time. Or not only from the crowd.” 

Y/N did not answer. 

Harry noticed. 

“I don’t want you to come because I’m asking,” he said. “I want you to come if you want to.” 

“That’s worse.” 

“How?” 

“Because now I have to know what I want.” 

His mouth twitched. 

“Terrifying.” 

“Exactly.” 

She did not say yes that night. Or the next. 

Harry did not ask again immediately, which annoyed her because it was the correct thing to do. 

Instead, he kept calling. Kept asking about work, about her studio, about whether the coffee machine downstairs still hated her, about his plants, about the cactus, about the studio building that had finally accepted her application after three separate emails and one phone call that nearly made her lose faith in administration as a concept. 

He sent her pictures of New York from hotel windows. Blurry lights. Empty corridors. The side of the stage before soundcheck. A coffee cup with her name written incorrectly on it because he had ordered it “for emotional accuracy”. 

She sent him pictures of London. Her desk. His plants. Rain on the window. A terrible sandwich. A screenshot of her calendar with two office days and three remote days highlighted. 

Then, on a Thursday night, he called after a show. 

Y/N was already in bed. 

He looked wired, sweaty, and tired in the way he always did after performing, like his body had not yet understood the stage was over. 

She looked at him for three seconds and said, “You look insane.” 

“Thank you.” 

“That wasn’t a compliment.” 

“I’m taking it as one.” 

“You would.” 

He sat down somewhere backstage. She could hear voices beyond the room, distant and busy. 

“Come to New York,” he said. 

Y/N closed her eyes. 

“Harry.” 

“I waited three days to ask again.” 

“That is not a legal defence.” 

“I know.” 

She opened her eyes. 

He was watching her through the screen. 

“I want you to see it,” he said. 

“The show?” 

“My side of it.” His voice was quieter now. “You saw Wembley from the crowd. You saw me from the place where everyone sees me. I want you to see the rest. The boring parts. The loud parts. The strange parts. The parts that make me disappear for ten minutes and come back with glitter on my face and no idea what day it is.” 

Y/N’s chest tightened. 

“That was almost poetic.” 

“I tried to keep it under control.” 

“You failed.” 

“I know.” 

She looked at him. He did not push. He just waited. The way he had learned to. Y/N sighed. 

“I can work from there.” 

Harry’s face changed. 

Carefully. 

Too carefully. 

She pointed at the screen. “Don’t make that face.” 

“I’m not making a face.” 

“You’re making an internal face.” 

“It’s very controlled.” 

“It’s not.” 

He smiled despite himself. 

“So…?” 

“So,” she said, as if the word weighed more than it should, “I can come for a few days.” 

Harry’s smile broke properly. 

Not big. Not dramatic. 

But real enough to undo her. 

“Yeah?” 

“Don’t make me regret it.” 

“I won’t.” 

“You might.” 

“I’ll do my best.” 

She raised an eyebrow. He corrected himself. 

“I’ll do.” 

“Better.” 

The flight to New York was booked by Y/N. 

With her own card. 

Even though Harry offered exactly once and then stopped when she stared at him through the phone like she was prepared to end international relations. 

He arranged a car from the airport. She allowed that. After making him repeat, twice, that it was not “a luxury rescue vehicle” and that she was accepting it only because she had a suitcase, a laptop bag, jet lag and no interest in being emotionally mugged by airport transport after an overnight flight. Harry agreed to all terms. 

When Y/N landed in New York, her phone lit up before she had even fully switched off airplane mode. 

Landed? 

She smiled despite herself. 

No, I’m texting you from the Atlantic. 

His reply came quickly. 

Sarcasm survived the flight. Good sign. 

Barely. I have lost all sense of time and possibly one kidney to the plane seat. 

Welcome to New York. 

That sounds threatening. 

It is, slightly. 

The city hit her before she even reached Manhattan. The noise. The scale. The way everything seemed to move with the confidence of something too big to apologise. London had always felt enormous to her, but New York felt like it had no interest in being understood. It just existed louder than the rest of the world. 

By the time the car pulled near the entrance she had been told to use, Y/N was running on coffee, nerves, and the kind of tiredness that made emotions feel closer to the surface. Madison Square Garden did not look like a building so much as a fact. 

A huge, ridiculous, iconic fact. 

She stared at it through the tinted window. 

“This is fine,” she whispered. 

There were people outside already. Fans near barriers. Crew entrances. Security. Movement. A few cameras, not many, but enough for Y/N’s stomach to tighten. She had known, obviously, that Harry’s world came with attention. She had seen it online. She had seen videos, rumours, crowds. But there was something different about being near it. About feeling the air change because someone might decide your face belonged to a story. 

A member of Harry’s team met her inside. Calm, friendly, professional. 

“You must be Y/N.” 

The sentence made her feel strangely real. 

“I must be,” she said, then immediately wondered why she was like this. 

The woman smiled. “Harry’s waiting for you before soundcheck. He said to bring you in if you were comfortable.” 

Y/N adjusted the strap of her laptop bag. 

“Comfortable is a strong word, but yes.” 

They walked through corridors that seemed to fold into more corridors. Concrete, doors, cables, signs, people with headsets, cases being rolled past, bursts of music from somewhere distant. It was not glamorous. Not in the way people imagined. It was functional and chaotic and alive. 

Y/N loved it immediately. 

That annoyed her. 

The woman led her to a quieter room near the arena floor. The door was half open, and before Y/N had time to prepare herself, Harry appeared in it. 

For a second, he just looked at her. No stage. No microphone. No thousands of people. No screen between them. 

Just Harry. 

His face changed in that small, private way she had started to recognise. Like the world had moved slightly back into place. 

“You’re here,” he said. 

Y/N tried to answer normally. 

“That does appear to be the situation.” 

Harry smiled, but it did not fully reach the rest of him because he was already moving towards her. 

He stopped close enough to touch, but still not assuming. That was the thing about him now. He could be in a building full of people waiting for him, with an entire show depending on his timing, and still somehow leave a question in the space between them. 

Y/N saw it. Of course she did. So she stepped into him. 

Harry’s arms closed around her carefully at first, then a little tighter. The hug was longer than it needed to be. Longer than a hello. Longer than something casual. Y/N let herself sink into it, just for a second. Maybe two. His T-shirt smelled like clean cotton, something faintly warm, and him. Not the trace left behind in fabric. Not the version caught in a borrowed shirt. Him, alive and solid and there after weeks of being a face on a screen. 

She closed her eyes. 

Harry’s hand pressed once between her shoulders. 

“I missed you,” he said quietly, close enough that it was only for her. 

Y/N breathed out against him. 

“That was dangerously direct.” 

“I’ve had weeks of video calls to prepare.” 

“You’re not prepared. You just look tired enough to be reckless.” 

“I can be both.” 

“Concerning.” 

He laughed softly, but he did not let go right away. 

Neither did she. 

For a moment, New York waited outside the room. The show waited. The team waited. The building waited. But Y/N stayed where she was, her fingers curled lightly into the back of his shirt, allowing herself one honest second of missing him back. 

Eventually, she pulled away first because she was still herself. Harry let her. His eyes moved over her face, not in a way that made her feel inspected, but in a way that made her feel found. 

“You okay?” he asked. 

“Jet lagged, under-caffeinated, and standing inside Madison Square Garden with a man whose cactus is emotionally dependent on me.” 

“That’s a lot.” 

“It is.” 

“The cactus is grateful.” 

“The cactus is manipulative.” 

Harry smiled. Someone called his name from farther down the corridor. Soundcheck was starting. He glanced back, then at her. 

“I need to go in.” 

“I know.” 

“You can sit inside, if you want. Or backstage. Or wherever you’re comfortable.” 

Y/N lifted her laptop bag. 

“I have work.” 

Harry looked amused. 

“You actually brought your laptop?” 

Y/N stared at him. 

“I told you I had work.” 

“I know, but I thought maybe—” 

“That I was using it as a personality trait?” 

“A little.” 

She gasped. 

Harry laughed, already walking backwards towards the arena. 

“There are seats near the soundboard. You can work there.” 

“I will work there and judge you professionally.” 

“I expected nothing less.” 

A few minutes later, Y/N found herself sitting in the empty arena with her laptop balanced on her knees, trying to answer emails while Harry walked onto the Madison Square Garden stage as if that was a normal thing to do. 

It was not normal. None of this was normal. 

He picked up a microphone, spoke briefly to someone near the front, then looked straight towards her. 

Y/N narrowed her eyes immediately, because she knew that look. Harry lifted the microphone. 

“Is this bothering your very important remote work?” 

His voice echoed through the empty arena. A few people on the floor laughed. Y/N froze, then slowly lowered her laptop screen just enough to glare at him. 

“Your voice is creating a hostile work environment.” 

More laughter. 

Harry grinned. 

“That’s a formal complaint.” 

“I’ll put it in writing.” 

“Please don’t. My team has enough emails.” 

Y/N lifted the laptop again as a shield. 

Harry laughed into the microphone, and the sound filled the arena in a way that made her stomach turn softly. 

She hated how happy she felt. Not really. But enough. She spent the next hour half-working, half-watching. 

Mostly watching. 

It was difficult to remain professional while Harry stood on the Madison Square Garden stage and sang fragments of songs into an empty arena. At one point, he sang a line directly towards her, and Y/N lifted the laptop higher, hiding behind the screen. 

Harry laughed into the microphone. Someone from the band turned to look. Y/N lowered the laptop just enough to glare at him. He looked delighted. 

Mitch passed near her at one point, guitar in hand, quiet and calm in a way that made Y/N immediately feel like she had been adopted by a very cool forest spirit. 

“You’re the one taking care of the cactus,” he said. 

Y/N blinked. 

“That is, unfortunately, my reputation?” 

Mitch nodded. 

“Important job.” 

“It’s under strict supervision.” 

“Good. He shouldn’t be trusted.” 

Y/N looked towards Harry, who was talking to someone by the stage. 

“I’ve been saying that.” 

Mitch gave her the smallest smile and moved on. 

A few minutes later, Sarah came by with drumsticks in one hand, smiling warmly. 

“So you’re Y/N.” 

Y/N closed her laptop halfway. 

“That depends. Has Harry said anything embarrassing?” 

Sarah’s smile grew. 

“Not embarrassing. Just… a lot.” 

“Oh no.” 

“In a good way.” 

“That’s worse.” 

Sarah laughed. 

“He’s calmer when you’re around.” 

Y/N did not know what to do with that. So she looked down at her laptop and said, “That sounds like a medical side effect.” 

Sarah laughed again, and Y/N felt something in the air settle. Not approval in a dramatic way. Nothing official. Nothing said out loud. 

Just warmth. Ease. People looking at her and not acting like she had entered the wrong room. People who knew Harry in a way most of the world did not, quietly deciding she was not something to be removed. 

It should not have mattered. 

It did. 

The day moved in pieces. Soundcheck ended. Harry disappeared into meetings, fittings, vocal warmups, whatever strange rituals happened before a show. Y/N worked in a room backstage with a coffee someone had placed beside her without ceremony. Every now and then, Harry passed the open doorway and made a face at her until she looked up. 

Once, he walked by slowly with two thumbs up. 

Y/N looked at him over her laptop. 

“No.” 

He kept walking backwards. She pointed at the screen. 

“Employment.” 

Harry mouthed, Sorry. He was not sorry. 

Later, she found him sitting on the floor of a dressing room, back against the sofa, looking at his phone while someone fixed something on a jacket nearby. The room was full of movement, but he looked up the second she appeared. 

“Done with work?” he asked. 

“For now.” 

“Hostile environment complaint still pending?” 

“Under review.” 

He smiled and patted the floor beside him without thinking. Then he seemed to remember himself and stopped. 

Y/N saw it. 

The way he still checked. Still left space. Still refused to assume. So she sat down beside him. Not touching. 

Close enough. 

Harry looked at her from the corner of his eye. 

“New York treating you well?” 

“It has threatened me several times, but I respect the confidence.” 

“That sounds like New York.” 

“I think London insults you politely. New York just shoves you and tells you to keep walking.” 

“Pretty accurate.” 

She leaned her head back against the sofa. 

“I get why you like it here.” 

Harry looked at her. 

“Yeah?” 

“It’s too much.” 

“That’s why?” 

“Sometimes too much feels honest.” 

He was quiet for a moment. 

Then he said, “I’m glad you came.” 

Y/N turned her head. He was looking at her in that way again. 

Direct. Unguarded. Like he had stopped caring whether honesty made the room harder to breathe in. 

“Don’t do that before a concert,” she said. 

“What?” 

“Say things that make me want to have a crisis.” 

His mouth curved. 

“I thought you were managing crises professionally now.” 

“Highly uncertified.” 

“Still the best.” 

She looked away before that landed too deeply. Too late. 

A little before doors opened, the noise outside shifted. It happened gradually, then all at once. More footsteps. More voices. More radios. More energy in the walls. The building waking up. 

Y/N was in the hallway with Harry when they heard a burst of shouting from somewhere near one of the outer areas. Not inside, exactly. Beyond. Cameras maybe. People calling names. The kind of sound that made Harry’s face change before she fully understood why. 

A member of his team came over, phone in hand, expression controlled in a way that made Y/N’s stomach drop. 

“Sorry,” the person said quietly to Harry. “This is already online.” 

Harry took the phone. Y/N watched his face. Something tightened. 

“Photos?” he asked. 

“Outside. Earlier. Her arriving. Some from the car. Some when you met inside the side entrance.” 

Y/N went still. 

Harry looked at her before she could ask. 

“Y/N—” 

“Can I see?” 

He hesitated. 

That made it worse. 

“Harry.” 

He handed her the phone. The article was short. New. Already being copied elsewhere. 

Harry Styles seen with mystery woman ahead of Madison Square Garden show. 

Another headline beneath it: 

Unknown guest spotted arriving before Styles’ concert. 

And another: 

Sources claim the pair have been spending time together in London. 

And another, worse: 

Harry Styles’ London companion sparks dating rumours after New York appearance. 

There were photos. Not clear enough to feel fully like her, but clear enough. 

Her getting out of the car. Her beside Harry near a side entrance. Harry looking at her. Not dramatically. Not scandalously. Just looking. But the internet did not need much. It never had. 

Y/N’s face went cold. 

For a second, she heard the hallway around them as if from underwater. 

Harry’s hand found hers. Warm. Careful. 

There was no time to ask a full question, but his fingers did anyway. 

Y/N let him take her hand. 

“Come with me,” he said. 

She almost argued. 

Then didn’t. 

Harry led her into a smaller room off the hallway and closed the door. Not locked. Just closed. The noise outside became muffled, but her pulse did not. 

Y/N still had the phone in her hand. 

“They’re saying I was already with you in London,” she said. 

Harry stood in front of her, close but not too close. 

“You were with me in London.” 

She looked up sharply. 

“Harry.” 

“Not like that. I know.” 

“They’re making it sound ugly.” 

“I know.” 

“They’re making it sound like I was waiting for your life to fall apart.” 

His jaw tightened. 

“They make everything sound like something they can sell.” 

Y/N looked back at the screen. 

There were comments already. 

Not too many yet. 

Enough. 

New girl?  That was fast.  Wasn’t he just engaged?  She was seen in London too.  Rebound?  Who is she? 

Her thumb hovered, then stopped. 

“I can’t breathe properly,” she whispered, hating the way the words sounded. 

Harry’s expression changed immediately. Not panic. Focus. 

He took the phone gently from her hand and placed it face down on the table. Then he stepped closer, slowly enough for her to move away if she wanted to. 

She didn’t. 

“Look at me,” he said softly. 

“I am.” 

“No, you’re looking through me.” His voice stayed low. “Y/N. Look at me.” 

Her eyes lifted to his. 

Harry raised both hands and cupped her face with a tenderness that nearly broke her more than the headlines had. One hand on each cheek. Warm palms. Careful fingers. No rush. 

Just him. 

“There you are,” he murmured. 

Her throat tightened. 

“That was unnecessary.” 

“It was very necessary.” 

“I’m going to panic.” 

“Okay.” 

She blinked. 

Harry nodded slightly, eyes steady on hers. 

“You can panic. You can be angry. You can cry. You can call all of this insane, because it is. But breathe first.” 

Y/N tried. 

It came out uneven. 

Harry’s thumbs moved once, barely, against her cheeks. 

“With me,” he said. “In.” 

She inhaled. 

“Good. Out.” 

She exhaled. 

Again. 

Once more. 

His eyes did not leave hers. 

The room steadied by fractions. 

Not because the articles disappeared. 

Not because the noise stopped. 

Because he was not asking her to be fine for his comfort. 

He was just holding her face like she was something real. 

Like she was not a headline. 

Like she was not a rumour. 

Like she was not a role. 

“They’re going to make me into something,” she said, voice smaller than she wanted it to be. 

“They will try.” 

“People are going to say I’m a rebound. Or that I was there before. Or that I’m—” 

“Don’t.” 

His voice was soft. 

But firm enough to stop her. 

Y/N looked at him. 

Harry’s hands stayed exactly where they were. 

“You are not going to use their words to hurt yourself before they even finish writing them.” 

She stared at him. 

“That was a very specific accusation.” 

“I know you.” 

The sentence landed between them. 

Simple. 

Dangerous. 

Warm. 

Y/N looked away as much as she could with his hands still on her cheeks. 

Harry did not let her disappear. 

“They don’t get to decide what you are to me,” he said. 

Her eyes lifted back to his. 

The room seemed too small. 

“And what am I to you?” 

He did not answer too quickly. 

That was what made it worse. 

Better. 

Both. 

Harry looked at her like the answer mattered too much to rush. 

“Something I don’t want them to touch,” he said. 

Y/N’s breath caught. 

Outside, someone called his name from the hallway. 

The show was coming. 

The machine did not stop just because something inside her had. 

Harry did not move immediately. His gaze dropped, not to her mouth, but to the space between her brows, to the worry still sitting there. Then he leaned in and pressed a long, gentle kiss to her forehead. 

Y/N closed her eyes. 

It was not a kiss that asked for anything. 

It was not the kiss she had thought about and refused to think about and definitely thought about anyway. 

It was quieter than that. 

Safer. 

A promise without making one. 

A way of saying: I’m here, and you are allowed to be scared. 

When he pulled back, his hands were still on her face. 

“You can leave,” he said softly. “If this is too much. I’ll understand.” 

“I just got here.” 

“That’s not a reason to stay if you don’t want to.” 

Y/N looked at the phone on the table. Then at him. 

“I don’t want to leave.” 

His shoulders lowered slightly, like he had been holding something up. 

“Okay.” 

“I’m scared.” 

“I know.” 

“And angry.” 

“I know.” 

“And jet lagged.” 

“That one may be my fault.” 

“Partially.” 

His mouth twitched. 

She breathed out. 

“I still want to see the show.” 

Harry looked at her. 

“From backstage?” 

“For now,” she answered. 

He searched her face for one more second. 

Then nodded. 

Another knock came. 

Harry closed his eyes briefly. 

“I have to go.” 

“I know.” 

His hands slipped from her face slowly, like he did not want to take the warmth with him too quickly. 

Y/N felt the absence immediately. 

That was dangerous information. 

Harry stepped back. 

“Do you need anything?” 

“A new identity.” 

“I’ll ask the team.” 

She laughed once, weak but real. 

Harry smiled. 

“There she is.” 

“Go be a problem professionally.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

The show was a different thing from backstage. 

Y/N had known concerts were machines, but knowing and seeing were not the same. From the side, she could see the seams. The crew waiting for cues. The quick movement of guitars. The way Harry stepped into light and became something huge, then stepped back into shadow and became a man reaching for water, breathing hard, listening to voices in his ear. 

It should have ruined the magic. 

It did not. 

It made it stranger. 

More human. 

More impressive. 

She watched him from the side for the first few songs, heart still unsettled from the article, but slowly steadied by the force of him on stage. He was good. She knew he was good. Of course she knew. She had crossed countries for that voice before she had ever known what his kitchen looked like. 

But seeing it from there, seeing the work around it, the precision, the sweat, the timing, the tiny flashes of communication between him and the band, made something inside her ache with a new kind of respect. 

At one point, he came close to the side of the stage between songs and found her there. 

He lifted his brows slightly, as if asking if she was okay. 

Y/N gave him a very serious thumbs up. 

Then lifted her laptop bag slightly. 

Harry laughed, shook his head, and went back out into the lights. 

She lasted backstage for almost half the concert. 

Then she felt it. 

The tug. 

Not away from him. 

Towards something she had been before him. 

The fan. 

The girl who had stood in Wembley alone, feet aching, voice gone, glitter stuck to her skin, watching him from the crowd and feeling for two hours like life was bigger than the walls around it. 

Backstage was his world. 

She was grateful to see it. 

But the crowd had been hers first. 

Y/N looked towards the stage, then towards the dark gap of the corridor behind her. 

She did not tell Harry. 

If she told him, he would understand. 

That was exactly why she didn’t. 

She wanted to choose this without it becoming another thing he had carefully made space for. 

So she found one of the security guards she recognised from earlier and asked quietly if it was possible to get to the floor. Not too close. Not disruptive. Just somewhere she could watch like everyone else. 

The man checked with someone through his earpiece, then nodded. 

“DISCO side?” 

The name hit her before she could prepare for it. 

Of course. 

That stupid, perfect, ridiculous word. 

DISCO. 

The place that had become hers before Harry was hers in any way at all. The area where he had found her at Wembley. The section that carried the memory of cherry gummies raised discreetly in the air, of him nearly missing his cue, of a smile the stadium thought belonged to everyone. 

Y/N smiled before she could stop herself. 

“Yes,” she said. “DISCO.” 

A few minutes later, she was being guided through corridors and into the arena, the sound swelling around her until it filled her ribs. 

It was not Wembley. 

It was not the first route. 

It was not even the same city. 

But there, on the floor, surrounded by bodies and voices and raised hands, Y/N felt the memory of it so strongly that her throat tightened. 

She slipped into a space near the side of the DISCO section, close enough to see, far enough not to be obvious. 

For the first time all day, nobody was telling her where to stand because of him. 

She was just there. 

A fan. 

Almost. 

Y/N noticed the first look within two minutes. 

A girl beside her glanced once. 

Then again. 

Then looked at her phone. 

Y/N’s stomach tightened. 

Of course. 

The photos. 

The articles. 

For a second, she considered leaving. 

Then the girl leaned closer, careful not to shout over the song. 

“Are you okay?” 

Y/N blinked. 

“What?” 

The girl gave a small, kind smile. 

“Sorry. I just… people are being weird online. But you look like you’re trying to enjoy the show.” 

Y/N stared at her. 

The kindness was so unexpected that it nearly undid her. 

“I am,” she said. 

“Good.” The girl turned back to the stage, then added, “We won’t bother you.” 

We. 

Y/N glanced around and realised a few people nearby had noticed too. Not all. Not many. Enough. A couple of curious looks. A whisper. One person smiled and looked away deliberately, giving her space with the kind of kindness that did not need to announce itself. 

Y/N swallowed. 

“Thank you,” she said, though she wasn’t sure anyone heard. 

The girl beside her grinned. 

“Also, if he looks over here more than usual, I’m pretending not to notice.” 

Y/N’s eyes widened. 

“I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Sure.” 

Y/N looked back at the stage, trying very hard not to smile. 

She failed. 

On stage, Harry turned during a song and glanced towards the side where she had been backstage. 

She was not there. 

For half a second, his face shifted. 

Confusion. 

A tiny crease between his brows. 

Then he kept singing. 

Y/N watched him scan once. 

Not obviously. 

Not enough for most people to notice. 

Enough for her. 

Then his eyes found the floor. 

Found the DISCO side. 

Found her. 

Harry almost stopped. 

Almost. 

His eyes widened, and into the microphone, between one line and the next, he let out a sharp, surprised, “What?” 

The crowd screamed, assuming it was part of the show. 

Y/N burst out laughing. 

The girls near her burst out laughing too. 

Harry caught himself, smiling so hard he had to look away for a second before coming back to the song. 

She shook her head at him, trying to look disappointed. 

He failed to look sorry. 

The girl beside Y/N covered her mouth. 

“Oh my God.” 

Y/N pointed at the stage without looking at her. 

“Do not.” 

“I said nothing.” 

“You emotionally said several things.” 

The girl laughed. 

A minute later, when Harry came closer to that side of the stage, Y/N reached into her bag. 

Cherry gummies. 

Of course. 

She had bought them at the airport, because apparently she was committed to emotional continuity. 

She lifted the packet just enough for him to see. 

Harry stared. 

Then, without missing the beat this time, he made a quick gesture with his hand. 

Two fingers towards himself. 

Gimme that. 

Y/N’s mouth fell open in fake offence. 

She held the packet to her chest and shook her head. 

Harry pointed at her. 

The crowd screamed again, delighted by a private joke they could not possibly understand. 

The girl beside Y/N shouted, “He wants your sweets!” 

Y/N, still smiling, shouted back, “He can suffer!” 

Harry seemed to read the shape of her answer somehow, because he laughed into the next line and had to turn away from the crowd for a second. 

The people around Y/N noticed. 

Not in a cruel way. 

Not in a way that made her feel trapped. 

More like they had accidentally witnessed something soft and were collectively deciding to be gentle with it. 

As the show went on, she tried to stay discreet. 

She really did. 

After the paparazzi, after the headlines, after the way her face had looked strange and stolen on that phone screen, she wanted to disappear into the audience and just be one voice among thousands. 

Harry made that difficult. 

He did not stare. 

He did not make a scene. 

But whenever he crossed towards the DISCO side, his eyes found her. 

A beat too long. 

A smile too real. 

A line delivered with just enough direction that the people near her looked at one another and pretended very badly not to understand. 

Once, during a quieter moment, he looked over and lifted his brows as if asking if she was still okay. 

Y/N lifted the cherry gummies again in response. 

Harry placed a hand over his heart in exaggerated betrayal. 

The girl beside her whispered, “This is the best night of my life.” 

Y/N whispered back, “Please don’t say that.” 

“It is.” 

“Be normal.” 

“I’m trying.” 

“That word is banned.” 

The girl looked confused, but laughed anyway. 

Harry was happy. 

Y/N could see it before she heard anyone else say it. It was in the way he moved. In the way his smile kept arriving before he could control it. In the looseness of his shoulders, the extra little laugh between songs, the way he seemed unable to keep himself from glancing towards one particular part of the floor. 

He was always good on stage. 

She knew that. 

He was always charismatic, always alive under the lights, always somehow able to make a room that large feel like it was breathing with him. 

But tonight there was something else. 

A brightness that kept breaking through the performance. 

Something unguarded. 

The fans around her felt it too. 

“He’s so happy tonight,” someone behind her said. 

“He is,” another voice answered. 

Y/N looked down. 

Her smile arrived before she could stop it. 

Ridiculous. 

Her life was ridiculous. 

A few months earlier, she had been a fan watching videos of him online, following updates, saving clips, reading captions, laughing at interviews, imagining concerts like they were doors into a bigger life. She had known Mitch and Sarah as names, faces, people from the stage and the screen. She had watched this world from the outside with the careful devotion of someone who never expected to step inside it. 

And now Mitch knew her as the person responsible for the cactus. 

Sarah had told her Harry was calmer around her. 

Harry had nearly yelled what into a microphone because she had appeared in the DISCO section with cherry gummies. 

Y/N looked up at the lights, laughing softly to herself. 

Her life had become so absurd that there was nothing to do but smile. 

So she did. 

After the concert, backstage was chaos. 

Harry came off stage surrounded by movement. People talking. Towels. Water. Sweat. Noise. He was all adrenaline at first, all breath and heat and glowing exhaustion, curls damp, shirt clinging slightly to his back, eyes too bright. 

Y/N stood a little away from the main path, holding the cherry gummies like evidence. 

He saw her almost immediately. 

“You disappeared,” he said, walking towards her. 

His voice was rough from the show. 

Y/N tried very hard not to notice. 

“I went to be a fan.” 

“You didn’t tell me.” 

“That was the point.” 

Harry laughed, still breathless. 

“I almost shouted at you in front of twenty thousand people.” 

“You did shout.” 

“I said one word.” 

“Into a microphone.” 

“You appeared out of nowhere.” 

“I appeared in my natural habitat.” 

“The DISCO side?” 

“Yes.” 

His smile softened. 

“Your favourite.” 

Y/N looked at him. 

He remembered. 

Of course he remembered. 

“Apparently.” 

He looked at the packet in her hand. 

“You brought those on purpose.” 

“I am committed to tradition.” 

“You refused to share.” 

“You were working.” 

“I was suffering.” 

“You survived.” 

“Barely.” 

Someone from his team approached, asking something about timing. Harry answered automatically, but his eyes kept flicking back to Y/N. 

She noticed. 

Of course she noticed. 

“Go do your post-show things,” she said. 

“They can wait.” 

“Harry.” 

“They can wait two minutes.” 

“That sounded very boss-like.” 

“I contain multitudes.” 

“You contain sweat.” 

He laughed, looking down at himself. 

“That too.” 

“Go.” 

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. 

“Will you wait?” 

The question was simple. 

The way he asked it was not. 

Y/N held his gaze. 

“Yes.” 

Harry nodded once. 

Then he went. 

She waited in a smaller room after that, away from the worst of the movement. Someone brought her water. Someone else smiled at her in a way that suggested the band had absolutely noticed the cherry gummy exchange and was choosing to be polite. 

Mitch passed the open door once, glanced in, and said, “Nice gummies.” 

Y/N looked at him. 

He kept walking. 

She stared after him. 

“Terrible people,” she muttered. 

Sarah appeared a few minutes later, leaning against the doorway with a grin she was doing a poor job of hiding. 

“You looked like you were having fun out there.” 

Y/N narrowed her eyes. 

“I was being normal.” 

“Of course.” 

“Very normal.” 

“Absolutely.” 

Y/N pointed her water bottle at her. 

“You’re all worse than him.” 

Sarah laughed. 

“He’s happier when you’re here.” 

Y/N went quiet. 

Sarah’s smile softened. 

“Sorry. Too much?” 

Y/N shook her head. 

“No. I just don’t know what to do with sentences like that.” 

“Neither does he.” 

That made Y/N smile despite herself. 

By the time Harry came back, the room was quieter. Not empty, but close. The worst of the post-show rush had moved elsewhere. New York still hummed beyond the walls, but inside, the air had settled. 

He had changed his shirt, though his hair was still damp at the temples. He looked tired now in a different way. Less electric. More human. 

Y/N was sitting on the edge of a sofa, shoes touching the floor, cherry gummies beside her. 

Harry closed the door behind him. 

Again, not locked. 

Just closed. 

Y/N noticed. 

“Still leaving escape routes?” 

He looked at the door, then back at her. 

“Always.” 

“That was almost healthy.” 

“I’m doing.” 

She smiled faintly. 

He leaned against the door for a moment, watching her. 

“You okay?” 

She looked down at her hands. 

Then at the phone lying face down beside her. 

“The photos are probably everywhere now.” 

“Probably.” 

“People are probably saying things.” 

“Yes.” 

“Ugly things.” 

“Some.” 

She looked up. 

“You’re not going to say it’s nothing?” 

Harry shook his head. 

“No.” 

“Good.” 

“It’s not nothing.” He pushed away from the door and walked closer, stopping a few steps from her. “It’s invasive and loud and unfair. But it’s also not everything.” 

Y/N breathed out slowly. 

“I hated seeing myself like that.” 

“I know.” 

“I hated that they made it look like I was sneaking in.” 

“You weren’t.” 

“I know.” She looked at him. “But people won’t.” 

Harry’s jaw tightened slightly. 

“No. They won’t.” 

“And that bothers me.” 

“It should.” 

“I don’t want to care.” 

“I know.” 

“But I do.” 

Harry nodded. 

“Of course you do.” 

Something about that undid her more than “don’t care” ever could have. 

Y/N swallowed. 

“I don’t want them to own this.” 

Harry looked at her. 

“They don’t.” 

“They already have pictures.” 

“They don’t have us.” 

The words stayed there. 

Quiet. 

Certain. 

Not polished. 

Not dramatic. 

Just true. 

Y/N looked at him for a long moment. 

Outside, someone laughed in the hallway. A case rolled past. A muffled voice called for someone else. 

Inside, the room felt still. 

“You know,” she said slowly, “today was a lot.” 

Harry’s mouth twitched. 

“New York does that.” 

“You do that.” 

“Fair.” 

“I saw soundcheck. I got publicly harassed by your microphone. Your band knows about the cactus. Sarah basically implied I’m good for you. Paparazzi photographed me. The internet gave me a job title I didn’t apply for. You yelled ‘what’ at me in front of thousands of people.” 

Harry tried not to smile. 

“You did appear in the crowd without warning.” 

“I reserve the right.” 

“You scared me.” 

“You nearly missed a lyric.” 

“I did not.” 

“You absolutely did.” 

“I recovered.” 

“Barely.” 

He laughed. 

Y/N looked at him, and the laughter faded slowly. 

“I’m glad I came,” she said. 

Harry’s face changed. 

Careful. 

Hopeful, but trying not to be. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yes.” 

“Even with the noise?” 

She nodded. 

“Even with the noise.” 

Harry looked at her like he wanted to step closer and was holding himself back by force. 

Y/N saw it. 

Her heart began to beat harder. 

“Harry.” 

“Yes?” 

“Are you going to stand there all night?” 

His eyes lifted to hers. 

The air changed. 

Not suddenly. 

It had been changing all day. 

In the hug before soundcheck. 

In the room where he had held her face and kissed her forehead. 

In the way he had searched for her backstage. 

In the way he had almost shouted into the microphone when he found her in the crowd. 

In the way he had said they don’t have us. 

Harry did not move yet. 

“What are you asking?” 

Y/N let out a breath that almost became a laugh. 

“You’re really going to make me say it?” 

His voice was low. 

“I’m not assuming.” 

Of course. 

Of course he wasn’t. 

That was the worst and best thing about him now. 

Y/N stood. 

Harry straightened. 

There was still space between them. 

Not much. 

Enough to choose. 

“I’ve wanted to kiss you all day,” he said. 

Y/N’s breath caught. 

“That’s a dangerous thing to say after a concert.” 

“I know.” 

“Adrenaline.” 

“Not just adrenaline.” 

“Paparazzi.” 

“Not them.” 

“Noise.” 

“Not noise.” 

Y/N swallowed. 

“Then what?” 

Harry looked at her. 

“You.” 

The word was quiet. 

It landed everywhere. 

Y/N stepped closer. 

Not all the way. 

Harry stayed still. 

His eyes searched hers, then dropped briefly to her mouth before returning to her face. 

Still asking. 

Still waiting. 

Y/N hated that it made her want him more. 

“Are you always this careful?” she asked. 

“With you?” 

“Yes.” 

“I’m trying to be.” 

She lifted an eyebrow. 

Harry corrected himself immediately, voice barely above a whisper. 

“I am.” 

Y/N’s mouth softened. 

“Good.” 

Then she closed the rest of the distance. 

The first kiss was not dramatic. 

Not at first. 

It was careful, almost quiet, like both of them were listening for the moment it became too much. Harry’s hand lifted but stopped before touching her waist, hovering there for half a second. 

Y/N noticed. 

Of course she did. 

So she stepped closer, giving him the answer without making him ask again. 

His hand settled at her waist. 

Warm. 

Careful. 

Real. 

Y/N’s fingers curled into the front of his shirt, and Harry made a small sound against her mouth that seemed to surprise both of them. 

The second kiss was less careful. 

Still gentle, but less distant. His hand tightened slightly at her waist. Hers moved up to his shoulder, then the back of his neck, where his hair was still damp from the show. 

Harry breathed out against her. 

“Y/N.” 

“Don’t make it poetic.” 

His laugh broke softly against her mouth. 

“I’m trying not to.” 

“You’re failing.” 

“I know.” 

Then he kissed her again. 

And this time, something shifted. 

Maybe it was the weeks apart. 

Maybe it was the whole day of almost touching. 

Maybe it was the roar of the arena still living somewhere in his body, or the fear still living somewhere in hers, or the relief of finally choosing something before the world could name it for them. 

The kiss deepened. 

Y/N’s back foot moved without her meaning to. Harry followed. Not pushing. Just with her. His other hand came up to her face, thumb brushing her cheek, and she forgot, for a second, where they were. 

He kissed like he had been holding back for a long time. 

Because he had. 

Because they both had. 

Y/N tightened her grip on his shirt and pulled him closer. 

That was enough. 

Harry’s restraint broke a little. 

Not completely. 

Just enough that the air left her lungs. 

He stepped with her, mouth still on hers, hand at her waist, the other sliding to the side of her neck. She moved back once, twice, and then her back met the door with a soft thud. 

Harry stopped immediately. 

His whole body went still. 

“Sorry.” 

Y/N opened her eyes. 

He was close. Very close. One hand braced near her on the door, the other still at her waist but no longer pulling. His breathing was uneven. His mouth was red from hers. His eyes searched her face with so much concern that she almost laughed. 

Almost. 

“Don’t,” she said. 

His brows drew together. 

“Did I—” 

“No.” She shook her head, breathless. “No. I’m fine.” 

“Y/N.” 

“If you ask me if I’m sure right now, I might actually scream.” 

His laugh came out rough and disbelieving. 

“That’s not an answer.” 

She looked at him, heart wild in her chest. 

“I’m sure.” 

Harry’s gaze dropped to her mouth again, then back to her eyes. 

Still checking. 

Still him. 

Y/N pulled him back by the front of his shirt. 

The next kiss was not quiet. 

It was not out of control, but it was closer. Hotter. Honest in a way that made her knees feel unreliable. Harry’s hand returned to her waist, then flattened against the door beside her as if he needed somewhere to put the force of wanting her without turning it into pressure. 

Y/N noticed that too. 

She noticed everything with him. 

It was becoming a problem. 

She kissed him harder for it. 

Harry made another sound, low and caught in his throat, and she felt it everywhere. 

Outside the room, New York kept moving. 

Voices. Cases. Footsteps. The distant pulse of a building after a show. The world waiting to turn one photograph into a story, one headline into a certainty, one woman into a role she had never agreed to play. 

Inside, Harry broke the kiss slowly and rested his forehead against hers. 

Both of them were breathing too hard. 

Y/N’s fingers were still curled in his shirt. 

His thumb moved once at her waist, careful again, as if reminding both of them that careful still existed even here. 

“Still noise?” she whispered. 

Harry closed his eyes briefly. 

“Still noise.” 

“And this?” 

He opened his eyes. 

The answer took a second. 

Not because he did not know. 

Because it mattered. 

“This is ours.” 

Y/N looked at him. 

For once, she did not argue. 

She did not make a joke. 

She did not look away. 

She just nodded, barely, and let herself stay there, between the door and him, with the city shouting outside and his breath warm against her mouth. 

A moment that belonged to them. 

Somewhere behind the noise. 

Final extra of this story, time to say goodbye. Hope you liked it my first ever series!

Y/N had told herself, very firmly, that dinner at Harry’s house was not a big deal. 

It was dinner. 

Food. 

A table. 

Cutlery. 

Normal conversation. 

He had made that very clear in his message, which, if anything, made the whole thing worse, because men who clarified the presence of cutlery were usually either dangerous or trying very hard not to be. 

Harry, unfortunately, was both. 

Not dangerous in the obvious way. Not in the loud, careless, reckless way. He was dangerous because he listened. Because he remembered things. Because he had looked at her across a London street and said he would learn how to walk to her, and then apparently decided to follow that up with burgers, apartment hunting and what he had called “real estate judgement”. 

Y/N stood outside his house in North London, staring at the front of it. 

For a few seconds, she said nothing. 

Then she looked down at her phone, checked the address again, looked back at the house, and sighed. 

“Of course.” 

The house was beautiful in an offensively quiet way. Not flashy. Not golden gates and marble lions. Not the kind of place that screamed money. 

Worse. 

The kind that whispered it with excellent lighting, old brick, dark windows, a gate that looked simple until you realised simple probably cost more than her hotel stay, and a front door that seemed emotionally prepared to reject her bank account. 

Harry opened it before she had time to overthink knocking. 

He was wearing jeans and a soft, worn-looking jumper, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly messy, feet bare. Bare feet. In that house. As if the place did not require formal permission to exist. 

“Hi,” he said. 

Y/N looked at him. Then at the house. Then back at him. 

“I knew you were rich,” she said slowly, “but this feels unnecessary.” 

Harry leaned against the doorframe, mouth twitching. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” 

“Don’t. It was a complaint with architectural evidence.” 

He laughed, stepping aside. “Come in.” 

Y/N walked past him into the hallway and immediately hated that the house smelled good. Not perfume-good. Not hotel-good. Home-good. Warm wood, something clean, something faintly like coffee, something she could not name and did not want to name because naming it felt like giving it power. 

The entrance opened into a space that was too tasteful for her peace of mind. Warm lights. Wooden floors. Art on the walls that looked casual until she suspected it was worth more than a small car. A staircase. A ridiculous amount of calm. 

Y/N stopped. 

Harry closed the door behind her. 

She turned slowly, taking it in. 

“Do you live here or does a magazine borrow you occasionally for ambience?” 

Harry looked around as if trying to see the house through her eyes. 

“I do live here.” 

“Bold claim.” 

“I sleep here.” 

“That proves very little. Rich people can sleep in showrooms.” 

He smiled. “Would it help if I showed you the messier parts?” 

“Yes,” she said immediately. “I need emotional balance.” 

He looked pleased by that, which was irritating. 

“Kitchen first?” 

“Wait.” Y/N lifted a finger and narrowed her eyes at something near the window of the front room. “Are those the plants?” 

Harry froze. 

It was tiny. 

Almost unnoticeable. 

But she saw it. 

Of course she did. 

A cluster of plants sat near the window: one leafy thing that looked moderately alive, two succulents trying their best, and a cactus that seemed to be reconsidering its choices. 

Y/N walked towards them like a detective approaching a crime scene. 

Harry followed behind her. 

“Before you say anything—” 

“Oh, I’m going to say several things.” 

“They’re alive.” 

Y/N crouched slightly, studying the cactus. “Are they?” 

“They are.” 

“This one looks like it has seen things.” 

“It’s a cactus.” 

“It’s a traumatised cactus.” 

Harry crossed his arms. “Don’t judge me.” 

“I’m absolutely judging you. How are you almost killing a cactus?” 

“I am not almost killing it.” 

Y/N looked at him over her shoulder. 

Harry hesitated. 

“It had a difficult week.” 

“It’s a cactus, Harry. Its whole personality is survival.” 

“I watered it.” 

“That may have been the crime.” 

He looked offended. “I was trying to help.” 

“That’s what all botanical murderers say.” 

Harry pointed at the plant beside it. “That one’s doing well.” 

Y/N looked at the leafy plant. It did, admittedly, look decent. 

She straightened and gave him a solemn nod. 

“One survivor. Two witnesses. One cactus in emotional recovery.” 

Harry rubbed a hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh. 

“I invite you to dinner and you immediately investigate my plants.” 

“You invited me after admitting to a botanical murder charge. This is due diligence.” 

“Fair.” 

She looked back at the succulents. 

“Also, these are almost cacti-adjacent. You should be ashamed.” 

“They’re succulents.” 

“That’s not a defence. That’s a category.” 

Harry laughed then, properly, and the sound softened the house around them. 

Y/N hated that too. 

Not really. 

But enough. 

He led her into the kitchen, and she prepared herself for something too much. A chef. A table set like an award ceremony. Food with foam. Plates too large for the amount of food on them. 

Instead, there were burger buns on the counter, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, bowls of sauces, fries waiting to go into the oven, and a pan ready on the stove. 

Y/N stopped again. 

Harry watched her carefully. 

“I thought about cooking something impressive,” he admitted. 

“And then?” 

“Then I imagined your face if I served you something with foam on it.” 

“I would’ve left.” 

“Exactly.” He gestured to the counter. “So… burgers.” 

She looked at him. 

The annoying thing was that it worked. 

It worked because he had thought about it. Because he had not tried to impress her by making the night expensive or impossible to touch. He had made it simple because he knew simple would make her stay. 

Y/N put her bag down on one of the stools. 

“Homemade burgers?” 

“Attempted homemade burgers.” 

“Important distinction.” 

“I’m managing expectations.” 

“Good. I respect that.” 

Harry moved around the kitchen, opening the fridge and taking out a bottle of water. 

“Do you want wine? Water? Something else?” 

“Water is fine.” 

“You sure?” 

She gave him a look. 

He lifted one hand. “Water. Understood.” 

As he poured it, Y/N leaned against the counter and took in the kitchen. It was big, obviously. Too big for one person. Too beautiful to be practical. The kind of kitchen where even the knives looked like they had better career prospects than her. 

“You know,” she said, “if I had this kitchen, I’d probably still eat toast standing up.” 

Harry glanced at her. 

“Same.” 

“No, you wouldn’t.” 

“I have.” 

“That feels disrespectful to the architecture.” 

“It survived.” 

“Did the cactus?” 

Harry pointed at her with the bottle. “You’re not allowed to bring the cactus into every conversation.” 

“That sounds like something someone guilty would say.” 

He smiled as he handed her the glass. 

For a while, they cooked. Or assembled. Or pretended to cook while mainly arguing about the correct amount of sauce. 

Harry took it surprisingly seriously. 

Y/N took that as a personal invitation to be difficult. 

“That is too much mustard,” she announced. 

Harry looked down at the burger. “It’s not.” 

“It is.” 

“It’s balanced.” 

“That burger is asking for help.” 

“You’re very opinionated for someone who hasn’t tasted it.” 

“I don’t need to taste suffering to recognise it.” 

He stared at her. 

Then removed a little mustard with the edge of a knife. 

Y/N smiled. 

“Growth.” 

“I hate that word now.” 

“You should. It’s been used against you a lot.” 

They ate at the kitchen island instead of the dining table, because Harry said the dining table felt too formal and Y/N said she refused to sit somewhere that looked like it had hosted contracts. 

The burgers were good. Not perfect. Not restaurant-level. Better, somehow. The fries got slightly too crisp. Harry apologised. Y/N said she preferred them that way and then accused him of fishing for compliments. 

He did not deny it fast enough. 

After dinner, he disappeared into the next room and came back holding a LEGO box. 

Y/N stared. 

Harry held it out with both hands, almost ceremonially. 

It was a botanical set. A wildflower bouquet. 

Y/N looked from the box to him. 

“You bought us emotional support LEGO.” 

“I thought it was safer than emotional support wine.” 

“Barely.” 

“You like LEGO.” 

“I do.” 

“And flowers.” 

“I like flowers that survive.” 

Harry glanced towards the plants. 

Y/N pointed at him. “Don’t look at the cactus. It’s been through enough.” 

He laughed and put the box on the coffee table in the living room. 

The living room was warm and large and unfairly comfortable. A huge sofa faced a TV, shelves lined with books and records behind it. There were more strange pieces of art, a stack of magazines, a throw blanket that looked soft enough to ruin lives, and a low table now occupied by LEGO flowers, two glasses of water, and one laptop. 

Y/N sat at one end of the sofa. 

Harry sat at the other. 

There was space between them. 

A lot of it. 

An entire wealthy-person sofa of space. 

Still, somehow, it felt intimate. 

Maybe because they were both sitting barefoot now. Maybe because he had put Friends on mute in the background while they opened the LEGO bags. Maybe because there was something ridiculous about being in Harry’s house, after everything, sorting tiny green pieces into piles like two people with completely normal lives. 

“Okay,” Y/N said, picking up the instruction booklet. “We need a system.” 

Harry looked at her. “Of course we do.” 

“Don’t say that like I’m predictable.” 

“You are a little predictable.” 

“I will leave.” 

“You won’t. You want to build the flowers.” 

She narrowed her eyes. 

He smiled. 

“Annoying,” she muttered. 

“Accurate?” 

“Unfortunately.” 

They started building. Harry handled the first stem. Y/N took over sorting pieces and judging him. 

“You’re doing that wrong.” 

“I’m following the instructions.” 

“With fear.” 

“How does one build LEGO with fear?” 

“You’re doing it right now.” 

Harry looked at the stem in his hand. “It looks fine.” 

“It looks emotionally insecure.” 

“You say that about a lot of things.” 

“I’m usually right.” 

He handed her the piece. “Fine. You do it.” 

She took it and immediately realised he had, in fact, done it correctly. 

Harry watched her face. 

Y/N refused to give him the satisfaction. 

“Interesting,” she said. 

“What?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Was I right?” 

“No.” 

“Y/N.” 

“You were directionally acceptable.” 

Harry laughed. 

The laptop sat closed on the table for almost half an hour while they built. That felt like something. The fact that neither of them rushed into apartment searches or difficult topics. They just made plastic flowers in his enormous living room while Friends played silently on the TV and London moved outside the windows. 

Eventually, though, the reason for the evening returned. 

Y/N opened the laptop and pulled up the listings she had saved. 

Harry leaned closer from his side of the sofa, still holding half a flower. 

She noticed immediately. 

“Before you react, remember that normal people don’t have millionaire standards.” 

“I’ll try.” 

“No, you won’t.” 

“I said I’ll try.” 

She looked at him. 

He sighed. 

“I’ll do my best.” 

“Better.” 

The first studio appeared on the screen. 

Harry said nothing. 

Which was worse. 

Y/N looked at him. 

“What?” 

He leaned closer, frowning at the listing. 

“Y/N, this isn’t a studio. This is a hallway with plumbing.” 

“It has character.” 

“It has one window facing a brick wall.” 

“That wall could become very important to me.” 

“It has a bed two steps away from the oven.” 

“Convenient.” 

“It says ‘cosy’ four times. That’s a warning sign.” 

Y/N snatched the laptop slightly closer to herself. 

“You’re being dramatic.” 

“I’d rather give you the money than let you live in this.” 

Her head snapped up. 

“Harry.” 

He lifted both hands immediately. 

“I said I’d rather. I didn’t say I would.” 

“No. Don’t even think about it.” 

“I’m not thinking about it.” 

“Your face is thinking about it.” 

“My face is being unfairly monitored.” 

“Good. Someone has to control the millionaire instincts.” 

Harry tried not to smile. 

Y/N pointed at him. 

“I don’t need you to spend money on me.” 

“I know.” 

“I’m serious.” 

“I know you are.” 

“I can do this on my own.” 

“I know.” 

She narrowed her eyes. “Do you?” 

Harry looked at her properly then, softer but still light enough not to make it heavy. 

“Yes,” he said. “I do. You can do it on your own.” 

Y/N relaxed only slightly. 

“Good.” 

“I’m not offering to rescue you.” 

“You sounded dangerously close.” 

“I’m offering to judge terrible flats with you and maybe send one semi-normal email to someone who might know about studios.” 

“Semi-normal?” 

“It’s the best I can promise.” 

She watched him for a moment. 

“No secret payments.” 

“No secret payments.” 

“No calling some rich person and magically making rent disappear.” 

“No magical rent disappearance.” 

“No celebrity nonsense.” 

Harry hesitated. 

Y/N raised an eyebrow. 

He sighed. “Minimal celebrity nonsense.” 

“Harry.” 

“One email,” he corrected. “No money. No pressure. You decide everything.” 

She studied him for another second, then gave the laptop back. 

“Fine. You may send one semi-normal email.” 

Harry smiled. 

“Thank you.” 

“But if you accidentally buy me a building, I’m blocking you.” 

“That feels fair.” 

They went through more listings. 

It became a sport. 

A painful one. 

Harry pointed at one studio. “This one has the toilet next to the bed.” 

“That’s efficient.” 

“That’s criminal.” 

“You’re so dramatic.” 

“This is not drama. This is public safety.” 

Y/N clicked on another. “This one is cute.” 

“It has no oven.” 

“I can adapt.” 

“You deserve heat-based cooking.” 

“I have survived worse.” 

“I don’t like that sentence.” 

“You don’t need to like all my sentences.” 

Harry looked at her from the other end of the sofa. “I know.” 

Something quiet passed between them. 

Not heavy. 

Just present. 

Y/N looked back at the screen first. 

“Stop looking at me like you’re about to say something emotionally inconvenient.” 

“I wasn’t.” 

“You were.” 

“I was.” 

“I knew it.” 

Harry smiled and picked up another LEGO piece. 

They built between listings. A flower, a terrible flat. Another flower, a slightly less terrible flat. A debate about whether “compact” was a legal term or a threat. A discussion about how far from a Tube station was too far. Harry tried to explain neighbourhoods without sounding like a real estate agent. Y/N accused him of sounding like a man who had never had to calculate whether rent plus transport plus groceries would leave enough money for joy. 

He accepted the accusation. 

Then sent the semi-normal email. 

Y/N watched him do it. 

He noticed. 

“You’re supervising?” 

“Yes.” 

“I said no secret intervention.” 

“And I am verifying.” 

He turned the laptop slightly so she could see. 

The email was, annoyingly, normal. He asked someone he trusted whether they knew of any studios becoming available in a newer building, something reasonable, safe, with no pressure and no rush. He did not mention money. He did not mention paying. He did not sound like he was trying to move the world around her. 

Y/N read it twice. 

Then nodded. 

“Acceptable.” 

Harry clicked send. 

“High praise.” 

“Don’t get emotional.” 

“Too late.” 

She threw a small LEGO leaf at him. 

He caught it. 

Of course he did. 

Later, they moved the laptop aside and turned the volume up on Friends. Y/N claimed it was background noise. Harry said background noise did not usually require someone to gasp, quote lines under their breath, and aggressively judge fictional people they had watched five hundred times. 

She said he had no evidence. 

He had evidence. 

They ended up watching properly, though the LEGO bouquet still occupied most of the coffee table. At some point, without either of them making a decision out loud, they both shifted position. Y/N ended up lying on her stomach on one end of the sofa, elbows propped against a cushion, LEGO instructions spread in front of her. Harry mirrored her from the other side, also on his stomach, facing her with a half-built flower between them. 

It should not have felt intimate. 

It was LEGO. 

It was Friends. 

It was a sofa large enough to host a small committee. 

Still, there was something about being face to face like that, feet in opposite directions, heads close enough over the instruction booklet that their hands kept reaching for the same pieces, that made the room feel smaller. 

Harry picked up a tiny green piece. 

Y/N pointed at the booklet. 

“No, not that one.” 

He looked down. 

“It looks exactly like that one.” 

“It absolutely does not.” 

“It’s green.” 

“Incredible observation.” 

“And small.” 

“Groundbreaking.” 

Harry looked at her over the top of the LEGO flower. 

“You’re very bossy during botanical construction.” 

“I’m protecting the flowers from your history.” 

“My history is being exaggerated.” 

“The cactus would disagree.” 

“The cactus is not part of this conversation.” 

“The cactus is always part of this conversation.” 

Harry laughed and reached for the correct piece. His fingers brushed hers for half a second. Neither of them mentioned it. Both of them noticed. 

On the TV, Chandler made a joke, and Y/N laughed before the punchline even landed. 

Harry watched her for a second. 

“What?” she asked, still smiling. 

“You’re Chandler.” 

Y/N turned her head slowly. 

“I’m sorry?” 

“You make jokes when you’re uncomfortable. You use sarcasm as a life jacket. You change the subject when things get too sincere.” 

She stared at him. 

“That is rude.” 

“It’s accurate.” 

“I am not Chandler.” 

“You’re a little Chandler.” 

“I’m Phoebe.” 

Harry blinked. 

Y/N lifted her chin. “I am spiritually Phoebe.” 

“You do have Phoebe moments.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Honest. Unpredictable. Slightly terrifying.” 

“Excellent.” 

“But emotionally?” Harry tilted his head, trying not to smile. “Chandler.” 

Y/N pointed the LEGO stem at him like a weapon. 

“Careful.” 

He rested his chin on his forearm, still watching her. 

“You asked.” 

“I did not.” 

“You implied.” 

“I implied nothing.” 

“You breathed near the topic.” 

“That is not consent for character analysis.” 

Harry laughed, and the movement made the sofa shift slightly beneath them. 

Y/N looked at the screen, then back at him, and suddenly smiled in a way that made him suspicious. 

“You’re not Chandler either,” she said. 

“No?” 

“No.” She pointed at him with a piece of LEGO still between her fingers. “You’re Ross.” 

Harry looked personally wounded. 

“Take that back.” 

“No.” 

“Y/N.” 

“You have the emotional spirals, the failed engagement, the dramatic pauses…” 

“That is incredibly unfair.” 

“And if life really wanted to complete the Ross storyline, your ex could leave you for a woman too.” 

Harry froze for half a second. 

Then he stared at her. 

“We never got married.” 

Y/N shrugged. “You were one ceremony away from becoming a full sitcom plot.” 

Harry dropped his forehead onto his arm, laughing into the cushion. 

“That was terrible.” 

“That was accurate.” 

“It was cruel.” 

“It was educational.” 

He lifted his head and looked at her, still smiling, cheeks faintly flushed from laughing. 

“Zoë would’ve laughed at that.” 

Y/N softened a little. 

“Good. I’m not trying to be mean.” 

“I know,” Harry said. “You’re just trying to ruin Friends for me.” 

“Exactly.” 

He reached for a LEGO piece and missed it because he was still looking at her. 

She noticed immediately. 

“Focus, Ross.” 

Harry groaned. 

“That cannot stay.” 

“It absolutely can.” 

“I regret this evening.” 

“No, you don’t.” 

He looked at her, chin still resting on his arm, eyes warm and tired and very much there. 

“No,” he admitted. “I don’t.” 

The words landed gently. 

Too gently. 

Y/N looked back at the LEGO instructions before they could become something else. 

“Good,” she said, handing him the correct piece. “Because you still have two flowers and a cactus apology tour to complete.” 

Harry smiled and took the piece from her. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

They watched another episode. Then another. The LEGO bouquet grew slowly on the coffee table, uneven but beautiful. The laptop remained open somewhere between them, still displaying a listing neither of them had the energy to judge. Their water glasses were empty. The burger plates had long since been taken to the kitchen. The house had settled into a quiet warmth that made time feel less strict. 

At some point, Y/N yawned. 

Harry noticed. 

“Do you want me to call you a car?” 

She blinked at the TV, then at the clock on the wall. 

“Oh.” 

It was late. 

Much later than she had realised. 

“That happened aggressively,” she said. 

“Time?” 

“Yes.” 

“It does that.” 

“Uncalled for.” 

Harry looked at her for a moment, then sat up slightly. 

“You can stay here, if you want.” 

Y/N’s head turned so fast he lifted both hands. 

“No. Wait. Not like that.” 

“Harry.” 

“I know. I heard it.” He shook his head quickly. “I have guest rooms. Three, actually. Four if you count the room with the terrifying chair.” 

She stared at him. 

“You have a room with a terrifying chair?” 

“It came with the house emotionally.” 

“That explains nothing.” 

“It explains the chair.” 

She narrowed her eyes. 

Harry’s expression softened. “It’s late. You’re tired. I can still call you a car. I will, if you want. But you can also take a guest room. Door closes. No weirdness. No pressure.” 

Y/N looked at him. 

He was serious. 

Not tense. 

Not expectant. 

Just offering. 

A choice. 

Again. 

She hated how good he was getting at that. 

“I’m choosing the least rich-looking guest room,” she said. 

Harry’s mouth twitched. 

“That might be difficult.” 

“Don’t be proud of that.” 

“I’m trying not to be.” 

“You’re failing quietly.” 

He stood and gestured for her to follow. “Come on. I’ll show you the options.” 

The options, unfortunately, were all too nice. 

One had a view of the garden. One had soft blue walls. One had shelves full of books. The fourth did, in fact, contain a chair that looked like it had been designed by someone with unresolved emotional issues. 

Y/N stopped in front of it. 

“That chair has secrets.” 

“I warned you.” 

“It looks like it knows where bodies are buried.” 

“It’s comfortable.” 

“That makes it worse.” 

She chose the room with the books. 

Harry stood at the doorway while she looked around. A bed made perfectly. A lamp with warm light. A small desk. A window facing the dark shape of the garden. It was simple compared to the rest of the house, but still nicer than any hotel room she had stayed in. 

“There are towels in the bathroom,” Harry said. “Toothbrushes in the drawer. New ones,” he added quickly. 

“I assumed you weren’t handing me a used toothbrush.” 

“I panicked.” 

“I noticed.” 

He smiled, then glanced down the hallway. 

“I’ll be downstairs for a bit. Then my room is on the other side of the house, so…” He stopped. “That sounded weirdly like a property tour.” 

“It did.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Apology accepted.” 

Harry glanced into the room, then back at her. 

“Do you want something more comfortable to sleep in?” 

Y/N looked down at her clothes, suddenly remembering she had not exactly planned to stay the night in Harry Styles’ guest room after judging London rent prices and accusing his cactus of emotional distress. 

“I’m fine.” 

Harry gave her a look. 

She narrowed her eyes. 

“What?” 

“That was a lie.” 

“It was a polite survival response.” 

“It sounded uncomfortable.” 

“You sound rich.” 

He smiled faintly, then stepped back from the doorway. “Wait here.” 

“Harry.” 

“No money. No rescue. Just cotton.” 

Y/N opened her mouth, then closed it, because that was unfortunately difficult to argue with. 

He disappeared down the hallway and returned less than a minute later with a folded T-shirt in his hands. It was plain, soft-looking, and clearly his. Not new. Not offered like a gesture. Just handed to her quietly, as if he already knew that making it too meaningful would make her panic. 

“It’s clean,” he said. 

“I assumed you weren’t giving me emotional laundry.” 

“I’ve panicked about toothbrushes tonight. I’m clarifying everything now.” 

Y/N took the T-shirt from him. The cotton was soft between her fingers, worn in the way only favourite clothes were. She tried very hard not to think about that. 

“Is this going to fit me or am I about to be swallowed by celebrity fabric?” 

Harry’s mouth twitched. 

“It might be a bit long.” 

“Good. I’m accepting only respectable guest-room fashion.” 

“It’ll probably look like a dress on you.” 

Y/N looked at him. 

Harry immediately looked away. 

“Not in a weird way.” 

“Your face is fighting for its life.” 

“My face would like to be excused from this conversation.” 

She held the T-shirt against her chest, trying not to smile too much. 

“Thank you.” 

His expression softened. 

“You’re welcome.” 

For a second, neither of them moved. It would have been easy, dangerously easy, for the silence to become something else. 

Harry stepped back first. 

“Good night, Y/N.” 

She nodded, quieter now. 

“Good night, Harry.” 

Only after he disappeared down the hallway did she close the door. 

Y/N stood in the middle of the guest room with his T-shirt in her hands for a long moment before changing. It was, as promised, far too big. The hem fell low on her thighs, almost like a dress, the sleeves loose around her arms. She caught her reflection in the mirror and immediately looked away, because something about wearing his clothes in his house felt much more intimate than she had emotionally prepared for. 

She brushed her teeth with the new toothbrush from the drawer, washed her face, and tried very hard to act like this was normal. 

It was not normal. 

Nothing about this was normal. 

But when she slipped under the covers, the cotton moved with her, and there it was. 

His cologne. 

Not strong. Not deliberate. Just caught in the fabric, hidden in the softness of the T-shirt. Warm, clean, familiar in a way it had no right to be after so little time. 

Y/N closed her eyes. 

The room was quiet. The house was quiet. Somewhere far away, maybe downstairs, Harry existed in the same silence, giving her space, not asking for anything, not turning the night into something it wasn’t ready to be. 

She hugged the blanket closer, but it was the T-shirt that surrounded her. 

His scent. 

His house. 

His ridiculous plants. 

His almost-dead cactus. 

His careful hands leaving the choice with her over and over again. 

For the first time in years, happiness did not arrive like excitement. It did not rush into her chest or make her want to prove it to anyone. It settled quietly, almost shyly, like something afraid of being noticed too soon. 

But it was there. 

Real. 

A small, warm thing beneath her ribs. 

Y/N thought about the way he had made burgers instead of something fancy because he knew she would hate being impressed on purpose. She thought about him buying LEGO flowers because he remembered. About him asking before reading the message about the studio. About the way he said, You’re you, and that is more than enough. 

She pressed her face lightly into the sleeve of the T-shirt and smiled before she could stop herself. 

“Terrible,” she whispered into the dark. 

But she was still smiling. 

Her last thought before sleep was not of Wembley, or the route, or the hotel reception, or even London waiting outside. 

It was of Harry in the kitchen, barefoot and laughing, trying to defend a traumatised cactus from prosecution. 

Y/N fell asleep with a smile on her face. 

In the morning, Y/N woke earlier than expected. 

For a few seconds, she forgot where she was. 

Then she saw the unfamiliar room, the bookshelves, the window, the soft grey morning beyond it, and remembered. 

Harry’s house. 

Guest room. 

Dinner. 

LEGO. 

Rent prices. 

Ross. 

She pressed a hand over her face. 

“Oh my God.” 

Not in a bad way. 

Not exactly. 

In a my life has become deeply strange and I need a responsible adult but unfortunately I am the adult way. 

She got dressed quietly and went downstairs, intending to be useful. That was the only reasonable response to sleeping in a house that looked like it had its own postcode. Be useful. Make breakfast. Prove she had not arrived as some helpless guest needing care. 

The kitchen was empty. 

Y/N smiled. 

Perfect. 

She found bread. Eggs. Fruit. Coffee. A pan. She moved around carefully, trying not to disturb anything or accidentally break an object worth more than her future apartment. 

The coffee machine looked intimidating. 

She stared at it. 

It stared back. 

“No,” she decided. “I’m not fighting you.” 

She made tea instead. 

Much safer. 

She was halfway through attempting scrambled eggs when she heard the front door open. 

Y/N looked up. 

Harry appeared in the kitchen doorway wearing running clothes, hair damp, cheeks flushed, skin shining with sweat, breathing still slightly uneven. 

She stared at him. 

He stared back. 

“Good morning,” he said. 

Y/N pointed the spatula at him. 

“You weren’t asleep?” 

Harry looked down at himself. 

“No.” 

“You went running?” 

“Yes.” 

“At this hour?” 

“It’s morning.” 

“That’s not an explanation. That’s a time of day.” 

He laughed, walking in and grabbing a glass of water. 

Y/N watched him drink half of it. 

“You know,” she said, “for someone who keeps telling me to stop running emotionally, you do a lot of literal running.” 

Harry lowered the glass. 

Then pointed at her. 

“That was unnecessary.” 

“Educational.” 

“Cruel.” 

“Growth.” 

He shook his head, but he was smiling. 

Then he looked towards the pan. 

“Are you making breakfast?” 

“I was attempting breakfast.” 

“Do you need help?” 

“No.” 

Harry looked at the eggs. 

Y/N looked at him. 

He wisely said nothing. 

“Careful,” she warned. 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“Your face did.” 

“My face really suffers in this house.” 

“Your face has a lot of opinions.” 

Harry walked closer, still keeping enough distance not to crowd her. 

“It smells good.” 

“That was diplomatic.” 

“It was true.” 

“You’re improving.” 

“I’m doing.” 

She smiled despite herself and turned back to the pan. 

Harry went upstairs to shower while she finished breakfast. By the time he came back down in clean clothes, hair wet at the ends, she had managed toast, eggs, fruit, tea, and coffee she had eventually made after losing a silent psychological battle with the machine. 

They ate at the kitchen island again. 

Morning softened everything. The house looked less intimidating in daylight. The garden beyond the windows was pale and green. The cactus, visible from the kitchen if Y/N leaned slightly, was still alive. 

Barely. 

But alive. 

“So,” Harry said, picking up his mug. “The plant survived the night.” 

“The cactus survived out of spite.” 

“Still counts.” 

“For now.” 

He smiled into his coffee. 

Y/N looked at him across the island. 

There was something strange about morning. 

Night could be excused. Night made things blurry. Night made emotional conversations easier and bad decisions easier and almost everything feel like it belonged to a world outside consequence. 

Morning did not do that. 

Morning was honest. 

And somehow, sitting across from Harry with toast crumbs between them and his hair still damp from a shower, Y/N did not feel like running. 

That was dangerous information. 

His phone vibrated on the counter. 

Harry glanced at it, then looked at her. 

“What?” 

“It’s about the studios.” 

Y/N’s stomach flipped. 

Harry did not pick up the phone immediately. 

Instead, he asked, “Do you want to know?” 

She paused. 

That question mattered more than it should have. 

Because he could have read it. Could have assumed. Could have taken the lead without noticing he had stepped ahead of her. 

But he asked. 

Y/N nodded. “Yes.” 

Harry picked up the phone and opened the message. 

His eyes moved over the screen. 

“Well?” 

He looked up. “My friend knows someone involved with a newer building. North-east, not central. Studios, small but apparently decent. Some furnished. Not cheap, because London is personally committed to violence, but not insane.” 

Y/N’s heart started doing something inconvenient. 

“Available?” 

“Maybe one next month. They can send details. You’d have to apply properly. References, deposit, all that. No shortcuts.” 

“Good.” 

“I told him no shortcuts.” 

She looked at him. 

Harry held her gaze. 

“No money. No pressure. No magical rent disappearance.” 

Y/N’s mouth softened despite herself. 

“Thank you.” 

“For helping?” 

“For helping,” she said. “Not rescuing.” 

Harry’s expression changed. Not much. Just enough. 

“I’m learning the difference.” 

Y/N lifted an eyebrow. 

He corrected himself before she could. 

“I’m doing.” 

She smiled. 

“There he is.” 

His phone vibrated again. 

Harry read the next message, then turned the screen slightly towards her. “They can send pictures today, if you want.” 

Y/N tried to keep her face neutral. 

Harry watched her. 

“You’re doing the thing.” 

“What thing?” 

“The thing where you pretend not to want something because wanting it makes it real.” 

She stared at him. 

“I hate that you’re learning.” 

He smiled. 

“I’m doing.” 

Y/N looked at the phone again. 

A studio. 

A real one. 

Maybe. 

Not because Harry was buying her a life. 

Because she had said out loud that she wanted one, and now a possible door existed. 

She swallowed. 

“Tell them to send the pictures.” 

Harry nodded once and typed back. 

Y/N looked down at her plate. 

Her eggs were slightly overcooked. 

The toast was uneven. 

The coffee was too strong. 

The cactus was still fighting for its life. 

The LEGO bouquet sat unfinished in the living room. 

Harry’s house was still too big. 

His world was still too much. 

Her life was still not magically sorted. 

But there was a quiet morning between them. 

Breakfast. 

A possible apartment. 

A man learning not to rescue her. 

A woman learning that accepting help did not have to mean surrendering independence. 

Harry put his phone down. 

“Done.” 

Y/N nodded. 

“Good.” 

He looked at her. “You okay?” 

She thought about lying. 

Then didn’t. 

“I think I’m scared.” 

Harry’s face softened. 

“Of the studio?” 

“Of wanting the studio.” 

He nodded slowly. 

“That makes sense.” 

“It’s annoying.” 

“That too.” 

She looked at him. 

He smiled faintly. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” Y/N said. 

“Your face is thinking something.” 

She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t use my own methods against me.” 

“I’m learning from the best.” 

“Highly uncertified.” 

“Still the best.” 

She looked away before that could get to her. 

Too late. 

Harry reached for his coffee. 

Y/N glanced towards the living room, where the LEGO flowers waited unfinished. 

“We should finish the bouquet before I leave.” 

Harry looked pleased. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yes. I can’t leave emotional support LEGO unfinished in a house with plant trauma. It sends the wrong message.” 

“Of course.” 

“And then you’re watering the cactus under supervision.” 

Harry paused. 

“I thought we were taking things slow.” 

Y/N smiled into her tea. 

“We are. But the cactus may not have that kind of time.” 

Harry laughed. 

Real. 

Warm. 

His. 

And Y/N, sitting in his too-large kitchen with London waiting somewhere beyond the windows, realised the scariest part was not the house. Not the money. Not the difference between their worlds. 

It was the fact that he was listening. 

Not perfectly. 

Not magically. 

But carefully. 

For three days, Harry didn’t appear. And Y/N hated admitting she counted. Not dramatically. Not with her phone in her hand every five minutes. Not glued to the hotel window like a side character in an overly intense adaptation of a romance she would pretend not to read. 

But she counted. 

On the first morning, she woke up and did not think of him. For almost seven seconds. Then she saw the note on the bedside table, folded beside the green notebook, and immediately hated herself for the way her chest tightened. 

She didn’t open it again. She had already read it too many times. 

I’m not going to show up today. 

Not because I don’t want to. 

Because I’m trying to learn not to turn you into the place I run to after doing something difficult. 

It was a good note. 

Annoyingly good. Mature, even. Which made it much harder to resent. 

Y/N sat on the edge of the bed, staring at it as if the paper had personally inconvenienced her. 

“You’re very evolved for a man who keeps leaving emotional stationery at reception,” she muttered. 

The note, naturally, had nothing to say for itself. So she got dressed. She went out. She lived London. Or tried to. 

It was easier in theory. 

London had always been one of those places that existed in her head before it existed in front of her. A city made of old music videos, concert clips, rainy interviews, films watched too many times, bookshop windows, red buses, ridiculous rent prices she had once looked up for fun and then closed immediately for mental health reasons. 

When she was younger, London had felt like a symbol. Not of perfection. Never that. More of scale. Like proof that a life could be bigger than the one people expected you to fit into. She had never known what she would do with that feeling. So she had done nothing. Which, she was beginning to realise, was a decision too. 

A very boring one. 

The first day, she walked until her feet hurt. She stopped for coffee near a window and watched people pass with tote bags, headphones, flowers, suitcases, office clothes, dogs, bad moods, and lives that seemed both completely ordinary and impossibly far from hers. 

She opened the green notebook. For a while, she wrote nothing. 

Then, slowly: 

Today he didn’t come. 

She stared at the sentence. 

Added: 

And I’m trying not to make that mean more than it does. 

Then crossed out trying. Because, apparently, one emotionally complicated man had ruined the word for her. 

She rewrote it. 

And I’m not making that mean more than it does. 

It looked much more confident than she felt. Still. Better. 

On the second day, she went back into central London with less of a plan and more of a challenge. She wanted to prove she could be there without turning every corner into a possible scene. 

Without imagining Harry walking towards her. 

Without checking every tall man in a cap like some kind of deranged detective with romantic trauma and sore calves. 

She lasted almost an hour. Which, honestly, she considered progress. 

She went to Covent Garden and watched a street performer balance on something that looked both unsafe and financially questionable. She laughed when everyone clapped too early and the performer looked offended in five different languages without saying a word. 

She found a small bookshop and spent twenty minutes in the notebook section despite already owning one. 

“No,” she whispered to herself. “You already have an emotional commitment to a green notebook.” 

A woman beside her looked over. Y/N pretended to cough. She left without buying anything. A triumph. She entered a perfume shop and left with a headache, which felt deeply on brand. Then she opened rental websites on her phone. 

Closed them immediately. 

Opened them again. 

Closed them again when the prices made her stare at the sky as if God, the British economy and every London landlord owed her a formal written apology. 

“Okay,” she muttered. “Maybe I’ll start by dreaming of a shared studio with three ghosts, a toaster, and a window that faces emotional damage.” 

But she kept looking. Rooms. Jobs. Transport. Neighbourhoods. Courses. Coffee shops near Tube stations. 

Little practical details that, together, began to look dangerously like a life. That was the part that scared her. 

Not Harry. 

Harry was improbable. 

Harry was a story she would never have believed if someone else had told it to her. 

London, somehow, felt possible. Difficult. Expensive. Terrifying. Too much. 

But possible. And maybe that was why it unsettled her so much. 

By the third day, she had stopped checking the reception desk every time she came back to the hotel. Mostly. Almost. Enough to lie to herself about it. 

She had lunch alone and didn’t feel lonely the whole time. She took pictures of streets that looked too ordinary to be beautiful and decided they were beautiful anyway. She saved three room listings she could not afford and one she maybe could if she gave up joy, heating, and financial stability. 

Then she sat in a café near the hotel, eating toast that had been buttered with the kind of care one might give to an enemy, and wrote: 

Grown woman counts days since emotionally complicated man did not appear. More news at eleven. 

She looked at the sentence. 

Smiled into her cup. 

At least she still had a sense of humour. 

That seemed important. 

Harry not showing up, this time, hadn’t been abandonment. She knew that. His note had been clear. He didn’t want to turn her into the place he ran to after doing something difficult. And Y/N respected that. 

Even when she didn’t like it. 

Even when a less dignified part of her wanted him to be less evolved and more impulsive. 

Which was awful. 

And human. 

And, unfortunately, very her. 

So she kept doing what she had promised herself. She lived London. Not as a tourist trying to tick places off a list, but as someone testing a possibility. As someone asking a dangerous question. 

What if? 

What if she came back? 

Not for a concert. 

Not for a route. 

Not for him. 

For herself. 

The thought had started as a spark. 

By the afternoon of the third day, it had become a thing she could not quite put down. 

Y/N returned to the hotel with aching feet, a half-empty bottle of water in her bag, and a notebook full of sentences that were no longer all about him. 

That felt like an achievement. Small. But real. 

The receptionist looked up when she walked in. 

Y/N automatically prepared herself for an envelope. 

Seriously. 

Her body had developed a Pavlovian response to hotel receptions. But there was no envelope. 

Only the receptionist with a slightly different smile. 

“Y/N?” 

She stopped. 

“Yes?” 

“Someone is waiting for you in the lobby,” the girl explained, choosing her words carefully. “He said he only wanted me to let you know. If you don’t want to come down, he’ll leave.” 

Y/N’s heart did that ridiculous thing. 

Again: heart first, common sense second. 

She looked towards the lobby. 

And saw him. 

Harry was sitting in an armchair away from the centre of the room, dark cap, simple T-shirt, sunglasses in his hand. No show. No visible team. No flowers. No gummies. No envelope. 

Just him. 

Waiting. 

But this time, with permission. Y/N stood still for a few seconds. He saw her. He didn’t stand right away. Didn’t wave. Didn’t try to force the scene into happening. He simply waited. The decision was hers. Y/N drew in a breath. 

“It’s okay,” she told the receptionist. 

Then she walked over to him. 

Harry stood when she approached. 

“Hi,” he greeted. 

His voice was careful. Not fragile. Careful. 

Like he had learned that the space between them was not something to rush into just because he wanted to. 

Y/N looked at his hands. Then his pocket. Then the table beside him. Harry followed her gaze and understood before she said anything. 

“No envelope.” 

“I’m shocked,” she commented. 

“I’m trying to grow.” 

“Dangerous.” 

“I’ve heard that.” 

Y/N crossed her arms, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her. 

“And no gummies either?” 

Harry slipped a hand into his pocket. 

Y/N immediately pointed a finger at him. 

“No.” 

He stopped at once. 

“You haven’t even seen what it is.” 

“If it’s a gummy, I’m calling security.” 

“Technically, there’s already security.” 

“Then I’m calling security on you.” 

Harry smiled. 

For the first time since she saw him, the smile looked tired, but not lost. That did something to her. 

“Do you want to take a walk?” he asked. “Or I can leave. Really.” 

Y/N studied him. 

He looked different. Not dramatically. Not as if one conversation, one broken engagement and a crushed gummy had somehow cured him. 

But there was something less scattered about him. Less divided. As if some part of him had finally returned home. 

“A walk,” she accepted. “But no route.” 

Harry nodded. 

“No route.” 

They left the hotel and stepped into the late afternoon. 

London was warm, restless and busy in that way it always seemed to be, as though everyone was late for something even when they had nowhere to be. Cars moved slowly. People crossed at the wrong times. Someone dragged a suitcase over uneven pavement with the kind of determination that deserved its own soundtrack. 

For the first few minutes, they talked about small things. 

Traffic. 

The terrible coffee Harry had drunk that morning. 

The fact that Y/N had seen another perfume shop and stood outside for almost two full minutes battling her own nature. 

“And did you go in?” he asked. 

“No.” 

Harry looked genuinely impressed. 

“Wow.” 

Y/N straightened with fake pride. 

“Thank you. I’m accepting applause.” 

“Major personal growth,” Harry remarked. 

“I almost cried.” 

“I believe you.” 

“Don’t mock me,” she warned. “It was a battle.” 

Harry looked at her with exaggerated seriousness. 

“I’m proud.” 

Y/N turned her head to him. 

“You’re saying that with far too much sincerity for a conversation about perfume.” 

“I take your victories very seriously.” 

She rolled her eyes. 

“That should be annoying.” 

Harry tilted his head slightly. 

“And is it?” 

“A little.” 

“Only a little?” 

“Don’t push it.” 

He smiled. The lightness stayed between them for a few steps. Then, as always happened, the truth approached slowly. 

Y/N was the first to glance at him. 

“Are you okay?” 

Harry let out a short breath. 

“No.” 

She nodded, almost satisfied. 

“Good answer.” 

He looked at her. 

“Was it?” 

“It was honest.” 

“Wild concept,” Harry murmured. 

“Truly. Should be in a manual.” 

He let out a small laugh. 

Then grew serious. 

“I talked to Zoë.” 

Y/N looked ahead. The name entered the air with the weight it would always have. Not because Zoë was there. Not because Y/N knew her. But because another person’s pain was not a detail. It was not something they could step around like a crack in the pavement. 

“And?” Y/N asked. 

“And it was awful,” Harry admitted. 

“I can imagine.” 

Harry shook his head. 

“No. I mean, yes. But I don’t think you can really imagine it until you’re in it. There wasn’t shouting. There wasn’t a huge scene. That might have been easier.” 

Y/N listened in silence. 

He continued carefully, eyes on the street ahead: 

“She already knew something was wrong. Not everything. Not you. But she knew I wasn’t there the way I should’ve been.” 

Y/N’s throat tightened slightly. 

“Did she ask about me?” 

“Yes.” 

Y/N closed her eyes for a moment. 

Harry looked at her. 

“I didn’t put you at the centre,” he stated. 

She opened her eyes. 

“Thank you.” 

“I told the truth. That I met someone who made me realise things. But I told her this didn’t start with you.” 

Y/N drew in a breath. 

“Did she believe you?” 

Harry took a while to answer. 

“I don’t know if that matters right now. Not in the sense of making me feel better.” His jaw tightened slightly. “She’s hurt. She has every right to be.” 

Y/N nodded. 

“You’re right.” 

“We’re… separated,” he said, the word coming slowly. “The engagement is over. But it isn’t clean. It isn’t simple. It isn’t something you close with one sentence.” 

Y/N felt a strange tightening in her chest. 

It wasn’t joy. 

It wasn’t pure relief. 

It was something more complicated, with guilt, tenderness, fear and a very quiet possibility mixed in. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. 

Harry looked at her. 

Y/N shrugged. 

“I don’t know if that’s the right thing to say.” 

“It is.” 

“I didn’t want someone to get hurt.” 

“I know.” 

“But she did.” 

“Yes.” 

“And so did you.” 

Harry nodded. 

“Yes.” 

She looked at him seriously. 

“And that can’t become something beautiful just because you’re here now.” 

“I know.” 

“Good. Just checking.” 

The corner of his mouth moved. 

“You’re still hard on me.” 

“And you still need it.” 

Harry’s smile appeared slowly. 

“Probably.” 

They kept walking. 

A bus passed too close to the curb. A group of girls walked by laughing at something on a phone. A man in a suit rushed past them carrying flowers and looking terrified, which Y/N privately decided meant either romance or apology. 

Maybe both. Harry’s pace matched hers. Not pushing. Not leading. Just there. That was new too. 

“Did you want to come sooner?” Y/N asked after a while. 

Harry looked at her. 

“Yes.” 

The answer came without decoration. 

Y/N swallowed. 

“But you didn’t.” 

“No.” 

“Why?” 

He took a second. 

“Because I realised wanting to see you wasn’t the same as having the right to.” 

She looked away. That was annoyingly good. Again. 

“You’re getting dangerous with these emotionally responsible answers.” 

“I’ve been practising.” 

“With who?” 

“My ceiling.” 

Y/N laughed despite herself. 

“Poor ceiling.” 

“It’s heard a lot.” 

“I hope you thanked it for its service.” 

“I’ll leave a note.” 

She looked at him immediately. 

“Absolutely not.” 

Harry smiled properly then. 

Only for a second. 

But it was there. 

The laughter faded naturally, not because it wasn’t welcome, but because neither of them could stay away from the centre of it for very long. 

Harry looked down at the pavement. 

“I wrote to you three times.” 

Y/N turned her head. 

“You did?” 

“Not sent,” he clarified. “Just wrote. Tore them up.” 

“Why?” 

“Because the first one was me trying to sound fine.” 

“Terrible start.” 

“Exactly.” He exhaled. “The second one was me trying to sound noble.” 

“Worse.” 

“Agreed.” 

“And the third?” 

Harry glanced at her. 

“The third was me asking if I could see you.” 

Y/N felt the words settle somewhere under her ribs. 

“But you didn’t send it.” 

“No.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I couldn’t tell if I wanted to see you because I was ready, or because I was lonely.” 

Y/N looked at him for a long moment. There were plenty of things she could have said. A joke would have been easiest. Something about emotional audits or men being allergic to solitude. But he had told her the truth. So she gave him one back. 

“That was probably the right choice.” 

Harry nodded, though it clearly cost him something. 

“I know.” 

“And I hated it a little,” she added. 

His eyes lifted to hers. 

Y/N looked ahead, pretending the street had suddenly become fascinating. 

“I’m mature, not dead.” 

A breath of laughter left him. 

“Good to know.” 

“Don’t get used to it.” 

“Your maturity?” 

“My honesty.” 

“Too late.” 

She rolled her eyes. 

But she was smiling. 

They passed a quieter street with trees and restaurants, people seated outside with glasses of wine, couples leaning too close, friends laughing too loudly, cutlery hitting plates. London seemed ready to begin another story before the last one had finished. 

Y/N tightened her grip on her bag strap. 

“I have something to tell you too.” 

Harry turned his head to her. 

“Okay.” 

She pointed at him immediately. 

“Don’t make a weird face.” 

“I haven’t started.” 

“You started internally.” 

Harry blinked, amused. 

“That’s a very difficult accusation to prove.” 

“I’ve known you for a few days and unfortunately I already know when you’re about to make a face.” 

He tried not to smile. 

“Okay. I’ll control my face.” 

“Thank you.” 

Y/N took a breath. 

“I’m thinking about starting a life in London.” 

Harry stopped for half a second. Not enough to be dramatic. But enough for her to see. 

“No,” she said immediately. 

He blinked. 

“No what?” 

“Don’t make that face.” 

“I’m controlling my face.” 

“You’re controlling it badly.” She pointed at him again. “And before your world-famous ego starts writing internal speeches, this has nothing to do with you.” 

Harry opened his mouth. 

Closed it. 

“I didn’t even say anything.” 

“You said it with your eyebrows.” 

“My eyebrows are innocent,” he defended. 

“Your eyebrows thought they had just influenced migratory decisions.” 

Harry laughed. 

Y/N tried to remain serious, but failed. 

“I’m serious.” 

“I know.” 

“London existed before you, you know.” 

“I have a vague idea.” 

“Good. Just so you don’t develop an emotional Big Ben complex.” 

Harry let out a real laugh. A few people looked over. He lowered his head, still smiling. 

“Emotional Big Ben?” 

“Yes,” Y/N confirmed. “Big, loud, and convinced the whole city revolves around him.” 

“That was offensive.” 

“It was necessary.” 

“Cruel.” 

“Educational.” 

Harry looked at her, still amused, but his eyes had softened. 

Y/N looked away towards the street. 

“London has always called to me. Since I was younger. I don’t know how to explain it. There was something here that felt… bigger. Not perfect. Just bigger.” She paused, searching for the right words. “I think I always had that slightly ridiculous fantasy of living here one day. Not in a glamorous way. Not like I’d arrive and suddenly become someone with perfect coats and emotional stability.” 

Harry made a small sound. 

Y/N pointed at him without looking. 

“Don’t laugh.” 

“I’m not.” 

“You are internally.” 

“I’m controlling my face.” 

“Barely.” 

He pressed his lips together. 

She continued: 

“I just always imagined there would be a version of me here. Somewhere. A version who didn’t feel like she had to explain why she wanted more. A version who could walk into places alone and not feel like she was waiting for someone to make it legitimate.” 

Harry didn’t interrupt. That helped. Y/N had not realised how much silence could help until him. Not the empty kind. The kind that stayed. 

“I think I stopped taking it seriously because it sounded childish,” she admitted. “Like one of those things you say when you’re younger because the world still looks possible from a distance. And then you grow up and start calling everything that scares you reality.” 

Harry looked at her, but didn’t say anything. 

She glanced at him, then back at the street. 

“And these days made me think. Not because of you. Or at least, not only because of you. More because I realised I’ve also spent too long waiting for life to give me some kind of permission.” 

The words became quieter, but steadier. 

“Maybe I need to make decisions too. Take charge of my life. Choose something because I want it, not because it’s easy to explain to everyone else.” 

Harry stayed quiet for a few seconds. 

Then he said: 

“I’m happy.” 

Y/N narrowed her eyes. 

“Because I’d be closer?” 

“Also.” 

She raised her brows. 

Harry lifted both hands, surrendering. 

“I’m being honest.” 

“Dangerous.” 

“But not only because of that,” he added. “I’m happy because you’re choosing something of your own. Even if I weren’t here, I’d like knowing you chose.” 

Y/N looked at him. The answer was annoyingly good. Worse, it sounded true. 

“That was very adult.” 

“Thank you.” 

“I’m suspicious.” 

“Understandable.” 

“Was it rehearsed?” 

“No.” 

“Public relations?” 

“Also no.” 

Y/N sighed, pretending to worry. 

“Terrifying.” 

Harry smiled. 

“I’ve been thinking.” 

“Even more terrifying.” 

He laughed quietly. Then the conversation settled again. 

They walked a little longer before finding a small square tucked between streets, quieter than the places around it. A few benches sat beneath trees. Someone had left a newspaper folded beside an empty coffee cup. A pigeon moved with the confidence of a property owner. 

Y/N sat first. Harry sat beside her, keeping that careful space she had learned to recognise. Respect. Not distance. For a while, they watched people pass. 

A woman with flowers wrapped in brown paper. 

A man arguing with his phone. 

Two children running after a ball. 

A couple trying to understand a map. 

London kept happening. 

Without asking permission. 

Y/N knew the next part had to be said. 

Not because Harry seemed to be demanding anything. 

He didn’t. 

That was almost worse. 

But because she needed to hear herself say it. 

“Harry.” 

He turned to her. 

“Yes?” 

“I don’t want to be anyone’s replacement.” 

His smile slowly disappeared. 

“I know.” 

“I don’t want to be a pause,” she continued, eyes fixed on the trees ahead. “Or a reward. Or a plan B. Or the girl who appears after your life went wrong.” 

Harry looked at her without interrupting. 

Y/N took a breath. 

“And I don’t want you to look at me months from now and realise I was just the person who happened to be there when everything got difficult.” 

Harry stopped moving. 

Not dramatically. 

But enough for the air to change. 

“Y/N.” 

She kept looking ahead. 

“That sounded dangerously serious.” 

“Look at me.” 

She exhaled softly. 

“That sounds even worse.” 

“Y/N.” 

So she looked. 

Harry’s expression was serious. Not harsh. Just clear. 

“Stop doing that.” 

She frowned. 

“Doing what?” 

“Putting yourself in a place I never gave you.” 

Y/N went still. 

Harry took a breath before continuing. 

“You are not anyone’s replacement. You’re not an interval. You’re not a cure. You’re not a reward. You’re not the after of someone else. You’re not something that appeared because my life became uncomfortable.” 

Her throat tightened. 

“Harry…” 

“You’re you,” he said simply. “And that is more than enough.” 

Y/N looked away. 

But Harry kept going before she could escape into a joke. 

“It has nothing to do with other people. It has nothing to do with what ended, or who got hurt, or the mess I still need to sort through. I like being with you because you’re you.” 

She pressed her lips together. 

Harry’s voice softened. 

“Because you tell me the truth. Because you make me laugh when I’m seconds away from turning everything into a tragedy with good lighting. Because you notice what people don’t say. Because you’re inconvenient at exactly the right moments.” 

Y/N bit the inside of her cheek. 

Harry saw. 

This time, he commented. 

“And because you do that when you’re trying not to feel something.” 

Y/N closed her eyes. 

“Illegal.” 

“I know.” 

“Extremely illegal.” 

“I accept the sentence.” 

She let out a low laugh, but there was emotion caught inside the sound. 

Harry lowered his voice. 

“I’m not asking you to fill any empty space. I’m asking you to stay in yours. As you. That’s all.” 

Y/N looked at him again. 

“That sounds simple.” 

“It isn’t.” 

“Right. I was getting suspicious.” 

The corner of his mouth moved. 

“But it’s honest.” 

She stayed quiet for a few seconds. 

Then drew in a breath. 

“Then be honest with me about something.” 

“Whenever I can.” 

“No.” Her eyes sharpened. “Not that.” 

Harry accepted the correction with a small nod. 

“Always.” 

Y/N held his gaze. 

“Don’t choose me just because I’m easier than the pain you still need to feel.” 

Harry didn’t answer immediately. 

When he did, his voice was low but firm. 

“You’re not easier.” 

She almost laughed. 

“Thank you?” 

“You’re more real,” he said. “And that is much less comfortable.” 

Y/N stared at him for a second. Then pointed at him. 

“That was almost too beautiful.” 

“Almost?” 

“Don’t push it.” 

“I wouldn’t dare.” 

“You would.” 

“I would.” 

“At least you’re honest now.” 

“Wild concept,” he echoed. 

Y/N tried to stay serious. 

Failed. The tension did not disappear. But it became bearable. As if the joke didn’t erase the weight. It only gave them a way to breathe inside it. 

Harry looked down at his hands. 

“I also don’t want to rush into anything,” he said. 

Y/N watched him. 

“Good.” 

“Not because I’m unsure of wanting to know you,” he added quickly, then stopped himself. “No. That sounds like I’m trying to make a legal statement.” 

“It did have suspicious press-release energy.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Continue. Less lawyer.” 

Harry breathed out a laugh. 

“I want to know you. Properly. I want to talk to you. I want to know how your day went, which notebook you bought even though you didn’t need it, which perfume almost defeated you, which London neighbourhood you insulted for being too expensive.” 

She almost smiled. 

“All of them.” 

“I want to know all of them.” His voice dropped. “But I don’t want to use you to skip over what I still need to feel. And I don’t want you to feel like you have to occupy a space that has only just become empty.” 

Y/N swallowed. 

“Good answer.” 

“I’m trying.” 

She looked at him sideways. 

Harry immediately corrected himself: 

“I’m doing.” 

Y/N pointed at him. 

“Better.” 

“Thank you, teacher.” 

“Don’t call me teacher.” 

“Highly uncertified professional?” 

“Also no.” 

“Existential critic?” 

She considered it for a second. 

“That one maybe.” 

Harry smiled. 

For a moment, he looked lighter. Not fine. Not healed. 

Just lighter. That mattered more. 

Y/N took her phone out of her bag. Harry glanced at it. 

She unlocked the screen, opened the Madame Tussauds photo and handed it to him. 

“Before we continue this adult and emotionally responsible conversation, I need to show you something.” 

Harry took the phone. Looked at the picture. Went still. Then looked at her. 

“You went to Madame Tussauds?” 

Y/N pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh. 

“I did.” 

“And took a picture with my wax statue?” 

“Technically, someone else took it.” 

Harry looked at the photo again. 

Y/N in the picture had the expression of someone trying not to mock a public figure made of wax. Wax Harry, naturally, looked flawless and empty. 

He brought a hand to his mouth. 

“Are you laughing?” she asked. 

“I’m processing.” 

“Liar. You’re laughing inside.” 

“I’m laughing a lot inside,” he admitted. 

“I laughed outside too. A teenage girl heard me talking to your statue.” 

Harry closed his eyes. 

“Please tell me you said something normal.” 

Y/N looked away. 

“Define normal.” 

“Y/N.” 

“I told him he was easier to deal with than you.” 

Harry laughed so suddenly he had to lower his head. 

Y/N looked deeply satisfied. 

“And she agreed.” 

“Of course she did,” Harry answered, still laughing. “He looks more emotionally stable.” 

“Exactly.” 

“Fewer notes?” 

“Zero notes.” 

“Arrives early?” 

“He’s always there.” 

“Doesn’t buy gummies?” 

Y/N sighed. 

“Unfortunately, no. A serious flaw.” 

Harry handed her phone back, still smiling. 

“I can’t believe you met my wax version before we exchanged numbers.” 

Y/N looked at him. 

The sentence stayed in the air. 

Harry realised at the same time she did. 

His smile softened. 

“Can we?” he asked. “Exchange numbers?” 

Y/N pretended to consider it. 

“I don’t know. That’s a big step. So far our relationship has been sustained by hotel receptions and sugar.” 

“We could try adult communication.” 

“Do you know how to do that?” 

“I’m willing to learn.” 

“Good. Because leaving notes at reception does not count as adult communication.” 

Harry raised one finger. 

“It was a phase.” 

“It was a limited series.” 

“With strong reviews?” 

“Excellent reviews. Terrible sustainability.” 

Harry laughed. 

Y/N handed him her phone. 

He typed in his number slowly. Then called his own phone so he would have hers. When his screen lit up with her name, a small silence passed between them. 

So simple. So normal. So strange after everything. 

Y/N looked at the contact on her phone. 

Harry. 

Not H. 

Not wired earphones stranger. 

Not route. 

Just Harry. 

He put his phone away. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

Y/N looked suspicious. 

“Depends.” 

“If you really start looking for a life here… rooms, work, cafés, whatever… don’t choose London for me.” 

She grew serious. 

“I know.” 

“I know you know,” Harry replied. “But I need to say it. Because maybe a selfish part of me is happy you’d be closer.” 

“Maybe?” 

He smiled without humour. 

“Definitely.” 

Y/N waited. 

He continued: 

“But I need to know that if I don’t enter this story the right way, you’ll continue yours.” 

Y/N felt something in her chest. 

Not a wound. 

More like space. 

“That’s the idea,” she said. “You’re not the city.” 

Harry looked at her. 

She shrugged. 

“You’re just a very pretty problem inside it.” 

He opened his mouth. 

Closed it. 

“Problem?” 

“Pretty.” 

“But problem.” 

“Don’t be ungrateful.” 

Harry laughed. 

Then, lower: 

“Fair.” 

The city moved around them. 

For the first time, the pause between them didn’t feel like uncertainty. 

It felt like space. 

Room for things to be careful. 

Room for things not to be destroyed by being named too quickly. 

Y/N looked at the trees in front of them. 

“And you have to promise me something too.” 

“Tell me.” 

“Don’t make me a cure.” 

Harry grew serious. 

“I won’t.” 

“Or proof that you made the right choice.” 

“No.” 

“Or a place you land when everything else gets difficult.” 

He drew in a breath. 

“Then I’ll learn how to walk to you.” 

Y/N looked at him. 

The sentence hit her quietly. 

It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t exaggerated. It wasn’t forever. It was almost small. Maybe that was why it felt more true. 

She looked away first, because of course she did. 

“That was almost acceptable.” 

Harry smiled. 

“Almost?” 

“Let’s not get carried away.” 

“Of course.” 

They sat there for a while, watching people pass. 

Y/N did not know how long. 

Long enough for the light to change. Long enough for the square to empty a little. Long enough for her to stop feeling like every silence needed a joke. 

Eventually, Harry asked about London again. 

Not like a man trying to be the reason. Like someone who wanted to know the shape of a dream without putting himself in the middle of it. 

“What would you do first?” he asked. 

Y/N looked at him. 

“In London?” 

“Yeah.” 

She thought about it. 

“Panic.” 

Harry nodded gravely. 

“Practical.” 

“Then probably panic again, but with a coffee.” 

“Reasonable.” 

“Then maybe find a room that doesn’t look haunted.” 

“Ambitious.” 

“Find work. Or something that lets me stay long enough to figure out work. Maybe a course. Maybe something with music. Or writing. Or anything that makes me feel like I’m not just… existing between responsibilities.” 

Harry’s expression softened. 

“That sounds important.” 

“It sounds expensive.” 

“That too.” 

“I looked at rent prices and almost had a spiritual experience.” 

“What kind?” 

“The kind where your soul leaves your body to avoid the deposit.” 

Harry laughed. 

Y/N smiled, but then her voice quieted. 

“I don’t know if I’ll actually do it.” 

“You don’t have to decide tonight.” 

“I know.” 

“But you’re allowed to want it,” he said. 

She looked at him. 

That hit harder than it should have. 

Maybe because wanting things had always felt like the first step towards disappointing someone. Or inconveniencing them. Or having to explain herself. 

Y/N swallowed. 

“I’m trying to remember that.” 

Harry opened his mouth. 

Y/N pointed at him. 

“Don’t.” 

He closed it immediately. 

“I was going to correct the word.” 

“I know.” 

“I’m proud of your self-awareness.” 

“I’m proud of your obedience.” 

“Temporary.” 

“Obviously.” 

They stayed there until the afternoon began folding into evening. 

Lights came on slowly. 

The air cooled a little. 

Harry looked at her. 

“I have to go soon.” 

Y/N nodded. 

“Me too.” 

Neither of them stood right away. 

This time, the silence wasn’t full of things unsaid. 

It was full of things that maybe didn’t need to be said all at once. 

Harry moved first. 

“Can I walk you back to the hotel?” 

Y/N looked at him. 

He added quickly: 

“Not as a route. Not as an excuse. Just because we’re going in the same direction. And because I’m still afraid you’ll wear criminal shoes without supervision.” 

Y/N looked down at her trainers. 

“They’re trainers.” 

“Still. You never know.” 

“Are you trying to seem useful?” 

“I’m diversifying my skills.” 

She laughed. 

Then stood. 

“You can walk with me for a bit.” 

Harry stood too. 

“For a bit.” 

“No route.” 

“No route.” 

They began walking side by side. Not too close. Not too far. 

Their shoulders brushed once when someone passed them on the pavement. Neither moved away. 

Y/N looked ahead, trying to pretend she hadn’t noticed. Harry did too. 

Which meant they both had. 

“Don’t say anything,” she warned. 

Harry kept his eyes on the pavement. 

“I wasn’t going to.” 

“You were.” 

“I was.” 

“Illegal.” 

“I know.” 

She smiled down at the pavement. 

Harry saw. Of course he did. This time, he didn’t comment. 

Miraculously. 

When they reached the hotel, they stopped before the entrance. 

The street had that soft end-of-day noise: rolling suitcases, taxis, voices, an automatic door opening and closing behind someone. 

Y/N turned to him. Harry looked like he wanted to say something. 

Not a beautiful sentence. 

Not a promise. 

Just something. 

“Thank you for not appearing right away,” she said before he could speak. 

He looked at her. 

“It was hard.” 

“I know.” 

“But it was right.” 

“I know.” 

Y/N drew in a breath. 

“And thank you for showing up today in a way I could refuse.” 

Harry nodded. 

“I’m learning.” 

She raised an eyebrow. 

He corrected himself, almost smiling. 

“I’m doing.” 

“Better.” 

Harry looked at her for a few seconds. 

Then asked: 

“Can I text you tomorrow?” 

Y/N pretended to think. 

“Depends.” 

“On what?” 

“The message.” 

“Good morning?” 

“Strong contender.” 

“How did you sleep?” 

“Adult.” 

Harry looked at a plant near the hotel entrance and then back at her. 

“I saw a plant and thought of my botanical murder charge?” 

Y/N laughed. 

“That one wins.” 

Harry smiled. 

And then it happened. 

Not a kiss. 

Not a grand declaration. 

Not a gesture that turned everything into certainty before its time. 

Just his hand moving closer, slowly. 

Open. 

Visible. 

Waiting. 

Y/N looked at it. Then at him. 

Harry didn’t move. Didn’t ask. Didn’t pressure. 

He simply left the choice in the space between them. 

Y/N drew in a breath. 

And placed her hand in his. 

It was brief. Warm. Strangely simple. 

His fingers closed around hers for one second. 

Two. 

Then let go. 

Long enough to be true. Not long enough to become a promise neither of them was ready to carry. 

Y/N swallowed. 

“Slow.” 

Harry nodded. 

“Slow.” 

She smiled. 

“Good night, Harry.” 

“Good night, Y/N.” 

She walked into the hotel without looking back. 

Not because she didn’t want to. 

Because if she did, she might turn the moment into a scene. 

And, for the first time, she didn’t need to. 

In the lift, her phone vibrated. 

Y/N pulled it from her bag with her heart doing irresponsible things. 

A message from Harry. 

I saw a plant. Thought of my criminal past. 

Y/N covered her mouth so she wouldn’t laugh alone in the lift. 

Then replied: 

Proud of your growth. But keep your distance from all botanical beings until further assessment. 

The three dots appeared. 

Disappeared. 

Appeared again. 

Understood. Good night, existential critic. 

Y/N smiled. 

Good night, emotional Big Ben. 

She expected that to be it. 

A neat ending. 

A soft place to stop. 

The kind of final message that made sense if one was trying to be normal, careful, mature. 

Then, just as the lift doors opened, her phone vibrated again. 

Y/N looked down. 

Also. 

She stepped into the corridor, suddenly suspicious. 

Another message appeared. 

Dinner at mine tomorrow? 

Y/N stopped in the middle of the hallway. 

Stared. 

Then another message. 

Before you dramatise: dinner. Food. Table. Cutlery. Normal conversation. 

Y/N pressed her lips together. 

Her heart, traitorous and clearly lacking professional boundaries, did something warm and stupid. 

Another bubble appeared. 

I can also help you look for places to live and judge your neighbourhood choices discreetly. 

Y/N leaned against the wall outside her room. 

Then typed: 

Discreetly? 

The reply came quickly. 

I make no promises. 

She laughed once, quietly. 

Then typed: 

This sounds dangerous. 

Harry replied: 

You said you wanted to make decisions. I’m offering logistical support and real estate judgement. 

Y/N stared at the screen. 

The smile faded slightly. 

Not because the message was bad. 

Because it was good. 

Because it was normal. 

Because it was domestic in a way that felt more intimate than any grand confession could have. 

Dinner. 

A table. 

Looking at rooms. 

Judging neighbourhoods. 

It was not a route. 

Not a hotel reception. 

Not a midnight crisis. 

Not Wembley. 

Just an invitation into a piece of real life. 

Which made it more frightening. 

She unlocked her hotel room, walked in, dropped her bag on the bed and stood there with the phone in her hand. 

For a moment, she almost answered with a joke. 

It would have been easier. 

Instead, she typed: 

I’m not coming to dinner at your house as an emotional post-engagement replacement. 

She stared at the message before sending it. 

Her thumb hesitated. 

Then she sent it. 

The dots appeared. 

Disappeared. 

For longer this time. 

Y/N sat on the edge of the bed. 

Her stomach twisted. 

Then Harry’s answer came. 

I know. 

A second message followed. 

Come as Y/N. 

Then another. 

The person who wants London. 

And another. 

Not the person who has to fix anything of mine. 

Y/N’s throat tightened. 

She looked away from the phone for a moment. 

The room was quiet. The city moved beyond the window. Somewhere below, people were checking in, checking out, arriving, leaving, dragging suitcases over carpet. 

She looked back at the screen. 

Harry sent one more message. 

And only if you want to. 

Y/N exhaled slowly. 

There it was again. 

Choice. 

Not pressure. 

Not fate. 

Not a route. 

Just choice. 

She typed: 

That was irritantly well answered. 

Harry replied: 

I’m doing. 

She smiled. 

Then wrote: 

Okay. 

A second later: 

But if you judge my housing choices too harshly, I’m judging your decoration. 

Harry’s answer came almost immediately. 

Fair. 

Then: 

But I should warn you I have one surviving plant. 

Y/N narrowed her eyes at the phone. 

Surviving or hostage? 

The dots appeared. 

That will be decided tomorrow. 

She laughed properly then. 

Alone in the hotel room, hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking once. 

It felt ridiculous. 

It felt young. 

It felt like the world had not become easy, but had opened one small window. 

Y/N typed: 

Good night, emotional Big Ben. 

Harry answered: 

Good night, existential critic. 

She placed the phone on the bed and went to the window. 

London shone outside. 

Still huge. 

Still expensive. 

Still impossible. 

Still calling her. 

Y/N opened the green notebook to a new page. 

She wrote: 

Maybe I’ll stay. 

She stopped. 

Then added: 

Not for him. 

She smiled. 

For me. 

The sentence looked terrifying. 

It also looked like hers. 

She sat with that for a while. 

Then, beneath it, she wrote one more line: 

Tomorrow I’m having dinner with a problem. 

She paused. 

Then added: 

A very pretty one. 

Across the city, Harry read her last message one more time before putting his phone away. 

He was alone. 

Not completely fine. 

Not completely whole. 

Not free in the uncomplicated way people liked to imagine freedom worked. 

There was still pain. 

Still guilt. 

Still conversations waiting. 

Still silence he would have to sit inside without turning it into someone else’s responsibility. 

But he was more honest than he had been in a very long time. 

And, for now, that was enough. 

He looked across the room at the plant by the window. 

It was, somehow, still alive. 

Harry pointed at it. 

“You have one job tomorrow,” he told it. 

The plant, wisely, said nothing. 

Harry almost laughed. 

Then his phone lit up again. 

A final message from Y/N. 

Also, if the plant looks traumatised, I’m taking custody. 

Harry smiled. 

A real one. 

Small. 

Tired. 

His. 

He typed back: 

Understood. 

Then added: 

I’ll warn it. 

Outside, London continued. 

No Wembley. 

No twenty-four-hour shop. 

No route marked on the ground. 

No invented fate. 

Just an enormous city. 

Two lives still being put back together. 

And a possibility neither of them needed to rush in order to prove it was real. 

For the first time, they weren’t repeating a route.