#hshq

Back and forth. Forth to back. On and on and on about things he could quite frankly not care less about. God, these meetings seemed never-ending, Harry huffed. He brushed his fingers through his cropped hair that still held the small remains of the once tight, long, bouncy curls. They would have just got in his way now, he thought, rubbing his forehead in an attempt at dissolving the headache forming. To no avail.

He sighed, moving spreadsheets across tabs as he prepared for another gruelling hour-long meeting with people who he had no patience for. He believed that his office was solely chosen to hold some of the most difficult people on planet Earth, whether it be due to their lateness, (and lack of care for), rudeness, laziness...the list went on. It deeply frustrated him, and he wondered what he had done to deserve these excuse for colleagues.

He's not usually like this. Harry knows he is normally the kindest he can be, and does his best to treat everyone with respect and love. It comes naturally to him, but with these people, it feels so forced it physically pains him. These people have no respect to give, let alone receive.

He rubbed his eyes and clicked on to the day's third meeting with an exaggerated release of air. He plastered a broad smile as he noticed his face appearing on the bottom right corner of the screen, as around 6 others surrounded him on the top bar.

"Hey, everyone." He forced out in the most joyous tone he possibly could, waving briefly before preparing his notes at his side.

"Harry, thanks for joining us. We thought you wouldn't make it on here." The director of the project snorted smugly.

Harry looked puzzled. "I'm sorry?"

The director, whose name was Keith, Harry recalled, laughed abruptly. "Well, uh...you are 15 minutes late."

Harry paused. He looked at the glaring faces on the screen before him, awkwardly rubbing their necks or looking elsewhere. Shit.

"Oh, I-I'm so sorry- I must have had the time as 2.45, not 2.30. My apologies, everyone." He mustered, through gritted teeth. He swore on his life the email said 2.45, making a mental note to check this.

"Oh, well it did. Last minute change 'cause I've got to meet with someone at 3.30. Personal business, hoped you'd understand."

Fucking dick. After all he's been doing today, he's meant to check an email, what, every five mnutes just because Keith The Prick wants to conduct some "Personal business" instead of doing his job? Bullshit.

Harry paused for a moment, nodding to pretend he was offering respect. "Of course. Terribly sor-" He was abruptly cut off by the sound of singing coming from another room. It was you.

You were singing at the top of your lungs, some song from The 1975, Harry realised. Any other time, this would make his day, now he's too frustrated to like it. The noise was overpowering whatever he needed to say, and the music was blasting from your Amazon Alexa. Harry closed his eyes, trying to retain composure.

"One moment, sorry." He muted himself promptly.

He yelled your name, leavig no attempt to care for how loud he was being, he was muted after all. "I'm on a call!" The music ceased, and he heard a muffled sorry from the other room.

You instantly paused your movements, not wanting upset your boyfriend further. He was probably having a busy day, you thought, collecting the washing and separating it into its piles. You'd chat to him in 15, maybe that would make him feel better.

He resumed the call, sighing and hoping to get this over with as soon as physically possible.

When it ended, Harry clicked that red phone button as fast as his fingers could move, not wanting to lose momentum and quickly moving to the next task. He glanced over his notes from the meeting and opened a Word document, getting straight to typing.

Suddenly, his office door swung open as you came in, all smiles. "Harry! Sorry for the singing! You know I love that song. You know they're playing Reading this year? I wonder if we could go, I never got to go when my exams finished, ugh it was so horrible seeing all my friends go without me! Anywho, we could probably do that payment plan they offer, wouldn't that be great?" You beamed, laying out your stack of hoodies on the small sofa adjacent to his desk.

"Sounds great." he quipped, eyes still fixed on the screen. He really did not have time for this conversation after today, and felt an impending sense of guilt in his stomach for doing so, but sometimes you're allowed to be in a mood. He wished you would leave soon to avoid any issues.

You frowned briefly, shrugging off his tone. It couldn't be anything you've done, after all.

"Doesn't it just! I love camping, but it's okay if you dont we could even book one of those VIP tents! That would be wicked, imagine that! Hopefully it wouldn't be too hot, I mean look at the weather last year for that festival! It was on the news given how bloody hot it was! I don't know if I could handle that, but I'm sure we'd be all good f we just prepared right. Oh, and I'd need to get merch..." Your voice spun round in is head, drawing his mind away from the task at hand. This was going to be very difficult. His frustration was only building more and more and he could feel his headache worsening by the minute.

"Have you seen the video of them at Glastonbury? My god, they looked amazing, especially that lead singer, isn't he just so cool! That rockstar life must be so crazy, I mean imagine you never had a normal job like you're stuck in an office and INSTEAD you just toured and toured-"

"God, I hate it when you can't stop rambling! Can't you see I'm trying to work?" Harry spun around in his chair out of nowhere, cutting you off immediately. His eyes were harsh and cold, his fists clenched by his sides, sitting on the armrests. His eyes bore into your soul, stopping you in your tracks in a way you hadn't even experienced before. He'd never said anything like that to you.

Your jaw sat agape, unsure how to form words.

His, also, loosened, eyes widening as he took into account what he'd said.

"Sweetheart, I didn't mea-"

You ended his sentence for him. "No, that's okay. I'll get out of your way." You took a deep breath, turning around, getting ready to close the door behind you.

"No, it's not okay, please-" He stood up sharply and put his hand between the gap in the door.

"Don't. Drop it. Please don't follow me, Harry." You don't face him as you feel the tears welling up in your eyes. You hadn't meant to upset him, but now he's upset you.

He stopped short, dropping his hand and taking a step back. Shit.

He ran his hands through his hair, collecting his thoughts at an incredibly fast rate. How could be have just said that? What a horrible, unkind thing to say to you, his beautiful, loving girl, who he would never let anything bad happen to? The guilt settled in his chest and stomach, a completely uncomfortable and unwelcome feeling.

But he loves it when you talk. He could listen to you talk all day. About anything you liked. He knows he already has spent days doing so, and he hopes to do so endlessly. What if this damages your freedom to feel like you can do so? He gulped, the anxiety of his words settling in further and further.

Despite this, you told him not to follow you. He knows he should respect your wishes, though it pains him to do so. Meeting you halfway, he let you leave, and turned on his Out Of Office.

A gear switched in Harry's brain, causing him to hastily push all of his work to the side, and get set on fixing this.

He preheated the oven, preparing ingredients on the countertop and putting on an apron.

His brows furrowed as he studied the instructions for your favourite dessert, ring-brandished fingers pressing into the pages as he analysed every word with precision.

After some time, it was ready. Laid out neatly on the kitchen side as neatly as he possibly could, a singular silver spoon sat readily beside the food. Just the one. He knew this should only be only meant for you.

He stepped back and took in the display. Something was missing.

He scanned the room for a notepad and pen, locating a floral to do list. Harry's handwriting wasn't always the best, but he made a very strong attempt at perfecting this. He planted it softly next to the spoon.

'Please never stop talking. I love to hear your voice. I love YOU. -H'

It wasn't enough, but it was all he thought to be acceptable for the moment. He left the scene, deciding to sit on the balcony until you returned.

Your keys clicked into the door and you shrugged off your jacket with a silent sadness. You had certainly calmed down, but unpleasant thoughts still lingered in the back of your mind.

What if you did talk too much? Were you that much of a burden to him? Maybe he deserved some peace and quiet. Maybe you should stay somewhere else tonight, let him have that. It was unfair, if you were overbearing, one voice said. It overpowered any other in your head that was set on defending you.

You hooked your tote bag in its usual place, next to Harry's David Hockney one, and made your way slowly to the kitchen to make a much needed cup of tea. You decided you'd only make one before you even entered the room.

The dessert was laid out before you, and your eyes didn't allow your brain time to register it. You simply travelled straight towards it, exhaustion and hunger taking over.

You glanced at the scene, catching sight of the note beside the tiny spoon. As you read over it, your vision blurred yet again. A brief sense of relief washed over you.

This was until you began to look around the room and allow yourself to search for any sight of sound of Harry. What if he had left for the night? You weren't sure if you wanted to be alone tonight. But maybe that's what he wanted.

You finished making your tea and picked up your dessert, stepping lightly towards the balcony for some fresh air. And that's where he was.

Harry was standing, leaning against the balcony rail and gazing into the London skyline. His breath was shallow and short, his fingers tapped uneasily on the glass in front of him. When he heard the door open behind him, he shot up from his slumped position.

You set your tea and bowl down on the small table beside you, noticing how he was watching your every move.

You straightened up, looking at him briefly before you both opened your mouth to speak.

"Thank you-"

"I'm sorry-"

You both paused, letting out a short, genuine laugh. Harry smiled softly.

"I'm sorry." He took a single step towards you. "I would never in a million years have meant that. I need you to know that." He stopped for reassurance, tilting his head towards you. You nodded softly.

"I could never hate anything about you. Especially not that. I could talk to you and listen to you talk all day, all year, for the rest of my life. Nothing should come between that. Nothing else should come first. You should always come first. You always come first." He rubbed his eyes, reflecting on his shame.

He doesn't then reopen his eyes to look at you, so you begin to take careful steps towards him, so softly he can't hear you. But then he felt your arms snake around his neck, pulling him into you.

"We say stupid things when we're angry." You muttered into the side of his neck as he responds by hooking his arms around your sides. "Doesn't make it okay, but we're not perfect."

"You're perfect, though." He added, leaning his head into yours.

"Far from it." You laughed.

He sighed, releasing you to plant a kiss on your forehead. "I'm sorry. I will never do something like that again. You'd never deserve that, and I don't expect you to forgive-"

His sentence is left unfinished as you took him in a kiss.

"Let that be the only way you shut me up." You pointed at him sternly. He nods, dazed.

"I love you." Harry said softly, gazing at you through his eyelashes.

"I love you too." You replied with a smile, running your fingers through the back of his hair.

And here, you thought,

We'll be alright.

HELLOOOO this is officially my first Harry fic hooray!!! I've come such a long way from reading duplicity at the ripe age of 13...Thank you to @whoopsieismelldaisies for this amazing prompt! I'll most likely edit this later to lengthen it or sonething, I literally wrote this in a whole day lol i really hope I did it justice :) plz be sure to like, reblog and follow, and let me know if you would like to be added to my taglist for any/all fics!

lots of love,

Y/N had not planned to stay. 

That was the first thing everyone asked her when they found out she was still in San Fiora sul Mare after her Erasmus had ended. Why stay? Why there? Why that tiny town on the Italian coast, with its steep streets, old stone houses, blue shutters, lemon trees leaning over garden walls, and a marina so small everyone knew which boat belonged to whom before they even saw the name painted on the side? 

The truth was simple. 

And, somehow, impossible to explain. 

She had stayed because leaving had felt wrong. 

Not dramatic. Not tragic. Not like some cinematic moment where she had stood at the train station with a suitcase in her hand and tears in her eyes. It had been quieter than that. More ordinary. More dangerous. One day, she had looked at the sea from the top of the hill above town, felt the warm wind push her hair back from her face, listened to the bells from the little church ring somewhere behind her, and realised that the thought of going back to a life that already knew who she was made her chest feel too tight. 

San Fiora did not know her. 

That was what made it easy to breathe there. 

No one in town expected her to be anything polished or finished. No one asked if she had figured out her future yet, as if the future was something she could fold neatly and place inside a drawer. No one looked at her like they already had a version of her in their mind and were only waiting to see if she matched it. 

In San Fiora, she was simply the girl who stayed. 

Lucia called her that first. 

Lucia, who owned Caffè Lucia in the main square and had a voice that could cut through church bells, tourists, and the sound of scooters climbing the hill. Lucia, who wore red lipstick even at seven in the morning and treated everyone like family unless they ordered a cappuccino after lunch, in which case she treated them like a personal disappointment. 

“You stayed,” Lucia had said on Y/N’s last official day in town, watching her stand in the middle of the café with her suitcase beside her chair and no real plan in her head. 

Y/N had looked up from her cold espresso. 

“I missed the bus.” 

Lucia had stared at her. 

“There is another one tomorrow.” 

“I know.” 

“And after that.” 

“I know.” 

“And the day after that.” 

Y/N had pressed her lips together. 

Lucia had looked at her for a long moment, then picked up the cup from the table. 

“You can wash glasses.” 

Y/N blinked. 

“What?” 

“If you are going to sit here every morning looking like a tragic painting, you can wash glasses.” 

“I don’t know how.” 

Lucia had rolled her eyes. 

“It is water and hands. You will survive.” 

That was how it started. 

A few hours a week became a few mornings. A few mornings became most days. Most days became a routine. By July, Y/N had a tiny room above a guesthouse near the square, a set of keys Lucia insisted she not lose, and a blue bicycle Matteo had lent her because, according to him, “walking everywhere is romantic only until your legs hate you.” 

Matteo was Lucia’s son. He was twenty-eight, loud, sun-browned, and constantly pretending not to care about things he cared about deeply. He worked at the marina, fixed boats, carried crates, flirted badly with tourists, and treated his little white boat, Stella, as if she were a dramatic old aunt who needed patience, praise, and occasional threats. 

“She is old,” he had told Y/N the first time he took her out on the water, patting the side of the boat. “But loyal.” 

“Like Lucia?” 

Matteo had gasped. 

“Never say that where she can hear you.” 

Y/N had laughed so hard the boat rocked. 

By midsummer, she knew the rhythm of San Fiora better than she knew how to explain her own life. She knew which bakery sold out of warm cornetti first. She knew which cats belonged to no one and still managed to be fed by everyone. She knew that Rosa, the old woman who lived three houses down from the café, gave lemons to people as if citrus could heal grief, fever, heartbreak, bad luck, and poor decisions. 

She knew that the sea looked different depending on the hour. Silver in the early morning. Bright blue by noon. Soft and golden by evening, when the sun lowered itself slowly toward the water and made the whole coast look like it had been forgiven for something. 

She knew that tourists came and went, dragging suitcases over cobblestones, asking where the beach was, taking photos of doorways, mispronouncing Lucia’s name, and leaving after three days convinced they had discovered something secret. 

Y/N stayed. 

She stayed through the heat, through the crowds, through the days when the café smelled of coffee, lemon tart, warm sugar, and sea salt carried in on people’s clothes. She stayed long enough that the locals stopped asking when she was leaving and started asking whether she had eaten. 

She was not happy all the time. 

That would have been too simple. 

There were evenings when she missed home in strange, sharp ways. Not enough to go back immediately, but enough to feel the distance. She missed familiar voices. She missed knowing exactly how to say what she meant. She missed walking into a room and understanding every joke, every tone, every reference without translating half of it in her head. 

But there were other evenings when she sat on the low stone wall above the marina with gelato melting faster than she could eat it, watching the sun break itself across the water, and thought maybe there were versions of her she had not met yet. 

Maybe San Fiora was one of them. 

The morning Harry arrived was painfully hot. 

The kind of heat that made the town move slowly, as if everyone had agreed to perform life at half speed until the sun calmed down. The air above the square shimmered. The stone steps were already warm by nine. The lemon trees near the church gave off a bright, sharp smell every time the breeze moved through them, and Lucia had been complaining about tourists since before the first table was seated. 

“They come to Italy,” Lucia said, slamming a stack of cups onto the counter, “and then ask if we have iced caramel coffee with oat milk and sadness.” 

Y/N laughed as she tied her apron. 

“I don’t think they asked for sadness.” 

“They did with their faces.” 

“You’re in a good mood today.” 

Lucia pointed a spoon at her. 

“I am always in a good mood.” 

“You threatened a German man with a napkin ten minutes ago.” 

“He called my espresso cute.” 

Y/N pressed her lips together to stop herself from laughing again. 

“That was brave of him.” 

“That was stupid of him.” 

The bell above the door rang. 

Lucia looked toward it with the expression of a woman preparing for battle. 

“See?” she said. “Another one.” 

Y/N turned. 

And for a second, everything in the café seemed to shift. 

Not dramatically. 

Not enough for anyone else to notice. 

But enough for her. 

A man had stepped inside, pausing just beyond the doorway as if the sudden change from sunlight to shade had caught him off guard. He was tall, though not in a way that tried to take up space. If anything, he seemed to be doing the opposite. His shoulders curved slightly inward, his head tipped down beneath a faded baseball cap, sunglasses hiding most of his face. He wore a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, loose trousers, and carried a brown leather bag that looked too expensive for someone trying to appear invisible. 

Y/N recognised him immediately. 

Of course she did. 

There were faces some people knew without ever meeting them. Faces that belonged to posters, magazines, playlists, interviews watched too late at night, stages lit brighter than the sun. Faces that became familiar in a way that felt impossible and unfair, because the person wearing them had never once been given the same chance to know yours. 

Harry Styles stood in the doorway of Caffè Lucia, looking like a man who had crossed an ocean just to be left alone. 

For one second, Y/N forgot to move. 

Only one. 

Then Lucia nudged her with an elbow. 

“Table,” she muttered. “Unless you plan to stare him into ordering.” 

Y/N blinked. 

Right. 

Table. 

She picked up a menu and walked toward him, forcing her face into the same polite expression she used for every tourist who looked lost, overheated, or emotionally wounded by cobblestones. 

“Hi,” she said in English. “Just one?” 

His head lifted slightly. 

Behind the sunglasses, she could not see his eyes. But she felt the pause. The brief calculation. The moment where he waited for recognition to become announcement. 

It did not. 

Y/N simply stood there, holding the menu. 

After a beat, he nodded. 

“Yeah. Just one.” 

His voice was lower than she expected. 

Or maybe she had only ever heard it through speakers, flattened by interviews, polished by distance. 

“Inside or outside?” 

He glanced toward the square, where sunlight bounced off the pale stones with almost violent brightness. A group of tourists stood near the fountain, laughing too loudly over a map. 

“Inside, please.” 

“Somewhere cooler?” 

“If possible.” 

Y/N turned slightly, looking across the café. There were several empty tables, but she already knew which one he needed. The small table in the back corner, near the old bookshelf and the narrow window that looked out toward the side alley instead of the square. Not hidden exactly, but quiet. Shaded. Away from the door. 

“This way.” 

He followed her without a word. 

Y/N placed the menu on the table. 

“This one is usually the quietest,” she said. “Less sun. Less people staring at maps like maps personally betrayed them.” 

A breath of amusement left him. 

Not quite a laugh. 

But close. 

“Sounds perfect.” 

She stepped back. 

“I’ll give you a minute.” 

“Thanks.” 

Y/N returned to the counter with her heart beating far too loudly for someone who had done absolutely nothing except seat a customer. 

Lucia was watching her. 

Y/N picked up a cloth and began wiping an already clean spot on the counter. 

“What?” 

Lucia narrowed her eyes. 

“You know him.” 

Y/N nearly dropped the cloth. 

“I don’t know him.” 

“But you know of him.” 

Y/N looked toward the corner table before she could stop herself. 

Harry had taken off his cap, but not his sunglasses. His head was bowed, one hand rubbing slowly at the bridge of his nose as if the simple act of being indoors had not been enough to make him feel safe. 

Y/N looked away. 

“Everyone knows of him.” 

Lucia followed her gaze, then hummed. 

“Famous?” 

Y/N hesitated. 

“Yes.” 

“How famous?” 

Y/N gave her a look. 

Lucia’s eyebrows rose. 

“Oh. That famous.” 

“Please don’t make it obvious.” 

Lucia looked offended. 

“I am a professional.” 

“You once told a couple they were going to break up before dessert.” 

“They did break up before dessert.” 

“That’s not the point.” 

Lucia leaned closer, lowering her voice. 

“He looks tired.” 

Y/N looked at him again. 

He did. 

Not sleepy. Not simply travel-worn. Tired in a deeper, quieter way. Like he had been carrying too many versions of himself and had finally put them down only to realise he had forgotten what his hands felt like empty. 

“Yes,” Y/N said softly. “He does.” 

Lucia nodded once, as if deciding something. 

“Then give him the good table and do not look at him like he is a painting.” 

Y/N sighed. 

“I wasn’t.” 

“You were a little.” 

“I was surprised.” 

“Be surprised quietly.” 

That, at least, she could do. 

When Y/N returned to the table, Harry had removed his sunglasses. They were folded beside his hand, one arm tucked neatly beneath the other. Without them, his face seemed both more familiar and more human. His eyes were tired, yes, but attentive. Green. Careful. He looked up when she approached, and again she felt that tiny pause, that waiting. 

She kept her voice even. 

“What can I get you?” 

He glanced at the menu, though she doubted he had read much of it. 

“An espresso, please. Still water. And…” He looked toward the glass display near the counter. “Is that lemon tart?” 

“It is.” 

“Good?” 

Y/N tilted her head. 

“You’re asking in Lucia’s café, so there is only one safe answer.” 

His mouth twitched. 

“Good, then.” 

“Very good.” 

“Then I’ll have that too.” 

“Espresso, still water, lemon tart.” 

“Please.” 

She nodded and turned to leave. 

“Actually,” he said. 

Y/N stopped. 

Harry’s fingers moved lightly over the edge of the menu. 

“Do people usually sit here long?” 

“In that table?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Depends.” 

“On what?” 

“On whether they’re hiding from the sun or from themselves.” 

His gaze lifted fully to hers. 

For half a second, Y/N regretted saying it. 

Then something in his face changed, just slightly. A small crack in the careful neutrality. Not amusement exactly. More like recognition. 

“And if it’s both?” he asked. 

“Then Lucia charges extra.” 

This time, he did laugh. 

Quietly. 

Briefly. 

But it was real enough that Y/N felt it like sunlight moving across the room. 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

She went back to the counter before she could do something ridiculous, like smile too much. 

Lucia was already cutting the tart. 

“You made him laugh,” she said. 

Y/N reached for a tray. 

“He laughed at the table.” 

“No one laughs at furniture.” 

“He laughed at the threat of being overcharged.” 

“Good. Then he understands Italian hospitality.” 

Y/N carried the order back carefully. 

Harry looked up when she placed the water down first, then the espresso, then the slice of lemon tart on a small white plate. The tart was glossy on top, pale yellow and dusted lightly with sugar. Lucia’s best, though she would never admit she had chosen the prettiest slice. 

“Thank you,” Harry said. 

“You’re welcome.” 

Y/N stepped away, but his voice stopped her again. 

“Sorry,” he said. “What’s your name?” 

She looked back at him. 

He asked it like a normal question. 

That, for some reason, made it harder. 

“Y/N.” 

He repeated it softly, not quite under his breath, as if testing how it felt. 

“Y/N.” 

There was nothing strange about it. 

People said her name every day. 

Lucia shouted it from the kitchen. Matteo yelled it across the marina. Tourists read it from her name tag and pronounced it badly. 

But the way Harry said it made it feel briefly unfamiliar. 

“And you?” she asked, because there was no way not to. 

His eyes flickered. 

The corner of his mouth lifted, but the smile did not fully arrive. 

“Harry.” 

Y/N held his gaze. 

She did not say I know. 

She did not say anything else. 

Only nodded once. 

“Nice to meet you, Harry.” 

For a second, he looked almost relieved. 

“Nice to meet you too.” 

She left him alone after that. 

Mostly. 

She served three tables outside, refilled water for a family with two children, argued gently with an elderly man who insisted he had ordered tea even though he came in every morning and ordered espresso, and pretended not to notice that Harry remained at the corner table for nearly two hours. 

He did not touch his phone much. 

That surprised her. 

He took it out once, looked at the screen, sighed, and placed it face down on the table. After that, he drank his espresso slowly, even though espresso was not built for patience, and ate the lemon tart in small bites as if he was trying to make time stretch around it. 

Once, a group of young women came into the café laughing, their hair still wet from the beach, sunglasses pushed onto their heads. Y/N saw Harry’s body tense before they had even noticed him. 

They did not. 

Lucia seated them outside. 

Harry exhaled so quietly Y/N only noticed because she had been looking. 

She should not have been looking. 

She knew that. 

But there was something deeply strange about seeing someone the world had turned into an event sitting alone in a corner, trying to be ordinary. Stranger still was the fact that ordinary seemed to suit him. The way his hand curled around the tiny espresso cup. The way he leaned back when he thought no one was watching. The way he looked out through the narrow window at the alley, where laundry moved between buildings and a cat slept on a windowsill with the arrogance of something worshipped in a past life. 

At some point, Lucia passed by Y/N and whispered, “You are looking again.” 

Y/N nearly dropped the tray. 

“I’m checking if he needs anything.” 

“He needs sleep.” 

“That is not on the menu.” 

“Then improvise.” 

Y/N rolled her eyes, but ten minutes later, she found herself walking back to the corner table with a small plate. 

Harry looked up. 

“I didn’t order anything else.” 

“I know.” 

She placed the plate down. 

On it sat two small almond biscuits Lucia usually kept for regulars, friends, or people she had silently decided were underfed. 

“From Lucia,” Y/N said. “She thinks you look tired.” 

Harry looked toward the counter. 

Lucia was aggressively polishing glasses and pretending not to care. 

His mouth softened. 

“That obvious?” 

Y/N considered lying. 

Then decided against it. 

“A little.” 

He looked down at the biscuits, then back at her. 

“Do I look rude if I ask whether she gives these to everyone who looks tired?” 

“Yes.” 

“Does she?” 

“No.” 

His smile was small, almost private. 

“Then tell her thank you.” 

“You can tell her yourself if you’re brave enough.” 

His eyebrows lifted. 

“Should I be scared?” 

“Of Lucia?” 

“Yes.” 

“Absolutely.” 

He laughed again, and Y/N found herself liking the sound more than she should. 

For the next few minutes, the café settled into one of those rare quiet pockets that happened between rushes. Outside, the square shimmered. Inside, the fan turned lazily above the counter, moving warm air around without improving it much. 

Harry broke one biscuit in half. 

“Have you lived here long?” 

Y/N looked around, as if the café itself might answer for her. 

“Not long. Long enough.” 

“That sounds like an answer people give when they don’t want to explain.” 

“It is.” 

He nodded, accepting that. 

“Fair.” 

She could have walked away. 

She probably should have. 

Instead, she rested one hand lightly on the back of the chair across from him. 

“I came here for Erasmus,” she said. “I was supposed to leave when it ended.” 

“But you didn’t.” 

“No.” 

“Why?” 

There it was again. 

The question everyone asked. 

But he asked it differently. 

Not as if he needed a practical answer. Not as if he wanted her to justify herself. More like he understood the shape of staying somewhere by accident and wanted to know what had made her stop moving. 

Y/N looked toward the narrow window. A line of sunlight cut across the floor near Harry’s shoes. 

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I think I liked who I was here.” 

Harry was quiet. 

Then he said, “That’s a good reason.” 

She looked back at him. 

“You think so?” 

“I think it might be one of the only good reasons.” 

Something passed between them then. 

Not flirtation. 

Not yet. 

Something quieter. 

Recognition, maybe. 

The kind that happened when two strangers accidentally touched the same bruise in different bodies. 

Y/N cleared her throat and straightened. 

“I should work.” 

Harry glanced around the half-empty café. 

“Looks very demanding.” 

“Emotionally, yes.” 

“Lucia?” 

“Mostly.” 

He smiled. 

“Good luck.” 

“Thank you.” 

She took two steps before he spoke again. 

“Y/N?” 

She turned. 

Harry looked at the biscuits, then at her. 

“Thank you.” 

“For what?” 

He hesitated. 

“For not making it a thing.” 

Y/N did not pretend not to understand. 

The café noise seemed to soften around them. Cups, voices, the distant sound of someone dragging a chair outside. Lucia muttering in Italian at the coffee machine. 

Y/N met his eyes. 

“You looked like you needed coffee more than a thing.” 

The corner of his mouth lifted, but his eyes stayed serious. 

“I did.” 

“Then you came to the right place.” 

He held her gaze a second longer. 

“I think so.” 

Y/N felt warmth rise to her face and turned away before he could see too much of it. 

The rest of the morning passed slowly, then all at once. 

By the time Harry finally stood, the lunch crowd had begun drifting in. The square outside was louder now, full of heat and bodies and the clatter of cutlery from nearby restaurants. He placed money on the table, more than enough, and slid his sunglasses back on. 

Y/N was clearing a table near the door when he approached. 

“Leaving?” she asked, then immediately hated herself for how it sounded. 

Harry’s mouth tilted. 

“For now.” 

“For now?” 

He shrugged lightly. 

“I haven’t tried everything on the menu.” 

“That could take a while.” 

“I’m patient.” 

Y/N glanced toward his empty table. 

“Are you?” 

He followed her gaze. 

For a moment, the smile faded. 

“No,” he said softly. “Not usually.” 

There was something in the honesty of it that made her pause. 

Then he seemed to catch himself and reached for the door. 

“Tell Lucia thank you for the biscuits.” 

“I will.” 

“And the tart.” 

“She already knows the tart is good.” 

“I’m sure she does.” 

Y/N smiled. 

“She does.” 

Harry stepped outside, then stopped beneath the awning, turning back slightly. 

“See you, Y/N.” 

It should not have mattered. 

It was only her name. 

But it did. 

“See you, Harry.” 

Then he walked into the heat of the square and disappeared among tourists, sun, and the lazy movement of a town that did not yet know what it had just let in. 

Y/N watched for half a second too long. 

Lucia appeared beside her. 

“Interesting,” she said. 

Y/N startled. 

“Please stop doing that.” 

“No.” 

Y/N began wiping the table nearest the door with unnecessary focus. 

“He’s just a customer.” 

Lucia hummed. 

“Of course.” 

“He wanted coffee.” 

“Many people want coffee.” 

“And a quiet table.” 

“Many people want quiet.” 

Y/N looked at her. 

Lucia looked back, completely unimpressed. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” Lucia said. “I said nothing.” 

“You said interesting.” 

“That is almost nothing.” 

Y/N sighed and carried the cloth back to the counter. 

The corner table was empty now. 

Except it was not. 

Not completely. 

There was the cup, the plate with a few crumbs of almond biscuit, the folded napkin, and the money tucked neatly beneath the edge of the saucer. Y/N walked over to clear it, expecting nothing more than the ordinary evidence of someone having been there. 

Then she saw the small piece of paper. 

It had been torn from the corner of something, maybe a notebook, maybe a receipt. Folded once. Left beneath the water glass. 

Y/N glanced toward Lucia, who was busy arguing with a man about whether sparkling water counted as water. Then she unfolded it. 

The handwriting was messy but deliberate. 

Thank you for not saying it. 

Y/N read the sentence once. 

Then again. 

Her chest did something strange. 

Not a flutter. 

Not exactly. 

More like the quiet click of a door she had not realised was closed. 

She looked toward the square, though Harry was long gone. 

The sunlight outside was almost white with heat. A scooter passed. Someone laughed near the fountain. Rosa shouted down at a cat from her window. San Fiora continued being San Fiora, unaware that the day had shifted slightly on its axis. 

Y/N folded the note carefully and slipped it into the pocket of her apron. 

Lucia appeared behind her. 

“What is that?” 

Y/N nearly jumped. 

“Nothing.” 

Lucia’s eyes narrowed. 

“You are a terrible liar.” 

“I learned from Matteo.” 

“That explains nothing good.” 

Y/N picked up the empty espresso cup and plate. 

“He left a note.” 

Lucia tried and failed not to look interested. 

“What did it say?” 

Y/N hesitated. 

Then smiled down at the table. 

“Thank you.” 

Lucia studied her for a moment. 

Then, surprisingly, she did not ask more. 

She only picked up the saucer and looked toward the door. 

“He will come back,” she said. 

Y/N forced a laugh. 

“You don’t know that.” 

Lucia gave her a look that suggested she knew many things and tolerated very few doubts. 

“He sat at the corner table for two hours. He ate my lemon tart. He laughed twice. He left a note.” 

“So?” 

“So,” Lucia said, walking back toward the counter, “men who want to disappear do not leave notes unless some part of them wants to be found.” 

Y/N stood there with the empty cup in her hand, the paper warm in her apron pocket, and did not answer. 

Outside, the bells began to ring noon. 

The sound moved through the square, over the fountain, past the lemons and the shuttered windows, down toward the marina where boats knocked softly against the dock. 

Harry had come to San Fiora to disappear. 

And, without meaning to, he had just been seen.