#opr

Y/N takes in the scene with the oblivious enthusiasm of someone who's never learned to read a room properly.

"Hi there!" she says brightly, approaching the counter with a smile that could power half of Manhattan. "I'm Y/N. I'm doing this thing for my marketing class where I have to practice putting myself out there, and I noticed you guys don't really have much of a social media presence."

The man behind the counter, Sal, according to his name tag, exchanges a look with the suited men that could generously be described as 'what the fuck.'

"Social media," Sal repeats slowly, like she's speaking a foreign language.

"Exactly!" Y/N pulls out her phone, already scrolling through apps. "I mean, no offense, but I've walked past this place probably a hundred times, and I've never seen any customers. Which is crazy because you're in such a great location! All you need is some Instagram posts, maybe a TikTok showing how you make the pizza, and boom—viral sensation."

One of the men in suits, a tall, lean guy with a scar running from his left ear to his jaw, slowly stands up.

"Listen, sweetheart," he says, his voice carrying the kind of tone that usually makes people reconsider their life choices, "maybe you should—"

"Oh my God, are you Italian?" Y/N interrupts, completely missing the implicit threat. "That's perfect! Authentic Italian pizza maker! We could totally play up that angle. Do you have any family recipes? Stories about your nonna? People eat that stuff up."

The scarred man's mouth opens and closes like a fish. Behind him, his companion, a stockier man with knuckles that look like they've seen some serious action, starts to laugh despite himself.

"Kid's got balls," the stocky one mutters.

That's when the door to the back office opens, and Harry Styles steps out.

He's not particularly tall, but there's something about the way he carries himself that makes the already small space feel smaller. His dark hair is perfectly tousled, his black shirt is expensive enough to fund a small country's education system, and his green eyes sweep the room with the kind of casual authority that comes from knowing everyone in it would follow his orders without question.

His gaze lands on Y/N, who's now bent over the counter examining a laminated menu that looks like it was designed by someone with a personal vendetta against graphic design.

"What's this about?" Harry asks, his voice low and smooth with just a hint of his Manchester accent.

Sal straightens immediately. "Boss, this girl just walked in talking about Instagram and—"

"I'm offering to be your social media manager!" Y/N announces, straightening up and turning to face Harry with the same bright enthusiasm she's shown everyone else. "For free! Well, technically for class credit, but still free. You guys are sitting on a goldmine here, and you don't even know it."

Harry's eyebrows rise slightly. In his world, people don't just walk into his establishments offering free services. They usually want something. Whether that be protection, favors, or their debts forgiven. But this girl, with her golden-brown hair catching the harsh fluorescent light and her hazel eyes sparkling with genuine excitement, seems to want nothing more than to help a struggling pizza shop succeed.

It should be alarming. It should set off every warning bell he's developed over years of navigating New York's criminal underworld. Instead, he finds himself... curious.

"And why," he says, moving closer to the counter, "would you want to do that?"

Y/N's smile somehow gets even brighter. "Because everyone deserves a chance to succeed! And honestly? This place has so much character. Look at this vintage aesthetic. If we market it right, you could be the next trendy throwback spot. Brooklyn hipsters would line up around the block for this kind of authentic atmosphere."

Behind Harry, the scarred man makes a noise that might be a snort or might be him choking on his own spit.

"Plus," Y/N continues, completely oblivious to the undercurrents in the room, "rejection therapy. I'm supposed to put myself out there and ask for things that might get me a 'no.' But you haven't said no yet, so technically I'm winning."

Harry studies her for a long moment. She's tall, maybe 5'9", with the kind of natural beauty that doesn't need enhancement, though she's clearly made an effort today. Her outfit is casual but put-together: jeans that fit perfectly, a cream-colored sweater, and sneakers that have seen some miles but aren't falling apart. She looks like sunshine personified, which is particularly jarring in a place that hasn't seen actual sunshine in decades.

"Rejection therapy," he repeats.

"It's this thing where you deliberately seek out situations where you might get rejected, to build resilience and confidence," Y/N explains helpfully. "I figure if I can handle getting turned down for volunteer work, I can handle anything."

Harry's lips twitch in what might be the beginning of a smile. "And what makes you think you're qualified to be our social media manager?"

Y/N pulls out her phone again, scrolling quickly. "I run the Instagram for my friend's boutique. She's gotten three thousand new followers in the last six months. I also did a campaign for the campus coffee shop that increased their sales by forty percent. I'm a marketing major, but honestly, most of it is just understanding what people want to see. I also really love food and cooking, and all that"

She looks around the restaurant again, her expression turning thoughtful.

"People want authenticity. They want stories. They want to feel like they're part of something special. This place has all of that. It just needs someone to tell the story properly."

Harry finds himself genuinely impressed despite himself. The girl has walked into what is essentially the lion's den and is pitching business strategies like she's in a boardroom instead of a glorified money-laundering operation.

"Alright," he says finally, ignoring the looks of disbelief from his men. "Let's say we're interested. What would you need from us?"

Y/N's eyes light up like she's just been offered front-row tickets to her favorite band.

"Really? Oh my God, that's amazing! Okay, first I'd need to try the food. Can't promote something I haven't tasted. Then maybe some photos of the kitchen, the staff, the pizza-making process. Oh, and stories! Like how long have you been open? What makes your pizza special? Any interesting customers or—"

She stops mid-sentence, her nose wrinkling slightly.

"Actually, let me try a slice first. What do you recommend?"

The silence that follows is deafening. Sal looks like he'd rather be literally anywhere else. The suited men exchange glances that seem to communicate entire conversations. Harry watches this unfold with the detached interest of someone watching a car crash in slow motion.

"The...the margherita is popular," Sal says finally, his voice strained.

"Perfect!"

Ten minutes later, Y/N sits in one of the red vinyl booths with a slice of what can only generously be called pizza in front of her. The crust looks like cardboard, the sauce has the consistency of ketchup mixed with sadness, and the cheese appears to have given up on life sometime around the Clinton administration.

Harry slides into the booth across from her, genuinely curious to see how this plays out. His men have positioned themselves strategically around the restaurant, probably still trying to figure out if this girl is the world's most elaborate undercover cop or just genuinely this naive.

Y/N takes a bite. Her expression goes through several rapid changes: surprise, confusion, barely concealed horror, and finally, diplomatic consideration.

She chews slowly, thoughtfully, like she's trying to find something positive to say about what is clearly a crime against Italian cuisine.

Finally, she swallows and sets the slice down with the careful precision of someone defusing a bomb.

"Okay," she says brightly, "so there's definitely room for improvement."

The stocky man by the jukebox actually laughs out loud at this.

"Room for improvement," Harry repeats, his own amusement barely contained. "That's one way to put it."

Y/N turns to face him fully, and he's struck by how earnest she looks.

"Have you ever actually had good pizza?" she asks, like this is a perfectly reasonable question to ask the head of a criminal organization.

Harry blinks. "Have I...what?"

"Good pizza," Y/N repeats patiently. "Like, proper pizza. With fresh ingredients and dough that doesn't taste like it was made from sawdust and broken dreams."

Despite himself, Harry finds himself leaning forward. "Broken dreams?"

"That sauce," Y/N says, pointing at the offensive slice, "tastes like someone read a description of tomatoes in a book once and tried to recreate them from memory. And I'm pretty sure this cheese was never actually milk at any point in its existence."

She pauses, studying his face carefully.

"You know what? Forget social media for a minute. Before we can market this place, we need to fix the actual product. You can't polish a turd, as my grandmother used to say."

The scarred man makes a choking noise. "Did she just call our pizza a turd?"

"A fixable turd," Y/N clarifies helpfully. "Look, you guys seem nice, and this place has such great bones. But if you want customers to come back, you need to give them something worth coming back for."

She stands up suddenly, her eyes bright with inspiration.

"Do you have fresh ingredients in the kitchen? Like, actual fresh ingredients, not whatever preserved-in-formaldehyde situation is happening with this cheese?"

Harry stares at her. In the span of twenty minutes, this girl has walked into his front operation, criticized his terrible cover story, and is now offering to teach them how to actually make pizza. The smart thing would be to have her escorted out immediately. The safer thing would be to make sure she never talks about what she's seen here.

Instead, he finds himself saying, "Show me."

Because there's something about Y/N. Maybe it’s her complete lack of fear, her genuine enthusiasm, or the way she manages to critique their operation while somehow making it sound like she's doing them a favor. But she’s unlike anything he's encountered in his carefully controlled world.

And Harry Styles has always been curious about things that don't fit into his carefully controlled world.

"Really?" Y/N's whole face lights up. "Oh, this is going to be so much fun!"

As she heads toward the kitchen, chattering excitedly about fresh basil and proper cheese ratios, Harry realizes he might be in serious trouble.

But for the first time in years, it's the kind of trouble he thinks he might actually enjoy.

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

Twenty minutes later, the kitchen of Sal's Pizza looks like a war zone. Flour dusts every surface, there are three different types of cheese scattered across the metal prep counter, and Y/N stands in the middle of it all like a general surveying her battlefield.

She's tied her hair back with a rubber band she found in her purse and somehow acquired an apron that reads "Kiss the Cook" in faded red letters; though where it came from in this establishment is anyone's guess.

"Okay, first lesson," she announces to her assembled audience of one crime boss and three very confused enforcers. "Dough is alive. It's a living thing that needs to be treated with respect."

Tony, the stocky enforcer, snorts. "It's flour and water, sweetheart."

Y/N's smile tightens just slightly, but she maintains her patient teacher voice. "It's flour, water, yeast, and time. The yeast is literally alive. It's a living organism that's going to make your crust light and airy instead of..." she gestures vaguely toward the dining area "...whatever that was."

She demonstrates kneading the dough with practiced movements, her hands working the mixture with surprising skill.

"See how I'm not just mashing it? You want to fold and turn, fold and turn. You're developing the gluten structure, which is what gives you that perfect chewy texture."

Marco, the scarred enforcer, watches for about thirty seconds before rolling his eyes. "Boss, you really want us to stand here and watch Martha Stewart teach bread class?"

Y/N's hands still for just a moment, so briefly that if Harry wasn't watching her carefully, he might have missed it. But he sees the way her shoulders tense, the slight flush that creeps up her neck.

"It's not bread, it's—" she starts, but Tony cuts her off.

"Yeah, yeah, it's 'alive,'" Tony says with exaggerated air quotes. "What's next, we gonna light some candles and sing to it?"

The other men laugh, and Y/N's hands fumble slightly with the dough. She recovers quickly, but Harry catches the way she bites her lower lip, the careful way she's not quite making eye contact anymore.

"Maybe we should just...use the old method," Sal suggests awkwardly from where he's hovering by the door. "Keep things simple, you know?"

"Simple," Marco agrees. "Like how we've been doing it for years."

Y/N stops kneading entirely now, her hands going still on the flour-dusted counter. When she looks up, Harry can see the hurt she's trying to hide behind her determined smile.

"Right," she says quietly. "Simple is probably better. I mean, what do I know? I'm just a college student playing with rejection therapy, right?"

The change in her voice, from bright enthusiasm to carefully controlled disappointment, hits Harry like a physical blow. The way she's trying to make herself smaller, less bright, less...her.

Something hot and protective flares in his chest.

"Marco," Harry says, his voice cutting through the kitchen like a blade. "Tony. Sal."

The laughter dies immediately. All three men turn to look at him, and they're smart enough to recognize the tone that means someone is about to have a very bad day.

"Did I ask for your fucking opinions?" Harry continues, his voice deadly quiet.

Marco straightens. "No, boss, but—"

"But nothing." Harry steps closer to the prep counter, never taking his eyes off his men. "This woman walked in here offering to help us for free. She's trying to teach us something useful, and you're acting like a bunch of fucking children at recess."

He turns to look at each of them in turn, and they all suddenly find the floor very interesting.

"She's been nothing but patient and professional, and you're treating her like entertainment. So here's what's going to happen. You're going to shut your mouths, pay attention, and learn something. Or you can get the fuck out of my kitchen." 

The silence that follows is deafening. Tony and Marco look like they're trying to disappear into the walls. Sal has gone pale.

Harry turns back to Y/N, who's staring at him with wide eyes.

"Please," he says, his voice gentling completely, "continue. I'd like to learn how to do this properly."

Y/N blinks, clearly trying to process the sudden shift in dynamics.

"You...you want to learn?"

"I want to learn," Harry confirms, moving to stand beside her at the counter. "Show me how to knead the dough."

There's something almost reverent in the way he says it, like he's asking her to teach him something sacred rather than basic cooking skills.

Y/N's smile returns slowly, tentatively, but genuine.

"Okay," she says softly. "Put your hands like this..."

She guides his hands to the dough, her fingers gentle as she positions them correctly. Her touch is warm against his skin, and Harry finds himself far more focused on the sensation than on the actual instruction.

"Feel how it gives under pressure but springs back? That's the gluten development I was talking about."

Harry nods seriously, following her movements exactly. Fold and turn, just like she showed them. His hands are bigger than hers, scarred from years of violence, but he handles the dough with surprising delicacy.

"That's perfect," Y/N says, and the pleasure in her voice makes something warm unfurl in Harry's chest. "You're a natural."

Behind them, Tony mutters something under his breath that sounds like "never seen the boss knead anything that wasn't someone's face."

Harry's hands still for a moment, but Y/N either doesn't hear the comment or chooses to ignore it.

"Now," she continues, "while that's resting, let's talk sauce. The secret is San Marzano tomatoes. They're from volcanic soil in Italy, so they have this perfect balance of sweet and acidic."

She moves to the stove, pulling out ingredients with practiced efficiency. Harry follows her like a particularly attentive student.

"You don't cook them too long. Just enough to break down the tomatoes and marry the flavors. Fresh basil at the end, never during cooking, because heat destroys the oils that give you that bright, fresh taste."

Harry watches her work with growing fascination. Her hands move with confidence and grace, tasting and adjusting seasoning with the kind of intuitive knowledge that can't be taught from a book.

"Where did you learn all this?" he asks.

Y/N glances up at him, and there's something soft in her expression.

"My grandmother," she says. "My dad's mom. She came over from Italy when she was sixteen, and she said cooking was how she kept her homeland close. Every Sunday, the whole family would gather in her kitchen, and she'd teach us traditional recipes."

She stirs the sauce gently, her voice taking on a wistful quality.

"She used to say that food was love made visible. That when you cook for someone, you're putting a piece of your heart on their plate."

Harry finds himself hanging on every word. In his world, food is fuel, cooking is a chore, meals are business meetings or solitary affairs. The idea of cooking as an act of love is so foreign it might as well be from another planet.

"She sounds like a wise woman," he says quietly.

"She was," Y/N agrees. "She died when I was fifteen, but I still use her recipes. It's like having a conversation with her, you know?"

There's something achingly vulnerable about the admission, and Harry realizes she's sharing something precious with him. Something real.

"Taste this," Y/N says suddenly, holding up a spoon of sauce.

Harry steps closer, close enough that he can smell her perfume. Something light and floral that seems completely at odds with the industrial kitchen around them. She holds the spoon out, and for a moment they're standing so close he can see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes.

He tastes the sauce, and his expression immediately changes. It's nothing like the watery red substance they've been serving. This is bright and complex, with layers of flavor that develop on his tongue.

"Fuck me," he breathes, then immediately looks embarrassed by his language. "Sorry, I just—"

Y/N laughs, a sound like silver bells. "That's exactly the reaction I was hoping for."

Behind them, Marco clears his throat. "Boss, maybe I could try some of that sauce?"

Harry turns to look at him, one eyebrow raised.

"Please," Marco adds hastily.

Y/N beams and immediately prepares another spoon. Marco tastes it, and his expression mirrors Harry's—surprise, then something close to reverence.

"Holy shit," he mutters. "This is..."

"Language," Y/N chides gently, but she's smiling.

"This is really good," Marco corrects himself, looking slightly dazed.

Tony and Sal edge closer, drawn by Marco's reaction. Soon all three of Harry's men are clustered around the stove, watching Y/N with newfound respect as she explains the importance of fresh herbs and proper seasoning.

But Harry barely notices them. He's too busy watching Y/N herself. The way her face lights up when someone appreciates her cooking, the graceful efficiency of her movements, the generous way she shares her knowledge without making anyone feel stupid for not knowing it already.

She's transforming his kitchen, his men, his entire operation, and she doesn't even realize it.

"Now for the cheese," Y/N announces, moving to the refrigerator. "Fresh mozzarella, obviously. See how it's stored in water? That keeps it soft and prevents it from drying out."

She demonstrates how to tear the cheese instead of slicing it, explaining how the irregular pieces melt better and create more interesting texture.

"Harry, you want to try assembling the pizza?"

The way she says his name–casual, friendly, like they've known each other for years instead of an hour–sends an unexpected jolt through him.

"Show me," he says.

Y/N guides him through stretching the dough, her hands occasionally covering his to correct his technique. Each touch is electric, and Harry finds himself deliberately making small mistakes just to feel her fingers on his skin.

"Perfect," she says as he spreads the sauce with careful, even strokes. "You've got really good hands for this."

Tony makes a choking noise that he tries to cover with a cough.

"The key with the cheese," Y/N continues, either oblivious to the innuendo or professionally ignoring it, "is less is more. You want pockets where the sauce shows through. That's how you get that traditional Neapolitan look."

Harry follows her instructions exactly, placing each piece of torn mozzarella with the concentration of a surgeon. Behind them, his men watch in fascination as their normally impatient boss takes painstaking care with something as simple as cheese placement.

"Fresh basil goes on after it comes out of the oven," Y/N explains. "The residual heat will wilt it just enough to release the oils without burning the leaves."

The pizza goes into the oven, and they all stand around waiting like expectant parents. The kitchen fills with aromas that are completely foreign to this space: bright tomato, fresh herbs, real cheese actually melting instead of congealing.

Fifteen minutes later, Y/N pulls out a pizza that looks like it belongs in a magazine spread rather than a mob front. The crust is golden and slightly charred, the cheese has melted into perfect creamy pools, and the fresh basil on top provides vibrant green contrast.

The silence that follows is reverent.

"Boss," Sal says quietly, "that looks like actual food."

Y/N cuts the pizza into neat slices and serves everyone a piece. Harry takes his first bite, and the difference is so stark it's almost shocking. This tastes like what pizza is supposed to taste like. Each ingredient distinct but harmonious, the crust chewy and flavorful, the sauce bright and fresh.

He looks up to find Y/N watching him expectantly, and he realizes she's genuinely nervous about his reaction.

"It's perfect," he says simply.

The smile that spreads across her face could power half the city.

"Really?"

"Really," Harry confirms. "This is the best pizza I've ever had."

Y/N's cheeks flush pink with pleasure, and she ducks her head almost shyly.

"It's just basic technique," she says. "Anyone can do it with the right ingredients and a little patience."

But Harry is looking around at his men, all of whom are devouring their slices with expressions of religious ecstasy, and he's thinking that maybe what they've needed all along isn't a better cover story. Maybe they've needed someone who could actually make this place legitimate.

Maybe they've needed her.

"Y/N," he says, and she looks up at him with those warm hazel eyes.

"Yeah?"

"Would you be interested in more than just social media consulting?"

She tilts her head, curious. "What did you have in mind?"

Harry glances around at his men, at the transformed kitchen, at the evidence of what this place could become with the right guidance.

"How would you feel about being our head chef?"

The offer surprises him as much as it does her. He hadn't planned to say it, but now that the words are out, he realizes he means them completely.

Y/N's eyes widen. "Are you serious?"

"I'm always serious about business," Harry says, which is mostly true. "You've just proven that you can turn this place from a..." he pauses, remembering her earlier critique "...turd into something people might actually want to eat."

Y/N laughs, that bright silver sound that's quickly becoming his favorite noise.

"I don't know," she says teasingly. "What kind of benefits package are we talking about? Health insurance? Dental? Employee pizza privileges?"

Harry finds himself grinning despite himself. "I think we can work something out."

Behind them, Tony mutters to Marco, "Did the boss just offer some college girl a job because she made good pizza?"

Marco responds, "Did the boss just smile? Like, actually smile? When's the last time you saw that happen?"

Harry hears them but doesn't care. He's too busy watching Y/N consider his offer, hope and possibility dancing across her features like sunlight on water.

And for the first time in years, Harry Styles finds himself genuinely excited about the future of his business.

Even if she has no idea what kind of business it actually is.

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

a/n: what do we think of this? I’d appreciate the feedback 😁