#painter!harry

This was emotion on canvas, every brushstroke intentional, every color holding something unsaid. It was raw and beautiful in the kind of way that made the room fall quiet for a second, even if it didn’t.

You weren’t exactly an art person, but you knew this wasn’t just some guy who liked painting.

“Amazing, isn’t it? We met in college,” Ezra said beside you.

“More than amazing,” you murmured, eyes still on the piece in front of you. “It’s museum-worthy! You better keep in touch with him!”

You both laughed softly before moving along, weaving between people until you found a quiet corner. From there, you watched as a small crowd gathered around the artist, the man behind the work, waiting for your turn to say hello.

You didn’t know it yet, but this was where everything would begin.

After a few minutes, he said goodbye to a man, and then it was your turn. Ezra went straight in for a hug, and so did he.

“Man… this is next level. So impressive, so amazing,” “Thanks, thanks a lot for coming. It means so much,” Harry replied, breaking the hug. “This is Bella.”

“Hi,” said Bella. Big blue eyes, soft red hair, she looked like a million dollars, but in that effortless, old-money kind of way.

“And this is Y/N, a colleague from the office,” Ezra said.

“A colleague? And here I thought all those late nights checking schedules were special,” you said with a chuckle, making them both laugh. “Nice to meet you. I’m very impressed by your talent.”

He offered his hand, and you took it. It felt electric, and for a second, the world seemed to stop. You quickly let go, though, you knew better than to act weird with someone’s boyfriend.

“Thanks for coming. It truly means a lot,” he said. “I was nervous at first…I had this dream where the place was empty but I just sold two more pieces.”

“Wow! That’s great news!” said Ezra. “I’m glad I’ve got a Styles original right in my Semiotics class notebook, back when you were bored out of your mind.”

“Better keep it. You never know,” Harry said with a small smile. “Can’t give you a big piece for free, but…” He reached into his pocket and pulled out two enamel pins shaped like swallows. “I can give you this, a small gift for being here today.”

His paintings that night were all of swallows, though abstract, you could feel how free they were, even if they were trapped on a canvas. “Thanks” you said, your eyes inspecting the pin, and quickly went to place it on your totebag After some quick small talk, the gallery began to close. Harry grabbed a bottle of wine from the back and invited you and Ezra over to his apartment. You hesitated for a moment, but ended up going.

You got to know Bella a bit more, she worked for her dad’s company, something related to accounting, or so you understood. She was nice, a little quiet. You couldn’t help but wonder how she and Harry fit together, not out of jealousy, just pure curiosity.

Harry talked a bit about his life, and he and Ezra shared some college stories that made them both laugh like no time had passed. Bella eventually had to leave, which left the three of you, Harry, Ezra, and you, talking about nonsense, like whether aliens were real.

At one point, while Ezra was deep into explaining some bizarre conspiracy theory, your eyes met Harry’s. It wasn’t like in a movie, no dramatic music, no slow motion, but there was something there. A quiet, almost uncomfortable awareness.

For a split second, you wondered If this strange, subtle pull meant something....

Is it possible to have a connection with someone who still feels like a stranger? someone you’re inexplicably curious about...

It felt like standing in that awkward in-between of all the what ifs, a thing hard to ignore, And maybe he felt it too, because the look lingered just a second longer than it needed to, like you were both silently asking the same question: If this isn’t a pull, then what is it? Eventually, the night died down. The wine was gone, and it was getting late. Ezra ordered an Uber for the two of you, and soon it was time to say goodbye to Harry. You both felt again that strange, lingering feeling,but that was it. The night ended. Neither of you exchanged numbers; that would’ve been weird, considering he had a girlfriend, and there wasn’t really any reason to stay in touch… The Uber ride was quiet. Ezra scrolled through his phone, half-drunk and sleepy, but your mind was somewhere else. You kept replaying the night, his laugh, his eyes, that small pause before saying goodbye.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t. But when you got home and saw a small smear of red wine on your sleeve, all you could think about was the warmth of that room, and how something about it felt... unfinished. But you went back to your life, just now knowing the existence of a very great artist named Harry Styles.

🎨

Months passed. Life went on, meetings, emails, coffee that never seemed strong enough. The night at Harry’s gallery had faded into one of those memories that feels almost like a dream, too vivid to be forgotten but too distant to hold on to.

You were visiting a client that afternoon, one of the hotels your agency had recently taken on. The lobby smelled like polished wood and expensive candles, every detail begging to be photographed for their social media feed. You were halfway through your mental checklist when something on the far wall caught your eye.

It was a painting. A woman, head slightly tilted, shoulders soft, her face blurred into a haze of muted color. The strokes were bold, but gentle, the emotion almost tangible. And you knew instantly whose work it was.

Harry.

You stepped closer before you even realized you were moving, your eyes tracing the chaos of paint that somehow still made sense. The longer you stared, the stronger that familiar pull became, like a thread tugging from somewhere deep in your chest.

“Beautiful piece, isn’t it?” said a voice behind you. The client’s tone was casual. “Local artist. Apparently his work’s in high demand lately.”

You smiled faintly, eyes still fixed on the painting. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “I’ve seen his work before.”

10 months later

You’d forgotten the shape of his voice, the exact green of his eyes, but sometimes, late at night, his paintings, the smudged face, the blur of swallows' wings, the feeling it left you with.

Work had been relentless, but good. You’d reconnected with an old friend, Clara, who ran a small creative workshop downtown. The kind of place filled with mismatched mugs, soft jazz, and paint stains that would never come out of the floorboards.

That Saturday, she’d begged you to come by.

“It’s just a casual open day! You don’t even have to paint, just come hang out, Lucas can come too!” she’d said, waving a flyer over coffee earlier that week.

So you went…because why not?

The room smelled faintly of acrylic and wood polish, people laughing softly over their canvases. You were helping Clara rearrange some supplies when she suddenly lit up.

“Oh, right! my friend’s coming to teach the beginner class today. He’s really good, used to have his own exhibits and everything. You’ll love him.”

You smiled, barely paying attention as you sorted brushes into jars.

“Yeah? What’s his name?”

She grinned, distracted by a group coming through the door.

“Harry, umm…Harry Styles.”

Your hands froze. For a second, everything around you went blurry, the chatter, the clinking glass jars, even the light streaming through the tall windows. You turned, slowly.

And there he was.

Same soft curls, same focused eyes scanning the room, sleeves rolled to his elbows as he greeted Clara with a familiar warmth. He looked good. He looked well.

He didn’t notice you right away, but when he finally did, when his gaze found yours across the room,  it felt like time folded in on itself. He smiled when he saw you, that kind of smile that starts small but reaches his eyes before he can stop it.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, walking over, paint already smudged on his fingers.

“Me neither,” you replied, trying not to sound as thrown off as you felt. “Clara’s a friend. She kind of guilt-tripped me into coming.”

He chuckled, soft and low. “Sounds like her.”

The first few minutes were easy, small talk, polite laughs, the kind of catching up that tiptoed around everything that wasn’t being said. But curiosity had a way of slipping through, and before you could stop yourself, the question came out.

“So… how’s Bella?”

He paused, brush still in his hand. Then he looked up, his expression unreadable for a second before softening. “We broke up,” he said simply. “A while ago, actually. It was… for the best.”

“Oh,” you said, and even though you weren’t sure what you were supposed to feel, something fluttered in your chest...quickly followed by guilt.

Because you had someone now, Lucas.

It wasn’t serious, not really, but it was something. Comfortable, safe. Someone who texted you good morning and never made your heart race in a way that felt dangerous.

“That’s…umm, I’m sorry,” you said quietly, eyes flicking down to the palette he was holding.

He smiled faintly. “Don’t be. I think we both knew we were done before we said it out loud.”

There was a pause, not awkward, just heavy. You nodded, trying to focus on the canvas in front of you, on the way the afternoon light hit the jars of paint.

The class went on, sunlight shifting across the tables as everyone got lost in color and brushstrokes. You weren’t really painting… more like pretending to, adding small, careful lines to a corner of your canvas while stealing glances at him.

Harry had a way of teaching that was soft. He didn’t take over or correct too much, just guided people, steady and kind. Every time he passed by your side, you felt your pulse jump, even though neither of you said much.

“Not bad,” he murmured once, stopping behind you. “You’ve got a nice sense of balance.”

You turned, meeting his eyes for a second too long. “I think that’s a very polite way of saying you’re not terrible.”

He laughed, really laughed, and the sound made something tighten in your chest.

You didn’t even notice the door open until Clara’s voice echoed across the room.

“Oh! Hey! You made it!”

You looked up, and your heart dropped.

There he was, Lucas, walking toward you with that easy smile that once made you feel calm. He leaned down to kiss your cheek, arm slipping around your shoulder like it belonged there.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said, nodding politely to Harry. “Just wanted to see how it was going.”

Harry straightened, polite but distant, wiping his hands on a rag. “Hi. Harry.”

“Lucas,” he replied, shaking his hand. “So you’re the artist.”

“Something like that,” Harry said, his tone even, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes

You forced a smile, the air suddenly feeling heavier. “Baby, this is Clara’s friend, he’s teaching the class today.”

“Right,” Lucas said, glancing at your half-finished painting. “Didn’t know you could paint.”

“I can’t,” you said quickly, and Harry’s lips twitched like he was holding back a smile.

For a moment, silence stretched between the three of you, polite smiles, careful gestures, unspoken things weaving in the air.

And though you stood beside Lucas, your heart was somewhere else entirely, in the warmth of Harry’s laugh, in the memory of brushstrokes that once made you stop and stare.

The class ended the way good afternoons always do, quietly, without ceremony, like no one wanted to be the first to admit it was over, people rinsed brushes, laughed about their crooked lines, exchanged numbers with strangers they’d just met over shared palettes. Clara was buzzing, already talking about future workshops, while Harry thanked everyone individually, patient and warm until the room slowly emptied.

You lingered near the sink, washing acrylic from your hands long after it was gone.

Harry approached, drying his own hands on a towel. “Thanks for coming,” he said, softer now that there was no audience. “It was… nice seeing you again.”

“Yeah,” you replied. “It really was. You’re great at this, by the way. Teaching, I mean.”

He smiled, a little shy. “I like it. Keeps me grounded.”

There was a pause, one of those almost-moments that could tip either way if someone dared to push it. But neither of you did.

“Well,” you said, glancing toward the door where Lucas was chatting with Clara, “I should probably…”

“Of course,” Harry nodded. “It was good to see you.”

“Good to see you too.”

No hug this time. Just a look that said more than either of you were willing to admit. Then you grabbed your bag and walked out, that same unfinished feeling settling back into your chest like it had never left.

.

Months passed again.

Life reshuffled itself the way it always did.

Lucas got the email on a Tuesday morning…

An acceptance letter, followed by the word scholarship, followed by Australia...

You were proud of him. Truly. It was a big deal, the kind of opportunity you didn’t say no to.

But you knew, almost instantly, that you wouldn’t go. You didn’t want to start over on the other side of the world. You didn’t want to build a future out of time zones and video calls and “maybe next year.” And Lucas, kind and practical as ever, didn’t want that either.

So you did the adult thing. You talked. You cried a little. You ended it gently, honestly, before resentment had a chance to grow.

You hugged him goodbye at the airport weeks later and meant it when you wished him well.

Still, when you got home, the apartment felt too quiet.

.

It was a Thursday evening when you finally said it out loud.

“Hey,” you told Clara, trying to sound casual as you stirred your coffee. “This might be weird, but… do you still have Harry’s number?”

Clara raised an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across her face “Oh,” she said. “That Harry?”

You sighed. “Please don’t make it a thing.”

“I’m absolutely making it a thing,” she replied, already unlocking her phone. “But yes. I do.”

You hesitated for half a second when she sent it to you. Then, before you could overthink it, you typed.

“Hey. It’s Y/N!  Clara gave me your number. Hope that’s okay.”

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

“Hey. Yeah, of course! Good to hear from you!”

No explanations. No awkward justifications. As if this was always going to happen, and you were both simply catching up to it.

You talked about small things at first, work, how Clara was doing, how weird it felt that the year was already flying by. He told you he’d sold a few more pieces, that he was painting less swallows now and more people. You told him you’d finally learned how to cook something other than pasta.

It was easy. Natural. Then, casually, like it wasn’t something that would shift the air between you, he mentioned it…

“I’m actually moving soon. Paris.”

You paused, fingers hovering over the screen.

“Paris?”

“Yeah. Ten months. Masterclass program. Kind of a now-or-never thing.”

You smiled to yourself, heart doing that familiar, dangerous flutter.

“Wow. That’s incredible, very you!!!”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. It really is 💛”

There was a beat.

You set your phone down, the room feeling colder somehow.

.

Eight months later, Clara felt less like an old friend and more like part of your weekly routine. You had slipped into an easy rhythm together, coffee after work, long walks that turned into dinners, voice notes sent back and forth about nothing and everything. She’d become one of those people who knew when not to ask questions, but also when to ask the right ones.

Harry was still there, too…not physically, but consistently. Messages that came and went without pressure. Photos of half-finished canvases, Parisian streets at dusk, the occasional voice note sent late at night when time zones blurred. You never labeled whatever it was. You didn’t need to.

So when Clara brought it up, it felt almost inevitable.

They were sitting on the floor of her workshop, backs against a table leg, sharing takeout from mismatched containers.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said, way too casually.

You glanced at her. “That tone is dangerous.”

She grinned. “Harry says hi, by the way”

Of course he did. “Tell him I said hi back.”

“Weeeell,” she continued, dragging the word out, “he also said we should go visit.”

You froze. Just slightly. Enough for her to notice.

“Visit,” you repeated.

“Paris,” she clarified. “He’s there anyway, I’ve always wanted to go, and he offered his place!”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Absolutely not.”

Clara blinked “That was fast.”

“I’m serious,” you said, already listing reasons in your head “It’s impulsive. Expensive. And weird.”

“Weird how?”

You hesitated. “Just..weird…”

She studied you for a moment, softer now. “You know nothing has to happen, right?”

You exhaled slowly. “That’s kind of the problem.”

She didn’t push. Just nodded, changed the subject, let the idea sit there like an unopened envelope.

That night, you lay in bed scrolling through photos Harry had sent weeks earlier, rain on cobblestones, a corner café he loved, a blurry shot of the Seine at night. You imagined the smell of the city, the sound of his voice without a screen between you.

You told yourself you were being ridiculous.

You told yourself no, again and again.

Until one afternoon, weeks later, you caught yourself opening a flight search tab without really deciding to.

You closed it.

Opened it again.

When you finally brought it up, it was over coffee, like it was no big deal.

“So” you said, stirring your cup. “Hypothetically… when were you thinking of going?”

Clara’s eyes lit up. “You’re asking hypothetically?”

“Don’t make it a thing” you warned.

She smiled anyway. “Next month. Harry said the weather’s perfect. Not too cold yet.”

You looked down at your coffee “Okay,” you said quietly. “I’ll go.”

She squealed, grabbing your arm. “You won’t regret this.”

.

The flight felt unreal, like something you’d booked for someone else and accidentally showed up for.

Paris greeted you with gray skies and that soft, cinematic chill that made everything feel slower. Harry met you and Clara outside the building where he lived, scarf wrapped loosely around his neck, curls slightly longer than the last time you’d seen him on a screen.

“Hey” he said, smiling wide as he pulled Clara into a hug first, then you, brief, warm, careful.

“Hi” you replied, suddenly very aware of how close he smelled like clean laundry and something woody underneath.

His apartment was bright in that very Parisian way, tall windows, uneven wooden floors, a few canvases leaned casually against the walls like they belonged there by accident.

“I hope this is okay” he said, opening a door down the hall. “It’s small, but it’s cozy.”

The guest room was just that: a bed, a tiny desk, a window that looked out over rooftops and chimneys. Clara squealed immediately.

“This is perfect,” she declared, already dropping her bag. “I’m never leaving.” 

Harry laughed.

The first days unfolded gently. No pressure. No big moments, just the city doing what it did best.

Mornings meant coffee from the corner café, standing at the bar like locals, Clara enthusiastically butchering her French while the barista smiled patiently. Afternoons were long walks, along the Seine, through narrow streets that smelled like bread and rain, Harry pointing things out like he’d quietly fallen in love with the place.

You talked about everything and nothing. Art, work, the strange comfort of being somewhere unfamiliar together. Sometimes you walked side by side in silence, not awkward, just easy.

One evening, Harry cooked something simple, pasta and wine poured into mismatched glasses. Music played softly in the background. Clara teased him about becoming very European.

Another night, he took you to a small restaurant he loved, the kind of place that didn’t have a menu in English and felt like a secret. You watched him talk to the waiter in careful French, hands moving as he spoke, and felt that quiet pull again.

Midway through the week, he mentioned a gathering.

“Some friends are getting together tomorrow night,” he said casually. “Nothing big. You’re welcome to come if you want”

Clara was in immediately. “Absolutely.”

The apartment belonged to one of his friends, warm, crowded, music spilling out into the hallway. People laughed loudly, switching between languages, glasses constantly being refilled. You stayed close to Clara at first, but she quickly drifted.

“Okay…” she whispered to you, eyes wide, “that guy over there?”

You followed her gaze to a man speaking animatedly in French-accented English.

“I’m in love,” she said. “I don’t care what his name is.”

You laughed. “You’ve been here three days.”

“Exactly.”

She was gone within minutes, deep in conversation, smiling like she’d forgotten the rest of the room existed. That left you standing near the balcony doors, watching the city lights flicker beyond the windows.

Harry joined you, handing you a drink.

“She okay?” he asked, nodding toward Clara.

“Oh, she’s thriving” you said. “Paris is working exactly as intended!”

He smiled, leaning against the wall beside you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The music hummed through the floor. Laughter echoed from the other room.

“I’m glad you came,” he said finally.

You looked at him. “Me too.”

“I was a little worried it might be awkward,” he admitted. “Seeing each other again….”

“And is it?” you asked.

He shook his head slowly. “No. Just… familiar. In a good way.”

Your eyes met, and this time you didn’t look away right away. The noise around you faded, replaced by the quiet awareness of how close you were standing.

Somewhere across the room, Clara laughed loudly, the sound grounding you back in the moment.

Harry cleared his throat lightly. “Do you want some air?”

You nodded.

The balcony was small, just enough space for the two of you. The city stretched out below, glowing and alive. Cold air brushed your skin, but you barely noticed.

Harry rested his forearms against the railing, eyes tracing the line of rooftops instead of looking at you. You’d noticed he did that when he was thinking, putting space between the thought and the words.

“Funny, isn’t it,” he said quietly, “how timing works.”

You nodded. “Or doesn’t…”

He smiled at that, small and almost self-aware. “Yeah. That.”

A beat. Then, softer, almost incredulous, “Sometimes I think about how early this started.”

You blinked slightly. “Early?”

He glanced at you with a smile “That night at my apartment,” he said. “When we barely knew each other. I remember thinking… that’s odd. Feeling like I already knew you somehow.”

Your chest tightened, a quiet shock blooming there. “I thought I was imagining it,” you admitted. “And then at the art class… it happened again. I kept thinking, there it is. That same feeling.”

He let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, equal parts relief and disbelief. “So we both knew,” he murmured. “From the start.”

“Apparently,” you said softly. “Just didn’t say it out loud.”

He shook his head slightly, like the realization still stunned him. “Sometimes I think about how different things might’ve been… if we’d met at another moment. Or if I’d stayed…”

You swallowed, heart thudding softly but insistently. “Do you ever regret it?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, honestly, “I think regret implies certainty. I don’t know if I’ve ever been certain about anything…”

You turned slightly toward him. “Except art.”

He laughed under his breath. “Even that took a while.”

“Do you think you’ll go back?” you asked gently.

He inhaled slowly, like he’d been waiting for the question.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Part of me feels like I should. Like that’s where my life technically is.” He paused. “But another part of me… doesn’t feel done yet. With this. With being here.”

“With Paris,” you said, even though you knew that wasn’t all of it.

“But… something itches too,” he added, gaze steady now. “With someone I think I might’ve met at the wrong time.”

He looked away again, almost apologetic. “I don’t want to say anything that sounds like… expectations. Or rules. You know? I’d never want to ask someone to put their life on hold.”

You understood exactly what he wasn’t saying.

“And if I did go back,” he added, quieter now, “I think I’d want to do it differently. I’d want to take someone out properly. No almosts. No maybes.”

The city seemed to hold its breath.

You didn’t think. You didn’t weigh pros and cons or timing or fear. You just felt it, clear, undeniable, terrifyingly simple.

“I get it,” you said softly. Then, meeting his eyes fully, you added, “But I don’t need you to ask.”

He frowned slightly. “Ask what?”

You smiled, nerves buzzing under your skin. “For me to wait.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, like the words had escaped him.

“I think… somehow… I already am,” you said. And then, with a small laugh that carried more courage than you felt, you repeated it clearer, firmer. “I can wait… a while.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, something raw and unguarded crossing his face.

“You don’t have to,” he said quietly.

“I know,” you replied. “That’s the point.”

The space between you felt different now, not uncertain, not unfinished. Just… chosen.

.

The last days in Paris slipped by too quickly, like the city was gently nudging you toward reality again, reminders tucked into every café visit, every late walk, every lingering look you tried not to overthink.

Your final night, the three of you stayed in. Wine bottles cluttered the counter, leftovers from the restaurant down the street spread across the table, Clara dramatically recounting her week-long “love affair” with accents, eye contact, and men who definitely thought she was mysterious. You laughed more than you had in months,  the kind of laughter that left your stomach sore and your chest warm.

You kept catching Harry’s eye across the room. Little shared smiles. Private reactions. The quiet awareness that time was running out.

Later, when Clara disappeared into the guest room to pack, muttering to herself about airline baggage limits and emotional baggage, you and Harry lingered in the kitchen, the apartment dim and hushed. The hum of the fridge, the faint city noise drifting in through the window. Everything else felt suspended.

He stepped closer. Not abruptly, just enough that the air shifted, like the scene had narrowed to the two of you.

You could feel it…this was the moment the universe had been circling around! Every near-miss, every half-sentence, every stolen glance funneling into this exact second…

His hand brushed yours, barely, but it sent a current straight up your arm. You tilted your head up, heart hammering, breath shallow. He leaned in, slower than you expected, giving you time to pull away… but you didn’t.

“GUYS.”

Clara’s voice sliced through the space like a siren.

“I just realized I don’t have room for my shoes and I’m blaming both of you!! This is emotionally devastating!”

You burst out laughing, adrenaline dissolving into something dizzy and bright. Harry dragged a hand down his face with a soft groan. “Unbelievable timing,” he muttered, half amused, half defeated.

The moment scattered…. but the feeling didn’t.

Later, at the door, coats on, the city waiting outside like a held breath, he hugged Clara tightly. Then you.

This time, he didn’t pull away right away.

His arm lingered at your waist. Your forehead nearly brushed his shoulder. For a second, it felt like the rest of the world had politely stepped back again, like maybe the universe was giving you one quieter chance.

Neither of you said anything.

But neither of you let go.

.

One month later, your phone barely left your hand.

Texts turned into voice notes. Voice notes into calls. Calls into video calls that stretched late into the night, time zones dissolving like they’d never mattered.

He started it casually at first…

“Morning, baby,” he said one day, hair messy, still half-asleep.

You froze for half a second, then smiled so hard it hurt.

Soon it was love, slipped into sentences like it had always belonged there. Flower, said softly when you told him about your day. “Because you grow wherever you are,” he explained, like it was obvious.

You talked about everything, childhood memories, fears you hadn’t named out loud before, how familiar this all felt.

“It’s strange,” he said once, voice low through the screen. “Like we’ve done this before.”

You nodded. “Like we just… found each other again.”

“Exactly,” he smiled. “Like a past life finally catching up.”

Paris was still beautiful, he told you. Inspiring. Necessary.

“But,” he admitted one night, eyes serious, “this connection? It feels like destiny. And I don’t think I’m supposed to ignore it.”

Then, one evening, your phone rang unexpectedly.

Harry’s face filled the screen, nervous energy buzzing through him.

“Hey” he said. “I’ve been thinking a lot.”

Your heart started racing. “Okay…”

“I am coming back,” he said, clearly now. “Paris gave me what I needed…but you… this feels like something I’d regret for the rest of my life if I didn’t choose it.”

You gasped, one hand flying to your mouth.

“Harry—”

“I don’t know exactly what it’ll look like,” he continued. “But I know I want to try. Properly. With you.”

You laughed, breathless, eyes already burning.

“I’m so happy!!” you said, voice shaking.

He smiled, wide and bright and certain.

“I know,” he said softly. “That’s why I’m coming home.”

.When he said home, it didn't sound like an address. it didn't sound like a lease, or an apartment key, or even a city. It sounded softer than that. Certain in a way that didn’t need explaining.

.

At first, it scared you a little.

It was fast. Too fast, by every logical standard you’d ever trusted. But every time you tried to slow it down in your head, your heart refused to cooperate. It didn’t feel reckless. It felt… remembered. Like something finally clicking into place after being slightly off for years.

And then suddenly, it was real.

One month later, you stood in the airport arrivals hall, fingers clenched tightly around the stem of a single flower, the balloon tugging gently above your wrist. You hadn’t even been sure why you brought them, maybe because waiting felt unbearable without something to hold onto.

Your stomach flipped with every person who came through the doors. Families reunited. Laughter. Rolling suitcases.

Then you saw him.

Two large suitcases behind him, hair slightly longer, shoulders tense with exhaustion, and then his eyes lifted.

Found you.

The change was instant. He dropped the handles of his bags like they no longer existed and started running, weaving through people, calling your name without caring who heard.

You barely had time to breathe before his arms were around you.

No hello. No pause.

Just him holding you like he’d finally stopped falling.

And then his hands framed your face and he kissed you, right there, in the middle of the airport. Unpolished. Desperate. Real.

The world blurred into noise and motion around you, but all you could feel was him, warm, solid, finally here.

When he pulled back, foreheads touching, he laughed softly, breath shaky.

“Hi” he whispered, like he’d just remembered manners.

You laughed too, tears threatening, flower crushed slightly between you.

“You’re here!” you said.

He smiled, brushing his thumb under your eye.

“I know,” he replied.

You were still a little stunned, nerves buzzing under your skin, smiling like you couldn’t quite believe your own body was standing there. Your hands hovered awkwardly at his sides, like you didn’t yet trust that touching him was real and not something you’d wake up from.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

He leaned in, forehead resting against yours again, voice low and steady “Hey,” he said softly, thumb brushing your cheek. “Breathe.”

You laughed quietly, nodding, eyes still glassy. “Sorry. I just…”

“I know,” he interrupted gently, smiling. Then, a little more certain, like he was saying it to both of you, “Time’s on our side now. No more hiccups. No more almosts.”

You searched his face, looking for doubt.

There wasn’t any.

Just calm. Just choice.

And that was how it started.

Dates that felt intentional but effortless, late dinners where conversation spilled past midnight, walks that ended nowhere because neither of you wanted them to. Long nights curled up on the couch, his fingers absentmindedly tracing your arm while he talked about color and light and ideas that only made sense to him.

And then the painting…

At first, it was casual. “Sit there,” he’d say. “Just for a second.”

But it kept happening.

Your shoulder. Your hands. The line of your jaw when you weren’t paying attention. He painted you laughing, thinking, half-asleep. Sometimes abstract, sometimes painfully detailed.

“I’m everywhere!” you teased once, looking at his studio.

He shrugged, unapologetic. “I paint what I like.”

You felt things you’d never felt before, not intensity that burned fast, not chaos disguised as passion, but something steady and deep and alive. A kind of love that didn’t ask you to shrink or rush or brace yourself for impact.

With him, you didn’t wonder where you stood.

You stood right there, next to him, choosing and being chosen back.

It felt unreal. It felt earned. It felt like a fairytale.

.

Months later, living together stopped feeling like a decision and started feeling like the default.

Your things blended slowly, his canvases leaning against walls you’d chosen together, your mugs slowly replacing his mismatched ones, toothbrushes side by side like they’d always belonged there. Mornings were sleepy and quiet; nights stretched long, full of conversation, music, and him painting while you sat nearby, legs tucked under you, reading or doing nothing at all.

It felt settled. Not dull, secure.

That afternoon, you were home before him, still in comfortable clothes, moving around the apartment. You heard the door open harder than usual.

“Love?” his voice called out, breathless.

You turned just in time to see him standing there, eyes wide, chest rising fast, jacket still on. He looked undone, not upset, not angry, just overwhelmed.

“What happened?” you asked, immediately concerned.

He dropped his bag by the door and crossed the space between you in three long steps, hands coming up to your face like he needed to anchor himself.

“I sold it,” he said. “The piece. The big one.”

Your eyes widened. “Harry! that’s amazing!!”

“No,” he said quickly, shaking his head, almost laughing. “You don’t understand. It’s… it’s the most I’ve ever sold anything for! By far! It was a lot of money!”

You smiled, pride blooming in your chest. “I’m so proud of you.”

He swallowed, eyes glossy now, thumb brushing your cheek like he was grounding himself.

“And this is not even about the painting…well it is…but…I’ve never felt like this before,” he continued, words tumbling out now. “Not this calm. Not this sure. With you, everything makes sense in a way it never has, when he agreed…i thought about you, I didn't think about the money, I thought about our future.”

He took a shaky breath, then dropped to one knee right there on the living room floor, between the couch and the coffee table you’d picked out together.

Your breath caught.

“I know it hasn’t been years and years, but somehow it has…we met a long time ago and i always felt something and now i know you did too…” he said, voice steady despite the emotion shaking through him. “But it’s been enough. Enough to know that this is different. That you’re different.”

“I don’t have a ring…yet. Cause I need to do this now!...Y/n I don’t want to imagine my life without you in it,” he said. “I don’t want to paint a future you’re not part of.”

Your eyes filled before you could stop them.

“So,” he said softly, looking up at you like the answer already lived there, “will you marry me?”

The world narrowed to that moment, to him, kneeling, hopeful and vulnerable and completely certain.

You didn’t hesitate.

“Yes!” you said, voice breaking as you laughed through tears. “Yes! Of course I will!”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years, standing quickly to pull you into his arms, pressing his forehead to yours, laughing, overwhelmed, home. And just like that, after one year and some months of feeling more than you ever had before, you both knew.

This was it. GENERAL TAGLIST:

•••

Today she is wearing one of Harry’s sweaters, he’s kind of worried but he doesn’t want to ask her directly.

“Love, are you okay?” She is resting his head on hers.

“Yes, I got a tattoo yesterday and they told me, I have to cover it up because of the sun,” Harry pulls her into a hug.

“Will you show me?” Harry loves to see her new tattoos mostly she tattoos things he drew for her but sometimes she just gets a random tattoo. This time it is different, she got a tattoo with a deeper meaning, at least for her. She thinks Harry wouldn’t understand.

She slowly puts her sweater off. She is still insecure about the place where she got her tattoo. She wanted them around her scars.

“Oh love, that’s beautiful,” he leans down to look at the tattoo better. “I love it. How was your visit, I know it takes a lot of strength to show it to someone else,” he rubs slowly with his thumbs over her knuckles.

“It was fine, they showed me some of theirs and they said it's not a reason to feel insecure,” she wraps her arms around herself.

“They are right,” he mumbles. Harry is still staring at the tattoo, he loves it.

“Oh I forgot to tell ya, I should tell you they loved the stars. Have you ever thought about becoming a tattoo artist?” She raises an eyebrow.

Harry decided he’d take the rest of the day off and relax, invite (Y/N) over, and enjoy each other’s presence. He found that having her around always brought him peace and helped think better. Maybe she could even give him ideas so he could finally do something for his painting.

After a few texts back and forth and (Y/N) agreeing to go over, Harry scurried around the room to pick up any messes – though Harry was never one to leave messes but he’s just meticulous that way – he fixed the bed and brought out a few waters from the mini fridge in his room, and patiently waited for (Y/N). Harry found the more he hung out with her, the less nervous he’d be for the next time around, nonetheless she always spiked up his heart race and made his hands a little sweaty.

A few knocks in that familiar pattern were heard throughout Harry’s room which had him darting towards the door, stumbling over his own feet with a small curse leaving his lips before finally landing at the door.

“Hi – uh, come in. Come in.” Harry offered her a shy smile as he stepped aside to grant her entrance to his little safe bubble, not surprised to find that familiar and heartwarming smile on her face.

Even though (Y/N) had been over a couple of times, she was nervous herself though she did a much better job at hiding it then Harry did. She walked in, placing her small bag on the small table by the door before standing in front of Harry and cradling his reddened cheeks in her hand. “It’s just me, H. It’s me. You and me. Love how cute you get when you’re nervous, but you don’t have to be.”

Harry sighed as his shoulders sagged and a small pout formed on his lips. Over the past few weeks since their date and despite Harry always being a nervous wreck, he’s been more vulnerable around (Y/N) and has been saying what’s on his mind. It’s made their dynamic so beautiful, sweet, and soft.

“I know… I do... Jus’ what you do to me. Can’t help it.” Harry confessed before sheepishly leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead earning him a giggle from the sweet girl before him. “You’re perfect, Harry.” Per usual, he didn’t know how to take a compliment. His response what a small scoff and a soft shake of his head, then grabbing her wrist to lead her to his bed, both sitting in front of each other and crossing their legs. It was normal for them before they ended up laid back and tangled in a cuddle while talking about anything and everything.

“Did you finally find something to paint?” (Y/N) asked as she reached her hand to retrieve Harry’s from his lap, playing with his long fingers and somewhat massaging his palms – it felt so good, and it was so relaxing.

“No. Can’t seem to find any inspiration. Think y’can give me some ideas?”

--

Harry and (Y/N) spoke for about three hours and the conversation quickly towed away from his lack of inspiration. Harry started asking (Y/N) about her day, they learned more about their families and they very different lives back home. Anything besides what Harry needed to be focused on.

Somewhere along the conversation, Harry and (Y/N) had both scooted towards the top of the bed and fell back, laying on their sides and facing each other as Harry’s finger traced up and down her arm and waist slowly – and right then and there it hit Harry.

A small gasp fell from his lips, sitting up quickly and holding up a finger to (Y/N), “Don’t move, love.” (Y/N) laughed softly and nodded at him, her eyes following his quick movements across the room as she noticed what Harry was retrieving from the closet: a canvas, brushes, paints, and a clean palette.

“Harry?” She called out with a soft voice, watching move the small table by the door to be placed in front of the chair near the bed and scattered the materials over it.

Harry looked up at her with red cheeks and a nervous tone to his low octave voice seeping through, “You. It’s you. My muse. Just don’t move. Y’look so stunning.” Harry’s voice faltered somewhere along the way of his sentence as it spewed out in a whisper, fingers already wrapped around a brush.

(Y/N) had one hand tucked under the pillow, the other one rested over her hip. Her head so delicately placed on the pillow with her hair sprawled around her face. Harry’s eyes fixed on the commissure of her lips in a soft smile, her cheekbones prominent from the muscle placement of her cracked smile and Harry swore it felt like love was exploding his heart.

Harry looked back at the canvas with a soft sigh, brush stroking across the canvas in small tight movements for a more accurate painting of the aphrodisiac before him. He was almost in disbelief at how still and quiet (Y/N) was before looking back up at and finding her asleep. Harry chuckled softly to himself and continued his ministrations across his new artwork to turn in to the professor – what better than someone as beautiful and perfectly imperfect as (Y/N)?

It felt like it had been hours when Harry finished. He looked at the time and realized it took him four hours and it tore his heart that his poor (Y/N) had been here for so long without eating and probably longer than she planned to spend with him.

Harry set aside his wet canvas before approaching (Y/N) and softly tapping her shoulder, then moving some stray hairs away from her face. “(Y/N)? Love?” She opened her eyes softly, squinting and turning to look at Harry before widening her eyes and sitting up.

“Oh! God, I’m so sorry, H! I didn’t even realize I had fallen asleep. Probably ruined your painting, didn’t I?” Harry immediately shook his head and kneeled by the bed to be at face level with her, “No, I promise you didn’t. It’s perfect. I didn’t want to disturb you but you’re probably hungry and I don’t know if you planned to stay here this long.”

(Y/N) pouted softly before smiling and turning to wrap her arms around Harry’s neck, making him sit on the bed by her legs. “You’re too considerate and kind. But Harry, I’d spend all day and night with you if you’d let me.”

It goes without saying that Harry felt his heart racing a thousand miles a second. Their faces were close, and Harry wanted nothing more than to give in and finally kiss her. But it was almost as if (Y/N) had infiltrated his mind and thoroughly heard every word being said, leaning in and pressing their lips together. Harry let out a sigh of relief, staying still for a few seconds. That power of courage that he was dying to fill his veins finally hit him, his hands wrapping around her waist to pull her closer to him as their lips moved in something akin to synchrony.

Finally. He felt her lips after so much contemplation of back and forth.

Harry immediately felt intoxicated by the taste of her mouth, wanting nothing to break them away from such a blissful moment.

He pulled away, softly panting and chuckling nervously to himself. “Will you – do y’want to spend the night with me? If you want to… you don’t have to.”

(Y/N) broke out into a fit of giggles before running her hands down his shoulders, arms, stopping at his wrist. “Oh, shut it. Of course, I want to.”

--

Harry nodded sharply, taking long and fast strides to the stool, sitting down with a sigh of relief once he was no longer being looked at by everyone.

The center of the room held a round, cherry wood table. It was adorned with a basket filled with fruits that were surely juicy and ready to be devoured. Only eight stools and eight easels in the room for each of the students, rounded about the table.

Harry could only see the big canvas before him, having to peak to the side to have a glimpse of the fruits, other than that all he could see was the back of everyone’s easel and canvas.

“Alright painters. Today we will all be interpreting Still Life painting. As we can all see, we’ve got a cesto di frutta. Obviously, we all see different things, right?”

The class collectively hummed, all peeking out to look at the basket.

Professor Vitale glances towards her watch, then looking back out to the class.

“We’ve got 4 hours. You may commence. Buona fortuna.”

Harry let out a deep breath, looking at all the acrylic paint on the easel as he tried to clear out his mind and focus on nothing else but the basket of fruits.

He began with his sketching pencil, tracing in light movements across the canvas, his mind picking and pointing out where everything would be. The cherry wood table, the basket with the fruits, and the pretty girl sat across from him.

The pretty girl sat across from him?

Harry peaked out again and he could see her. Maybe his mind subconsciously made her a part of his painting, finding her so beautiful and important to earn a spot on his blank canvas. And man, he didn’t fight it. The man would never lose the opportunity to paint something – someone so beautiful.

She never makes eye contact with him. She’s clearly focused, more focused than Harry. He notices how her eyebrows furrow, creasing in between when she focused on a part of the basket that he clearly couldn’t see from his stance. Her bottom lip rolls into her mouth, Harry picking apart that she is biting it from the way her jaw would repeatedly move to keep her lip rolled.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Harry whispers to himself, bringing himself back to reality – back to the main objective; the damn fruit basket (and the pretty girl across from him.)

Harry’s hands moved like muscle memory. It always comes easy to him, painting that is. It has been his passion since he could remember. Of course, there were harder days when Harry couldn’t find an inspiration but nonetheless, it is his talent, and he shines bright.

Halfway in, Harry was done with the cherry wood table and the basket. He knew that after he painted a simple background with the light shading, he could call Professor Vitale and let her know he was done. But that was far from the truth. Not until he was truly finished.

So, it came natural to Harry’s hand. Grabbing a clean brush, dipping into the paint, and outlining her face. It’s hard for him to stay on task. He finds himself staring for a few seconds too long before he’s back on the canvas, hand stroking the paintbrush softly.

Harry was truly amused that she still hadn’t managed to catch him looking. Was she just not one of those people that get that sense when someone is staring?

But oh no. Of course, Harry’s luck didn’t last that long. He peaked towards the side again, her doing the same but this time, her eyes don’t go to the basket. They land straight on Harry.

Harry gasped softly, moving his head back to hide behind the canvas as if it were his safe haven. His cheeks turned into the softest hues of red, feeling his heart racing at the fact that he just got caught staring at her. He waited a few seconds before thinking about peaking back, but he couldn’t bring himself to. He was too embarrassed.

He tried to keep on painting from memory, finding just a bit of success but he needed to look at her. Maybe just once more. He wanted to get the right shadings, if she had any freckles he could see from a few feet away.

Once that courage built up again inside of Harry, he took in a deep breath and peaked his head out again. She didn’t look up at him instantly. Perhaps she really didn’t get a sense and she just happened to catch him that one time.

Harry was able to get it all done beautifully, leaving his small signature at the bottom left corner of his painting, and just in time as the professor announced that their time was up.

“E hai finite! Ci vediamo la prossima settimana.”

Harry didn’t know why that same sense of urgency and humiliation he felt when he walked into class late came back creeping up on him. Mayhap it was the fact that everyone was staring at him with judging eyes for being late and loud. It drove him to grab his things and hurry out with the same haste, dying to just get away from the thought of being scrutinized by judgy eyes once more.

(Y/N) watched him hurry out with a small giggle, catching something fall from his pocket with a soft jingle, shining silver at her eyes from a few steps away of the door. She gathered her things a bit quickly, sprinting to grab whatever fell from his pocket and followed the man out of the class. It was his keys. She looked up, seeing him amongst a small crowd of people, still shooting quickly throughout the hall.

Her feet could barely allow her to catch up, feeling her breathing quicken and her chest heaving softly. She followed him towards the parking lot, seeing him patting himself down and she knew exactly what he was looking for.

“Looking for these?” The keychain dangled from her pointer finger and thumb, doing her best to hide the fact that she was out of breath and bent out of shape.

Harry looked up, his eyes widening when he realizes who was standing in front of him and holding the keys to his vespa.

“Oh, uh… yeah. Must’ve fallen out of my pocket on the way out. Thank you.” His voice came out low and shy, soft, and mellow. It was like listening to the most melodic tune, laced in a deep British accent that could be paralleled to a harp, playing a soft tune as angels flew around them. It made her heart skip a beat.

“It’s no problem, uh… What’s your name?” (Y/N) reached her hand out, placing his keys on his palm with a small smile.

“M’name’s Harry, yours?”

“It’s (Y/N). Nice to meet you, Harry. Ci vediamo la prossima settimana.” Harry was standing appalled as she flashed him a beautiful smile, then walked away. His name dripped from her tongue like honey dipped in gold. He wanted to hear it again. And again. And again. He stayed still like a statue for a few seconds, a huff leaving his lips when he pulls himself out of his dreamlike state and finally turns on the scooter to go back to the hotel.

His mind was consumed by (Y/N)’s beauty. He was enthralled by her lips. So plump and inviting, speaking the first words between them even if it was just to give him what he dropped back in class. They captivated him.

The drive to the hotel was fairly smooth, Harry thankful to not have been caught within the traffic of lunch hour. He rushed into the hotel, impatiently waiting in the elevator to reach his floor, zooming into his room.

Harry sighed deeply, then letting out a deep breath of relief to finally be in his own little bubble. While thinking of (Y/N).

God, those lips.

--