#styles

He is your husband. The one you vowed to love forever, the one you’re tied to the rest of your life. Yet, he feels like he’s a million miles away, completely out of your reach.

And yet, you still crave him. 

You had a plan going into this marriage. Do your part, be the pretty wife, the armcandy he can parade around with, keep yourself out of trouble and bring the best out of this impossible situation of being the wife of one of the city’s most feared men and it all worked out at first. The mansion is big enough to not run into each other for days, he was out there, doing everything you didn’t want to know about and you could go your own way, reading in the enormous library room, swimming in the crystal clear pool or gardening in the seemingly never ending backyard that stretches behind the main building. You could practically do anything, had everything you asked for in the blink of an eye and it all went according to your plan at first, but then…

Your real wife duties started and were forced to spend time with Harry and… fell for him. 

It’s almost ridiculous to you, going against best judgement and falling for the one man you’re supposed to keep at arm’s length, because he is dangerous, a feared business man and an even more formidable mob boss you’re practically a prisoner to. But the more time you spent with him, attending events, accompanying him to dinners or appearing by his side in his club, you got to see more of him. More of the charming man who actually cares for the people closest to him, who might be considered morally grey, but actually fights for whatever he believes in and what matters to him. A man who is closed off, often labelled as cold and ruthless, but he is actually… someone you easily fell for. 

The only man you can never have even if he’s your husband, what an awfully unfortunate situation. 

You’ve kept your desires for him at bay. A fire has been burning inside you, but you didn’t let it show, you swallowed everything and anything that tried to bubble out of you, but tonight you just couldn’t control yourself. 

You attended some kind of gala tonight, you’ve stopped caring about the events a while ago, you just go and fulfill your duty. Everything was going well, seemingly Harry has been in a light mood, even making jokes, seemingly paying more attention to you. But then when you left his side to go to the restroom you returned to finding him with a tall blonde woman who could easily be a model with her legs for days, full breasts that sat so perky behind the deep cut of her dress and perfect smile she eagerly flashed at your husband. 

Jealousy blinded you in a second and you acted before you could even think twice. A guy walked up to you right in time, offering you a flute of champagne and you gladly took it, then let him shamelessly flirt with you to the point where his hand was getting dangerously close to your ass. Your little scene was cut short when Harry showed up with a not too pleased look on his face, practically killing the guy with his eyes as he dragged me away and out of the building, ending the night for us without a word. 

“What’s wrong? I can’t have a little fun?” you smugly asked as you walked to the car that was already waiting for you. “It’s not like he could hurt me or something, we had dozens of people around us,” you huffed and Harry’s jaw ticked. 

“You know nothing,” he spat and that was it. The conversation was over. 

Now as you watch the lights pass by the window of the car you deal with a mixture of feelings and thoughts. He is mad because you put yourself in danger, familiarizing with a random guy on your own. He told you before that being his wife comes hand-in-hand with safety hazards, that you’d become a target and you have to be careful. You always listened to him, up until tonight when the jealousy completely blew your mind and had you acting reckless.

And the worst thing? The cherry on top of your rage? That it’s your jeopardized safety that set him off, not the flirting. Because you want him to want you the same way you feel about him, with the same intensity you’ve been burning for weeks now. 

But that’s not happening. You might be husband and wife, but you’ll never be more than just the title. 

You turn to look at him, but he is just staring out the window with an unreadable expression, but even now, he looks so…

The car parks in front of the mansion and even though you can tell he is pissed, more than ever, he still rounds the car and opens the door for you, helping you out so you don’t trip in your long dress and high heels. The momentary touch of his palm against your elbow just sparks even more heat inside you and it feels like pure torture. 

You walk inside in excruciating silence, the tension feels like it could pop any moment. Once you’re in the spacious hall, you stop by the door while he keeps walking ahead and before you could think twice, you speak up.

“Are you regretting marrying me?”

Harry stops, but doesn’t turn, you watch his broad shoulders stiffen. 

“I’m not what you imagined, right? Not the perfect little obedient facade you need as your wife.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” His tone has a warning in it, but it just riles you up even more. 

“Maybe you should have married that blondie, I’m sure she’d be a better wife than me.”

“Y/N, stop,” he snaps, finally turning around. “Don’t…” He lifts a finger pointing at you, but then curls his hand into a fist, dropping back to his side. It seems like he is struggling, his usual controlled self is crumbling in front of your eyes. 

“Don’t what? Don’t remind you of what you could have if you weren’t tied to me?”

Your throat tightens and eyes water, even though you’re fully dressed, in a sense it feels like you’re standing naked in front of him, speaking your thoughts for the first time you’ve met him, but you can’t keep it down any longer. 

He takes a few steps closer, but stops way too far away from you. 

“You’re dancing in a dangerous territory, Y/N.”

“Why? Are you gonna hurt me?” Now you’re just provoking him, you’re curious to see a side of him you haven’t, one that loses control, one that’s real and raw and unseen by anyone before. 

He huffs, it almost sounds like a laugh, but his face doesn’t match it. He shakes his head and turns around with the intention of walking away, but you’re not ready to end whatever this is just yet. 

“Must be hard, finding someone when you have a wife,” you push some more, wanting to get a rise of him, but what you get is far more. 

He whips around and closes the distance between the two of you with just about two long strides. One hand comes to grip your upper arm, it’s firm but not painful and his face is so close, your noses almost brush together. Your breath hitches at the sudden closeness and the fire you see in his eyes. 

“What’s hard is watching another man lay a hand on you and make you laugh when I want to be the only one you ever even think about.”

With eyes shot wide, you stare back at him, lips parted in complete disbelief. Did you hear him right or did you just imagine it? You can’t tell for sure, the rapid beating of your heart making you dizzy, or maybe it’s his words that have you going insane. 

His hand lets go of you and he takes a step back, like he is sobering up, realising what he said. He takes a deep breath shaking his head as he slowly turns away once again. 

“Stop putting yourself in danger,” he then says, quietly, reserved, like he is closing back again. 

“I won’t stop,” you answer, still frozen in your spot. Harry stops, but doesn’t face you, so you continue: “I won’t stop if this is the reaction I get from you.”

He glances at you over his shoulder, as if making sure you meant what you said and you try your best to hold his gaze. 

“I didn’t do it to risk my safety,” you admit. “I did it out of jealousy. I saw you with that tall, blonde woman and… I got jealous.”

Slowly, he turns around and starts walking back, stopping right in front of you, his face is still unreadable, but something has changed in his expression. His eyes slide down your body, down to the tip of your toes then back up, they stop on your lips, linger for a heartbeat before returning to your gaze and you read his look clearly for the first time. 

Do you mean it? Do you actually mean it? His eyes ask and you tip your chin up as your answer. 

I do.

He exhales deeply and takes a step back. Panic settles in you that he is about to ignore it, ignore you and you’re on the verge of begging, but then he speaks up. 

“Go to your bedroom, take your shoes off and wait for me.”

His voice is even, controlled, but you see the fire in his eyes. With a small nod you do as he told you. You’re panting by the time you step into your bedroom, chest heaving from the desire that’s burning through your veins, eager to find out what’s about to happen. Kicking your heels off you stand by the end of your bed, back straight, hands by your side, obediently waiting for him. When you hear his steps approaching your room you swallow and stare at the door that gently opens. 

He walks in, he has gotten rid of his own dress shoes, padding across the room barefoot, his suit jacket is also gone, the sleeves of his crispy white shirt now rolled up. He looks delicious, you’ve been thinking about running your hands through his hair all evening and the way his tattoos peek out from under the white fabric is just making you insane. 

Harry stops right in front of you and you feel a pull towards him, your body is aching to be touched by him, but you stay still. He runs his gaze down your body again and you catch his tongue wetting his lips before he looks you in the eyes. 

He takes another step, this time he is so close his front presses against yours and your lips part with a sigh when he reaches up and cups your cheek in one hand. He tilts his head to the side, like he is curiously examining your reaction to his touch, runs his thumb across your lower lip and then pushes it slightly into your mouth, surprising you for a second, but you’re quick to recover, closing your lips around it and sucking it gently while looking him in the eyes. 

He grunts and it’s the sexiest thing you’ve heard from him, he pulls his thumb out of your mouth and you almost protest, but then he kisses you and you have nothing to complain about.

It’s rough and demanding, there’s nothing exploratory about it, it doesn’t feel like a first time, you move so perfectly together like you were made for this, for each other. His hand moves down to your jaw, angling your head so he has perfect access to you and his other hand slides to your waist, pulling you tight against him, though you’re eager to get closer as well, get under his skin if possible. 

“Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth before pulling back just enough so he can look at you. His gaze rakes over your features that radiate desire right now. “You have no idea how badly I want you.”

“Take me,” you reply, probably a tad bit too fast, but you can’t control yourself any longer. “I’m yours,” you add, out of breath and desperate for practically anything he is willing to give you. 

He exhales sharply, his fingers digging deeper into your waist at your words before his hands fall from you and he steps back. Once again, panic bursts through your veins that he is about to end it, but you’re quick to learn that he has other plans.

“Take your dress off.” His voice is low and demanding, but his face doesn’t twitch, he doesn’t even blink and he’s oozing power that has you weak in the knees. 

Keeping eye-contact you pull the straps of your dress off your shoulders, the soft fabric bunches around your waist, leaving your upper body fully naked. The back of the dress has such a low cut you couldn’t wear a bra underneath. You don’t have to look down to know your nipples are pebbled and you could lie to yourself and say that it’s because of the cold, but it’s obviously because of Harry’s hungry look he is eyeing your chest with. 

You push the dress past your hips and it pools around your feet so now you’re standing in front of him in nothing but a black lace thong. His jaw ticks several times as he takes you in, like you’re a masterpiece that deserves to be admired and you swear you can feel the burning of his gaze as it travels up and down your body over and over again. Arousal starts pooling between your legs and he hasn’t even touched you. 

“Do you have any idea how many times I’ve fantasized about you like this?”

A shiver runs down your spine at his words and you’re aching to finally be touched by him, but he is still just standing there, watching you. You wet your lips and draw a deep breath. 

“I asked you a question, Y/N,” he says, dominance dripping from his tone. “Do you have any idea?”

“No,” you breathe out, voice almost trembling. 

“Every fucking day since I laid my eyes on you. Every fucking hour even when you’re not around. I think about you. I think about your eyes, your lips, your curves, I think about fucking you on every possible surface of this house and I think about…”

His voice dies, like he is struggling to speak his mind which is a surprising switch up after the confidence he just demonstrated. He swallows and squares his shoulders. 

Harry steps closer, one hand working on the fly of his pants and then he reaches in, palming himself through his underwear, while he takes your chin between his thumb and index finger, tilting your head up a bit. He brushes his knuckles against the side of your face, down your neck and collarbone, over your breast and nipple, his touch is so soft, so feather-like, it’s playing with your senses. Then slowly, like he has all the time in the world, he cups your breast, your hard nipple pushing against his warm palm as he squeezes you. He leans in, lips brushing against yours, but he doesn’t kiss you.

“Get on your knees,” he orders and he is back to his controlled self. 

You drop down to your knees so fast, the rug harshly rubs against your knees. You keep your eyes on him and as he finishes undoing his pants you almost whimper from the passion that’s burning inside you. 

“Look at you, so pretty, so hungry for me,” he murmurs, brushing your hair out of your face, then he uses both his hands to push his pants and underwear down, taking his cock out. He gives himself a few lazy strokes while you gasp seeing how big and hard he is. The urge to touch him is growing impossible to resist, but something is telling you that you have to wait for him to give you permission, so you keep yourself still. 

“Do you want to be good for me?” he asks, still stroking himself, but not touching you. 

“Yes,” you nod eagerly. 

“I can do what I want with you?” He tilts his head to the side, watching you curiously. 

“Anything.”

“Good,” he hums, satisfied. “Then I’m going to fuck your mouth first and then I’m going to fuck your pussy so hard you’ll never want to be fucked by anyone else. How does that sound, Y/N?”

“Yes please!” It comes out more like a whine, you know if you saw yourself you might find your enthusiasm ridiculous, but you couldn’t care less. You want him. You need him. 

“Such a good wife,” he grins, one hand coming to cradle the back of your head, the other one still holding his cock. “C’mere, let me fill that pretty mouth of yours.”

You finally let yourself touch him, hands coming up to his thighs to help yourself holding up as he guides your head forward, lips opening and welcoming his head. 

He groans in satisfaction as you suck on it, tasting him, twirling your tongue around it before moving further, taking more of him. 

“Fuck, Y/N, you’re so…” His head falls back with a moan when his tip touches the back of your throat. His hand is still on your head, slightly pushing on it, but you don’t need much encouragement, you’re ready to take and give everything he is offering. 

You start bobbing your head, back and forth, ignoring how your jaw starts hurting quite fast, one hand on his thigh, the other one moving on its own, sliding up his stomach under his shirt, looking for more contact with his heated skin. You feel his muscles move under your palm as he starts thrusting forward, meeting your movements 

“Yes, baby, you’re taking me so well,” he breathes out, his free hand grabbing yours on his torso, giving it a squeeze before he grabs your head with both his hands. You squirm from his words, especially from being called baby, your walls desperately contracting around nothing, but you’re convinced you could come just from his reactions. 

“I’m going to fuck your mouth now and you’ll take it,” he says and then starts using more of his power, moving your head faster while his thrusts go deeper. 

Your eyes start watering and your gag reflex starts, but you don’t want him to stop, not even when your saliva is dripping past your lips and down your chin. Both your hands are on his hips now to help keep yourself up, your knees are burning, but you ignore the pain. After a particularly deep thrust Harry curses under his breath and pulls back, his cock sliding out of your mouth. You gasp for air, but don’t have much time to recover, he pulls you back up to your feet and kisses you hard and messy. He doesn’t care that you had his cock in your mouth just seconds ago or that your lips are smeared with a mixture of your saliva and his precum, he kisses you just as passionately as the first time. 

His self-control snaps now, his hands are all over you, palming your breasts, playing with your nipples, gripping your hips and ass as he blindly walks you back until your legs meet the end of the bed. He pushes you down so you sit on the mattress and watch him get rid of his shirt, pants and underwear, your hands fisting the sheets underneath you. 

“Climb back,” he nods, leisurely holding his cock in his hand, his length still drenched in your saliva. You do as he said, sliding further up the bed, eyes fixated on him. “Open your legs.”

Parting your knees wide you lean back onto your elbows. His gaze draws down to your pussy that’s still covered in the last piece of clothing you’re wearing. Slowly, he climbs onto the bed, like a predator and you’re the prey he intends feasting on tonight. He plants his hands on either side of your hips and lowers himself, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your stomach, moving lower until he is kissing your cunt through the lace. 

“Gotta have a taste first,” he murmurs against the fabric before biting you, taking the lace between his teeth and tugging on it and then he finishes the job with his hands, practically ripping it off you, throwing it behind him.

At first he runs his thumb between your folds, your arousal coating it generously and he looks you in the eyes as he sucks it clean, making you whimper. 

“Mhm, you taste like you’re mine. My beautiful wife.”

You breathe out his name as his mouth finally makes contact with your pussy, sucking on your clit just a tad bit harder than you were expecting, but it’s bringing you some blissful pain. Out of instinct, your hands grab onto his hair, but then you hesitantly pull back as if you just did something wrong. Harry however reaches up, grabs your wrist and pulls your hand back, urging you to continue. 

“Pull on my hair as much as you want, I’m yours as well, Y/N. Have been since our wedding.”

You can’t help but whimper at his words, grabbing a fistful of his hair as he keeps eating you out like a starved man. It’s mindblowing how well he knows what you want and need, as if he could read your thoughts. 

You’re on the verge of your orgasm when he pulls back, a protesting moan slipping past your lips as he climbs up your body. 

“I need you to come on my cock for the first time, baby. I promise you can come on my tongue later as many times as you want,” he tells you with a wicked grin before kissing you, the taste of you still thick on his lips. 

You slow down, just for a little bit, sloppily kissing and rolling around in bed, but then the urgency and passion spikes again quite fast once he starts moving his hips, his cock teasing you right where you need him the most. 

You roll around until you’re on your back again and he is on top of you. He holds himself up, staring down at you with an expression that comes off as full of… awe. Like he can’t believe what’s happening and you want to tell him you feel the same way, that it’s everything you’ve been thinking about since the day you met him, but forming coherent words is just not possible for you right now. Instead, you grab him by the neck and pull him down for another long kiss. 

When the need for him grows unbearable you break your lips apart and wiggle to the side, reaching into the drawer of the nightstand, grabbing a condom you’re thankful to have, it would be devastating to stop now. 

“Put it on,” he softly tells you, holding himself up above you, watching you open the wrapper and roll it on his cock that feels rock hard by now. He drops his forehead against yours, taking a deep breath. “I’m gonna fuck you like this is my only chance fucking you.”

You open your mouth to tell him it’s not, that it cannot be the only time, but he shakes his head with an airy laugh.

“I know it’s not my only chance, I can’t accept never fucking you again, but I’ll pretend for a bit.”

Biting your lower lip you nod, hands wandering his sides and then plastering to his back as he reaches between your bodies, takes the base of his cock and lines him up at your entrance. 

“Look at me,” he orders when the tip enters you, pulling a gasp from you. Your gazes meet and he burns a hole into you with his eyes as he pushes into you, fully, rolling his hips a bit as if he is trying to wedge even deeper. He is stretching you, filling you up fully, like he was made to be inside you. 

You get only a few moments to adjust before he starts moving and he draws be entirely every time only to slam into you to the hilt over and over again, knocking the air out of you with each thrust. Your eyes roll into the back of your head and he shows you no mercy as you claw at his back, he pulls your legs up, making him more room between your thighs. It’s all so consuming, the weight of him, the force of his thrusts, the sound of his pants and grunts in your ear, the way your front presses against him when you arch your back, skin melting together. 

Suddenly his arms curl around you, he flips the two of you over without ever sliding out of you and in a heartbeat you’re sitting on top of him, his cock reaching yet another angle inside you. Planting your hands on his chest you start riding him without hesitation, rolling your lips, moving up and down, back and forth. Harry’s fingers dig into your thighs and he starts thrusting upwards, meeting your movements, but it feels so heavenly you sometimes forget to move as bliss takes over you.

He sits up, mouth covering your nipple, nibbling on it, twirling it with his tongue as you try your best to keep moving your hips, but it’s such a sensory overload, you’re not that good at it. As if he could sense it too, he flips you back onto the mattress and pulls out of you, the empty feeling making you cry out in discomfort immediately. 

“Roll onto your stomach, baby,” he says, squeezing your hips. 

He moves back just enough to give you room and you obediently roll onto your stomach. The mattress dips under his knees as he comes kneeling above you, one of his hands sliding slowly down your spine. He lowers himself and you gasp when you feel his cock wedge between your asscheeks, teasingly moving some. 

“So fucking pretty. My wife spread out for me.” It feels like he is talking to himself, not you, like he needs to say it out loud to believe it. 

“Just for you,” you say, glancing at him over your shoulder, earning another grunt from him as he leans forward, biting the shell of your ear as he moves his cock from your ass to between your slick folds. With ease, he slips right back inside you, but he doesn’t move. Desperate for more, you try to wiggle against him, but he pins you to the mattress with his hips.

“Tell me, who is fucking you this good?” he asks, his nose brushing against your ear.

“You,” comes your answer as a whine.

“Mm. But who am I?” He is still unmoving, driving you crazy with filling you up but not giving you more. 

“My husband!” you moan, face twisting from the unbearable need. “My husband is fucking me so good!”

He exhales sharply and finally starts moving, fast and hard, his hips smack against your ass with each thrust. You’re seeing stars, breathing is getting harder, but the pain is so fucking good, so delicious. One of his hands grabs you by the hair, rough and almost animalistic, he tugs on it so your neck cranes, scalp burning, but it’s just so. Fucking. Good. 

He leans down and kisses you, though it ends up a little all over the place since he is moving relentlessly, your throat is twisted in an unnatural angle, but you’d break your neck if it meant he’d keep fucking you into oblivion. 

With one hand he spreads your legs more and pulls your hips up a little to give him better access to your throbbing pussy. His tip hits the right spot and the build-up of your climax fastens.

“Harry!” you gasp, face twisting from everything you’re feeling at once, his cock hitting you so deep over and over again, your nearing orgasm, the thought of Harry being the one to give all of this to you. 

“Come on, let me feel you come for me,” he urges, quickening his thrusts, even though you didn’t think that’s possible. He is hammering you into the mattress and out of this world. 

“Fuck, I–I can’t–Harry…” 

His name is a plea and in a way it tips you over the edge. Your orgasm bursts between your legs and spreads across your body in waves, you twist and wiggle underneath him, gasping for air or repeating his name over and over again. You’re riding out the last waves when his climax takes over him. 

His thrusts fall out of rhythm, he weighs down on you more and After each thrusts he stays inside you a little longer, right until he stops moving. 

You’re a mess. Sweaty, out of breath, tired, but you haven’t felt this good in probably… forever. Several minutes pass before Harry rolls off you, lying on his back, chest still rising and falling heavier than usually, eyes closed. You tuck your arms under your head and turn it to the side, watching his profile. 

His eyes flutter open and he turns towards you. His face is so much softer now, the dominance and tension is gone, the smile that tugs on his lips feels so warm and loving, it almost makes you dizzy. 

He rolls to his side, gently tangling his fingers in your hair as he kisses your forehead and when you lift your head he presses his lips against yours. 

It’s slow, tender and so sweet, opposite of the way he just fucked you, but it’s such a delicious mix. 

“What now?” you ask against his lips. 

“Now… we take a shower and I feed you and preferably do another round.”

“You know what I meant,” you smile at him sheepishly. 

“We’re married,” he states. “And we are obviously open to fully conquering this marriage.” He looks at me with questioning eyes and you nod. “We can… do whatever we want.”

“I want you.” It comes out before you could stop the words, but it’s the truth. You want him, all of him, even if you probably shouldn’t.

A faint smile plays on his lips. 

“And I want you. That’s a good start, if you ask me.”

You can’t help but laugh and he grins as well before stealing another kiss. “Come on, I want to fuck you in the shower too,” he announces sitting up and climbing out of the bed like he didn’t just fuck your brain out minutes ago. You sit up and look at him as he stands by the bed in all of his naked glory, his cock already hardening again and just one thing keeps echoing in your mind.

That’s your husband.

Harry lets you, easy about it, like he always is with these small things. His fingers shift when you guide them, the rings glinting faintly as they catch the light. There’s something familiar about the weight of his hand now, something you’ve gotten used to seeing in your periphery, across tables, draped over the back of chairs, brushing absentmindedly against your knee.

“Am I being styled?” He asks, voice low and amused as he’s watching the way that you hold your phone up, trying to find the best lighting.

“Obviously,” you murmur, focused on your screen as you lean back slightly to frame it. “You’re part of the composition, my muse.”

“Lucky me.”

You hum in response, already snapping the photo before he can move again. It’s instinctive to capture something small and keeping it saved in your phone for a rainy day. Not for anyone in particular, not even really for yourself in a deep, meaningful way. It’s a quiet documentation of moments that would otherwise blur together.

You drop back into your seat, pulling the photo up and tapping through your story settings. The colors are slightly muted at first, so you warm them, soften the shadows, bring the highlights up just enough to make it feel like how it looked in real life.

His hand is in it, but barely.

Not his face, not anything obvious, you think. Just the edge of his wrist, the curve of his thumb against the ceramic, the glint of silver that you, now, would recognize anywhere—but to anyone else, it’s nothing. It’s just someone’s hand—it’s his hand, that you know so well.

“You and your little posts,” he says, not unkindly, more like he’s thinking out loud than teasing you directly.

You glance up at him, a small smile tugging at your mouth, trying to decipher if that was meant to be pushing at you a bit. “What, you don’t like them?”

“I didn’t say that,” he replies, shifting slightly in his chair. His foot nudges yours under the table, just slightly. “Just interesting how you feel the need to record everything.”

“I don’t record everything,” you say, even though you kind of do; you know that you take photos of it all, moments between you that you have to keep for days when he’s not around. “Just the nice parts.”

“That feels like a biased archive, if I’ve heard.”

“Yeah, well,” you shrug lightly, eyes dropping back to your phone and the image presented. “That’s the point—it’s my archive.”

You hover over the post button for half a second, not really thinking about it. It’s automatic at this point, the motion of your thumb, the quiet satisfaction of sharing something small and inconsequential.

“Hey—”

It’s the soft voice that is sharp, something about it has a plea that reminds you of what is was that you found so adoring of him before. Not sharp enough to startle you, but enough to interrupt the rhythm of what you’re doing. You pause, thumb still hovering, and look up.

His expression hasn’t changed much, not in any obvious way. He’s not tense, not upset, not even particularly serious, really. But there’s something more deliberate in the way he’s looking at you now, something that wasn’t there a second ago when he was joking about being styled.

You watch as he takes a small sip of his coffee before asking quietly, “Can you not post that one?”

For a second, it doesn’t fully register and you blink at him with a bit of confusion, then down at your phone, then back up again like you’re missing something obvious.

“What?”

“The picture,” he clarifies gently, nodding toward your screen. “Can you just not post that one.”

There’s a beat where you just stare at him, trying to figure out if he’s joking. Then a small laugh slips out of you that feels ridiculous, because it feels like it should be a joke.

“Why?” You ask, tilting your phone slightly so he can see it more clearly. “You can’t even tell it’s you.”

He glances at the screen, then back at you, his mouth pulling into a faint smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I know,” he says, plainly and without much conviction, “I just—”

He stops there, like he’s trying to find a way to explain something that feels obvious to him but might not land the same way for you. He bites at his lip slightly before you can see that he stands his ground.

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

You shift in your seat, one eyebrow lifting slightly as you study him more closely now.

“It’s literally just your hand,” you say, the words coming out a little more playful than pointed, like you’re trying to keep this in the realm of something small and silly; you practically roll your eyes. “No one is going to look at that and think anything of it.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh at that, shaking his head just slightly as he takes another sip, “You’d be surprised.”

“Would I?” You counter, still smiling, still not quite taking it seriously. “Because I feel like you’re giving people way too much credit. It’s a latte in a coffee shop in Paris and a hand.”

His fingers tighten just a fraction around his cup, not enough that you would notice if you weren’t already looking at him differently now.

“Babe, it’s never just that,” he says, and there’s something steadier in his voice now, something that isn’t trying to convince you so much as state something he knows to be true.

You tilt your head, your smile fading just a little at the edges.

“What do you mean?”

He leans back slightly in his chair, as he glances past you toward the window. It’s subtle, the way his eyes move, the way they take in the reflection in the glass, the people walking by outside, the car that slows just a touch too long at the curb before continuing on. The green in his eye’s freckles at the late morning light before he focuses back in on you.

“It starts out as that,” he says after a moment, nodding toward your phone again, “and then it’s where you are, and then it’s what time it was posted, and then someone recognizes something in the background, and then—”

He trails off, making a vague gesture with his hand like the rest of it should be obvious: “It turns into a whole thing.”

You stare at him, the weight of what he’s saying not quite matching the simplicity of what you’re holding in your hand, and you wonder if he’s just paranoid. You understand why he would be so, but you also need to wonder if there’s something else buried beneath it.

“It’s a café,” you say, a small crease forming between your brows. “There are like a hundred cafés that look exactly like this one, I guarantee no one would know before we left.”

“Yeah,” he agrees easily, not dismissing you, just… adding to it. “And there are people who make a living out of figuring out which one it is.”

The way he says it is so calm, so matter-of-fact, that it makes it harder to brush off. Still, a part of you resists it, because it feels too big for what this is.

“That feels a little extreme, Harry,” you say, quieter now, but still holding onto the idea that this is being blown out of proportion.

Harry isn’t defensive, he’s not one to argue. He’s really never one to have a definitive stance on any of it, but something about this bothers him and you can see by the way that his eyebrows crease and he stares down at his coffee that maybe, just maybe, you are out of lien.

“You haven’t really seen it yet,” he says.

There’s no accusation in it, no judgment, just truth. You feel your stomach dip slightly, though you’re not entirely sure why.

“Seen what?”

He exhales through his nose, glancing down at the table for a second before looking back up at you.

“What happens when they figure it out,” he says.

The café feels the same. The light hasn’t changed, the music still hums softly in the background, someone laughs near the counter like nothing in the world has shifted. You look down at your phone again, at the picture that, just a minute ago, felt so normal about posting a morning with your boyfriend.

Now it feels like something else entirely, and you wished that it didn’t or that he hadn’t made a comment. Your thumb hovers over the screen again, but this time you don’t move to post it.

Instead, you lock your phone and set it down on the table, face down, the soft click louder than it should be.

He watches you for a moment, like he’s trying to gauge whether you actually understand, or if you’re just agreeing to avoid pushing it further.

Then, as soft as he can, “Thank you.”

You nod, your fingers tracing the edge of your sleeve as you try to settle the strange, unfamiliar feeling sitting in your chest.

The rest of the café trip felt tense, almost like there was something he wanted to say or needed to say but couldn’t find the words to do in a public setting. You understood that—there were many things that he didn’t want to display in front of the world, no matter what. But this was sacred, what you two had.

But Harry knew more than anyone that it was the beginning of a trail, a long and winding trail that would lead people to finding more about him—which meant knowing you. And you were sacred to him, especially in moments like this.

It hadn’t been too long since you had started to date; maybe a couple of months now. There were so many nights in the house, so many private dinners. Harry had explained how easy it was to not be seen, but that he knew that once you had started to go out, it would be known immediately. So, you took his word and continued the late nights at home, enjoying each other’s company.

You understand that his life was different than yours, and you understand that his world had a different view point than yours ever could.

Once you’re both finished with your drink, you both decide to make your way to the door; Harry thanks the baristas one more time, giving them an extra cash tip that was certainly not necessary, but he was generous in small moments like that.

It doesn’t feel like anything is wrong when you first step outside.

The air is cool in that soft, early afternoon way, the kind that makes you glad you grabbed a coat but not cold enough to rush anywhere. The street hums with life in that low, constant, comforting way. A bus exhales at the corner, brakes sighing as it comes to a halt. Someone laughs too loudly just ahead of you, and music spills faintly out of an open storefront.

It’s normal enough that you don’t think twice about the way your arm brushes Harry’s as you walk, or how easily your hand slips into the pocket of his coat where his already is, your fingers finding his without looking. It’s become second nature, the way you move around each other now, like your bodies have figured it out before your minds had to.

He adjusts his sunglasses as you step off the curb, his hand intertwined with yours as it briefly comes up to rest at the small of your back in a guiding motion when you cross the street. It’s protective in a way that feels instinctive rather than intentional.

“Left or right?” He asks, glancing down at you.

You look up the street, pretending to consider like it’s a serious decision. “Left feels right.”

He huffs a quiet laugh at your pun, letting you steer him in that direction without argument. “Alright. Lead the way.”

This had been your first time to Paris, it was a trip that Harry had made quite on a whim. Walking the streets felt like everything you could imagine, but at the same time, you feel like being a tourist with him feels instinctually normal.

You point out things as you go like a bookstore window with handwritten staff picks, a dog in a sweater that looks vaguely annoyed about it, a couple arguing in hushed, intense voices outside a café. Harry listens, adds commentary when it suits him, teases you when it doesn’t.

“You absolutely judge people by what they’re reading,” he says, following your gaze to the bookstore.

“I do not.”

“You just said you trust her taste because that girl picked up a hardback.”

You bite your lip as you try not to let the smile over take you, “I think that’s valid—hardback books have a kind of badass vibe to them that paperbacks don’t. They feel classic.”

“Whatever you say.” He smiles at that, shaking his head slightly, his shoulder bumping into yours.

But then, something shifts. You don’t notice it as quickly as you wished you had, but more of a slow-motion moment.

It’s not a single moment, not something loud or obvious that demands your attention because it really didn’t have your attention quickly. It’s smaller than that, and quieter, as it was meant to be.

There’s a girl walking toward you that slows, not enough to be strange or out of the ordinary, just enough to linger. Her phone is already in her hand, angled outward like she’s mid-text, but her eyes flick up once, quick, before dropping again.

You catch it, but only halfway. Your brain registers it as something slightly off, something that doesn’t quite match, but you don’t hold onto it long enough to question it. People look at people all of the time—that’s normal, and you keep walking.

Harry does too.

“…I’m telling you, that place is overrated,” he’s saying, and you’re catching the tail end of his comment as he’s nodding toward a bakery up ahead with a line curling out the door. “It’s all aesthetic. Croissant is average at best.”

“You’re impossible,” you reply, glancing at the line before you think back to the girl you’ve passed. “People wouldn’t wait like that if it wasn’t good.”

“They absolutely would,” he counters, his hand pulls yours back into his jacket pocket. “People love a queue. Makes them feel like they’re part of something.”

You open your mouth to argue, and then it happens again, but closer this time. It’s far less discreet—Hary definitely notices now, you’re certain by the way that he tilts his head down, almost to shy his face away from the people who notice him.

It’s a few girls this time that are standing just outside a shop window, one’s body is angled toward the street, phone held loosely in front of her, casual, but not raised in your faces.

Your steps falter—barely, just enough that your rhythm breaks for a second, but Harry doesn’t stop the rhythm of your walk.

Inside his pocket, his fingers curl more securely around yours as if to anchor you back into reality. His pace doesn’t change, but his presence does—subtle, controlled, like something in him has sharpened without becoming visible.

You glance up at him, searching his face for confirmation, for some kind of reaction, but you can’t find anything.  At least, not one anyone else would notice. You see the way his jaw has set just slightly, and the way his gaze flicks—not toward the small group thad had gathered, not directly, but toward the reflection in the glass as you pass.

Of course he’s aware; he’s seeing everything, maybe even before you are because he’s been anticipating this.

“Harry,” you murmur, your voice low enough that it barely carries beyond the space between you.

He hums in response, not looking at you, not breaking stride.

“I think,” you hesitate for a solid moment, the words catching slightly in your throat as your eyes flick back, just for a second. “I think that people are taking photos of us.”

You expect a reaction, but instead he just confirms everything you thought.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, because he knows that’s what’s happening. “Don’t look.”

It’s enough to see them still standing there, their phones now lowered slightly, their posture just a little too stiff, like they’re trying to pretend they weren’t doing exactly what you think they was.

Harry’s hand tightens, just a fraction, but it breaks your thoughts again.

“Hey,” he says, softer now but firmer, pulling your attention back to him without actually touching your face or forcing you to turn. “Don’t.”

You freeze mid-motion, caught between instinct and instruction.

“Why?” You whisper, your voice thinner than it was before. “How can I not?”

“Because that’s what makes it worth it to them,” he says. “They want to be perceived; that’s the goal here.”

You blink up at him, confusion flickering across your face. “What do you mean?”

He exhales, his gaze still forward, his expression composed in a way that suddenly feels like effort.

“They want you to notice,” he explains, in a friendly way, not condescending. “They want the look, the reaction, the—” he gestures slightly with his free hand “—moment where it becomes something.”

Your chest feels tighter now, your awareness stretching outward in a way that’s impossible to pull back.

“So, I just… we pretend it’s not happening?” You ask him and it feels like an impossible feat, especially when people are close to you, and when people want to sneak photos of you and invade your privacy for their own gain.

“Yeah.”

“That’s—” you let out a small, disbelieving breath. “I mean, that’s insane, Harry.”

“I know,” he says, and there’s something almost apologetic in it. “But it works, and it’s worked for ten years, and I want it to work for the next ten.”

You swallow, your gaze dropping to the pavement as you try to steady yourself. But now that you’ve seen it, you can’t unsee it. There are wandering eyes everywhere now, especially when others see people looking at you, wondering who it could be. Maybe even shuffles of whispers that amount to him being seen with a new girl.

There’s a girl across the street who slows just a little too long, she stops mid-conversation on her phone.

Now, a couple who stops walking as you pass, their conversation pausing mid-sentence. It’s a phone angled outward, held just a second too still.

Instead, he shifts closer to you, not dramatically, not in a way that would draw attention. Just enough that your shoulders press more firmly together, that the space between you disappears.

“I don’t know how to act,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper now. “Like, what do I do with my face? Where am I supposed to look?”

That gets a small smile out of him, softer this time, something warm breaking through the control.

“At me,” he says. “Look at me,” he repeats gently. “Or straight ahead, really. Anywhere that feels normal to you, just don’t search for it. The sunglasses helps you not be so obvious.”

You take what he says and let it rest in the corners of your brain like a token of wisdom, wondering how he’d made it this far with this many eyes on him at all times. It feels like such an invasion of your day, and while you know that this comes with the territory, you wonder if he’s self-conscious that you have to follow his rules too.

You walk beside each other, your shoulder brushing his every few steps, your hand tucked into the pocket of his coat where his fingers rest loosely around yours. It’s a small, contained thing, something private in the middle of a public space, and you find yourself holding onto it a little more deliberately now. Not tightly, not in a way that would draw attention, just enough to feel anchored in something that still belongs to the two of you.

He’s begun mid-sentence, talking about something inconsequential like some place he used to go years ago, how it’s changed, how everything eventually does. You follow along easily, responding where it fits, letting the conversation carry the same way it always has. But underneath it, you’re tracking the

There’s a group of girls a little further down the street, clustered together in that unmistakable way, heads close, shoulders brushing, their energy just slightly too focused in one direction. You don’t look at them directly, but you notice the way one of them leans in, says something quickly to the others, the way their attention shifts all at once.

You can tell in the way his hand shifts against yours, the way his posture stays relaxed but becomes more deliberate, more aware of space, of distance, of timing and of preparing for interaction that may not necessarily be welcome at the moment. You don’t say anything because you don’t want to make it something out of the ordinary.

“Harry?” One of them calls, a little breathless, a little disbelieving, like she’s not entirely sure she’s right but hopeful enough to try.

You both slow to the corner where you’d all be crossing the street. There’s no point pretending you didn’t hear it because it’s quite obvious.

They approach together—three of them then, moving with that mix of excitement and hesitation, like they’re trying to be respectful but can’t quite contain themselves. Their phones are already in their hands, not raised yet, but ready.

“Oh my god, hi,” one of them says, smiling wide, her voice overlapping slightly with the others. “We didn’t want to bother you, but—hi.”

Harry turns toward them fully, his expression open and warm in a way that feels genuine, not performative and that’s just because he is. You’ve seen that before, but now you notice the precision in it, the way he controls the moment without making it feel controlled.

“Hi,” he says, easy and calm.

He steps slightly forward—not away from you, but just enough to meet them where they are—and reaches out his hand. It untangles with yours, but you smile at the acception of that.

“I’m Harry,” he adds.

It’s such a simple thing, but it catches them off guard in the best way. They laugh, a little flustered, each of them taking his hand in turn.

 “What are your names?”

They tell him, one after the other, and he repeats them back, nodding, like he’s committing them to memory even if it’s just for the moment. It slows everything down, turns what could’ve been rushed into something steadier, something that feels more like an interaction than an interruption.

You stay just beside him, close enough to feel included but not pulled into the center of it—you don’t know that he’d want that, you hadn’t really talked about that, but you figure that this isn’t your moment at all. It’s theirs. One of the girls’ glances at you briefly, curious but not intrusive, before her attention returns to him.

“Can we get a photo?” Another one asks, already lifting her phone slightly.

You watch him closely now, not because you expect him to struggle with it, but because you want to see how he does it, how he keeps it kind without letting it get away from him.

“Do you mind if we don’t?” He speaks out.

His tone stays soft, the same warmth still there, but there’s a quiet firmness underneath it that makes the boundary clear without making it uncomfortable. They hesitate, just for a second, the request still hanging in the air and the disappointment slowly travels to their face.

“Oh—it’ll be really quick,” one of them says, not pushy exactly, but hopeful that maybe she can change his mind.

“I know,” he tells her gently, his hand over his heart in the genuine way that he does. “I’m sorry.”

There’s no edge to it, no frustration, but hopefully an understanding that he doesn’t want to have photos today—it’s your day, together. Just a calm, steady refusal that doesn’t leave much room to push further. They exchange a quick glance between themselves, then nod.

“Okay,” one of them says, her smile softening. “That’s okay. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says easily, as if to help ease their sadness. “It’s nice to meet you all, thank you for the support—are you coming to the show tomorrow?”

The lights in their faces start to beam back as they all nod graciously, telling him yes and how excited they were and that makes him smile. They thank him, still smiling, still a little breathless, before stepping back, letting the moment dissolve without turning it into anything bigger.

You both give small waves back to them as you turn to go your separate ways.

You start walking again as soon as there’s space to, falling back into step beside him as you feel the quiet hum of adrenaline under your skin now, not overwhelming, just enough to make everything feel slightly sharper.

“That was…” you start, searching for the right word.

“Yeah,” he says, glancing down at you briefly. “I would do that a million times over, it always means so much.”

Harry’s head turns just slightly, not enough to be obvious, but enough that you see it, and his expression changes in a way you haven’t seen yet. The lines between his brows start to crease as he pulls his lips into his mouth for a moment.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath.

“What?” You ask, your voice low, already knowing the answer before he says it.

“Paps, over there” he replies, just as quietly, tilting his chin to the left near the small park that you’re passing; you can hear the small clicks of the automated cameras.

Harry’s hand tightens around yours, and his pace picks up—not rushing, not running, but purposeful like he wants to get off of the streets.  

“Come on,” he says softly.

You match him immediately, your steps falling into his without hesitation. He keeps you close to his side, guiding you through the movement of the street with practiced ease, his hand at your back again, more constant now. You pass a corner, then another, his awareness stretching outward in a way that feels almost tangible.

“Hotel’s just up here,” he murmurs.

You nod, your grip on his hand tightening slightly, not out of fear, but out of instinct.

When you reach it, he doesn’t slow. He moves straight inside, the shift from street to lobby immediate and noticeable, the noise dropping away, the space suddenly more controlled, more contained like you both are in control now. Only then does he let out a breath.

His shoulders drop just slightly, the tension easing in increments rather than all at once.

You stay close as you cross the lobby, your steps finally slowing to something normal again. The elevator doors slide open, and you step inside together, the space closing around you in a way that feels almost surreal after the street.

You both walk towards the elevator, thanking the door man before you step inside to go to your room on the twenty-fourth floor. He removes his sunglasses, and you place yours on your shirt collar for a moment. It’s the small moment of silence with the two of you that makes you exhale, too.

For a second, neither of you says anything, then he turns toward you.

His hand comes up to your jaw, warm and steady and guiding, and he leans in, kissing you softly. It’s not hurried, not desperate, like he’s reminding both of you where you are now. You exhale into it without realizing you were holding your breath.

When he pulls back, his forehead lingers close to yours for a second before he drops his hand again.

You study him, really looking now at the way that his skin freckles and his eyes are greener under the blue hat he’s wearing.

“Sorry our walk had to be cut short.” You say quietly.

“You’re sorry?” He add, almost instinctively, his expression shifts at that, something gentler settling in.

You frown just a little. “I mean it—I know I don’t have to be sorry, but I feel sorry that you have to deal with all of that just by going out. That’s—” you exhale softly. “That’s a lot.”

He leans back slightly against the wall as the elevator continues its slow climb, his gaze steady on yours.

“Everything comes at a cost,” he says, almost as easily as he could have—it’s not a lie, it’s just to you. “But it’s nothing I’d change because there’s nothing I love more than this life.”

When the elevator reaches your suite, you both step off and the sound feels heavier than it should, like it seals something out instead of just closing a space. For a moment, neither of you moves very far from where you’ve stopped. Harry drops his keys onto the console by the door, the soft clatter loud in the stillness, and then runs a hand back through his hair, exhaling slowly.

It isn’t dramatic, the way the tension leaves him. It doesn’t vanish all at once. It loosens in pieces—his shoulders easing, his posture becoming looser, the sharp edge of awareness dulling now that there’s nothing to track, nothing to anticipate. There’s nothing new here.

You slip your shoes off near the door and drift a little further into the room, your fingers trailing absentmindedly along the back of a chair. The adrenaline from earlier has settled into something quieter, something more reflective, and you’re aware now of how much you’ve been holding in your body without realizing it.

“Are you alright?” You ask, as you watch him cross the room.

He nods once, then again, like he’s confirming it to himself as much as to you. “Yeah. Are you?”

You give a small, understanding nod, leaning back against the edge of the table. “Yeah, I’m totally fine.”

That earns you a faint smile, something softer than what he gives the world, less practiced. It’s when he backtracks, working his way back to you before he lets his eyes drift down to your lips now. It feels intimate, and you lift your hands to rest on his biceps as you hear the exhale expel from him.

There’s a beat of quiet after that, not uncomfortable, just… full. The kind that follows something shared, something understood without needing to be picked apart immediately.

You reach for your phone without thinking, more out of habit than intention. The screen lights up in your hand, and for a second you just look at it, your thumb hovering without moving.

“You can post it, you know,” he says, the words rolling off of his tongue. “The picture,” he clarifies then, nodding toward your phone. “If you want to.”

You study him for a second, searching his expression, trying to figure out if he means it or if this is something he feels like he should say.

“No—I mean, why? Are you sure?” You ask.

He nods, a little more firmly this time.

“Yeah,” he says. “I trust you.”

The words land softly, but they carry more weight than you expect.

You tilt your head slightly, wondering if he feels some sort of guilt around it. “What changed?”

He lets out a small breath, his gaze dropping for a second before coming back to you.

“Today,” he says simply. “The way you handled it.”

You consider it for a second longer, your thumb brushing lightly over the screen, then you lock your phone without another second to consider.

“I don’t think I need to.”

Harry watches you, something curious flickering across his face. You shake your head slightly, a small smile pulling at your mouth as you continue.

“I think I like it better like this,” you say to him, and only him. “That it’s just ours, you know?”

There’s a quiet pause after that before you watch the way that his dimples start to make their way on his face, crossing his cheeks in that shy, coy way that always enveloped him.

His hand slides a little more securely around your waist, pulling you closer, and this time when he kisses you, it lingers just a fraction longer and you let your hand drift up to pull at the hair at the nape of his neck before you pull back to look at him once more.

“I like that people can have small glimpses,” Harry tells you, pushing some hair behind your ear before he lets his gaze draw down to you, “But I like that I’m the only one who can have you.”

The smile then pushes on your lips as you feel him push your hips against the table, almost trapping you, “I feel the same way.”

The break was long overdue.

Since the end of Love On Tour in 2023, Harry had gone ghost, not a single official appearance, just grainy photos taken by lucky fans: a blur of tattoos, a mullet, and, lately, something new.

A mustache.

The internet noticed. Speculated. Debated.

You didn’t have to speculate. You knew exactly why.

The house was still. Only the faint hum of the ceiling fan and the occasional crackle from the fireplace filled the air. You laid across the velvet couch, half-asleep, your fingers tracing lazy patterns against the fabric. It had been months since Harry had been officially "on break". No tours, no interviews, no endless flights. Just him, just you, just home.

And the mustache.

God, the mustache.

You hadn’t even been subtle about it. One night, tipsy and loose-lipped, you had giggled against his bare chest and confessed, "You with a 70s stache? I'd lose my mind." His green eyes had gleamed with mischief, and weeks later, there it was, thick, soft, golden-brown under his nose, the kind that made him look like he belonged in some sun-bleached movie reel.

He'd grown it for you. Because you wanted it.

It made him look older, a little meaner, sexier in a way that made your knees weak.

Harry strolled into the room now, barefoot in loose black sweats that hung deliciously low on his hips, a simple white T-shirt clinging to his frame. His hair was messy from a nap, his mustache catching the light in a way that made your stomach flip.

"Y'alright there, bunny?" he teased, voice rough with sleep. His accent dragged thickly over the words, making you shiver.

You hummed noncommittally, stretching out a bit more, pretending not to notice the way his gaze darkened as he watched your body move. But you noticed. You always noticed.

He moved towards you in slow, deliberate steps, towering when he finally reached the couch. His hand found your ankle, the grip firm.

"Been starin’ at me all day like you wanna be ruined," he said lowly, tugging your leg enough that you slid an inch down the couch.

You blinked up at him, heart pounding.

"I like the mustache," you whispered, voice too small, too needy.

Harry grinned, slow, wicked. His thumb dragged over the sensitive skin of your ankle.

"I know you do, baby," he said, leaning closer, mustache brushing your bare knee. You gasped at the unexpected contact, heat rushing up your body.

"You grew it for me," you said, breathless.

He smirked. "Who else?" His mouth brushed higher now, up your thigh, the tickle of his mustache sending shockwaves through your nerves.

"And y'know what, love?" He nipped at the inside of your thigh, hard enough to leave a mark. You whimpered. "You’re gonna thank me properly."

You barely had time to process that before he was kneeling between your legs, spreading you apart with a roughness that made your head spin. His hands were large and warm against your skin.

"Off," he ordered, tugging at your shorts, your panties. They were gone in seconds, discarded somewhere across the room.

Harry sat back on his heels, drinking you in, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

"You’re fuckin' dripping already," he said, almost mockingly. "Just from lookin' at me."

You tried to clench your thighs together in sudden embarrassment, but he was faster, gripping them tightly and forcing you open again.

"Don't hide from me," he said, voice stern. "Grew this mustache so I could fuckin’ wreck you with it. You’re gonna take it like a good girl, yeah?"

You nodded frantically, the need clawing at you unbearable.

"Words," he demanded, voice sharp.

"Yes, Harr..." you gasped. "Please."

Without warning, he dove in. The first swipe of his tongue broad, slow, deliberate. You cried out, your hips jerking, but he held you down easily. The roughness of his mustache scraped your sensitive skin, almost unbearably raw. It stung, but fuck, it made everything sharper, hotter.

He licked you like a man starved, alternating between slow, lazy sucks and fast, ruthless flicks of his tongue. Every time his mustache scraped against your clit, you whimpered, tears prickling at your eyes from the overwhelming mix of pain and pleasure.

"Fuck, you taste good," Harry muttered against you, his voice muffled but full of praise. He gripped your hips harder, holding you in place when you tried to squirm away from the unbearable sensitivity.

"Too much?" he asked mockingly, pulling back just enough to let the cool air hit your soaked core.

You shook your head desperately. "No– no, please don't stop."

He grinned, mean, satisfied, and buried his face between your thighs again, even rougher this time. His mustache scraped and burned and you loved it, sobbing his name as you tugged at his messy mullet, trying to ground yourself.

Harry groaned when you pulled his hair, grinding his mouth harder against you.

"You’re fuckin’ filthy, beggin' me to hurt you," he murmured between licks. "Knew you were dirty, but not this dirty, baby."

His words sent you spiraling. You were so close it hurt, your whole body trembling.

"You gonna cum for me?" he asked, nipping at your clit just hard enough to make you yelp.

"Yes- yes, H, please–"

"Do it," he growled. "Mess up my face, pretty girl."

That was all it took. You shattered, your orgasm ripping through you so hard you screamed, thighs clamping around his head as you rode it out. Harry didn’t stop, he kept licking you through it, letting his mustache scrape your overstimulated clit until you were sobbing his name, begging him to stop, to never stop, you didn’t even know anymore.

Finally, he pulled back, his lips shiny, his mustache soaked with you. He looked wrecked, and he looked proud.

You barely had a second to catch your breath before he was climbing up your body, pressing his mouth against yours. You tasted yourself on his tongue, on his mustache, and you moaned into the kiss, too wrecked to care.

He pulled away, resting his forehead against yours.

"That hurt, didn’t it?" he whispered, almost tenderly now, running his thumb over your cheek.

"But you liked it," he said, smiling, so soft now that it broke something open in your chest.

"I loved it," you whispered hoarsely.

Harry chuckled, that deep, boyish sound that always made your heart flutter.

"Good," he said. "Because I’m never shaving it."

You laughed, the sound breaking out of you helplessly. Harry grinned and kissed you again, slower this time, like he had all the time in the world.

—————

Harry found out on a rainy Tuesday morning, in the quiet hours before the world had fully woken.

The house was still wrapped in that gentle dawn silence that made every sound feel softer. Rain tapped against the bathroom window in a steady rhythm, and the pale grey light filtering through the curtains painted everything in muted shades of silver. You had slipped out of bed before sunrise with a suspicion you hardly dared to name, your heart pounding so loudly in your chest that you were certain Harry would hear it if he so much as shifted in his sleep.

When he wandered into the bathroom a few minutes later, barefoot and sleepy, curls mussed in every direction and his T-shirt hanging crookedly over one shoulder, he found you sitting on the edge of the bathtub with tears running silently down your cheeks and a pregnancy test clenched in your trembling hand. The sight of you crying erased the last traces of sleep from his face. For one awful second, panic flooded his expression as he crossed the room in two hurried strides and dropped to his knees in front of you, his hands coming immediately to rest on your thighs.

“Baby,” he whispered, his voice thick with concern. “What happened? Are you alright?”

You tried to answer, but your throat tightened too painfully around the words. Instead, you gave a small, shaky laugh and placed the test into his hand. Harry looked down at it, and the moment he saw the two unmistakable lines, the world seemed to stop.

He did not speak at first. His eyes darted between the test and your face as if he needed to confirm this was real, that he was not dreaming, that the life the two of you had talked about in whispers and sleepy conversations was suddenly and beautifully within reach. When he finally looked up at you, his eyes were already filling with tears.

“We’re having a baby?”

You nodded, and Harry broke.

A sob escaped him before he could stop it. He cupped your face in both hands and kissed you with a trembling tenderness that made your own tears fall faster. He laughed into the kiss, cried against your lips, and then sank back onto his heels, his hands sliding down to rest over your stomach with a reverence so profound it stole the breath from your lungs.

“Hi, little one,” he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotion. “It’s me. I’m your dad.”

—————

The next weeks passed in a blissful haze of secret smiles and private wonder. Harry transformed almost overnight into the most devoted, attentive husband imaginable. He kissed your stomach every morning, even though there was no visible bump yet. He downloaded several pregnancy apps and delighted in informing you that your baby was the size of a blueberry, then a raspberry, then a lime. He read articles late into the night, highlighted sections of parenting books, and looked at you with such open awe that you often found yourself blushing beneath the intensity of his affection.

Keeping the secret from his family proved nearly impossible. Harry had never been particularly skilled at hiding his feelings, and now that his heart seemed too full to contain, every interaction with Anne and Gemma became an exercise in restraint. By the time your first scan confirmed that everything was progressing perfectly, he was practically vibrating with anticipation.

“We’re seeing Mum on Sunday,” he said one evening while pacing the bedroom as you folded laundry. “Do you realize how difficult it is going to be to act normal when I know there’s a baby growing inside you?”

You laughed and set one of his shirts aside. “I do seem to recall that I am the one actually growing the baby.”

Harry immediately crossed the room and dropped to his knees in front of you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing a kiss to your stomach through your shirt.

“Yes,” he murmured, looking up at you with shining eyes. “And both my favorite people in the world are right here.”

Sunday arrived bright and clear, and Harry was so nervous that he nearly left the house without his wallet. During the drive to Holmes Chapel, he held your hand tightly, glancing over at you every few minutes with a mixture of excitement and disbelief that made your heart swell.

“Do you think Mum will cry?” he asked.

You smiled. “Without question.”

“And Gemma?”

“She’ll cry too, but she’ll tease you for crying first.”

Harry nodded solemnly. “That sounds accurate.”

Anne greeted you both with her usual warmth, pulling you into a hug before embracing Harry. She lingered for a moment, then drew back and studied her son with narrowed eyes.

“Why do you look like you’re about to burst?”

Gemma appeared in the hallway behind her and laughed. “He does, doesn’t he? You look suspiciously emotional.”

Harry shot you a panicked glance. “Can we all sit first?”

Lunch unfolded with increasing difficulty for Harry, who was utterly incapable of behaving naturally. He smiled to himself for no apparent reason, reached for your hand under the table every few minutes, and nearly choked on his drink when Anne casually asked if there was any news. By the time dessert was served, Gemma set down her fork and folded her arms.

“Alright,” she said. “What is going on?”

Harry looked at you, and the vulnerability in his eyes nearly undid you. You squeezed his hand and gave him a small nod. He inhaled shakily, turned to his mother and sister, and tried to speak, though his voice cracked before he could get through the first sentence.

“Actually, we do have something to tell you.”

Anne and Gemma both sat up straighter, their attention fixed entirely on him. Harry swallowed hard and tightened his grip on your hand.

“Mum,” he said softly, his eyes already glistening, “you’re going to be a grandmother.”

He turned to Gemma, his smile trembling.

“And you’re going to be an auntie.”

For one suspended heartbeat, neither woman moved. Then Anne’s hand flew to her mouth, and a sob escaped her before she hurried around the table and threw her arms around both of you. Gemma was only a second behind, laughing and crying at once as she joined the embrace.

“Are you serious?” she asked, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Harry nodded, his own tears now falling freely.

“We’re having a baby.”

Gemma hugged him fiercely. “Harry, you are going to be the most incredible dad.”

That single sentence shattered whatever composure he had left. Harry buried his face against your shoulder and sobbed openly, his entire body trembling with the force of his emotions. Anne cupped your face with both hands and kissed your cheek, tears shining in her eyes.

“This is the happiest news,” she whispered, her hands settling over yours where they rested on your stomach. “That little one is already so loved.”

The rest of the afternoon dissolved into questions, laughter, and more tears than any of you could count. Anne wanted to know how you were feeling, whether you had any cravings, and if you were getting enough rest. Gemma wanted every detail, from how Harry reacted to whether he had started buying baby clothes already. When Harry protested that he had shown remarkable restraint, both you and Gemma laughed so hard that Anne nearly dropped her teacup.

At one point Anne disappeared upstairs and returned carrying a cream-colored knitted baby blanket. Her hands trembled as she held it out to you.

“I made this years ago,” she said softly. “I always hoped that one day one of my children would need it.”

Harry accepted the blanket as though it were made of something infinitely precious. His fingers traced the delicate stitches, and when he looked up at his mother, tears slipped down his cheeks all over again.

“Mum,” he whispered.

Anne brushed his tears away with the same tenderness she had surely shown him when he was a child.

Later, as the afternoon faded into evening and the house settled into a quieter rhythm, you found Harry standing by the sitting room window. The last golden light of the day cast a soft glow around him, and his expression was so openly emotional that your heart ached.

You slipped your arms around his waist from behind. He covered your hands with his immediately and turned until his forehead rested against yours.

“I’m so happy,” he admitted, his voice trembling. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this full.”

You touched his cheek and smiled.

He glanced down at your stomach, then back into your eyes.

“Our baby already has so many people who love them,” he whispered. “And they haven’t even arrived yet.”

“You’re going to be an incredible father,” you said softly.

Harry closed his eyes, and one more tear slipped free.

“I just want to be everything they need.”

You kissed him gently. “You already are.”

He let out a shaky breath and rested his hand over your stomach, his expression transforming into that familiar look of awe.

“Did you hear that, little one?” he murmured. “Your grandma cried, your auntie cried, and your dad cried so hard he nearly ruined dessert.”

You laughed, and Harry smiled before kneeling down and pressing a lingering kiss to your stomach.

“We love you so much already.”

From the doorway, Gemma’s voice rang out with affectionate amusement.

“If you two are being disgustingly adorable in here, I am absolutely taking a picture.”

Harry laughed and rose to his feet, slipping his arm around your shoulders and pulling you close.

Together, you returned to the sitting room, to the warmth of family, to the sound of laughter and the comfort of knowing that this tiny life was already surrounded by more love than words could ever express. And as Harry pressed a kiss to your temple and your hand settled over his where it rested protectively on your stomach, one truth settled deep within your heart.

Your baby was already home.

—————

Silence.

You shifted on the other side of the door, opening it up suddenly, just like she knew you would. The nickname angel, it had caught on quite easily. After a couple of your emotional and flawless skating performances, the media had taken to calling you an angel, once, when you skated to a sadder song, they started manipulating the tittle. Most notably cringy, angel of darkess.

But Alysa didn't really care about that. Anyone could call you angel. Nobody meant it like she did. After she had retired, she hadn't just come back for the adrenaline, or the passion. She'd come back because someone had reminded of the joy she felt for it. That someone had been an angel, that someone had been you.

"What was it?" Alysa said, taking your hands almost as soon as you opened the door, pressing a soft kiss to your knucles.

Your eyes were slightly puffy, red around, and they stung. "Nothing." You mumbled, your flushed cheeks turning a shade darker at her actions.

"You were doing perfect as usual." She noted, looking back at the entrance of the rink you'd run out of just a few minutes ago.

"I was." You echoed, slowly, hesitant.

"You didn't fall."

"I didn't."

"But something ticked you off, hmh?"

A pause, before you answered. "Yes."

"So, what was it?" She said, her voice soft, not accusing, not mean, just soft. "Feel like telling me?"

"I— no." You shook your head, nervous still.

Alysa smiled. "That's okay. We've only got fifteen minutes left,either way in training, wanna leave early?"

You nodded. "Yeah, that'd be great."

"Oh, we should get donuts." She said, grinning, already dragging you away.

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"We should do movie night." Alysa said, as she set down her keys on the key holder, taking her shoes off at the entrance.

Two pairs of sneakers stood in the doorway, hers, black adidas, and yours, pink converse.

"We have a shocking amount of zero snacks." You snorted, as you rummagged through the pantry.

"Wait let's doordash donuts— and coffee, I need coffee." She said, flopping down on the couch and opening her cellphone.

You smiled, bemused. "You're nuts Lysa." You walked over to your shared room. "I'm gonna take a shower, I'm not feeling well."

She saw an opportunity to tease, and she took it. "A-ha, so no frappuccino—"

"Alysa Liu." You deadpanned.

"Yeah, yeah, pretty girl. Chocolate frapuccino."

"Thank you baby." You called out, before entering the room.

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You had gotten out the shower by the time she came home. Wearing pajamas and one of Alysa's depressive black hoodies on top. "Hey have you seen my meds?"

"In your purse, my jacket or the cabinet over the microwave." She mumbled absentmindedly, scrolling on her phone, used to you forgetting where you left your anxiety medication.

Because yes, she also always carried some of your meds, just in case.

After a while, you sat down next to her, and she inmediately discarded her phone, setting it aside and wrapping her arms around your waist.

"Clingy much?" You laughed, letting her burry her face into your chest, calmer.

"You really don't have to tell me, but I just wanna make you feel better." Alysa mumbled, leaning up and pressing a soft kiss to your neck.

Your breath hitched, the kind of sound she adored. "I— It wasn't anything really, I just—" You trailed off, fingers in her hair.

Alysa stayed quiet, waiting patiently for you to regain your train of thoughts.

"She was just looking weird at me again." You finally said.

"The new girl?" She said, recognizing who you were taking about.

"The new girl." You nodded.

She pressed another kiss, this one longer, behind your ear. "Hmh, I think she's just admiring you."

"I swear, I've done something wrong, I just don't know what."

"No you haven't. You're an angel, pretty girl." She mumbled, lips trailing to your collarbone.

"We don't know that for sure—"

"Okay, Lux, listen." She sighed, leaning back. "If you did something wrong, to someone whose name we don't even know, it's kind of her part of the deal to tell you what you did wrong so you can fix it. If not, you should relax a bit."

"But it's not her job to tell me what I did wrong—"

"You just met her." Alysa raised an eyebrow.

"I— fine." You finally relented, seeing the look she was giving you.

"Good, now, I'm dying out here, angel, help me out?"

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Alysa's lips seemed to be glued to yours, only in between giggles, she'd let you breath.

Her hands slipped under your (her) hoodie, drawing soft, soothing, circles on your skin.

She relished in the soft little noises you made, the ones that you tried to hold back, but she kept pulling out.

"Lysa," You'd breath out, cheeks red, already flustered.

"Let me adore you, angel." She'd laugh, pressing yet another hickey to your neck. Stopping for a second to admire the golden chain on your neck.

The one with a single initial, hers. A gold A, soft, but there, on your collarbone.

She sucked another love bite, this time on your collarbone

That only earned her another whine as you lolled your head back, overwhelmed.

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"Oh my gods, can't they go away?" Alysa groaned, finally pulling back from your neck, her hair a mess from your soft pulling, lips slightly swollen.

Someone was knocking on the door, delivery probably. As she moved to get up, she glanced one last time at you.

Cheeks incredibly pink, your lips redder than usual, more than a couple love bites on your neck. A particular one that stood out on your collarbone, next to the necklace. Your breathing heavy, almost laboured, chest heaving. Your eyes were glossy, trailing after her as she got up.

Angelic.

Alysa could only smile. She leant back down, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of your nose.

She then whispered, not teasing or provocative, just softer this time. "Breathe, angel, hmh?"

You whined, flusteredly hiding your face into your hands, ears turning pink again.

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"I don't get why these people are idiots." You said, already exasperated at the movie.

You had been watching a thriller, some murder mystery you cracked in the first few minutes.

Alysa wasn't really paying attention. Her focus was solely on you. On watching how you looked when someone said something funny, on seeing your eyes light up when they got closer to solving it, then how you would roll your eyes when they dismissed a clue, or ignored something relevant. She liked to see the twitch of your lips when you sipped on your frapuccino. Or how you softened when Alysa mumbled something stupid into your shoulder.

Because yes, Alysa was clinging onto you again. Hands on your hips, head on your shoulder, ocassionally pressing a kiss to the closest bit of skin she could find.

Snapping back to reality, she added. "They're just a bit slow, pretty girl, they're not that bad."

"We're thirty minutes in and they still haven't figured out it's robert."

"Thrirty minutes out of ninety."

"I figured it out in— how much?"

"Fifteen." She recalled. "Still, they don't have you around, angel" She quipped.

"They don't need me, they need to reactivate their neurons." You scoffed, shaking your head. "Bunch of merry idiots."

"Right." She mumbled, vision tunneling back to only you, the screen forgotten once more.

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"What are you even doing?" You laughed, already tucked into the bed, scrolling on your phone.

Alysa was staring at you, stuck, leaned on the doorway, arms crossed.

"I'm— admiring my gorgeous angel of a girlfriend, thank you." She smiled, tilting her head.

"Well don't, get over here, I'm cold." You said, beckoning her over.

"You practice seven hours at an ice rink." She rolled her eyes, but came over anyway.

You only shrugged. "Get over here anyways."

But right before she got on the bed, she suddenly had the weirdest string of realizations of her life. Worse than when you'd made her miss skating.

She couldn't help but be upset when you were upset.

She didn't like seeing you upset, she wanted you to feel okay-ish at the very least.

She knew you being upset was normal, but she still tried her best to make you feel better.

She liked being affectionate with you, it wasn't 'second nature', no, it was first nature to her.

She had her hands on your waist, kisses by your neck, holding hands, the usual to her by now.

She had gotten used to seeing you in her clothes, her hoodies, her shirts, her sweatpants.

She adored seeing you wearing jewerly she had bought for you, especially when you wanted to wear it. Especially when it had her initial.

She enjoyed your company soo much, adored listening to your odd quips and comments.

She had begun to more than like you. Much more.

Alysa Liu loved you.

"What?" You suddenly spoke, pulling her out of her stupor.

"What, what?" She said, slightly nervous.

"You're staring at me—"

"I love you."

Alysa couldn't help it, she blurted it out, then smiled, like crazy.

"I— what?" The look on your face was priceless, a mix between shock, genuine concern, adoration, and something else she couldn't quite pinpoint— oh right, anxiety, knowing you.

"You don't have to say it back, angel." She shook her head, smiling. "I just really, really love you."

By the time she'd gotten that sentence out, she was already on the bed, tucking herself in next to you.

"I—"

"Nope, coherent thoughts now, speak later." She said, already pulling you into her arms.

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And as Alysa saw you fall asleep, she was laughing inside.

She was down bad. Whipped. Obsessed. Entranced. Whatever the word, the loved you.

She thought back to all the moments she'd seen you fall asleep like this, adoring you, and how many more moments were to come.

Two time olympic gold medalist Alysa Liu,

when will you ever stop being so in love?