#styles

The extreme heat has switched up the planned outfits a little bit, going from pants to shorts at the past couple of shows, but the fans are definitely not complaining and Harry kind of likes flaunting his toned legs as well, so it’s a win-win. 

Standing in front of the mirror he is humming Bridge Over Troubled Water while trying to fix his tie when there’s a knock on the door.

“Come in!” he calls out, eyes still fixated on his reflection. 

The door opens and he doesn’t even have to turn around to know who it is. It’s like he has a sixth sense when it comes to you. 

“Oh, I see the slutty little shorts are coming out to play again,” you tease him instantly upon walking into the room and closing the door behind you. Harry smirks as he turns around, though his smile halters for a second when he sees you.

He hasn’t been the only one the heatwave has been affecting when it comes to outfits. As his shorts got shorter, you, his long-time assistant, started putting on shorter dresses as well. Tonight you chose to put on a pale yellow sundress, one that’s short but flowy, demands his attention in an instant, making his eyes glued to your smooth legs and flirty neckline. 

Fuck, he thinks to himself before recovering as quick as humanly possible. Truth is, he’s been crushing on you since… well, probably day one, but only admitted it to himself about a year ago, when the two of you somehow ended up sharing a bed at a mutual friend’s party and he woke up with you curled to his side, your scent filled his nose and as he listened to your quiet snoring, which you absolutely denied you did, he realized just how much in love he was with you. 

But he’s been doing everything he could to keep his feelings at bay, not wanting to ruin your friendship and he also happened to be your boss, though your work relationship is quite different than at an office job. However at moments like this, when you completely take his breath away and make it quite hard for him to think of anything else than ripping your dress off and–

“You okay, Styles?” you snap him out of his thoughts. 

“Yeah,” he smiles, shaking his head. “Not a fan of shorts?” he asks with a flirty smirk, still fiddling with his tie. 

There’s a beat of silence on your end, something crosses your face, but it’s gone before he could catch it. 

“Everyone is a fan of the shorts,” you end up saying. “Let me help you with that,” you offer as you step closer and swat his hands away so you can fix his tie. 

The AC is working perfectly in the room, but suddenly Harry feels like he is burning up, standing so close to you, your hands brushing against his chest a few times and even though it’s only through the fabric of his shirt, it’s maddening. He can only hope you can’t feel or hear his hammering heartbeat. 

“There,” you smile softly stepping back and admiring your work. 

“All good?” he asks, squaring his shoulders.

“The best,” you reply, smile widening. “Everything is set, Shania just got off the stage,” you inform him. “Sarah and Mitch are here as well.”

Harry hums with a nod. His drummer and guitarist have been the last ones to arrive at the venue after doing bathtime with their kids and leaving them with the nanny before heading out for their night shift at the stadium. 

Harry looks at you and notices a bit of worry etched onto your expression. Tilting his head he narrows his eyes at you.

“Something is wrong,” he says and it’s not a question. He knows you enough to notice these small details. 

“Nope,” you shake your head.

“Oh yeah. Tell me, I can handle it, I’m a big boy.”

You chuckle, shaking your head.

“It’s nothing work related.”

“Okay, I still want to know about it.”

You hesitate for a second before giving up, knowing he’ll bug you until eternity if you don’t tell him. 

“Just… I had some problems with a pipe in my apartment,” you say dismissingly. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine if it’s bothering you. There’s still an issue?”

“Kinda,” you sigh. “I need to change the pain pipe in the bathroom, which means they have to rip the wall out. But they are coming in the weekend, so hopefully it’ll be settled.”

“But can you use the bathroom until then?” Harry asks suspiciously. You don’t answer and avoid looking into his eyes at first before shaking your head no. “So you can’t use your bathroom until the end of the week?”

“It’s fine, I’m gonna stay at my sister’s place until then.”

Harry gives you an amused look. 

“Y/N, your sister lives in Southampton. That’s… what, like a three hour commute to London?”

“Two,” you correct him, earning an eye-roll. 

“You’re not going to your sister’s.”

“Well, I’m not paying for a hotel either,” you stubbornly say. 

“Of course not, because you’re gonna stay at mine.”

He says it out loud before he could even think it through. But as soon as his words land, he knows he might have brought hell on himself. It’s challenging enough to spend so much time with you during the day, but having you in his home might be another level of torture. 

You bark out a laugh. 

“No I’m not,” you simply say, not even taking him seriously.

“Yes, you are. I live close, I have two guest rooms, this is the best solution,” he argues, pushing his own doubts to the back of his mind, because putting his feelings aside, this is actually the best solution, saving you from the hours spent on a train every day just to get to London. 

“Harry, I can’t just move in with you.”

“Just until your apartment is fixed,” he shrugs. “I’ll drive over to your place after the show, you can grab whatever you need.”

You stand there, just blinking at him for a couple of long minutes, like you’re expecting him to say he was just joking, but he stands his ground. As bad of an idea it is regarding his situation, he would never let you down. 

“I mean… If you’re sure,” you give in. Harry nods with a satisfied smile.

“I’m sure.”

“Okay, thank you then. Show time in twenty,” you remind him then, switching back to work mode before walking out of the dressing room. 

The second the door clicks shut, Harry lets his head fall back with a quiet groan. Brilliant idea, he thinks to himself. Invite the woman you've been secretly in love with into your house, for several days. What an idiot you are, Styles!

A generous, caring idiot, but still an idiot, because he might have just made the worst decision in his life. 

The show goes down without a hiccup. He puts on his best performance, as always and the fans love him, as always. 

You watch most of the show from backstage, but you love Season 2 Weight Loss way too much not to go out, so you dance in Circle for a little and sneak back before any of the fans could recognize you. Harry however totally saw you and the smile that stretched across his face is the absolute sweetest. 

When the show is over Harry quickly showers while you do your usual rounds settling things. When he’s ready the two of you roll out of the garage in his car, passing by the fans leaving the stadium. 

You’ve just bought your apartment last year and Harry realizes he hasn’t even been there when he pulls up in front of the building. He follows you up to the third floor and bites back the excitement he feels upon stepping into the apartment. 

“I’ll try to be quick. Make yourself at home,” you tell him before disappearing in the bedroom, leaving him alone in the open concept kitchen and living room. 

“No need to hurry,” he calls after you, already curiously eyeing up the place. 

The apartment is small, not cramped, but very lived-in. The vibe suits his expectations of your home pretty well. The couch is tucked beneath a large window overlooking the street, a knitted blanket carelessly thrown over one arm. Books are stacked on every available surface instead of neatly shelved, plants occupy nearly every windowsill and there are tiny trinkets everywhere, little ceramic animals, candles in mismatched holders, postcards pinned to a corkboard over the faux fireplace. 

It looks exactly like you and it makes him smile as he wanders farther inside, hands buried in his pockets as if touching anything would somehow feel too intrusive.

His attention lands on the fridge, it’s covered in magnets, lists, sticky notes and quite some polaroids. He instantly moves closer to look at them. He sees his family, friends, crew members and random moments from the past years, including ones with him as well. 

One of them is from Tokyo last year, the two of you squeezed into a photo booth, both pulling ridiculous faces. 

Another one is from backstage at Madison Square Garden where you're laughing so hard your head is thrown back while he's clearly saying something dramatic, a moment Anthony caught on camera. 

There’s one where he is giving you a piggy back ride in Italy and one taken in his mom’s backyard, the two of you posing like the worst models. 

His smile stretches wider with each photo he spots that features him, feeling warm that you cherish these memories just as much as he does. 

Then he moves over to the living room and the cushions seem familiar. It takes a moment for him to realize it’s because they have the cases on them the two of you chose out together at a flea market in Berlin two years ago. He teased you, saying you’ll probably never use them, but now you’re proving him wrong. 

His eyes continue roaming the room until they snag on the wall opposite him. His smile softens instantly. There’s a painting hanging over the couch, one he gifted you for your birthday three years ago. An abstract piece he found in a gallery and instantly thought the vibrant colors would fit you so well. He was afraid you wouldn’t like it, but here it is, hanging in your home years later. 

“Snooping around, I see.” Your voice makes him turn. You're standing in the hallway now, duffel bag slung over your shoulder, another backpack hanging from one arm.

“Nice decor you have,” he nods towards the painting. 

“Ah, yeah, right? Some rando just gave it to me,” you tease him, pulling a laugh out of him. 

“Dude’s got taste,” he adds. “You’re done?”

“Yes. If I forgot anything I’ll just swing by.”

Harry nods and follows you out of the apartment, glancing back one last time, a smile tugging on his lips knowing he is there, in your home in the tiny details. 

Unlike him, you’ve been at Harry’s place a million times, so there’s nothing surprising there. Walking into the spacious townhouse he bought a couple of years ago in Hampstead you already know the way to the guest rooms. 

“The one facing the backyard has AC, use that one,” he tells you. 

“Ah, I get the fancy room?” you tease him, standing on the stairs.

“You’re VIP,” he grins before he disappears down the hallway leading to the kitchen and you make your way up to the room. 

He pours himself a glass of water and stares out the window sipping on it. That’s when he hears you shuffling around upstairs. The faint footsteps, the closet opening and closing, the facet in the bathroom turning on before you shut it off. He’s so used to being alone here, it’s an odd feeling having someone else here, but knowing it’s you warms him. 

A couple of minutes later you appear in the kitchen as well. 

“Hungry?” he asks, leaning onto the kitchen island and he catches your gaze jumping to his biceps just for the shortest second before shaking your head. 

“I inhaled half of the catering at the stadium,” you admit, making him laugh. 

“Well, feel free to raid the fridge anytime. And… you know where to find everything,” he chuckles.

“Thanks,” you smile at him bashfully. “And for letting me stay here too.”

“I didn’t let you, practically ordered you to stay,” he corrects you, making you laugh. 

“Whatever. I’m gonna shower and then head to bed. Good show tonight.”

“Thanks,” he smiles softly before you nod and then head back upstairs. 

Minutes later he hears the shower running in the guest bathroom and his thoughts are quick to wander. Knowing that you’re up there, standing under the shower naked has him going crazy. All evening he tried to convince himself it won’t be any different than staying at the same hotel, but it is. There’s a kind of domesticity in your presence he is not used to and it has him spiraling a bit. 

He shakes his head, annoyed at himself.

“Get it together, Styles,” he mutters under his breath, finishing his water and forcing himself to move.

He has spent years being around you. Years of late nights, long drives, hotel rooms, dressing rooms and airports. He knows what your coffee order is, how you like your fries, the exact face you make when you’re trying not to laugh during serious moments.

So why does hearing you move around his house feel so different? Probably because you’re not here because you’re working late or because everyone decided to stay over after a party. You’re here because he asked you to be. Because he wanted to make things easier for you. Because a selfish part of him wanted you here, sharing the same living space, spending even more time together. 

By the time he finally gets ready for bed, the house is completely quiet again. He walks past the guest room on his way to his bedroom and stops for a second, staring at the closed door. The ridiculous thought crosses his mind that maybe he should knock and say goodnight, but he is quick to shake it. 

Instead, he lies in his bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, thinking of you sleeping just down the hallway until his spiraling thoughts eat him away and he finally falls asleep. 

He is gonna have a rough couple of days. 

***

The next few days pass in a blur. Somehow, somewhere between rushed mornings, stadium chaos and late-night drives back home, the weirdness of having you in his house disappears. It becomes normal, having you around not just while working but at the end of the day as well, when Harry retreats from being Harry Styles, the pop icon. 

It probably helped that he didn’t need to act like a host because you didn’t act like a guest. It was like you belonged there, in his home and he realized he liked it a lot.

Having coffee with you in the morning, running to the grocery store together or grabbing lunch from the nearby Chinese restaurant. He liked finding you on the couch, typing away on your laptop or making calls when he came back from his run and he liked that on show days you left together, did your own things and went home together at the end of the night, had a a glass of wine or two on the patio before going to bed and starting it all over again. 

When you got a call three days into your stay at Harry’s that your bathroom works will be postponed to next week Harry tried to focus on easing your stress instead of the absolute happiness he felt for having you at his place even longer. It’s like even fate wanted him to enjoy more of the time spent together. 

It’s another show day and Harry is already downstairs, getting ready to leave while you’re still upstairs. 

“Have you seen my charger?” he calls up.

“Which one?” comes your answer.

“The black one.”

“It’s in the kitchen!”

He runs into the kitchen and is not surprised to find the item he’s been looking for everywhere lying on the counter. Laughing at himself he walks back to the front door while tucking the cord into his totebag, just when you come down the stairs. 

Glancing up he freezes for a second, because you’re wearing jean shorts and an old band tee. His band tee to be precise and you look a lot better in it than he ever did. He doesn’t even care that it's one of his favorite ones, he would be fine if you wore it from now on. 

“Is that my shirt?” he asks, recovering. 

You look up at him innocently.

“Is it?”

“Yes, it is,” he chuckles. 

“Ah, it must have ended up in my pile of laundry.”

“Interesting, because I haven’t worn it in a while, so it was not even near the laundry,” he keeps teasing you with a growing smirk. 

“Your memory is shit, Styles,” you wave at him dismissingly. “Let’s go, we’re gonna be late,” you say, changing the subject. Harry just shakes his head chuckling, but follows you out the door. 

That stupid t-shirt messes with his head. Or to be more precise, seeing you wearing his clothes is what has his panties in a twist. 

Every time you walk past him it’s like electricity buzzes through him. Then he starts picturing you more of his things. His running shorts. His shirt. His boxer briefs… It’s a trap he walked straight into. 

When the show starts he manages to shut you out, but then you decide to go into the pit again. No matter how badly he fights the urge to ignore you, he can’t. During Dance No More he stops right in front of you, dancing while looking straight into your eyes. At first you just shake your head at him and try to shoo him away, but when he doesn’t, you end up mirroring his dance moves that makes him laugh. 

“Okay, I accept defeat,” he says into the mic before finally moving on, the fans going crazy over what they just witnessed and that’s when you decide to return backstage. 

By the time the show ends, Harry is still smiling. Partially because the show felt extra good tonight, but mostly because of the interaction he had with you and the thought that now he gets to go home with you. 

“You’re in a good mood,” Mitch comments when they’re backstage, wiping sweat from his face.

Harry looks up from the bottle of water in his hand. “Am I?”

“Yes,” Anthony answers from beside him, his camera is still in his hand. “It’s actually slightly annoying.”

“Sorry my happiness is inconveniencing you,” Harry chuckles. 

“Not the happiness,” Mitch says, pointing at him. “The lovesick teenage boy energy.”

Harry almost chokes on his water. “What?”

“Please, I’m kind of hurt you think I wouldn’t notice the change in you,” Mitch scoffs. “Besides, I know this exact feeling,” he adds, his gaze jumping over to Sarah who is talking to a crew member in the corner of the room. 

“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry shakes his head, but he can’t help the smile that tugs on his lips. 

“Yeah, okay. Keep lying to yourself. See you tomorrow,” Mitch pats his shoulder before walking over to his wife. 

Harry looks at Anthony who has his camera in front of his face and snaps a picture of him. Then he checks the screen and nods to himself.

“Yep, lovesick teenage boy,” he says before walking away. 

Harry just shakes his head in disbelief before heading over to you, throwing his towel at you.

“Ew! Get your sweaty towel off me!” You cry out, throwing the towel right back at him. 

“I’m gonna shower and then we can leave.”

“Take your time, you stink!” You call after him teasingly, to which he just flips you off before walking away. 

By the time Harry finally finishes showering, you’re already waiting by his dressing room, scrolling through your phone.

“Done?” you ask, looking up from the screen.

“Squeaky clean,” he grins, proud of himself for quoting his own song. You just roll your eyes, but he spots the smile hiding in the corners of your mouth. 

The ride home is the same. You’re talking about bits from the show and then sing along to some music, it’s been his favorite after-show ritual lately. 

Arriving home you’re already heading into the kitchen to pour the usual glass of wine for the two of you while Harry heads up to his room to drop his stuff off before joining you downstairs. Just outside his bedroom he starts to feel like something is off, but only realizes what it is when he walks in. 

It feels like hell in there. It’s hotter than in a sauna. 

“What the…” He grabs his phone to check the app that’s connected to the AC system in the house and sees that the one in his bedroom is not working. He taps on it several times, but it just wouldn’t turn on. 

Then he digs out the remote, hoping to start it with that, but that doesn’t work either. It’s dead.

“Hey, what’s taking you so long?” You walk in with two glasses of wine, but instantly feel the heat in his room. “Holy shit, did you set your room on fire or something?”

“The AC is not working,” he sighs in defeat. 

“Damn, okay, no worries. We can call someone tomorrow,” you say, handing him one of the wines. He takes a big gulp, since it’s pretty cold at least. 

“Sure. I’ll just sleep in the other guest room tonight,” he says, but then he quickly realizes. “Fuck, there’s no AC there either,” he groans, his head rolling back in frustration. “Okay, then the couch it is for tonight.”

“What?” your eyes widen. “You’re not sleeping on the couch, you need to rest, you have a show tomorrow.”

“Where else am I gonna sleep then?” he chuckles helplessly. 

“In my room. I’ll take the couch,” you say right away. 

“Absolutely not,” he shakes his head. 

“Harry–”

“No.”

“You need to fucking sleep! In a bed!” you argue, slightly raising your voice from the frustration of how stubborn he is being.

“And you don’t need the rest? You’re working too, Y/N.”

“Yeah, but I’m not performing at Wembley.”

“You’re not sleeping on the couch in my house,” he states, making you roll your eyes. 

“Well, you’re not sleeping on the couch in your house either.”

“Y/N, I’m not taking your bed–”

“It’s your bed in your guest room in your house.”

“No, right now it’s your bed.”

“Jesus, you’re so fucking annoying!” you growl. “Then we’re sharing the bed,” you then say, surprising probably the both of you. 

“What?” he chuckles awkwardly.

“It’s big enough, we can just share it tonight and then we can have the AC fixed tomorrow. No big deal,” you explain and this time he can’t argue.

Well, he would love to, but he would rather not say out loud his arguments. He can’t just say he doesn’t want to share the bed because it’s too intimate for him and he would very likely spiral, so he chickens out and just nods.

“Okay. I guess… you’re right.”

Satisfaction takes over your expression. 

“See? There was no need to be this dramatic about the whole situation,” you say, taking a sip from your wine. Harry’s eyebrows arch.

“I’m literally the least dramatic person you know.”

You look at him and that look speaks for you. 

“Okay,” he sighs. “That might be a lie,” he mumbles. 

You carry on with the evening as usual. It’s still so hot outside that you don’t sit on the patio too long, just until you both finish your wine and then head back inside. Harry uses his own bathroom and you use the guest one just like every evening since you’ve been here. 

But once he is done he feels ridiculous for being nervous at the thought of going over to your room and get in bed beside you. 

“Get your shit together,” he mumbles to himself before finally making his way down the hallway. 

The door is open and you’re already sitting on the bed, scrolling on your phone when he walks in. When you look up you smile softly at him that already has his stomach sinking. 

“Come on in! Make yourself home!” you gesture at the bed. Harry chuckles.

“Well, it is my home.”

“Shut up,” you flip him off as he takes the right side of the bed. 

Tentatively he sits on the edge at first, then a little awkwardly lies down.

“Are you going to lie like a board all night?” you tease him.

“What if I am?” he scoffs.

“Okay, do whatever you want. It really is your home,” you say teasingly.

Harry wills himself to relax and get under the covers finally. The bed is big. Big enough that you’ll probably not touch all night, but Harry is still worried. 

“I hope you haven’t started snoring since the last time we slept in the same room,” you break the silence. Harry peeks over at you.

“You’re the one who snores.”

You gape at him dramatically.

“I told you I don’t snore!”

“Can you hear yourself while sleeping?” he arches an eyebrow.

“Well, of course not. I’m sleeping!”

“Okay, I have heard you. And you were definitely snoring.”

That’s a lie. It was just loud breathing probably, but he loves teasing you with that, he loves seeing you get all heated up while defending yourself. 

“Yeah? Then you fart all night!” 

At that, you both stay silent for a second before uncontrollable laughter bursts right out of you both. 

“Fart all night? That’s the best you could come up with?” Harry asks, wiping the tears away from his eyes. 

“Did you want me to say you pee your pants?” you wheeze out, making him laugh even harder. 

It takes long minutes for you to calm down, silence settling over the room. Now Harry feels a lot less awkward about the whole bed sharing situation. 

“Goodnight, Harry,” you whisper at last.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he replies and falls asleep with a smile on his face. 

***

Harry wakes up before his alarm, which is unusual. With his eyes still closed he buries his face further into the pillow and at first the scent doesn’t even register, your scent all over the pillow. Then feels the warmth, not excruciating, but definitely warmer than what he feels in the morning. Almost like… A body. Pressed against his. 

The memories of the two of you fighting over the bed situation last night creep back into his mind and then he slowly puts the picture together before he even opens his eyes, that it’s you who’s pressed up against him. 

he is lying on his side, one arm stretched out forward, right under the pillow on which your head is resting. You’re lying with your back plastered against his front, his other arm thrown over your waist, his palm touching your bare stomach where your top has ridden up in your sleep. Your legs are tangled together and the cherry on top is what’s happening around your midsections. 

Spooning you his crotch is perfectly pressed up against your ass and just to make things even more interesting, he is sporting an erection. 

It’s all settling in slowly but surely, his pulse picking up and then he completely freezes when you stir in your sleep and rub your ass even more against his cock. A silent groan slips from his lips. He’s still groggy and half asleep, but he can tell this should not be happening. 

The rational part of his brain is screaming at him to pull back and get as far from her as possible, but that voice is tuned out as he takes a deep breath and your scent fills his nose, making his cock twitch from the need to touch you. He stays put, slight panic creeping up his spine as he tries to figure out what to do, but that’s when you start moving again. At first he thinks you’re just wriggling in your sleep, but after a few seconds he realizes it’s different. 

You’re rubbing against him. Like, fully rubbing. 

His muscles flex as he tries to control himself, another groan bubbling from him as he dances on the edge of a very dangerous territory. 

You must be still asleep and it’s just an instinct, it’s totally normal to get horny in your dreams, he tells himself, so he shouldn’t take advantage of it, but it’s getting so fucking hard to resist. 

But then…

“Harry…” you breathe out, arching even more against him and that’s when he snaps. 

His hand that’s been on your stomach grips your hip and he finally lets himself grind against you, creating more friction and making you both moan. 

“Fuck,” he grunts as he keeps moving his hips, his cock straining against his briefs. 

Your hand finds his on your hips and taking it you tug it towards your core. He is quick to realize what you need and he gladly slips his hand under the elastic of your sleeping shorts, cupping your heated cunt at first, before gliding two fingers between your wet folds. 

“Yes, please,” you groan, head falling back and he rests his forehead against your shoulder as he keeps rocking against you, his fingers slipping inside you. 

“Fuck, Y/N,” he breathes, feeling like he is losing his mind as you grind against his palm and cock at the same time, chasing your own relief while he is inching closer to his as well. 

Your hands find his that’s under the pillow, gripping the sheets and you bring it to your mouth, placing an open-mouthed kiss into his palm at first but then bite the tender skin when his fingers inside you hit the right spot. 

“More,” you choke out. 

The hand you bit moves to your chest, slipping under your top, palming your breast and you arch into his touch, eager to get more of him. You’re both close to the edge, panting and moaning, Harry is in a state of disbelief and overflowing joy at what’s happening and that’s when the bubble is popped.

His phone starts to ring on the nightstand, loud and sharp, making you both jerk at the interruption. You both move away and sit up, looking at each other like you were just caught doing something you shouldn’t have, the pleasure you were feeling quickly morphing into shock and panic. 

The phone is still ringing and Harry snatches it clearing his throat before answering the call. He tries his best to focus on whatever is being said to him, but his mind is still stuck from just moments ago when he was basically dry-humping you and he was very much on the edge of coming. 

“Yeah,” he croaks out. “Sure, I’ll head over.”

When he ends the call you’ve moved to the very edge of the bed, an unreadable expression on your face. 

“I need to go to the stadium, something is wrong with the sound system, they need to do an emergency sound check,” he tells you and you nod. He hesitates for a second then tries to reach out towards you just when you jump out of the bed. 

“Then we need to get ready,” you say, looking everywhere but at him. 

“Y/N…”

“I’m gonna take a shower and then… You know what? You’ll have to go alone, I have some errands to run.”

That’s a fat lie, he knows. But he doesn’t call you out as you practically sprint into the bathroom, shutting him out. He stays there, sitting and staring after you for a few more seconds, absolutely no idea what to do. He runs a hand through his hair and lets out a frustrated breath as he stands and walks out of the room. He is dying to go after you and talk to you, ask you what you’re thinking, but the look on your face sent a clear message that talking to him was the last thing you wanted to do. He definitely doesn’t want to push you too far, so he is left with drawing his own conclusions and right now those are pretty clear.

You regretted it and now everything is fucked. 

***

You don’t go to the stadium with him and when he returns home you’re gone. He fights the urge to call you and beg you to come back and talk to him, but instead he just texts you that the issue has been solved, to which you just reply with liking his message. 

He is on the edge, waiting for you to return until the very last minute he needs to leave for tonight’s show, but you text him you’ll just get a taxi to the stadium, he doesn’t have to wait for you. Harry swallows down the disappointment, but forces himself to carry on. 

He has done this a thousand times. Walk into a stadium, leave everything else behind, become the person everyone came to see, except today he is having a hard time shutting his mind off. He keeps looking for you everywhere as he goes through his usual pre-show rituals, but you’re nowhere to be found. But he knows you’re there, because everything gets done, it’s just as if a ghost is doing your job. 

When he steps out onto the stage he more or less manages to get his focus straight, but he can tell he is not giving his best performance. He can only hope the fans won’t notice it. When he runs out to his short break after Fine Line and he is on his way back, that’s when he runs into you for the first time. 

“Hey, you’re here,” he stops in his tracks.

“Of course, where else would I be?” you ask with a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. He is debating being late for the next set just to talk to you.

“Are we going home together afterwards?” he ends up asking. 

“Sure,” you nod shortly, though your expression has him worried. He doesn’t have time to talk more however. 

He somehow gets through the second half of the show, even kind of gets more into the flow after the short interaction with you, but once he is off the stage he is eager to get home with you as soon as possible so you can talk. 

When he walks out of his dressing room and you’re there relief washes over him. Part of him was afraid you might ditch him and say you’re spending the night at your sister’s place. 

“Ready?” he asks, slinging his bag over his shoulder and you nod. 

The ride home is suffocating. Silence takes over the car and it’s driving Harry crazy how just hours ago in the morning he had his hands on your body and now you feel miles away even though you’re sitting right beside him. 

He is working up the courage to start a conversation when you walk into the house and that’s when realization hits him. 

“Fuck,” he breathes out.

“What?” you ask him. 

“I forgot… I didn’t get anyone to fix the AC.”

You stare back at him for a second, expression unreadable.

“That’s okay. I’ll just sleep on the couch,” you say at last. 

“No, Y/N.”

“Shut up, I’m not arguing about this tonight,” you snap back, but it triggers something in him.

“Oh, okay. Then let’s argue about why you’ve been avoiding me all day.”

“I was not avoiding you.”

“What a fucking lie,” he scoffs in disbelief, his bluntness making your eyes widen. 

“I’m not having this conversation, Harry,” you shake your head.

“Why?” he challenges.

“What?” you blink at him. 

“Why are you not having this conversation?”

Your jaw tightens as you stare back at him. 

“Because I don’t think there’s anything to talk about.” Your voice is low and steady, but he can see the tornado behind your eyes. Harry lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head.

“Nothing to talk about?”

He takes a step closer, but stops himself before he gets too close. He’s not going to corner you, not when you already look like you’re moments away from running away again.

“Y/N, this morning we were moments away from making each other come.”

“I know,” you hiss.

“And then you just ran away.”

“I did not.”

“You locked yourself in the bathroom and didn’t come out until I was gone.”

“Okay, fine!” you snap. “I’ve been avoiding you. Happy? Can we move on?”

“No, not until we walk about this!”

“There is nothing to talk about!” Your voice is raised, chest heaving as you stare back at him. 

“I beg to differ,” he scoffs. 

“Then let me rephrase it. I’m not gonna listen to you say it was a mistake and we shouldn’t have done it.”

That hits him hard in the head and chest, his anger quickly morphing into confusion.

“What?” he asks quietly.

“Don’t give me this lost puppy face,” you huff out a dry laugh. “That’s where we would have ended up at. You saying shit like let’s pretend it never happened and just go back to how it was, so I was just cutting it short.” Your voice wavers at the end and it finally clicks for Harry.

You weren’t acting this way because you regretted it, you did it because you thought he would want to forget about it. The realization hits him so hard he almost laughs, except there is nothing funny about it.

“Y/N…” he breathes out.

You look away, suddenly uncomfortable now that you’ve said it out loud.

“Don’t,” you mumble.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t stand there looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you feel bad for me.”

Something in his chest twists as he takes a step closer.

“Y/N, that’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?” you ask, looking back at him. “Because I know you, Harry. I know you better than almost anyone. You’re going to tell me you didn’t mean it, that you were caught up in the moment, that it’s complicated and we shouldn’t ruin what we have.” A tear rolls down your cheek, but you continue. “And you know what? You’re right, it’s way too complicated and I feel stupid, because there’s no way you–”

He cuts you off with a rough kiss, making you instantly forget what you were talking about as you melt into his arms. It’s desperate, passionate and ignites a fire inside you in an instant. It’s also speaking for him, loud and clear, because as his tongue licks into your mouth you have no doubt he did not regret what happened in the morning, in fact, he is aching for more. 

You’re fisting his shirt and his fingers dig into your waist, pulling you even closer, though that’s not possible anymore. His hands then start roaming your body, your back, your ass and then thighs before he grabs the back of them and urges you to jump, legs curling around his waist as he holds you. 

He carries you up the stairs without breaking the kiss, but you both start laughing when he almost slips, throwing you both down the stairs.

“Fuck, please don’t kill us now,” you laugh, planting a hand onto the wall next to you.

“That would be pretty unfortunate,” he grins, but then his face turns serious for a second and he even puts you down. Standing on the step above him, you’re about the same height. “This is real, Y/N. I want you, so fucking bad, I’ve wanted you for so long and–”

Now you’re the one cutting him off with a kiss, though it’s a lot less aggressive than his. When you pull back, you just smile at him. 

“It’s real. Now would you just keep talking or we could–”

The words turn into a laugh as he picks you up, running into your room so fast, you haven’t seen him move this fast before, not even on stage. He throws you onto the bed and once he is on top of you, the broken AC in his room is long forgotten, along with all the unnecessary tension you put each other through today. 

***

The heatwave is still raging, melting London and Wembley Stadium, but the residency continues. The show blows up the place as usual and Harry parades around the stage in his slutty little shorts, as they are now officially called. 

It’s the part of the show where everyone is moved out to the runway, bringing the show even closer to the fans in the pit. Harry is dripping from sweat as he dances past Mitch.

“Feeling hot?” the guitarist asks, trying to shout over the music. Harry laughs nodding as he saunters closer, Mitch then leans over to his ear. “Did you get your AC fixed?”

“What AC?” he asks, confused.

“In your fucking bedroom! Have you been sleeping in hell all week?” he asks, but then it clicks for the both of them. “Holy shit!” Mitch laughs as Harry just dances away with a knowing smile. “Holy shit! You and Y/N!” he shouts after him.

But Harry just giggles and grabs his mic and then starts singing.

“Ready, steady, go!”

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?