Top Posts Tagged with #sunshine x grumpy

Sunshine 🌤️ (H.S. One Shot)

General Masterlist Grumpy!Harry x Sunshine!reader

Summary: You’re an aspiring actress waiting to be discovered—the embodiment of sunshine itself: radiant, stubborn, and perhaps a little too kind for your own good. Then you step into Harry’s world, one painted in shades of grey, and nothing for either of you is ever the same

A/n: Hello my lovessss! I don’t even know where all this inspo came from, but I’m so happy with how it turned out! I’m always looking to grow and write better, so I’d love any feedback you have. Thanks for reading, love you all! Word count: 20k

Warnings: Slow burn, angst, a bit of a mean Harry not too much, smut, virgin reader, oral sex m to f, unprotected but then protected sex lol.

You stared at the number in front of you—301—etched in gold serif font, elegant and a little old-fashioned. Pretty numbers, you thought. Your gaze dropped, scanning the ground for a welcome mat, but your brows knit together when you found nothing. No cheerful “hello,” no quirky quote. Just bare floor.

Balancing two large suitcases and a tote bag slung over your shoulder, you adjusted the strap of your pink, flower-patterned sundress, took a deep breath, and knocked on the door with the biggest smile you could muster.

It was supposed to be one of those clichés—you knock, and someone warm and welcoming swings the door open, shows you around, tells you about the neighbors. A sitcom moment. But instead—

“Oh. You’re here.”

The voice was flat, the expression even flatter. He didn’t step aside or offer a hand with your bags, didn’t even invite you in. He just turned around, leaving the door wide open, and walked away.

You blinked, confusion tugging at your smile, but dragged your suitcases inside anyway. Grey walls greeted you, minimalistic décor in every shade of beige, black, and dull gray. Cold. Quiet. Not exactly welcoming.

And then—him again. Standing in the middle of the living room, holding out a piece of paper. At the top, in bold capital letters:

HOUSE RULES

No loud music.

No guests without permission.

Don’t touch my stuff.

Quiet hours: 10 p.m. – 7 a.m.

Do NOT go into my bedroom.

Respect my food in the fridge.

Always carry your keys.

You skimmed through them, lips twitching. Some rules seemed normal enough, but others practically screamed: Hi, I’m grumpy as hell.

“Rules,” he said matter-of-factly. “They’re easy to follow. Your room’s down the hallway. Mine’s across from it. If my door is closed, don’t knock unless the apartment’s on fire.”

You blinked, swallowing hard like a stray kitten caught in the rain. “Yes, understood.”

“Great.” He didn’t even look at you as he disappeared into his room, door clicking shut.

He didn’t even ask my name, you thought with a sigh.

Dragging your bags down the hall, you found the room he’d pointed out. Grey walls again, a slightly crooked bed, but a large window and a big closet. Simple, but enough. It surprised you how quiet everything was—the neighborhood, the apartment, him.

You weren’t used to quiet. Back home, silence didn’t exist. A big country house full of noise: two brothers, three sisters, mom, dad, grandma, an aunt and her twins. Someone was always crying, laughing, or arguing over a lost jacket. Pots clattered in the kitchen, dad’s lawnmower roared at dawn, and voices spilled through every corner.

Now—just silence.

You exhaled slowly, glancing at your suitcases. “It’s fine,” you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else.

You unpacked piece by piece, filling the room with tiny comforts: lavender bedding that smelled faintly of home, your worn bunny plushie, two pink mugs with cat ears, and a colorful French press. The quiet pressed in around you, but little by little, the room began to feel like yours. You wandered into the kitchen, opening cabinets until you found one with a strip of masking tape labeled with your name. So…he had remembered it from your application. That counted for something, right?

You carefully placed both of your pink cat-ear mugs inside and set your colorful French press on the counter beside his sleek, black Nespresso machine. The contrast made you smile—sunshine versus storm cloud, side by side.

When you turned around to head back to your room, you startled, letting out a tiny squeak as you jumped. He was standing right there, silent as a shadow.

“What’s that?” he asked, brows furrowing.

“This?” You pointed at the French press, forcing a smile. “It’s my Bodum French press. You like coffee?”

“Yeah,” he said simply.

You waited, hoping he might add something more—a follow-up question, a joke, anything. But instead, he moved past you, sat down on the sofa, opened his laptop, and that was the end of the conversation.

You exhaled softly. Moving away from home, you’d expected challenges. You braced yourself for missing family, for the hunt to find a job. But this? Living with him? That already felt like a new, impossible level of hard. Later that day, you finally finished unpacking the last of your things in your new room. The space looked warmer now, a little more you. Still, your stomach reminded you that your side of the fridge was empty, and maybe—just maybe—you could even bake something later.

You tucked your wallet into a tote bag, slipped on your shoes, and slid the final cardboard box into the back of the closet. With a deep breath and a smile, you headed for the front door. A new start. You weren’t going to let a stranger—or his rules—dim your light and…

“Forgetting something?”

The voice made you pause, one foot already out the door. You turned back to see him leaning lazily against the wall, keys dangling from his finger. He wasn’t even looking at you, just spinning the key ring like it was second nature.

“Oh…right…” You crossed the room, plucking the keys from his hand with a sheepish smile.

“Rule number seven,” he said flatly. “Always carry your keys.”

🍒

When you came back from the grocery store, tote bags digging into your hands, the faint sound of sizzling reached you before you even stepped into the kitchen. Peeking in, you spotted him at the stove, working a pan with calm precision—stir-fry, by the smell of it.

“Hi,” you said softly, almost careful, already knowing not to expect much of a reply.

He didn’t look up, didn’t say the word back, but you caught the tiniest twitch in his jaw. Taking the silence as permission, you slipped past him and began stocking your side of the fridge, then the pantry.

Even with that stern, unreadable face, you noticed it—his eyes flicking, quick and subtle, toward what you were unpacking. Maybe he was silently judging your colorful cereal boxes, or maybe he was just curious. Either way, the thought made you bite back a smile.

You placed the last box of cereal into the pantry, then hesitated, glancing at the sizzling pan in front of him.

“Smells good,” you said softly. “Do you, um, want me to help with anything? I’m a pretty decent vegetable chopper.”

He didn’t even look up, just shook his head once. “I’ve got it.”

That was the end of the conversation. You lingered for a moment, then nodded, more to yourself than him. “Alright… I’ll just wait until you’re done to make mine.”

He gave no reply, so you slipped away to your room, scrolling idly through your phone to pass the time. The house was quiet except for the faint clatter of pans and the hiss of steam drifting through the walls.

Peeking out, you padded softly into the hallway. The kitchen lights were still on, the air fragrant with soy and garlic. He was there, already at the small dining table with his laptop open beside him, eating from a bowl like nothing in the world could disturb him.

On the counter, set neatly near the edge, was a second plate.

Your eyes flicked from the food to him, but he didn’t look at you—didn’t acknowledge you at all. He just kept eating, focused and unbothered. But something about the way that second plate sat waiting in plain view left no room for doubt.

With a small, grateful smile, you pulled the plate toward you, whispering under your breath, “Maybe not all grump.” Before you could even finish, he pushed back his chair, scooped up his laptop, and disappeared down the hall. A second later, the sound of his bedroom door closing clicked through the silence.

You stood there for a moment, half amused, half frustrated. No words, no nothing, just action.

Still, you felt like you needed to say something back. When you finished and cleaned your plate you went straight to your room, grabbed a sticky note from your desk, you scribbled quickly:

“Thanks for dinner ♡”

With a grin, you tiptoed to his door and slid the note under the crack. It felt silly, like sneaking around in a game, but it was the best you could do.

🍒

The next morning, you woke to sunlight spilling through the big window and the faint hum of the city outside. The apartment, though, was silent. Too silent.

You stretched, rubbed the sleep from your eyes, and padded into the hallway barefoot. His bedroom door was wide open now, bed neatly made, no trace of him anywhere.

With the apartment empty, curiosity itched at you. You wandered slowly through the living room, eyes scanning the plain gray walls and beige furniture. Nothing personal. Not a single photo frame on the shelves. The counter was bare, save for the black Nespresso machine and the French press you’d left beside it. You even peeked toward the side table by the couch, but there were only chargers and a coaster.

No pictures. No postcards. No magnets from trips. Not even a forgotten grocery receipt.

You stood in the middle of the room, tote bag from yesterday still by the door, feeling both amused and unsettled. “Who lives like this?” you murmured.You circled back towards your room, ready to give up, when something caught your eye. A slip of paper sticking out from under his laptop charger on the coffee table.

Curiosity won over hesitation. You tugged it free—a folded bill, crumpled at the edges, like it had been stuffed in a pocket and forgotten.

It wasn’t just a bill, though. Your eyes flicked to the bold letters at the top: The Rusty Note — Live Music Fridays.

Beneath it, smaller print listed the lineup. And there it was: Midnight Avenue. The band name had a scribbled circle around it in black pen, and at the bottom of the receipt was a drink order—two beers, one soda.

Your brows lifted. So he’s in a band.

Suddenly, the quiet, guarded guy in the next room didn’t feel so one-dimensional. You pictured him under stage lights, guitar in hand, the opposite of the silent shadow you’d met at the door.

You set the bill back exactly where it had been, heart racing a little. A secret. A clue.

“Midnight Avenue,” you whispered, trying the words on your tongue like they were part of a puzzle you’d just begun to solve.

And also, just like that you broke rule #3

Back in your room, you sat cross-legged on the bed with your laptop balanced on your knees. The name still echoed in your mind—Midnight Avenue.

With a guilty grin, you opened a new tab and typed it in. The search results popped up quickly: a modest Instagram page, a couple of tagged posts, a handful of grainy bar photos.

You clicked on one video. The sound was tinny, recorded from someone’s phone, but it was enough. There he was, on stage under dim neon lights, guitar slung across his chest. His face was the same unreadable mask, but the way he played wasn’t. Confident. Alive. Like the music pulled out a side of him you couldn’t imagine in the quiet gray apartment.

You scrolled further, finding flyers for past gigs, a few comments about the band’s “moody sound” and “late-night energy.” In one picture, he even looked like he was smiling—not big, not obvious, but enough to make you blink.

You leaned back against your lavender pillows, heart thudding faster than it should. So he wasn’t just the silent, rule-obsessed roommate. He was someone people went out of their way to see. Someone who belonged to a world you hadn’t known about until now.

The thought of asking him about it crossed your mind—then you pictured his face, that flat tone of voice, the shut door. No. BAD IDEA. 🍒

The first few days in the city slipped by in a blur. You woke early, sometimes to find the apartment already empty, other times catching the faint sound of the shower running through the walls before his door closed again. He came and went like clockwork, never volunteering where he was headed, never asking where you were going.

You tried. Cheerful good mornings, small comments about the weather, even casual questions about the best grocery store nearby. He’d answer, but never more than the bare minimum. Words from him felt rationed. So you filled the silence with your own noise.

There were auditions. One ended before you’d even spoken a line, the casting director waving you off with a polite, “We’ll be in touch.” Another felt promising until the girl before you walked out clutching the script with the confidence of someone already chosen. You told yourself it was fine. There would be more.

In the evenings, you propped your phone against a mug and FaceTimed your family. Your sisters talked over each other, your dad asked if you were eating enough, your mom wanted a tour of the apartment. You tilted the screen carefully, avoiding the gray walls and keeping your lavender bedding in view instead.

When your friends called, you laughed and exaggerated the quirks of city life—the subway, the pigeons, the endless honking. But you didn’t mention him. Not really. How could you describe someone so silent, so carefully walled off?

Still, curiosity lingered. You caught yourself listening for the sound of his guitar through the walls, sometimes you peeked into the kitchen just to see what he cooked, hoping for a clue about who he really was. But if he noticed your curiosity, he never showed it. It was 10:30 p.m. when you stumbled back into the apartment, makeup smudged and your tote bag heavier than usual though you carried nothing new. You had spent all day chasing a role that had slipped right through your fingers the moment you walked into the audition room. The casting director’s blank stare, the clipped thank you, the way no one looked up when you left—it all replayed in your head like a cruel loop.

By the time you reached your bedroom, you could feel the tight ache in your chest breaking into sobs. You didn’t even bother turning on the main light, just dropped onto the bed and fumbled for your phone. One ring, two rings, and then your best friend’s familiar voice filled the silence.

You let it out—how you felt humiliated, how maybe you weren’t cut out for this city, how every step seemed to prove you didn’t belong. Your words cracked, spilling into tears, your friend’s voice on the other side a lifeline of soft encouragement. “You’re not a failure,” they repeated. “You’re brave for even being there.”

Your knees were curled into your chest, the phone wedged against your ear as you tried to steady your breathing.

“I’m just… I don’t know what I’m even doing here,” you sobbed into the speaker, your best friend’s voice a soft murmur on the other end. “I thought I could handle rejection, but they didn’t even look at me, like I wasn’t worth the two seconds it would take to listen. And maybe they’re right—maybe I’m not worth it.”

Your words tumbled out, jagged and breathless, not realizing how loud you’d gotten in the quiet apartment.

The knock on your door startled you so badly you almost dropped your phone.

“Hold on,” you whispered to your friend, wiping at your face with the heel of your palm.

The door creaked open just enough for Harry to appear, his hand still on the knob. His hair was mussed, his expression sharp and impatient.

“It’s past ten,” he said flatly, voice low and firm. “Walls are thin, so—”

He stopped.

The second his eyes met yours, glassy and rimmed red, his words faltered. He didn’t move for a beat, like he’d been caught in something he hadn’t meant to step into.

You pressed your lips together, mortified. Your friend’s voice was still faintly audible through the speaker, asking if you were okay.

Harry’s jaw flexed. “Sorry,” then, without another word, he stepped back and shut the door gently.

You stared at the closed door, your breath still shaky.

Swallowing, you lifted the phone back to your ear. “Sorry, I—uh—I’ll call you back,” you whispered, hanging up before your friend could protest.

For a long while, you just sat there in silence, the air heavy with what had just happened. After that you just went to brush your teeth and slumped in the bed praying to fall asleep quickly to forget about the audition and about your very grumpy very unknown roommate seeing you cry and making him uncomfortable.

You had broken almost three rules by now—it was silly how you were more worried about the rule breaking and making him uncomfortable than your actual feelings. The thought made you want to laugh and cry at the same time. Instead, you pulled the blanket over your head and tried to will your brain into silence.

But of course, it didn’t work. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the way he’d stopped mid-sentence, the flicker of something softer in his expression before he shut the door. Somehow, Harry being witness to your tears felt worse than the casting director telling you “thank you, next.” And the worst part? You couldn’t figure out why.

The next morning, sunlight bled through the curtains, nudging you awake far earlier than you wanted. Your head throbbed faintly, your throat raw from crying. With a groan, you rolled over, half-expecting to hear faint kitchen noises or footsteps.

But the apartment was silent.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you padded into the hallway, hair messy, socks slipping on the wood floor. When you stepped into the kitchen, you stopped short.

On the counter sat a plate—scrambled eggs, two pieces of toast, and a small bowl of cut fruit, still fresh enough to glisten. A mug of black coffee steamed beside it, the smell curling warmly through the air.

Your chest tightened.

There was no note, no sticky reminder, nothing dramatic—just breakfast, plated neatly, waiting for you.

You glanced around as if he might appear from behind the fridge or step out from the hallway, but the apartment was empty. His keys were gone from the hook near the door.

Still, you sat down at the small table, staring at the food for a long moment before taking the first bite. It was simple, but somehow it tasted better than anything you’d eaten since moving in.

And you couldn’t help the small, ridiculous smile tugging at your lips.

You spent most of the day in your room, alternating between scrolling job boards and rereading the audition notes that made you feel worse the longer you looked at them. But the thought of the breakfast kept sneaking back in, softening the edges of your mood.

By late afternoon, you heard the sound of the lock turning.

Harry stepped in, hair a little messy from the wind, guitar case slung over his shoulder. He kicked his boots off near the door and set his case down without noticing you at first.

Your heart thudded. You wanted—needed—to say something.

“Hey,” you started, voice tentative. “About… last night.”

That caught his attention. He looked over, unreadable as ever, one hand still resting on the strap of his bag.

You twisted your fingers together. “I—I’m sorry if I was too loud. I didn’t mean to break your rules. I just… had a rough day.”

For a moment, you thought he was going to brush you off with a shrug and retreat to his room. Instead, he leaned against the wall, arms crossing over his chest.

“You don’t have to apologize for crying,” he said simply, his tone even.

Relief washed over you, but also a little courage. “Right. Okay. Um… thank you. For breakfast.”

His jaw worked for a second, like he wanted to deflect, but then his gaze flicked to yours. “Figured you probably didn’t eat last night. Don’t make it a big deal.”

You smiled despite yourself. “I won’t. Promise.”

For the first time, something like the shadow of a grin tugged at his mouth—small, fleeting, but real—before he pushed off the wall and grabbed his guitar case.

“Good,” he said, and disappeared into his room.

Still, the moment lingered. And for the first time since moving in, you felt like maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t entirely untouchable.

That evening, you were in the kitchen again, determined to bake something. The cupboards were still half-bare, but you had managed to grab flour, sugar, and a carton of eggs earlier. Cupcakes weren’t home, exactly, but they felt close enough.

You were whisking the batter when you felt that prickle at the back of your neck—the same one you always felt when he suddenly appeared without a sound.

“Do you always hum when you cook?” Harry asked.

You jumped, nearly spilling the bowl. “God—you’re like a ghost,” you muttered, clutching your chest before setting the whisk down.

His lips curved—just slightly. “Didn’t mean to sneak up.” He moved to the fridge, pulling out a bottle of water.

You eyed him as he twisted the cap. “I didn’t know you noticed things like that.”

“I notice a lot of things,” he replied evenly, though his eyes lingered on the bowl, the bright silicone spatula, the messy bit of flour on your shirt. “Cupcakes?”

You nodded, suddenly self-conscious. “Yeah. Thought it might make the place feel less… gray.”

Something flickered across his face, quick as lightning. “Not a bad idea,” he said, softer than you expected.

You blinked. “Do you… want one? When they’re done, I mean.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just took a sip of his water, watching you over the bottle’s rim. Then, after a beat:

“Maybe.”

And with that, he retreated back to the sofa, laptop in hand—but the word stuck with you. Maybe. It wasn’t much, but from him, it felt like a door cracking open just enough to let a sliver of light through.

The smell of vanilla and sugar soon filled the apartment, warm and inviting in a way the gray walls never managed to be. You pulled the tray from the oven, setting it on the counter, and carefully spread pale pink frosting across the tops.

You hesitated before carrying one over to the living room, your heart thumping faster than it should for a simple cupcake.

Harry was exactly where you’d left him, laptop balanced on his knees, fingers tapping lightly at the keys. His hair fell into his face until he pushed it back absently.

“Hey,” you said softly, holding out the plate. “They’re ready. You said maybe.”

His eyes flicked up, then down to the cupcake, then back to you. He didn’t move for a second, as though testing whether this was some kind of trick. Finally, he closed the laptop with a quiet click and set it aside.

You placed the plate in front of him, feeling a ridiculous rush of nerves as he picked it up. He turned it in his hand once, studying the frosting swirl, before taking a bite.

For the briefest moment, his expression shifted—just a flicker—but you caught it. His jaw relaxed, the corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile.

“It’s good,” he said, voice low.

Relief bubbled out of you in a laugh. “Thanks. I was afraid you were going to say you don’t eat sugar after nine p.m. or something.”

That earned you a look—sharp at first, then unexpectedly amused. He shook his head, taking another bite. “Not one of the rules.”

His eyes met yours then, and for the first time, he didn’t look away right after. The silence stretched, softer this time, before he returned to his cupcake like it was a shield.

Still, that sliver of light through the door grew just a little wider.

You lingered nearby as he finished the last bite, trying not to stare too openly but unable to help it.

“So…” you started, voice casual. Too casual. “Do you play often? The guitar?”

Harry’s eyes lifted to yours, unreadable. “Yeah.”

“Are you, um—like, in a band or something?” you pressed, tilting your head innocently.

For a second, you swore you saw his mouth twitch, not in amusement but in recognition. His gaze narrowed, sharp but quiet, like he could see straight through you.

“Funny question,” he said slowly, leaning back against the cushions. “Makes me wonder how you’d even think to ask it.”

Your stomach dipped. You tried for a shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Just… curious. Most people don’t have a guitar case lying around unless they use it.”

He studied you for a long moment, as though weighing the truth in your words. Then he leaned forward, setting the empty plate on the coffee table.

“Curiosity’s fine,” he murmured, his voice even but edged, “as long as it doesn’t cross into rule three or five.”

Your breath caught. You plastered on a smile, forcing your tone light. “Noted.”

But the way his eyes lingered, sharp and knowing, made your pulse thrum faster. For the first time, you wondered if he already suspected how much you wanted to know.

🍒

The days blurred into a quiet rhythm. You tiptoed around his rules, careful not to push too hard, and he—well, he started giving you more than one-word answers. Not a lot more, but enough to feel like cracks in his armor.

A muttered “Morning” when you crossed paths in the kitchen. A dry “That smells edible” when you burned your first attempt at pasta. Even the occasional question tossed your way, quick and casual, as if he regretted asking it immediately after.

Still, the apartment was missing something. It wasn’t just the silence—it was the sterility of it all, beige and gray swallowing every corner. So, one afternoon, you came home balancing a small terracotta pot in your hands, a tiny green plant with wide leaves that practically radiated cheer.

You set it on the coffee table in the living room and stepped back, smiling. “There,” you said to no one, brushing the dirt from your hands. “Instant upgrade.”

You didn’t hear him until his voice came from the hallway. “What’s that?”

You turned, caught in the act, but didn’t back down. “A plant. His name is Finn.”

Harry’s brow furrowed as he walked closer, hands in his pockets. He looked at the plant for a long moment, and you braced yourself for the inevitable rules lecture.

Instead, he crouched slightly, tilting his head as if assessing it. “It’s not fake?”

You blinked. “No. Real.”

His lips pressed together, and for the first time, you saw something like approval flicker across his face. “Looks… good.”

The words were quiet, almost reluctant, but they warmed you more than you wanted to admit.

You grinned. “So Finn can stay?”

He straightened up, glancing at you briefly before turning toward his room. “As long as you water him.”

It was a small thing, but to you, it felt monumental. Like he’d just admitted—without saying it—that maybe he didn’t mind sharing the space with you after all.

🍒

Friday night, the city buzzed with life around you, but you didn’t feel like part of it. You were just tired—bone-deep tired—from the week. When you reached the apartment building, though, your stomach sank.

Your tote was lighter than it should have been.

Keys.

You dug through the bag twice, then three times, even checked your pockets though you knew better. Nothing.

Your phone was in your hand, thumb hovering over his number. Rule seven screamed in your head—Always carry your keys. You could practically hear his voice reminding you. Calling him felt like confessing a crime.

So instead, you sat down against the door. I can wait a while. At first, it was just to think, to stall for a minute. But the hallway was quiet, and the cool wall behind you made your eyelids heavy. Hours blurred, and before long, exhaustion pulled you under.

The sound of steps jolted you awake. Your head shot up.

“Jesus Christ—Y/N” Harry’s voice cut sharp before it faltered. He crouched down, frowning as he took in the sight of you curled against the doorframe, your dress wrinkled, your face marked from leaning on your arm.

“What happened?” His voice was low, urgent in a way you hadn’t heard before.

“I—uh—” You rubbed your eyes, embarrassed heat rushing to your cheeks. “I forgot my keys. Didn’t want to bother you. With the… rule.”

For a second, he just stared at you, something tightening in his jaw. Then he shook his head, running a hand through his hair.

“In this scenario,” he said firmly, almost like he was scolding himself more than you, “it’s obviously okay to call me. You don’t sit out here all night.”

The guilt in his eyes was clear, even if his voice stayed even. He stood, reaching down to help you up. “You could’ve been freezing. Or worse.”

You took his hand, letting him pull you inside. “I didn’t want to break the rules,” you murmured

He exhaled, something like frustration threading through it. “Forget the rules right now, alright? I don’t…” He trailed off, jaw tight, shutting the door behind you. “I don’t want you waiting out there again.”

The words lingered between you, heavier than any rule taped to the fridge.

You hovered in the entryway, clutching your bag. He set his guitar case down with more force than necessary, then disappeared briefly into the kitchen. When he came back, he was holding a glass of water, which he pressed into your hands.

“Drink,” he said, softer this time.

You obeyed, the cool water easing the dryness in your throat. When you set the glass down, you caught him watching you, something unguarded flickering across his face before he looked away.

“You were out late,” you said, trying for lightness. “Gig?”

He gave a short nod, toeing off his boots. “Yeah.” He paused, glancing at you again. “Went alright.”

It wasn’t much, but it was the first piece of his life he’d willingly offered. And after the night you’d had—sitting on the floor outside your own home, waiting, doubting—you clung to it.

“Good,” you whispered, the corner of your mouth tugging up.

For once, he didn’t retreat straight to his room. He lingered a moment longer, then jerked his chin toward the hallway. “Get some sleep. You look wrecked.”

And though the words were blunt, there was no edge to them this time—only a strange, quiet concern that followed you all the way to your bedroom door.

The next morning, the smell of something warm and toasty pulled you out of sleep. Blinking at the clock, you realized it was barely eight. That alone was unusual—Harry was never up this early unless he had somewhere to be.

Padding into the kitchen, you found him again at the counter, sleeves pushed up, hair a little messy, sliding scrambled eggs onto two plates. A small stack of toast leaned precariously beside them, and the coffee machine gurgled as it finished its last cycle.

Your throat went tight, remembering last night—the door, the guilt in his eyes, how small you must have looked curled up outside.

“Morning,” you whispered.

He glanced over, jaw flexing like always, then nodded once. “Sit.”

You did, suppressing the smile tugging at your lips as he placed a plate in front of you. He didn’t linger, didn’t hover. Just poured himself coffee and sat across from you, silent but present. It was more than enough.

And then you noticed it—tucked under your plate, almost like a placemat. A sheet of lined paper. The familiar scrawl made your stomach flip.

The Rules (modified):

Don’t go into my room.

Don’t touch my stuff.

No loud calls after ten. (exception: emergencies, yes crying is an emergency.)

If you forget your keys, call me.

Your eyes flicked up, and he was already watching you. Not glaring, not scolding—just watching, a little stiff, like he wasn’t sure how you’d react.

You traced the paper with your fingertip, lips curving despite yourself. “So… exceptions exist.”

He grunted, stabbing at his eggs with his fork. “Yes.”

You bit back the flood of gratitude rising in your chest, choosing instead to take another bite of toast like it was the most casual thing in the world. But your heart was racing.

Because for the first time since moving in, the rules weren’t just walls. They were… bending.

And that, you decided, was your biggest victory yet.

🍒

You smoothed the hem of your new dress in front of the hallway mirror, it was a pale yellow dress that looked like it had been plucked straight from a fairytale. The fabric was light and airy, layers of sheer tulle falling gracefully into a full, mid-calf skirt that swayed with every step. Tiny dotted patterns scattered across the material caught the light, adding a subtle shimmer. The bodice was fitted like a corset with sweetheart cups that framed your neckline and delicate ribbon ties rested on your shoulders.

Exactly what you needed for today’s audition.

Behind you, you heard footsteps. Harry’s, slow and even, padding down the hall toward the kitchen.

You turned, smile blooming nervously. “Hey—um. Do I look okay?”

He stopped dead a few feet away. For a beat, he didn’t say anything, just let his eyes flick over you once—quick, but not quick enough. His jaw flexed, like he had to physically lock something back down.

Then, before he could stop himself, the words slipped out. “You look like the sunshine.”

The heat that rushed to your cheeks was instant, impossible to hide. “Sunshine?” you repeated, the smile tugging at your lips betraying how flattered you were.

He blinked, as though realizing what he’d said. His mouth tightened, and he cleared his throat. “I meant… bright. Loud, even. Hard to miss.”

But his ears were pink, and you could tell he was scrambling for cover.

You tilted your head, biting your lip to stop your grin from growing. “I’ll take sunshine,” you said softly, brushing past him toward the door.

And though he didn’t answer, you caught the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth before he ducked his head.

Later the door swung open with a dramatic push, and you all but burst into the apartment. Your tote bag nearly slipped off your shoulder as you stumbled in, laughing breathlessly.

“I got it!” you squealed, tossing the bag on the couch. “I actually got the part!”

Your whole body seemed to glow, the yellow dress still fluttering around your knees as you spun once in the middle of the living room, too thrilled to care if you looked silly.

Harry had been stretched across the sofa with his laptop, but at the sound of your voice he froze, watching as you beamed at nothing and everything all at once.

He’d seen you smile plenty of times, but not like this. This was blinding, unrestrained, pure joy radiating out of you until it filled the room. It made something sharp twist in his chest.

Because, if he was honest with himself, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt anything like that.

Still, he found himself staring, jaw slack, as the corners of his own mouth tugged upward without permission. It was… contagious. Your happiness. And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t just want to observe it from the safety of his own silence.

He wanted—just for once—to share it with you.

“You got the part?” he asked

You stopped twirling, eyes wide with delight, and nodded so hard your hair bounced. “I got it, Harry! They actually picked me!”

He set the laptop aside, shifting forward on the couch. A strange, cautious warmth pressed against his ribs, a feeling that made him nervous to name. But still, he let himself smile, small but real. “Then I guess… congratulations.”

Your laughter bubbled again, brighter than before, and he thought maybe—just maybe—he could get used to this sound filling the apartment.

You spent the next hour pacing around your room, phone pressed to your ear as you called everyone you loved. Your mom. Your dad. Each one of your siblings. Your best friend. The words I got it! echoed again and again, your voice bright, bubbling, unstoppable.

Through the thin apartment walls, Harry could hear it all—your laughter, your excited footsteps, the rise and fall of your joy spilling into every call. And even though he tried to keep his focus his lips betrayed him, tugging upward into a quiet smile.

It stirred something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Not jealousy—no, he didn’t begrudge you your happiness. It was more like a tug, an ache he couldn’t name. The way you trusted so openly, the way you shared so freely, like happiness was meant to be scattered around without fear it might run out.

He set the laptop down, running a hand over his jaw. Maybe… maybe he should do something.

His mind immediately began spinning. Should I buy a bottle of champagne? No—too posh, too over the top. Dinner, maybe? Invite her somewhere nice? What? No, that would feel like a date, and he wasn’t—this wasn’t—

He groaned, scrubbing his hand through his hair. Maybe I should just cook? Something simple? But then he pictured himself fumbling around the kitchen and her bright eyes watching him, and his pulse spiked. No, no.

Beers? he thought desperately. That was safer. Neutral. But even that felt too forced.

Then it hit him. Of course. The gig.

She could come, watch the band, have a fun night, soak up the music, the atmosphere. It wasn’t a date, not really—it was casual, public, easy. And maybe, just maybe, it would let him share a piece of himself without having to strip down all his walls.

The idea settled into him and he sat there, rehearsing the words in his head like he was preparing for battle: You should come tonight. It’s just a small set. No big deal.

Casual. Harmless. Nothing more.

So why did his heart pound as if it meant everything?

You ended the last call with your best friend, still smiling so wide your cheeks ached. Your phone slipped onto the bed beside you as you leaned back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, replaying every little detail of the day in your head.

A soft knock on your door startled you. Not much of a knock, really—more like the back of a knuckle brushing against wood.

“Yeah?” you called, sitting up.

The door cracked open, and Harry leaned against the frame, arms crossed like he hadn’t been pacing in the hallway for the past three minutes working up the nerve. His voice was calm, casual—at least, that’s what he was aiming for.

“Big day, huh?” he said.

You grinned at him, still unable to contain yourself. “Huge. I can’t believe it, Harry. I thought they hated me, and then—” You stopped yourself before launching into another retelling. “Sorry. I’ve been talking everyone’s ears off.”

His lips twitched. “Could hear that.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, but he didn’t sound annoyed—just… aware. Observing.

Then, after a pause, he shifted his weight and spoke quickly, like ripping off a bandage. “Listen, uh. I’ve got a gig tonight. Just a small set, nothing major. Thought you might wanna come.”

Your brows shot up. Of all the things you thought he might say, that wasn’t on the list. “A gig?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged, gaze darting past you to the corner of the room, like he couldn’t quite hold eye contact. “Bar downtown. We start around ten. You don’t have to—it’s just…” He trailed off, clearing his throat. “Figured it’s a way to celebrate?”

The way he said it—so offhand, like it didn’t matter either way—didn’t quite cover the faint pink climbing his ears.

You bit your lip to keep from smiling too much. “You’re inviting me.”

“I’m… mentioning an option,” he corrected, deadpan, though his jaw worked a little like he regretted opening his mouth at all.

Still, you could feel the smallest crack in his armor, and it warmed you all over. “Well,” you said lightly, “then I guess I’ll take the option.”

His shoulders relaxed just the faintest bit. “Cool. I’ll… we leave at 8.”

And with that, he nodded once, retreating back down the hall before you could see the tiny, nervous smirk tugging at his lips.

🍒

The bar was dim, alive with the low hum of chatter and the clink of glasses. A string of colored lights zigzagged above the small stage, casting everything in a warm, intimate glow.

Harry walked in beside you, his hands shoved into the pockets of his black jacket, shoulders tight like he already regretted bringing you. You, on the other hand, practically bounced on your heels, your yellow dress a burst of light in the low-lit room.

As soon as you reached the stage area, a couple of guys looked up from tuning their instruments.

“Harry!” one of them called, grin spreading wide. He had curly hair pulled back into a bun and sticks tucked under one arm—clearly the drummer.

Harry gave a nod. “This is—” He hesitated for half a second before gesturing toward you. “My… roommate.”

You stepped forward with your brightest smile, offering a hand. “Hi! It’s so nice to meet you.”

The bassist, tall and lanky with glasses slipping down his nose, chuckled as he shook your hand. “Roommate, huh? You don’t look like the type Harry would put up with.”

“Hey,” Harry muttered, shooting him a look.

But you just laughed, the sound light and unbothered. “Guess I’m lucky then.”

After a round of quick introductions, Harry mumbled something about needing to check the set list and drifted toward the back of the stage, leaving you to find a spot. You chose a small table off to the side where you could see clearly, resting your chin in your hand, still smiling like the whole night was already magic.

Back on stage, as they plugged in cables and adjusted mics, the bandmates couldn’t resist.

“So,” the drummer said under his breath, nudging Harry with his stick. “Who’s the sunshine?”

Harry’s brows drew together. “What?”

“The girl,” the bassist chimed in, jerking his chin toward you. “She’s, like… a flower come to life. All bright and smiley. Total opposite of you.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “She’s just my roommate.”

“Uh-huh.” The drummer smirked. “Funny how your roommate shows up looking like she wandered out of a fairy tale.”

Harry busied himself with tuning his guitar, but his ears burned.

“She’s sweet,” the bassist added, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Smiled at me like I’d just handed her a winning lottery ticket. Can’t remember the last time someone looked that happy to be here.” He shot Harry a teasing grin. “No wonder you brought her.”

Harry’s head snapped up. “I didn’t bring—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “She wanted to come.”

“Sure,” the drummer said, smirking. “Just a coincidence the grumpiest guy we know suddenly has sunshine tagging along.”

The bassist chuckled. “Honestly, I like it. It’s like yin and yang. You, all broody and dark, her, all light and joy. Balance, man. It works.”

Harry’s blush deepened as he muttered, “You two sound ridiculous,” but his fingers fumbled on the strings, betraying him.

Meanwhile, you sat at your little table, completely unaware, still smiling as you waved when you caught Harry glancing your way. He quickly looked back down, but not before the drummer elbowed him again with a knowing grin.

When the lights dimmed, a ripple of excitement spread through the bar. The casual chatter quieted, replaced by the anticipation of music about to begin. You leaned forward in your chair, elbows braced on the table, eyes fixed on the stage.

Harry stood near the mic, guitar slung low across his chest, head bent as he adjusted the strap. Even under the glow of red and amber stage lights, he seemed the same as always—closed off, unreadable.

But then he strummed the first chord.

The sound filled the bar instantly—confident, rough around the edges, alive. His bandmates joined in, the rhythm locking tight, and suddenly Harry wasn’t your grumpy, rule-obsessed roommate anymore. He was something else entirely.

The lines of his face sharpened in the lights, his jaw tight with focus, his eyes half-closed as if he was lost somewhere only the music could take him. He leaned into the mic, voice spilling out low and raw, pulling every head in the bar toward him.

You sat frozen, goosebumps prickling up your arms.

He didn’t just play the guitar—he commanded it, every strum a piece of him let loose into the room. It was loud and unapologetic and yet so clearly his truth. For the first time, you understood why the rules, the silence, the walls—maybe he needed them just to contain this.

Your lips parted as you watched, unable to stop the slow smile spreading across your face.

And when his eyes flicked up for the briefest second, scanning the room, they landed on you. Just for a heartbeat.

Your smile widened, a little breath catching in your throat.

Harry’s fingers faltered for the tiniest moment, a split-second stutter in the strings, before he caught himself and pushed harder into the chorus, jaw flexing like nothing had happened.

But you saw it. And he knew you saw it.

By the time the song ended, the bar erupted in applause, whistles and cheers bouncing off the walls. You clapped so hard your palms stung, still beaming up at him like he’d just revealed a secret side of himself meant only for you.

And maybe, deep down, that’s exactly what it felt like.

The walk back to the apartment is quiet at first, though not uncomfortably so. The night air is cool against your skin, humming with the distant buzz of traffic and the echo of laughter spilling from nearby bars. You walk beside Harry with your usual bounce, coat wrapped tightly around your shoulders, a smile that hasn’t dimmed since the very first song he played.

Harry keeps his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, head ducked, curls clinging damply to his forehead. He looks tired in that flushed, post-gig way, but there’s something warm in the corner of his mouth, like even if he doesn’t admit it, he’s still buzzing too.

“You were amazing,” you blurt suddenly, unable to keep it in any longer.

He glances at you sideways, caught off guard. “Mm?”

“Like—Harry, seriously. Amazing. I don’t even know how you didn’t tell me you play like that! You just—” you wave your hands, as though words aren’t enough to capture what you feel. “Your voice! And the guitar, oh my God. And the way everyone just… followed you, like you were the center of everything. You don’t even realize, do you?”

His steps falter, just barely. Compliments usually skim off him, deflected with a shrug or a joke, but you aren’t teasing. You’re looking at him like he hung the stars, and it makes him visibly uncomfortable. He shrugs, tugging at his sleeve.

“It was fine.”

“Fine?” you gasp, scandalized. “Harry, it was so much more than fine! You were brilliant. I wish you could’ve seen yourself—actually, no, I wish you could’ve seen yourself through my eyes. The way your face changed when you sang? And when you did that solo? Everyone was staring at you.”

Harry’s chest tightens. Too much. Your happiness, your belief in him—it’s warm and suffocating all at once. By the time you both climb the stairs and step into the apartment, he looks like he’s carrying a weight only he can feel.

You kick your shoes off by the door, still glowing. “Harry, I swear, you’re gonna be huge one day. Not just local gigs, not just little bars. Bigger. People need to hear you. They have to.”

“Stop,” he mutters, moving toward his room.

You blink, mid-sentence. “Stop what?”

“Just—stop.” He doesn’t look at you, his hand already on the door. His voice comes out harsher than he means, rough with nerves. “You don’t need to say all that.”

The silence after that cuts deeper than anything.

You stand there, frozen in the middle of the living room, arms still lifted in a gesture that now feels awkward. The smile slips right off your face. “Oh,” you whisper, small and stung.

He disappears into his room, the door shutting firmly behind him. Not a slam, but solid enough that it feels like a line.

You stay rooted where you are, heat rising in your cheeks. Embarrassment washes over you in waves. Maybe you’d overdone it, maybe all that excitement spilling out of you was too much. You’ve been careful, trying not to overwhelm him, trying to respect the way he pulls back. And here you went, dumping everything on him in one breath.

You sit on the couch, hugging your knees. The silence presses heavy, but after a moment you remind yourself—this isn’t cruelty. He wasn’t trying to hurt you. This is Harry, retreating into himself, unsteady under the weight of kindness. It’s not about you being wrong. It’s about him not knowing how to hold it.

Through the wall, you think you can hear the faint creak of his mattress as he sits.

Inside his room, Harry is dragging his hands down his face, cursing himself. Every word you’d said replays in his head—brilliant, amazing, bigger than this. And he can’t believe any of it. Can’t let himself. But the way you’d said it, like it was the truest thing in the world, burrowed under his skin. He shuts his eyes, listening.

Your voice carries faintly through the wall, muffled but clear. You’ve picked up your phone, calling someone—maybe your sister again, maybe a friend. He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but your laugh filters through, bright and unguarded.

“I’m just… so proud of him,” you’re saying. “You should’ve seen him tonight. He was everything. I’ve never seen someone glow like that before. And he doesn’t even realize. He doesn’t see it at all. But I do.”

Harry’s chest aches. He presses a hand against it, as though that will keep the feeling at bay, but it doesn’t.

Because even after he pushed you away, even after he shut the door, you’re still out there believing in him—louder than he can ever believe in himself.

And for the first time in a long, long time, he finds himself smiling in the dark. Not a smirk, not a mask. A real smile. Small, fragile, but real.

Maybe, he thinks, it wouldn’t be so terrible to share in some of that happiness you carry so easily.

🍒

The morning light filters into the kitchen when you shuffle in, still in socks, hair messy from sleep. The apartment feels unusually still, like it’s holding its breath after what happened last night. You hesitate for a second before stepping farther in, half-expecting to find Harry already gone like most mornings.

But he’s there.

Sitting at the table, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other tapping lightly against the wood. His guitar leans against the wall nearby, and there’s a plate of toast and eggs on the counter—your plate, you realize.

His head lifts when he hears you. His eyes meet yours, green and sharp in the early light, but softer than usual. Almost uncertain.

“Morning,” you say carefully, testing the air.

“Morning,” he echoes, voice rough from sleep or nerves—you can’t tell which.

You walk over, fingers brushing the edge of the counter as you pick up the plate. For a moment, you wonder if you should just sit in silence, let it all fade. But then you notice the way he’s watching you, like he’s waiting for something—like he’s the one holding his breath now.

So you smile. “Thanks for breakfast.”

He clears his throat, gaze dropping to his mug. “’S nothing.”

You sit across from him, plate between you, and the silence stretches again. Only this time it’s not awkward—it’s heavy, expectant. You can feel him wrestling with words.

Finally, he exhales and leans back, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “About last night…”

You look up. His jaw flexes, like he’s bracing himself.

“I didn’t mean to—shut you down like that,” he says slowly, carefully. “I’m… not used to it. People saying things like that about me. About the band. I don’t… I don’t know how to take it.”

Your chest softens instantly. The words aren’t smooth, not polished, but they’re honest. Maybe the first honest thing he’s given you since you moved in.

“I know,” you say gently, setting your fork down. “I figured it wasn’t about me. I didn’t take it that way.”

His eyes flick up at that, sharp and searching, like he’s checking if you’re telling the truth.

You nod, holding his gaze. “You don’t have to explain or make excuses, Harry. I meant what I said, but you don’t have to believe me yet. You will, someday. For now, just—don’t worry about it.”

Something flickers across his face then—relief, disbelief, something warmer underneath. His lips twitch, almost like a smile, though he presses them together quickly, hiding it.

“You’re not mad?”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Mad? No. Embarrassed maybe, for rambling so much, but never mad. Not at you.”

His shoulders drop a fraction, like a weight has eased off. He looks at you differently now—not just the noisy, sunny roommate he can’t keep up with, but someone patient enough to see through the walls he’s built.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The sunlight spills across the table, catching in his hair, warming the quiet between you. And then, almost too quietly to catch, he says:

“You’re… easier to be around than I thought.”

Your heart skips, but you don’t let your smile falter. You just reach for your toast, keeping your tone light. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me so far.”

He huffs through his nose, shaking his head, but then it happens—an actual laugh. Low, short, almost like he didn’t mean for it to escape.

You freeze mid-bite, eyes widening. “Wait.” You set the toast down carefully, pointing at him with exaggerated seriousness. “Was that a laugh? Did I just make you laugh?”

Harry smirks, trying to bury it behind his mug, but you catch the way his shoulders shake slightly.

“Oh my god, it was a laugh!” you say, grinning so wide it hurts. “I should write this down. Mark the date and time.”

He groans, rubbing a hand over his face, but you swear there’s still the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

“You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, but it’s softer than usual—lighter, almost fond.

And you can’t stop staring at him, at how different he looks in that moment, not weighed down by walls or silence. For the first time since moving in, you feel like you’ve just caught a glimpse of the Harry that lives underneath the rules, the stern looks, the quiet.

And it makes you want to see it again.

That night, the apartment was unusually calm. You sat curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, scrolling half-distractedly through your phone while the glow of the TV played in the background. Harry walked in from his room, hair still damp from a shower, and for a moment he just stood there, hovering like he wasn’t sure whether to stay or retreat.

Then, quietly, he asked, “So… the audition?”

Your head snapped up, eyes wide. You hadn’t expected him to bring it up. Not him.

“It—” your voice cracked on the first word, and you laughed nervously, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “It actually went really well.”

Harry tilted his head, watching you closely, waiting for you to go on.

“They said I had something different, that I wasn’t like the others. I swear I thought I’d bombed it, but then—then they called me back in and said they wanted me for the part. I couldn’t believe it!”

You were grinning so hard your cheeks ached, your words spilling out like water bursting through a dam. You told him every detail—the waiting room, the nerves, the moment they said your name.

And Harry… he listened.

Not with that half-distracted air he usually carried, not with the distant coolness you’d grown used to. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes fixed on you as though your joy was something rare, something worth holding on to.

When you finally stopped for breath, cheeks flushed, he gave the smallest nod. “Knew they’d see it.”

Your smile faltered just a little. “You… what?”

Harry shrugged, but his lips tugged in a tiny almost-smile. “Knew they’d pick you. You light up when you talk about it—it’s hard not to notice.”

Your chest tightened at his words, unexpected warmth rising in your throat.

And then, as if he realized he’d said too much, he cleared his throat and straightened. “If you need help practicing… lines or whatever—you can… ask me.”

You blinked at him, stunned. “You’d actually do that?”

His eyes flicked away, a faint pink brushing his cheeks. “Don’t expect me to be good at it. But yeah. I’d help.”

For a long moment, you just stared at him, smiling so wide it was almost ridiculous. “Harry Styles, volunteering to rehearse lines with me. I should definitely mark the date and time for this too.”

He let out another one of those quick, reluctant laughs, shaking his head as he muttered, “You’re impossible.”

But you noticed the way his eyes lingered on you, softer now, like he was secretly glad you were.

🍒

The first time, it was the rain.

You hadn’t realized the sky had cracked open until you were already halfway back from the store, juggling two bags of groceries and drenched head to toe. By the time you stumbled into the apartment, your hair was plastered to your cheeks, sundress clinging uncomfortably to your skin.

Harry appeared from the hallway almost instantly, eyes widening. “Bloody hell—” He grabbed a towel from the closet and pressed it into your hands before you could even drip onto the rug.

“Take a shower. Now,” he said firmly, another towel already tossed over your shoulders. “You’ll catch a cold if you stay like that.”

You blinked up at him, water dripping from your lashes, lips curving into a small, surprised smile. “You sound like my grandma.”

“Don’t argue,” he muttered, turning toward the kitchen. “Go. I’ll make you tea.”

And you did—heart thudding at the thought of him in there, waiting with a steaming mug when you came back warm and dry.

The second time, it was the couch

You’d meant to just rest your eyes for a second, the script still open on your lap as you curled up on the couch. But when Harry came back into the living room, he found you fast asleep, cheek smushed against the cushion, soft breaths evening out.

For a long moment, he just stood there, frozen.

Then, carefully, quietly, he slipped into your room and returned with your blanket. He shook it out once, then draped it gently over you, making sure it tucked around your shoulders.

You stirred, shifting slightly under the sudden warmth, but didn’t wake.

Harry lingered only a second longer, watching the way your lips parted in sleep, the faint crease between your brows softening as you relaxed deeper. Then he turned off the lamp, leaving just the glow of the hallway light behind, and disappeared back to his room.

You didn’t know why you woke up the next morning with your blanket around you. But you smiled when you did.

🍒

The door rattles open and you glance up from the couch just in time to see Harry come in, shoulders hunched from the late evening chill, arms weighed down with two grocery bags. His curls are damp at the edges, a sure sign he walked the last blocks in a fine drizzle, and there’s something about the way he kicks the door shut behind him, exhaling like the weight of the day is still clinging to him, that makes you smile.

“Let me help” you say, standing and automatically moving toward him.

He shrugs, setting one of the bags on the counter with a heavy thud. “It’s fine” he says.

You reach for the other bag before he can protest, pulling out a carton of milk, a loaf of bread, a pack of pasta. “Still,” you say, lining them neatly on the counter. You shake your head at the way he always fusses with the smallest things, then reach deeper into the bag — and freeze.

Because tucked between his usual oat milk and black coffee beans, you find it. Your cereal. The one brand you always keep on the top shelf, half-hidden because it feels a little childish. And right after that, your favorite kind of chips. The exact flavor you’d torn through last week.

You turn, eyes widening, the box in your hand like evidence. “Harry,” you say, your voice pitched higher than you intend, “you bought my cereal.”

He glances over, expression unreadable, like maybe he hadn’t expected you to notice so soon. Then, with a casual roll of his shoulders, he says, “Saw you were running low.”

That’s it. No grin, no joke, no acknowledgment of what it means. Just a quiet, almost dismissive explanation, like he’d picked up a spare roll of paper towels.

But your chest tightens, because you know him well enough now to read between the lines. You know this man who insists he doesn’t care much about details but somehow notices when you’re down to your last coffee pod, who pretends he doesn’t listen yet recalls every small thing you mention. You know, and your heart beats faster because of it.

“You noticed?” you ask softly, unable to keep the excitement from lacing your words.

Harry exhales a laugh through his nose, reaching for the bread as if that might save him from answering. “Hard not to. You have a whole ritual with it every morning. Box was nearly empty yesterday.”

There’s a warmth in his tone he doesn’t seem aware of, a fondness tucked into the edges. You can’t stop staring at him, at the way his profile looks in the golden kitchen light, jaw tight like he’s holding something back.

You want to tease him — you want to say, Since when do you pay that much attention to me? — but the words stick in your throat, too fragile to risk. Instead you smile, wide and giddy, and tuck the cereal against your chest like a prize.

Harry finally looks at you then, eyes flicking to your grin, and for a fleeting second his calm mask falters. His lips twitch as though he might smile too, then he clears his throat, busying himself with lining cans in the cupboard.

But the air has shifted. You can feel it humming in the space between you, charged and bright.

“Thank you,” you say at last, voice softer than before.

He shrugs again, but slower this time, like the gesture costs him something. “Don’t mention it.”

And in that silence, something clicks in you.

This isn’t about groceries. It’s not about cereal or chips or keeping track of what’s running low. It’s about him seeing you. About the way he can’t help but take care of you, even if he doesn’t have the words for why.

And maybe it’s about you too — the way your pulse races, the way you’re suddenly warm all over at the thought that Harry notices, that Harry cares.

You bite your lip to keep from laughing, because the happiness bubbling inside feels too much, too obvious. But he hears it anyway, the little sound that escapes, and he glances back with raised brows.

“What’s funny?” he asks.

You shake your head quickly, grinning like you can’t stop. “Nothing.”

Harry studies you, long enough that you almost squirm under his gaze. Then, to your shock, his mouth curves into the smallest, softest smile. The kind you haven’t seen from him before. And it’s enough to make your breath catch, because you realize he isn’t annoyed, he isn’t brushing you off. He’s letting you see it — the quiet, hidden piece of him that wants to make you happy.

And standing there in your shared kitchen, surrounded by groceries and rain-damp air, you know: this is how it begins.

🍒

Harry stood frozen at the edge of the sidewalk, staring at the flower shop window like it had personally offended him. Bouquets of bright pink peonies and sunbursts of yellow tulips smiled back through the glass, an explosion of color against the gray street. He adjusted his leather jacket, jaw tight.

“This is ridiculous. I’m going.” He muttered it more to himself than anyone, already shifting his weight as if he could walk away from the whole idea.

Before he could move, Sam caught his arm, grip firm. “Nope. Not a chance.”

Harry turned, glaring at his best friend. Sam only raised a brow, smug. The two of them — tall, dressed in black, boots scuffed from late nights in dingy bars — looked wildly out of place lingering outside a flower shop. Like predators afraid of bouquets.

“You heard me,” Sam went on, nodding toward the cheerful window display. “She just finished her first big project. You need a way to say you care. To show her you’re proud. That you want to celebrate her.” His grin widened as Harry’s scowl deepened. “That you liiike he-e-er.” The last words came in a sing-song tone that made Harry want to sink into the pavement.

“Shut up,” Harry snapped, heat creeping up the back of his neck. “I don’t like her.”

Sam’s gaze flicked to Harry’s cheeks, now faintly pink. “Mm-hm,” he said, drawing the sound out like it was a verdict. “Sure you don’t.”

Harry jerked his arm free, but he didn’t move away. He looked back at the flower shop, heart thudding. Inside, a florist was rearranging a bucket of roses, humming to herself. It should have been simple: walk in, pick something, leave. But every single bunch looked like it might scream too much or not enough.

He rubbed a hand across his jaw. “What flowers do you even buy for… a literal flower?” The words slipped out, low and almost pained.

Sam burst out laughing, earning a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Oh, that’s rich. Man’s out here buying her favorite snacks one week and can’t figure out if daisies are too obvious.”

Harry shoved his hands into his pockets, muttering, “Forget it. She doesn’t even like this kind of thing.”

“Oh, she does,” Sam countered immediately. “She’s the type to light up over something thoughtful, doesn’t matter if it’s a fifty-dollar bouquet or one daisy wrapped in paper.”

Harry exhaled slowly, eyes flicking back to the flowers. He could already imagine your smile if he got it right — that warm, unstoppable kind that made his chest ache. And that was the problem.

Sam gave him a push toward the door. “Go on. Worst case, you leave with nothing but pollen on your jacket. Best case… she keeps smiling at you.”

Harry hesitated, but his hand found the shop’s door handle anyway.

The little bell over the door chimed as Harry stepped inside, shoulders tense like he’d walked into enemy territory instead of a flower shop. The air was thick with perfume — roses, lilies, carnations, all blending into something both sweet and overwhelming. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, scanning the room like he might find a sign that said For Sunshine, Buy These. Because of course he started to call her sunshine in his mind.

The florist, a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and pruning shears tucked in her apron, glanced up. “Looking for something special?”

Harry cleared his throat. “Uh… yeah. Something like that.” His voice came out rougher than intended.

Sam was already poking around the displays behind him, whistling, enjoying every second of Harry’s discomfort.

The florist tilted her head. “Anniversary? Birthday?”

Harry’s jaw flexed. He hated this. Hated how easily the question made his pulse spike. “No. Just… congratulations.”

“On what?” she asked pleasantly.

He hesitated. Saying her first big film went well out loud felt like exposing too much. Like admitting that he listened to you when you talked about your dreams, that he stored the details away. He shifted his weight. “Work thing.”

“Got it.” She smiled knowingly. “Something cheerful, then. Something that says I’m proud of you.”

She guided him toward a bucket of sunflowers, tall and golden, their faces practically glowing. Harry stopped dead, staring at them. Sunflowers. Too on the nose. Too obvious.

Sam sidled up beside him, grin wide. “Perfect. Literal sunshine for your sunshine.”

Harry gave him a look that could kill. “No.”

He turned away, landing on a bunch of white daisies. Simple. Fresh. Not too heavy with meaning. But then his eyes caught on a cluster of yellow tulips, soft and elegant, like bottled warmth. Then there were the roses — classic, romantic, dangerous.

“This is a nightmare,” he muttered under his breath.

The florist chuckled, watching him circle like a trapped animal. “What’s she like?”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“The person you’re buying for. What’s she like? That usually helps.”

For a moment, his throat went dry. What were you like? He could list a thousand things, all of them lodged in his chest. You were bright. Brave. You filled a room without even trying. You had this way of making silence feel less heavy. You made him laugh when he thought he couldn’t anymore.

“She’s…” He swallowed hard. “She’s a lot. In a good way.”

The florist’s smile deepened. “Then you need something that won’t be swallowed by her light. Something that will stand beside it.”

Her hand landed on a bunch of mixed wildflowers — yellows, whites, soft pinks, all tangled together like summer in a bouquet. Not too polished, not too formal. Just… alive.

Harry stared at them. They weren’t overwhelming. They weren’t cliché. They looked like something you’d actually put in a jar on the kitchen counter and smile at every morning.

Sam leaned close, whispering, “If you don’t get those, I will.”

Harry sighed, shoving a hand through his hair. “Fine.”

When the florist wrapped the bouquet in brown paper, tying it off with twine, Harry’s stomach twisted. It felt like too much and not enough all at once. He paid quickly, muttering a thanks, and bolted out into the street before he could change his mind.

Sam followed, smirking. “You’re so gone for her, man.”

“Shut up,” Harry said again, but this time the words lacked bite. He held the flowers carefully in one hand, staring at them like they might reveal whether this was a mistake.

🍒

By the time Harry reached the apartment building, his palms were damp against the brown paper wrapping. The bouquet crinkled softly every time he adjusted his grip, and it drove him mad how fragile it felt in his hand — how fragile he felt, standing there with something so bright meant for you.

He stopped outside the door to 301, heart thudding in his ears. The hallway was quiet, save for the hum of the overhead lights. He shifted his weight from one boot to the other, jaw tight, the words he thought he’d say looping in his head and tangling every time.

Congrats. That sounds stupid. You deserve these. Too much. Saw these and thought of you. Christ, no. She’ll know. She’ll know.

Harry scrubbed a hand over his face, muttering under his breath. “It’s flowers, not a bloody marriage proposal.”

Still, his chest tightened every time he pictured your reaction. Would you laugh? Tease him? Smile that blinding smile and make him feel like he was standing in the sun without a way to shield himself?

He tried to rehearse it again. Hey, you did good. Proud of you. The words burned his tongue even in thought. Pride wasn’t something he knew how to hand out. Not even to himself.

He took a deep breath, staring at the door handle like it might bite him. He could still turn back. Leave the flowers on the kitchen counter, no note, no explanation. You’d find them and never know it took him ten minutes of pacing in the hallway to gather the courage.

But something in him — the same reckless thread that had pushed him onto stages, that had kept him from walking away the first time he saw your smile — held him there.

Harry tightened his grip on the bouquet, exhaled slowly, and muttered, “Alright. Just… don’t be a dick about it.”

Then, finally, he turned the key and stepped inside.

You were sitting cross-legged on the couch, laptop balanced on your knees, still buzzing from the last few texts your best friend had sent congratulating you. The front door clicked open, and you glanced up. Harry stepped in, shoulders hunched, leather jacket half-unzipped, a bouquet of wildflowers in his hand like it was a weapon he didn’t know how to wield.

Your eyes widened instantly. “Oh my god… are those—?”

He cleared his throat, eyes flicking everywhere but at you. “Heard the short film closed well and, uh, wanted to… congratulate you. To like—” He winced, adjusting his grip on the flowers. “Be proud. I mean—I am proud. Like… yeah.” His voice trailed off into a mumble.

Your heart soared so hard it nearly hurt. Harry. Harry, who never said more than a few clipped words if he could help it, was standing there in your living room, cheeks faintly pink, tripping over sentences just to tell you he was proud.

You practically flew off the couch, grabbing the flowers before he could change his mind. The brown paper crinkled under your fingers, and the colors of the wildflowers were so bright they looked stolen from a dream. “Harry! These are gorgeous!”

He scratched the back of his neck, lips twitching like he was fighting a smile. “They’re just… flowers.”

“No, no, they’re not just flowers,” you insisted, spinning once with the bouquet clutched to your chest. “They’re beautiful, and they’re thoughtful, and—” you stopped mid-sentence, breathless with excitement. “Can I hug you? Please let me!”

Harry froze. You saw the hesitation flicker across his face, like his brain was trying to process the request through a hundred filters of rules and walls and distance. But then his shoulders dropped just slightly, the fight leaving him.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, almost like he was giving permission to himself more than to you.

You didn’t wait a second longer. You wrapped your arms around him, burying your face against his chest, the flowers squished between you both. He smelled like rain and coffee and something distinctly him. For a moment, his arms hovered awkwardly at his sides, and then—slowly, cautiously—they came up to hold you back.

The hug lingered longer than you thought it would. You could feel his heartbeat against your cheek, steady but a little fast, and it made you smile even wider. When you finally pulled back, you kept bouncing on your toes, clutching the bouquet like it was the most precious thing anyone had ever given you.

“Harry, I love them so much. You don’t understand. No one’s ever given me flowers before, not like this. And you remembered about the short film! And you said you’re proud, oh my god—do you know how much that means? I swear my heart is going to explode right now. And we have to see the short film together!”

You were rambling, words spilling out faster than you could control, but you didn’t care. The happiness was too much to hold in, and you wanted him to feel all of it.

Harry’s ears were pink, his lips pressed into a thin line like he was trying desperately to keep them from twitching into a smile. “You’re… you’re making a big deal out of it,” he muttered, gaze darting to the floor.

“It is a big deal!” you insisted, hugging the bouquet tighter. “It’s huge. It’s—you’re huge, in like, the nicest way possible. Do you realize how sweet this is?”

He gave a tiny huff of breath, almost a laugh, and dragged a hand down his face. “Christ, you’re loud when you’re happy.”

But you caught it—the way his voice was softer, lighter than usual, like he wasn’t actually annoyed. His hand lingered on the back of his neck, nervous, but his eyes flicked to yours and didn’t look away as quickly as they usually did.

“Sorry,” you said through a grin you couldn’t tame. “I just can’t stop smiling. You’ve basically ruined me for the rest of the night. I’ll probably go to sleep smiling, thanks to you.”

That earned you another almost-laugh, the sound breaking past his defenses before he could stop it. It was small, quick, but it was there, and your chest lit up like fireworks.

You gasped dramatically. “Oh my god, was that a laugh? Did I just make Harry laugh AGAIN?”

“Don’t push it,” he warned, but there was no edge in his voice this time.

You held the bouquet up between you both, wiggling it slightly. “New rule,” you teased, your eyes bright. “You’re not allowed to say you’re not sweet. Evidence: right here.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but you didn’t miss the way his lips curled at the edges, traitorous and soft. And you thought, maybe, just maybe, you were starting to find the cracks in his walls.

You darted off to the kitchen to rummage for a vase, humming happily under your breath, the bouquet cradled like treasure. Harry stayed rooted where he stood, watching you move around with that unstoppable glow in your smile, and something inside him shifted so sharply he almost stumbled.

The walls he had spent years stacking brick by brick—rules, silence, distance—felt flimsy now, like paper left out in the rain. All because you had looked at him with that much joy over something as simple as a bunch of flowers.

He let out a low chuckle, surprising even himself. It wasn’t the short, bitter sound he usually made. It was lighter, easier. And in that moment, he realized there wasn’t a better feeling in the world than putting that smile on your face.

Harry leaned against the doorway, arms crossed loosely but no tension in his shoulders, watching you arrange the wildflowers into a vase far too small, your tongue sticking out a little in concentration. His lips twitched upward again, the warmth curling in his chest so foreign it almost scared him.

Bloody hell, he thought, shaking his head at himself, but he couldn’t look away.

And for the first time in years, Harry didn’t feel like hiding.

The flowers were still on the counter days later, their petals unfurling lazily toward the sun that spilled through the apartment windows. You made a habit of topping up the water every morning before rushing out to run errands, humming like you always did. Harry noticed. He noticed more than he cared to admit.

Because every time he passed the vase, he felt the faintest tug in his chest—like a reminder of how your eyes had lit up when he’d handed them over. He hadn’t meant it to mean anything, hadn’t thought through the weight of the gesture. But the memory of your grin lodged itself inside him, stubborn as ever.

Harry had never been good at lingering feelings. He was used to shutting doors before they creaked open, keeping people at arm’s length with clipped words and that hardened look that usually made strangers back away. But now, somehow, his sharp edges felt dulled around you. And worse—he didn’t hate it.

Then one day he found himself outside your audition building. He hadn’t planned it, not really. He had errands to run downtown, but when his phone buzzed with your quick text—Heading in now, wish me luck!—his feet had moved on their own.

He leaned against the brick wall across the street, cap tugged low, trying to look casual even though his stomach felt oddly tight. He wasn’t even sure what he was waiting for. Maybe to make sure you didn’t walk out looking defeated. Maybe just to… see.

And sure enough, twenty minutes later you appeared, clutching your bag, your shoulders slumped just slightly. Not devastated, just tired. He almost turned back—almost let you walk home without knowing he was there. But then you spotted him.

“Harry?” you asked, surprise lifting your voice.

He shrugged, forcing a lazy smirk. “Don’t look so shocked. I was nearby.”

Your eyes softened instantly, the tiredness draining as quickly as it had come. “You came.”

“Don’t make a big deal of it.” But it was a big deal, and you knew it. The smile you gave him in return—it was softer than the one you wore when you were excited, but just as powerful. Something in him unclenched again.

It started happening in small ways after that.

He brewed an extra cup of tea in the mornings, leaving it on the counter beside your travel mug without a word. You always noticed. He began timing his grocery runs around yours, carrying the heavier bags without you asking. When you protested, he muttered something about how your arms were too scrawny for the weight, but his grin betrayed him.

Even his silences changed. Before, they had been sharp, pointed, a barrier between him and the world. Now they were softer. Sometimes he lingered in the kitchen while you cooked, leaning against the counter, just listening to you ramble about your day. He didn’t always answer, but his eyes stayed fixed on you in a way that made your cheeks burn.

And you noticed. Of course you did.

By the end of the week, the flowers on the counter had begun to wilt. Their petals curled, drooping against the glass. You went to toss them, but Harry stopped you.

“Leave ’em,” he said quietly.

You tilted your head. “They’re dying, Harry.”

His jaw flexed, like he was fighting with himself, then he let out a sigh. “Still pretty, though. Don’t need to get rid of ’em just yet.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the softness in his tone. Something unspoken passed between you, thick in the air.

The apartment felt quiet when you came home that night, the city noises muted behind the closed door. Your shoulders sagged with the weight of the day—another audition that hadn’t gone as planned, another reminder that the road ahead was harder than you’d imagined. You just wanted to collapse onto your bed and disappear under the covers.

But before you could even cross the threshold to your room, Harry appeared from the kitchen, eyes soft but sharp, like he could read every ounce of your fatigue and disappointment the moment you stepped inside.

“You’re home early,” he said, voice calm, but there was an edge of… concern? Anticipation? You couldn’t quite place it.

You barely managed a shrug. “Yeah… rough day.”

He tilted his head, that familiar furrow in his brow settling, and the corners of his lips twitched ever so slightly. “Sit down,” he said, almost a command. “I’m making dinner.”

You froze for a moment, unsure if you should protest, but the look in his eyes—something protective, insistent—made you sink into a chair at the counter. He moved around the kitchen with surprising ease, chopping vegetables, stirring sauces, setting the table. And all the while, your chest warmed at the way he seemed to… notice you, notice everything.

It wasn’t just dinner. It was the effort, the timing, the small attention to detail that made you feel like he wanted to take the day’s weight off your shoulders, even if he didn’t say it outright.

Finally, he plated the food with care, sliding a dish in front of you. “For sunshine,” he said, almost shyly, but with enough confidence that you felt it in your chest before your mind even processed it.

You blinked, a laugh escaping your lips before you could stop it. “Did you just?...”

He shifted, cheeks coloring faintly, but he didn’t address the nickname. Instead, he placed a plate in front of himself, muttering under his breath, “For me,” though his eyes kept flicking to yours, trying not to betray the fluster creeping across his face.

Your fingers itched to reach across the table and touch his hand, just to confirm he was real, and that he had called you that. You smiled so wide it felt like your cheeks would hurt later.

He rolled his eyes, pretending to check the pasta on his plate, though the corner of his mouth betrayed a tiny, victorious grin. “Don’t make it weird,” he murmured, voice low, but there was no sharpness in it this time.

Your heart thudded. Weird? That’s exactly what it was—but the best kind of weird. The kind that made your chest feel light, like you could laugh and cry and grin all at once.

You reached for your fork, but couldn’t resist sneaking a glance at him every few seconds, catching the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw flexed as if holding back words or feelings. You didn’t have to say anything—he’d made himself clear in the softest way possible.

And as you ate, you realized something: Weeks of slow, careful pacing had allowed this moment to exist, allowed him to start showing his feelings in the smallest, most intimate ways. You hadn’t pushed, hadn’t demanded, and in return, he was giving pieces of himself that no one else had ever gotten.

The two of you ate in quiet companionship, the kind that didn’t need constant chatter, the kind where glances and half-smiles said more than words could. You felt warmth in your chest, a smile tugging at your lips, because this—this effort, this subtle affection—was far more meaningful than any grand gesture.

When the last bite was gone, he finally looked up at you, eyes soft but alive. “You like it?” he asked quietly, almost as if asking for permission to care this much.

You nodded, heart swelling. “I love it. Thank you… for everything,” you said, voice catching slightly.

Harry’s lips twitched, and for the first time, you heard the sound of him laughing—a low, easy chuckle that felt like it belonged only to you. You blinked, surprised and elated, and that laughter wrapped around you, lifting away the tension of the day. 🍒

The nickname had started to settle into your days, quiet and teasing, but every time you saw it, your chest did that little flutter.

One afternoon, your phone buzzed while you were curled up on the couch reading. You picked it up and grinned.

Harry: “Sunshine, I’m at the Chinese place. Do you want spicy or not spicy?”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile didn’t leave your face. “Spicy please!” .

A few days later, you were doing laundry together in the cramped laundry room of the apartment building. You were folding your clothes into neat piles when Harry appeared behind you, holding a shirt in his hands.

“Sunshine,” he said, voice calm but eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “Is this shirt yours?”

You froze for a second, caught off guard. “Oh yes! unless you want to wear a pink shirt i can lend it to you” .

Over the next week, it became harder to keep track of how often he used it.

“Sunshine, can you grab some coffee with me later or do I need to bribe you?”

“Sunshine, your favorite yogurt is on the counter. Don’t eat it all in one sitting.”

.

You weren’t in the room, but Harry’s thoughts were tangled with you so tightly that even the familiar clatter of his bandmates backstage couldn’t shake it. He leaned against the counter, guitar case propped nearby, as Sam pulled up a stool beside him, arms crossed.

“You’re an idiot,” Sam said bluntly, shaking his head. “Seriously, Harry. Sunshine? Really? You’re calling her Sunshine and doing… what? Nothing?”

Harry snorted, but it came out tight, defensive. “It’s… not that simple.”

“Oh, come on,” Sam continued, leaning closer, voice dropping. “You’ve been staring at her like she’s the only person in the world since day one. You call her Sunshine, you text her like she’s the most important person in your life, and then you… don’t move. Don’t ask her out, don’t kiss her, don’t—”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, jaw tight. “I don’t know if she… I mean… I’m not sure she—”

Sam barked a short laugh, cutting him off. “She’s not going to push. She’s too smart for that. You’ve got a girl who’s clearly fallen for you without you even asking, and you’re just… sitting there, letting her wait. For what? For you to figure out how to be brave?”

“I—she doesn’t even know…” Harry muttered, then trailed off, shaking his head.

Sam slammed a hand on the counter. “She doesn’t know because you’re not acting like someone who wants to be with her! She’s giving you space, Harry, because she can read you. She’s not stupid—she knows you’re figuring yourself out. But that doesn’t mean she’s going to wait forever. And you? You’re losing your chance because you can’t admit you want her as much as she clearly wants you.”

Harry stared down at the counter, chest tight. “It’s not that I don’t want her. I… I just—”

“Just what?” Sam pressed, eyebrow raised. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

Harry let out a breath, the sound almost inaudible over the low hum of the bar. “I… maybe I am,” he admitted, voice low, almost a whisper. “But what if she… what if she deserves more than… me? What if I’m not ready?”

Sam laughed—harsh, incredulous, but full of exasperation. “Harry, she’s giving you everything she’s got without asking for anything in return. And you’re going to let your stupid fears get in the way of that? She’s already letting you in, Harry. She’s already letting you see her, trust her. And you’re over here pretending you’re not just as messed up as she is.”

Harry closed his eyes, jaw flexing. “It’s not just fear. I… I don’t want to screw it up. I’ve never—never let anyone in like this.”

Sam leaned back, hands on his hips, voice softer now but still firm. “Then stop overthinking. Be honest. Stop hiding behind your grumpy wall. She’s waiting, yeah, but she’s also not going to wait forever. You need to act. And right now, while she’s still smiling at your stupid little jokes and calling her ‘Sunshine’ without a clue that you’re a mess for her—you need to do something. Or you’ll regret it.”

Harry let out a long breath, leaning back against the counter. His mind was spinning, a mix of panic and longing. Do something. That simple phrase echoed, hitting him harder than he expected.

🍒

The bar was buzzing that night, louder than usual, packed with bodies swaying to the music and laughter spilling into every corner. You slipped inside, excitement practically vibrating through your chest. Even in the crowd, you found your usual spot in the first row, close enough to see the faint sheen of sweat on Harry’s forehead as he tuned his guitar.

Your heart was racing for more than just the music. You’d told yourself to keep it casual, just congratulating him, letting him know you were proud. But now, standing here in the thrumming energy of the crowd, you felt every nerve in your body tingle.

The lights dimmed, the chatter quieted, and Harry and his band launched into their first song. The sound hit you like a wave, the guitar warm and alive under his fingers, the drums steady and grounding. You sang along quietly under your breath, a little off-key, a little breathless, but entirely immersed.

Harry’s eyes caught yours during the second chorus. That flicker, that subtle acknowledgment, made your chest tighten. His lips quirked up in a small, almost shy smile—sweat glistening on his forehead, his hair sticking slightly to the side of his face—and it made your heart thump faster.

The songs flew by, each one tighter, sharper, more electric than the last. You cheered, clapped, and swayed with the crowd, but your focus never wavered. You were there for him, for the music, but also for the man behind it—the one who had somehow worked his way into the corners of your thoughts, the one who called you Sunshine in a way that made your stomach flip.

Finally, the set ended. The crowd roared, hands clapping, whistles and cheers echoing through the small bar. Harry’s chest heaved slightly as he nodded to the band, brushing his hair back and taking in the applause. And you—well, you couldn’t wait for him to come to you. Waiting felt unbearable.

So, without thinking too much, you ducked through the side door that led backstage, weaving between cables, guitar cases, and scattered sheets of music. The air smelled of sweat and wood polish, still warm from the energy of the show. And then you saw him.

He was leaning against a table, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, guitar strap slipping slightly off one shoulder, chest still rising and falling rapidly from adrenaline. You couldn’t help but grin, practically bouncing in place.

“Harry! That was—oh my gosh—you guys were amazing! Seriously, I’ve never seen anything like it—your energy, the sound, the—” You babbled, words tumbling over each other, cheeks flushed from excitement and heat.

He lifted his hand, gently but firmly holding it against your shoulder, stopping you mid-rant. “Whoa, hey,” he said, voice low but warm, eyes searching yours. “I—I heard you from the crowd… what are you doing here?”

You nodded vigorously, cheeks still burning. “I had to! I just—I had to tell you… You were incredible! The whole band, the new songs, everything! I can’t even—”

And then, almost before you could catch the breath in your chest, his hands found your face, quick but steady.

Your words froze in your throat as his lips clashed against yours, soft but urgent, shutting down everything you were about to say. You felt his heartbeat thump against your own, a rapid, uncontainable rhythm that made your chest ache in the best way possible.

It was over in seconds, but those seconds were infinite. When he finally pulled back slightly, forehead resting against yours, eyes dark and luminous, you could barely breathe. His hands lingered, fingers lightly tracing your jaw, and he exhaled, almost a sigh of relief.

“I couldn’t… I couldn’t wait anymore,” he muttered, voice hoarse but steady, eyes locked on yours. “You… you make me—everything else doesn’t matter when you’re here.”

You blinked, still catching your breath, and then the grin spread across your face, unstoppable. “You really mean that?” you whispered, voice trembling with joy and disbelief.

He nodded, leaning in again for a soft brush of lips, more tentative this time, like he was testing the water before diving in. “Every word,” he said, and you could feel the sincerity wrapping around you like a warm blanket.

You laughed softly, a sound of pure delight, and your fingers curled around his wrists, grounding yourself to him, to the moment. “I think… I think I’ve wanted this for forever,” you admitted, heart pounding in your chest. “Seeing you up there, doing what you love, and… and knowing I’m here with you—it’s too much happiness for one person.”

Harry’s grin was slow and deliberate, the kind that crumbled walls and set everything on fire at once. “Well… guess I’m selfish then,” he murmured, pressing another quick kiss to your forehead, “because I want all of it. You. Me. Right here. Right now.”

You felt yourself melt into him, laughing softly at his words, at his seriousness, at the way this moment, this utterly chaotic, perfect, heart-thumping moment, felt like it had always been meant to happen.

He pulled back just slightly, forehead resting against yours again, hands still cradling your face. “I don’t know how I kept quiet for so long,” he admitted, voice almost a whisper. “Seeing you… being here, cheering me on… it just—it made it impossible. You’re everything, Sunshine.”

You shivered, caught between disbelief and pure happiness, heart racing so fast it was almost painful. “I’m so glad… you didn’t,” you said softly, brushing your fingers against his jaw.

His laugh, that soft, almost nervous chuckle you’d come to adore, broke through. “Yeah,” he said, voice still trembling slightly, “because I… I think I’m in trouble now.”

You laughed too, breathless and giddy, pressing your lips to his once more, slower this time, savoring the sweetness and heat of it, letting yourself sink fully into the moment. The music from the stage faded behind you, the world outside blurred into insignificance.

Here, in this warm, sticky backstage room, amidst sweat and cables, the two of you existed entirely for each other. And for the first time, you both let go of every hesitation, every wall, every unspoken fear, surrendering to what had been building quietly between you for weeks.

When you finally pulled back, both of you breathing heavily, Harry rested his forehead against yours again, eyes soft but sparkling. “You’re really… something else, Sunshine,” he murmured, voice rough with emotion and amusement.

You grinned, heart soaring. “I could say the same about you,” you whispered. “But I think… I think I already know.”

And as he leaned in for one more kiss, just soft and lingering this time, you realized that nothing—no awkwardness, no grumpy walls, no slow-burn tension—had ever felt so perfectly, completely right.

The ride home was quiet, both of you lost in the aftermath of what had just happened, the city lights streaking past the windows like sparks against the dark. Your fingers brushed once, then again, and neither of you pulled away.

Once inside the apartment, the silence felt different—warmer, charged with something that wasn’t there before. You set your bag down by the door, glancing at him. He looked… vulnerable. A little unsure. That rough, grumpy facade softened into something else entirely, something open, something that made your chest flutter.

“Uh…” he started, scratching the back of his neck, gaze darting around like he was trying to find the words in the air. “So… uh… you—want something to drink? Or… or do you want—”

You tilted your head, noticing the hesitation. “I… uh… I’m okay,” you said softly, voice tentative, but there was a small smile on your lips. “You?”

He exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath. “Yeah. I’m… good,” he said, trying to sound casual, but the slight hitch in his tone betrayed him. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his shirt.

You could see it in the way he shifted from foot to foot, in the way his eyes kept flicking to your face. He wanted—needed—you to be close, but didn’t know how to bridge that gap between the living room and the sanctuary of his bedroom.

“I—uh…” He took a step forward, then stopped. “You… you can… um… if you want, you can sleep in my room tonight. Or… I mean…” His voice trailed off “If that’s okay. I… I just…”

You blinked, heart leaping at his words. “I’d like that,” you said softly, the excitement and warmth pooling in your chest making your words sound breathless.

His eyes widened just slightly, a mixture of relief and surprise. “Right. Okay. Yeah. Sure. Uh… come on then,” he said, stepping aside to gesture toward the hallway, hands still slightly trembling at his sides.

You walked beside him, careful not to step too fast, letting the quiet tension settle around you. The apartment felt different now—not just a space where you coexisted, but somewhere charged with new possibilities, charged with this strange, electric intimacy neither of you had dared to explore fully until now.

Once inside his room, you paused at the doorway, taking it all in. The soft lighting, the scattered music sheets, the guitar resting against the wall—it all felt like a glimpse into him, into the parts of Harry he rarely showed anyone. And now, here you were, allowed to be in it.

He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh… bed’s, uh… big enough. I… I mean, you can—”

You grinned, stepping in closer. “I know.” chuckling

He gave a short, almost nervous laugh, cheeks coloring faintly. “Yeah.” he muttered. “You… you make yourself comfortable. I… I’ll… uh… get ready.”

You watched as he shuffled toward his dresser, awkwardly fumbling with the sheets, avoiding your gaze, and you felt this strange, sweet tension settle between you. Neither of you wanted to make the first move too obvious, yet every small glance, every slight smile, every hesitant word carried meaning.

You slipped under the covers, hugging your knees, trying not to fidget too much, heart racing from both the adrenaline of the evening and the warmth of being this close to him. You could hear him moving, quietly, deliberately, preparing his side. Each creak of the floorboard, each soft shuffle made your chest flutter.

Finally, he settled beside you, a careful distance away, but close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him. The silence stretched, comfortable yet charged, until he finally whispered, voice low and careful, “You… okay?”

You nodded, smiling softly in the dim light. “Yeah. I’m… perfect,” you said. “With you.”

His lips curved into the tiniest grin, almost imperceptible, but it made your heart leap. He let out a small, almost relieved chuckle. “Good,” he murmured. “Because… I… yeah. Me too.”

You let out a quiet sigh, staring at the ceiling for a moment, then, before you could stop yourself, you burst out laughing. A full, uninhibited laugh that made Harry blink at you in surprise.

“You know,” you said between giggles, turning slightly to face him, “we’re acting completely ridiculous. Both of us. Here, lying like a couple of teenagers, and we’re… I don’t know…” You shrugged, still laughing, the tension in your chest finally breaking.

Harry’s jaw loosened, and a small, relieved chuckle escaped him. “Yeah…” he said softly, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You couldn’t help yourself—you scooted closer, brushing against him in a casual, playful way. “Ridiculous together,” you added, grinning.

For a second, he froze, as if weighing the consequences of what to do next. And then, with a quiet determination that surprised even you, he shifted closer, letting his arm snake around your waist, pulling you gently into his chest. His head tucked just under your chin, careful but firm, as if anchoring himself to you while still testing the waters.

“I… uh…” he mumbled against your hair, voice low and flustered, “I think I’m good here”

You laughed again, letting your fingers trace lazy patterns over his arm. “Looks like you’re just finally admitting you want to cuddle.”

His cheeks colored faintly, and he gave a small, sheepish laugh. “Maybe. Just… maybe,” he admitted.

You snuggled against him, letting the warmth of his body seep into yours. “Good,” you whispered, smiling against the curve of his shoulder. “Because I think this is exactly where we’re supposed to be.”

He chuckled, quiet but full of contentment, pulling you closer without a second thought. “Yeah… yeah, you’re right,” he echoed, the words soft but loaded with everything he hadn’t said yet—everything he was feeling but still figuring out how to name.

Now, neither of you felt the need to overthink, to hesitate, to pretend to be brave. You were simply here, together, letting the closeness, the warmth, and the quiet joy of being with each other speak louder than any words ever could.

Over the next few weeks, a rhythm began to settle between you. It started small—an arm brushing your waist as he settled in, a leg draping over yours almost absentmindedly. There was something comforting about letting him be needy, letting him rest his head against you like he had nowhere else in the world to be.

“Sunshine…” he’d murmur in the half-light, voice hoarse from just waking or from some unspoken longing. “Stay… just five more minutes.” And you’d laugh, letting him curl tighter against you, heart thudding in a way that left you dizzy with affection.

One night you’d had a long day, auditions that went nowhere, and you’d come home frustrated and exhausted. Harry was still at the bar, and you found yourself curling up under his blankets

When he came back, he paused in the doorway, watching you curled against his pillow, and a slow, genuine smile spread across his face. “You’re… making yourself at home, huh?” he teased softly, but the heat in his eyes told you he didn’t mean it as a joke.

You grinned sleepily. “It’s your fault for having such comfy sheets.”

He walked over, climbing onto the bed carefully, like he didn’t want to crush the tiny bubble of space you’d claimed. And then—without thinking, without hesitation—he curled up behind you, chest pressing lightly against your back, one arm thrown over your waist. “You… you smell like happiness,” he whispered, voice low and husky. “And… I like it.”

You giggled, squeezing his hand, heart fluttering at how unguarded he suddenly was. “You’re ridiculous,” you murmured.

He hummed, pressing his nose to the nape of your neck. “Yeah… but I’m yours,” he said softly, and you could feel the honesty in the words, the vulnerability that had been buried under weeks of grumpy, sarcastic walls. That night, he didn’t just take up space in your bed—he let you take up space in his heart, too.

Over time, these small habits became a flow. One night in your bed, one night in his. Sometimes he was clingy and needy; sometimes you were the one clinging, wrapping your arms around him while he hummed softly against your hair. The nickname “Sunshine” slipped into conversation naturally now, soft, teasing, and intimate.

One evening, after a long day where auditions had worn you thin, you found yourself on the sofa, sprawled out with a mug of tea, Harry settling beside you. You were laughing about some absurdity from the day, and his fingers found yours, entwining lazily. The warmth of his hand sent a shiver up your spine.

“I can’t believe you actually said that,” he murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.

You leaned in closer, and without warning, he kissed you. Soft at first, testing, like he was still measuring the line between comfort and desire. You responded instinctively, lips parting, fingers tangling in his hair.

The kiss deepened, growing more urgent, more insistent. Your body pressed against his, heat pooling in your chest, in your stomach, in ways that made your breath hitch. And then, as his hands moved, you hesitated—pulling back just slightly, heart thudding, eyes wide.

“Hey…” he murmured, still close, his forehead resting against yours. “What is it?”

You swallowed hard, cheeks flushing bright pink. “I… I’ve never… with anyone,” you admitted, voice trembling, embarrassed. “I… I don’t know…”

Harry’s eyes softened instantly, full of care and warmth, his hand cupping your cheek. “Hey, hey,” he said gently, brushing his thumb across your jaw. “It’s okay. I… I’m not here to rush you. Never.”

You breathed out, relief washing over you in a warm wave. “Really?”

“Really,” he said, voice steady but husky. “… I’ll want to make you feel good. In all ways. From now on.”

Your heart soared, and a shy, happy smile spread across your face. You nodded, pressing your lips to his in a gentle, lingering kiss, letting yourself trust him fully. He responded with a mixture of tenderness and desire, careful yet confident, guiding, attentive, letting you take the lead when you wanted, and holding you close when you needed it.

The heat built slowly, tenderly, as you explored the intimacy between you. His hands were gentle but purposeful, tracing lines along your body with a reverence that made you feel both safe and wanted. Every movement, every sigh, every whispered word from him was measured to comfort, to excite, to reassure.

By the time you finally pulled back, hearts racing and foreheads pressed together, the air around you felt electric. You laughed softly, breathless, and he mirrored you, chuckling low and warm.

“Sunshine…” he murmured, his voice thick with both amusement and desire. You smiled, curling against him, letting the weight of his arms hold you close.

“We can try,” you whispered, heart pounding.

“Only if you want,” he said softly, brushing his lips against yours.

“I want,” you replied, certainty in your voice.

That was all he needed. Slowly, deliberately, his hand slid up your shirt, moving with care and patience, waiting for your signal to go further. His lips never left yours, the kiss open, intimate, tongues beginning to meet in a gentle dance. When he felt your shoulders relax, he cupped your bra, squeezing just slightly, getting a small, breathy moan from you.

He smiled into the kiss, reading every reaction, every little sound, knowing you were not only enjoying this but trusting him completely.

“Have you… touched yourself before?” he murmured between breathy kisses, his other hand sliding your shirt upwards with deliberate gentleness.

“Yes,” you admitted, a little embarrassed, but you knew it was natural.

“Good,” he whispered, voice low and warm. “Tell me what you like, okay, Sunshine?” His lips trailed to your neck, pressing soft, teasing kisses, gently sucking without leaving marks… not yet.

“M’kay,” you breathed, your heart racing, your body tingling at the careful attention he gave you, the slow, patient way he explored, always making sure you felt safe and desired. Your shirt slid up easily, and he paused for a moment, taking in the sight of you in that delicate beige tulle bra. He could already see your nipples through the sheer fabric, perked and inviting, silently begging for attention.

He lifted his gaze to your face, just for a moment—cheeks flushed, strands of hair sticking to your forehead—every detail of you was breathtaking, a true work of art. His fingers twitched lightly, wanting to trace every curve, every line, but he held back, savoring the view, letting the tension build, knowing how much you were trusting him.

He leaned in again, lips brushing the sensitive skin just above your bra, breathing warm against you. His fingers hovered for a moment at the edge of the tulle, teasingly light, waiting for you to shift, to give him permission to go further. Every little sigh, every subtle arch of your body told him exactly what you wanted, and he followed, patient, attentive.

“Relax, Sunshine,” he whispered, voice low and husky, pressing a gentle kiss to your collarbone. “Just… let me take care of you.”

You shivered, leaning into him instinctively, trusting him completely. His hands moved carefully, tracing the curve of your waist, sliding beneath the sheer fabric of your bra. He cupped you lightly, fingers pressing just enough to make you gasp softly, and he smiled against your skin, savoring your reaction.

“You feel… amazing,” he murmured, thumbs brushing over your nipples. “So soft… so perfect.”

Your hands found his shoulders, fingers gripping lightly as you closed your eyes, letting yourself melt under his touch. There was no rush, no pressure—just him, you, and the quiet rhythm of your shared breaths.

He pulled back slightly, tilting your chin with a gentle finger, his eyes searching yours. “Tell me if it’s too much… or if you want more.”

“I… I like it,” you breathed, cheeks still flushed, voice soft but full of trust. “I like… this. You.”

His smile was slow, a mixture of pride, desire, and pure awe. "Good," he whispered, pressing another feather-light kiss to your lips. His fingers drifted to the hem of your biker shorts, his touch both a question and a promise as his hands slid slowly to the curve of your ass. "Can I take these off?"

"Yeah, but... can you take something off too?" you asked, the words feeling like a shy favor.

"Of course," he said, a soft apology in his tone. He pulled his shirt over his head with a smooth, easy motion. You had seen his naked torso before, his tattoos like a map across his skin, but in this moment, it felt so different—so vulnerable and real. With your eyes closed, your hands shyly found his abs, tracing the lines as if you were trying to memorize them.

When he tugged at your shorts, you pushed your hips up to give him easy access. The sight of you had him in a state of awe; a pair of beige tulle thongs were all that remained, their sheer fabric making his brain feel like mush. He could see the faint outline of your pussy lips and the darkening wet patch blooming against the material. He felt his own dick twitch inside his briefs, now fully hard, and unzipped his jeans to get them off and get comfortable.

You snuck a peek at him too, the hard shape of his cock so clearly defined in his briefs. A mix of nerves and desire swirled inside you, even as your own muscles clenched in anticipation.

"Has anyone tried to eat you out, sunshine?" he asked, his voice low.

"No," you whispered.

"Would you let me?" he asked, his voice breathy with need as he looked at that wet patch like a starving man. "Yes," you whispered, the word barely audible. A flicker of self-consciousness crossed your mind; you had shaved a few days ago, but a light stubble had already returned. He didn't seem to notice, and if he did, he didn't care. He simply knelt before you. You parted your legs on the sofa, and he began to press open-mouthed kisses against the thin fabric of your thong. His tongue found you, tasting your sweet juices through the sheer material. Your hands, seemingly on their own, found their way into his hair, gripping it softly. Your hips instinctively bucked just the slightest. The scene was gloriously messy, your slick wetness and his eager kisses, while his hand moved in a soft, steady caress along your thighs and waist.

"Harry..." you moaned, the sound catching in your throat. "Uh..."

A wave of sensation washed over you as he moved the thin, damp fabric to the side, his tongue making direct, intoxicating contact. You let out a soft cry, a sound that was half gasp, half moan. Your hips pushed downward, a small, involuntary push that he met with a low groan against your skin. The sound was so deep, so full of his own pleasure, that it made you feel powerful.

His hand left your thigh, sliding between your folds as a single finger circled your clitoris. You tangled your fingers deeper into his hair, holding on tight as the world began to shrink to just the feel of his mouth, his touch, and the consuming heat building deep within you.

He slurped, kissed, and lapped with his tongue, a low, satisfied sound rumbling in his throat. "Sunshine... your taste... is addictive," he managed to say, his voice thick and low. Hearing your next moan, he went faster with his tongue against your clit, your own moans growing louder in response.

"Harry," you cried, your eyes squeezed shut, feeling how incredibly close you were.

"It's okay... just do what you want," he breathed between his deep kisses. "You look so pretty from here, sunshine. A perfect pussy, all for me."

"Uh... fuck," you said, the raw word escaping you. Hearing you swear for the first time in that state stirred something new in him. And without warning, you felt it—that intense heat consuming your body. You came with a loud moan, a wave of pleasure washing through you. It was a dizzying surprise to look down and realize, in your blissful haze, that he had slipped two fingers inside you. His tongue was still on your clit, his fingers deep inside, and your body was clenching around him, a perfect, unspoken agreement.

He pushed himself up and leaned in, capturing your mouth in a soft kiss. You could taste yourself on him, a sweet and carnal flavor that only sent another jolt of desire through you. You were still coming down from the high, your body humming, your breath coming in deep, uneven gasps.

"You're perfect, sunshine," he murmured against your lips. "You look so good like this." He groaned the words into the kiss, pulling you closer. His right hand slid from your thigh to your hip, his thumb tracing the curve of your bone. The look in his eyes held a new promise—that this was just the beginning.

He kissed you, and with a hand still inside his briefs, he began to pump his dick. You noticed immediately, your gaze dropping to the visible movement.

"Teach me," you breathed, the words escaping you as you looked at the glistening tip peeking out. He pulled his head back, his eyes searching yours for a moment.

"You sure? We don't have to go all the way today," he said, his voice gentle but thick with desire.

"But I want to try," you insisted, the words a mix of curiosity and need.

"Fuck, sunshine," he moaned softly, a blend of surrender and excitement. Without another thought, he took your hand and placed it on his. His briefs were discarded, and now it was both of you, your hand guided by his, pumping his hard cock. The heat of him was a shock against your skin, a warm, pulsing weight that felt both foreign and thrillingly right.

He leaned in, his forehead pressed against yours. "Keep going," he groaned. "Just... like that. Your hands feel so fucking good."

The praise made you bolder. Your movements became more deliberate, your grip just a little tighter. He kissed you, messy and urgent, his free hand tangled in your hair. Your heart raced, the feeling of his skin on yours, the raw, unspoken want was overwhelming.

He pulled back with a small groan, his eyes dark and unfocused. He slowly brushed his cock through your slick folds, the sensation making you gasp. "Do you want to feel it raw first?" he said, his breath ragged. "Just the tip, and then I'll put a condom on."

"Yeah," you said, your insides clenching again.

"Fuck," he swore, his dick twitching. "You're gonna feel so good."

He pushed the head slowly inside of you and groaned low, feeling your walls tighten around him. A flicker of pain crossed your face, and he immediately kissed your jawline. "Talk to me. Does it hurt? I won't push further."

"No, it's good." He pushed in a little more, then stopped, waiting. "Okay," you said, and he pushed again, his own groan leaving his mouth.

"You're so fucking tight." Once he was halfway inside, you both stayed, getting used to each other.

"Harry," you breathed, your body adjusting to the new fullness.

"Does it hurt? Do you want me to stop?" he asked, a frown of concern on his face.

"No, I want to feel you inside, all the way," you said. His cock twitched at your words.

"I'll go for a condom. Don't move," he said. You moaned, a low, yearning sound as he slid out, the sudden emptiness making you ache. Your eyes dropped to his cock, glistening with both of your fluids.

"The sensation will be a bit dull," he warned. He came back, put the condom on, and pushed back inside you, a bit quicker this time, groaning as he felt the new sensation.

"Slow," you said, flinching slightly.

He did as told, and once he was all the way in, you were both panting, his breath hot against your ear. "Are you okay sunshine?" he asked.

"Yeah."

He began to move, the friction a delicious mix of pain and pleasure. Your hands gripped his back, scratching him lightly. "Shit, that feels good," he groaned.

"More," you pleaded, wanting him deeper.

"Fuck, sunshine," he moaned, moving faster. The sounds he made were the hottest thing you'd ever heard, and you let out your own soft "uhs" and "ahs" in his ear. The thought of being inside you was all he needed, and your small sounds pushed him to the edge.

"Harry..." you said, gripping his hair. "Fuck... I'm close again, I'm sorry."

"Don't you even dare... uh!... say sorry," he said, not hiding his own imminent climax. "Come whenever you need to."

"Ah... Harry," you moaned, and then he circled your clit with his thumb. Your legs began to shiver, and a loud moan of release escaped you.

Seeing your face, feeling your walls clench around him, he buckled his hips in sync with your spasms and came into the condom, hot cum filling it as he squeezed his eyes shut and held your waist tight.

You both breathed, your bodies still connected in a shared haze of heat and satisfaction. He pulled out slowly, taking a moment to compose himself. The raw passion was fading, replaced by a deep tenderness. He looked at you, his eyes still dark but now soft and gentle, and he reached out to gently push a stray hair from your forehead.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice low and a little rough, a stark contrast to the rough moans from moments before.

"Yeah," you said, a small, genuine smile gracing your lips. You were still humming with the aftereffects of the climax, a quiet thrumming of pleasure under your skin. "More than okay."

He looked down, his gaze traveling over your body before meeting your eyes again. "Did anything hurt? At all?" The concern in his face was so real, so disarming. It wasn’t a perfunctory question; he genuinely needed to know.

"A little at first," you admitted, the honesty feeling easy between you now, "but it was fine. You went slow, just like you said." You reached for his hand, giving it a soft squeeze. "You were so good, Harry. You took such good care of me. Thank you"

His expression softened completely, a hint of a smile touching his lips. He leaned in and kissed you, this time a slow, lingering kiss that tasted of you and of the profound intimacy you'd just shared. There was no urgency, just a deep, abiding affection in the touch of his lips, then he suddenly scooped you up into his arms, bridal style.

"Hey!" you said, a surprised laugh escaping you as your arms went around his neck.

He just looked at you, a soft, loving smile on his face. "You're coming with me"

He carried you through the apartment, your head resting against his shoulder, your body still weak with pleasure and now cradled in his strength. You could feel the warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart against your chest. He gently set you down on the edge of his bed, the plush comforter feeling soft beneath you. You watched him disappear into the bathroom, and the sound of water running soon filled the quiet space, and then came back with a damp towel, and softly wiped you, making sure it was gentle. “Come” he said placing the towel on the bedside table and offered you a hand, now in the bathroom the bath all filled and smelling a bit like peaches, he helped you inside and crouched on the side making sure you were comfortable in the warm water, looking, no, admiring your body. “feels good?” he said softly “Mmm yes” you said closing your eyes but then turned to look at him “Aren’t you getting in?” she asked

“I’ll go take a shower in yours and then i’ll fix you up some dinner” he said kissing your forehead “Thank you Sunshine” You blinked and looked again at him “for what?”

“For coming into my life and changing it…thanks for making it better, thanks for bringing sunshine into me” he said softly and kissed your hand.

TAGLIST @hermionelove @mads3502