#therapist!reader

She pulls her sweater tighter around her body. Her clients have been keeping their coats on during sessions for the past couple weeks as the weather has gotten cooler.

The clinic phone rings. She picks up.

“Hi, you’ve reached the Trauma & Wellness Centre.”

“Hi, Y/N. It’s Agatha. I’m calling to let you know I can’t make it for tomorrow’s session. I know I’m calling within the twenty-four-hour window, but it’s a family emergency. Do I still have to pay the late cancellation fee?”

Y/N could make her pay the late fee and probably should, considering how tight finances have been.

“No, Agatha. That’s okay. Thank you for calling and letting me know.”

After hanging up, she looks up at the ceiling and groans loudly. That’s the second client who has cancelled this week. Both of them are some of her only clients paying the full fee for her sessions because she offers a sliding scale, which most people end up using.

The phone starts ringing again. She squeezes her eyes shut, bracing herself for another cancellation.

“Trauma & Wellness Centre,” she says, hoping she doesn’t sound as miserable as she feels.

“Hi, Y/N,” is all the caller says. A deep male voice. Most of her clients are women of various ages, though she has seen some men in the past. This doesn’t sound like any of them though.

She waits for him to say something else, but he doesn’t. “Who is this?”

“Harry. From high school.”

She doesn’t speak.

“The guy you did homework for? The one who—”

“I remember you.” Of course she remembers him. How could she not? “How did you get this number?”

“From your website?”

“Oh. Right.” If someone wanted to find her, it would be pretty easy to search up her name, click on her clinic website, and get her contact information from there.

“How’s life?” he asks.

This is so weird.

“Um, good,” she answers, while her mind works in the background to make sense of this odd situation. “Sorry, why are you calling?”

He clears his throat. “I’ve been thinking about everything that went down in high school. The way people treated you. The way I treated you...” He pauses, takes a breath. “I don’t like who I was back then.”

She narrows her eyes, confused. “You defended me,” she says slowly, wondering if she’s the one misremembering things.

“I exploited you. Made you do my homework and cheated off you in exams in return for defending you. I wanted to apologize and pay you back for all the work you did.”

“You want to pay me back for doing your homework in high school?”

“Mhm. So, what do you need? A house? A car?”

She laughs. “You cannot be serious right now. This is… This is a joke, right?”

He must be pulling some sort of prank on her. Is he in cahoots with others from high school? Did they plan this?

“I’m serious, Y/N.”

“You’re willing to spend thousands of dollars on me because… What? You feel guilty about something that happened fifteen years ago?” She wonders if he also hears how absurd that sounds.

“Look, I… I’ve done quite well for myself since then. Let’s just say I have a lot more money than I need. I’m not making empty promises here.”

He sounds sincere. But she still can’t wrap her mind around any of it.

“This is ridiculous. I haven’t even seen you since high school, Harry.”

“Would you be more open to it if we met in person?”

“Maybe? No.” She covers her eyes with her hand and sighs. “I don’t know.”

“Let’s meet.”

She has to admit she’s curious about him. Back in high school, he was this tall, handsome jock. The girls would’ve been all over him if he wasn’t so intimidating. But it was that intimidating demeanor that successfully kept the bullies away from her.

He wasn’t mean though. Even when telling her bullies to back off, he didn’t do it in a way that personally attacked their character. He was just serious, straightforward, and had enough muscle on him to scare off the guys who had been especially cruel to Y/N.

She wonders what he’s like today. So, she agrees to meet him, and they exchange numbers.

As she locks up the clinic for the night, the conversation is replaying in her head. Why now? Why would he reach out to her now? After all these years?

She gets into her car—an old, beatup Honda Civic, which is also hanging on by a loose thread. The check engine light comes on as she turns the key in the ignition. She desperately needs a visit to the mechanic.

Harry’s offer is already starting to look tempting.

***

Y/N doesn’t know what to wear to this meeting. Should she dress like someone that has her shit together and doesn’t need his pity money? Or should she dress like someone whose life is falling apart and could clearly use some help? Ultimately, she decides to stay in her work clothes—a simple blouse and dress pants.

She drives to the address he sent her. As she pulls up to the house, she notices the size of it. The huge winding driveway leading to a three-car garage, the perfectly manicured lawn, the pristine porch with a bench and flowerpots.

She rings the doorbell and waits. Harry appears a moment later, dressed comfortably in a hoodie and sweatpants, and yes, just as handsome as she remembers, but now in a more mature, rugged way with stubble and crinkles by his eyes when he smiles. His curls are styled much better than they were in high school, when he didn’t seem to know quite what to do with them.

“Come in.”

She steps into the spacious foyer. It smells like a fall scented candle in here, notes of cinnamon and vanilla in the air.

“I’m surprised you invited me to your house.”

He takes her coat without asking and hangs it up in the closet. “I wanted you to see I’m not lying about the money.”

“What do you do for a living?” She looks up at the tall ceiling, sun pouring in through the skylight.

“I play hockey. Or I used to. I retired last year.” He shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Oh. I had no idea. Then again, I know nothing about that world.”

“It pays a stupid amount. As you can see.”

“It’s just you living here?”

He nods. She wonders if it ever gets lonely.

As he leads her to the living room, he offers her something to drink. She politely declines. They sit on separate couches, facing each other.

“You look different,” he says, studying her for a moment.

“So do you.”

They stare at each other. He looks away first, a faint smirk on his lips that she would’ve missed if she wasn’t looking so closely.

“You’re a therapist now,” he states.

“Yeah. I unfuck people’s brains, as my best friend Cindy says.”

“Some people in high school could’ve used that.”

“I didn’t have the skills back then, unfortunately.”

He laughs. She holds back a grin.

“So, the offer...” she begins, rerouting her attention from his cute dimples to the point of their meeting.

He nods, encouraging her to continue.

“Why? I mean, why now?”

He leans back on the couch, laying one arm over the back of it, his pensive gaze settling on the glass table between them. “Since retiring, I’ve had a lot of time to think. And the one thing I can’t get off my mind is...” His green eyes lift to find hers. “You.”

She swallows. Her throat feels dry. Maybe she should’ve accepted that drink.

“Like I said on the phone, I don’t like the way I exploited you when you were vulnerable.” He pauses, jaw tightening. “I told myself at the time that it was a fair trade. Protection for homework. But that’s not what it was. You were scared and alone, and I saw an opportunity. I don’t regret defending you. I just regret trying to get something out of it.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’d like to think I’m not that person anymore…”

She didn’t truly believe he felt guilty until now, seeing and hearing him explain it to her in person. The way he struggles to meet her eyes but still wills himself to. The way he fidgets with the strings on his hoodie. He’s clearly been rehearsing what to say and how to say it.

“Harry,” she starts gently, “I appreciate you reaching out to apologize after all these years. But I really don’t need—or want—your pity.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not what this is. Y/N, I wouldn’t have all this”—he gestures vaguely to their surroundings—“if it wasn’t for you. I owe you.”

She laughs. “You’re giving me too much credit.”

“You’re the reason I was able to party my way through high school and still get into a good university.”

That part may be true, but she still doesn’t believe she was the reason he made it this far. She decides to concede on that point.

“I just think that money could be used for much better things,” she argues. “You could donate to a charity—”

“I already donate to charities.”

“Okay, well, maybe I could give you a list of charities that are close to my heart and—”

“That’s not enough. I want to help you directly.” His gaze is intense now, piercing into her with determination. “Consider it a donation to your clinic.”

She pauses. It’s technically the same thing. Him sending her money versus “donating” it to the clinic. And yet, this framing makes it sound different. Better. Noble.

She thinks of the dying space heater. The clients who keep cancelling. The old work computer that takes fucking ages to turn on. The things she could do with that money are… Well, endless.

“You’re actually making a difference,” he says more softly this time. “I just played a game. You deserve this money more than I do.”

She wants to keep arguing, but there’s no point. He has his mind made up, and she can be quite stubborn herself. They’ll keep talking in circles.

“Can I think about it?” she asks.

“Sure. The offer doesn’t expire.”

***

“So, let me get this straight,” says Cindy, swirling around her iced matcha.

Y/N needed to consult someone about this whole situation, and Cindy would tell it to her straight. So, she invited her to brunch that Saturday.

“You have a hot, rich former hockey player offering you a shitload of money for nothing in return…” Cindy taps a finger against her chin. “I’m not sure I’m seeing the issue.”

Y/N quirks a brow. “I never said he was hot.”

Her friend rolls her eyes. “Bitch, I googled him. Those shots of him on the ice are sexy.”

Y/N hadn’t even thought of googling him. She’s been too busy with work. Maybe she should do her research too.

“Fine. He’s hot. But that’s not the point.”

“Right. The money is the point.” Cindy leans forward on the table, punctuating her next few words, “The money that you very clearly need! When someone’s throwing you a life raft, Y/N, you take it.”

“Wouldn’t you feel weird accepting money from some guy from high school?”

“Maybe at first… But then I’d take a look at my bank account, and it wouldn’t feel weird anymore.” Cindy shrugs and takes a bite of her sandwich.

Y/N sighs. Her friend does have a point. Most people in her position wouldn’t hesitate to accept an offer like this. In fact, they would jump at the chance for free money before even vetting that it was legit. Is she being stupid for not accepting it?

“Look, you’re struggling,” Cindy says, more gently now. “Mark royally fucked you over and left you with heaps of debt. You keep giving discounted sessions to clients even though you can’t afford it because you’re a good fucking person.” She reaches for Y/N’s hand on the table and gives it an earnest squeeze. “You, of all people, deserve this money.”

Y/N looks down at their hands, feeling the weight of Cindy’s words settle in her chest. Her closest friend who has known her for nearly a decade.

“That’s what this is really about, right?” asks Cindy. “You think you don’t deserve it.”

That thought has been nagging at her ever since the initial phone call with Harry. She has always been someone who earns her success, who fights for every scrap. Hardship is familiar, perhaps even comfortable. But that also means she doesn’t know when to ask for help or even how to accept help when it’s offered to her on a silver platter like this.

She is struggling. Mark, her idiot of an ex-husband and former business partner, mismanaged their clinic’s finances. When he lost his license for misconduct, he disappeared, leaving Y/N to pay off the debts he incurred. She’s not blameless; she was stupidly in love and blindly trusted him.

She can’t bring herself to ask Harry to pay off her debt. She just can’t. Not yet. But maybe she can use his help in other ways.

That night, she calls him.

“Hey. So…” She takes a deep breath. “I guess I could use help with a couple things at the clinic.”

She expects some smug response about her finally giving in, but all he says is, “Okay. Name them.”

“The chairs in the waiting room need to be replaced.”

“Done.”

“And my work computer. It’s from 2018. I could use a new one.”

“Done.”

“That’s all.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mhm.”

A few moments of silence pass by, as if he’s waiting for her to change her mind and add more to the list, but she doesn’t.

“Alright,” he says. “Well, if you think of anything else—”

“I’ll let you know. Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“No need to thank me.”

***

The new computer arrives that following week. The chairs are delivered the next day.

Y/N is in her office, catching up on notetaking for her sessions that day, when she hears footsteps out in the waiting room. It’s nearly five o’clock. She has no more appointments that day, so she’s not sure who to expect when she walks out of her office.

She certainly wasn’t expecting Harry. Dressed in a blue long-sleeve shirt and black athletic shorts, sunglasses perched on his head. He waves.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” she asks.

“Just came to see if the chairs arrived.”

“Yeah, they got here an hour ago. I still need to get rid of the old ones.” She eyes the worn-out chairs with holes in the fabric. The new ones are stacked in a corner.

“I can do that.”

She raises her brows. “Oh, you don’t have to. I was going to take care of it after finishing my work.”

“No, no. I’ve got this. You go do your thing.” He starts moving towards the old chairs before she can protest.

She returns to her office and sits down at her desk. Harry can be seen through the blinds, carrying the chairs out to the dumpster. She tries to focus on her notes, but her attention shifts to the window each time he walks by. She watches him pause at one point, placing the chairs down, his hand rubbing his hip. Even through his shirt, she can see his muscles flexing as he picks them back up.

After some time, he stops appearing outside her window. She hears movement out in the waiting room—the sound of him rearranging the new chairs.

Then he’s in her doorway. She meets his gaze, smiles. He saunters in, observing his surroundings. The art on the walls. The plants on the windowsill. The couch set up on one side of the room facing an armchair, a coffee table in the middle. Her desk sits on the far side of the room.

“Nice office,” he comments.

“Thanks.”

“How’s the new computer?”

She glances at it. “Fantastic. Hasn’t crashed on me once. But I’m still hitting save every other minute because I have trust issues.”

He chuckles.

“Bit chilly in here, no?” he asks, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“That’s because I turned off the space heater.” She pats the old thing on the floor by her desk.

He frowns. “No central heating in this place?”

“There is. Or used to be. It’s wonky.”

He gives her a look that tells her exactly what he’s about to say.

“We can get that fixed, you know.”

She hesitates. “You’ve already done a lot.”

“A computer and chairs is not a lot.”

For him, it’s hardly a drop in the bucket. She bites her lip, considering it. It’s definitely harder to say no with him standing right there, looking at her with his intense green eyes.

“Okay, it would be nice to not freeze my ass off every time I’m in here,” she admits.

“Done,” he says. Like he’s her fucking fairy godmother. Or her own personal genie in a bottle. A cute genie. With dimples and broad shoulders and incredibly toned thighs—wow, how had she not noticed the thighs?

She realizes she’s staring and yanks her gaze back up to his face.

“I should get back to my notes,” she says.

“Right. I’ll leave you to it. Bye, Y/N.” He backs out of her office.

“Bye, Harry.”

As soon as she hears the front door close, she turns to her computer and googles his name, clicking on Images first. Cindy was right. Harry in hockey gear is mesmerizing. On the ice, he looks stern, focused, and intimidating. Photos of him off the ice—in press interviews and photoshoots—show a different side. Warm, friendly, and kind. In all of them, he looks undeniably attractive.

After scrolling through images for God knows how long, she returns to the All tab. She clicks on his Wikipedia page, scanning his accolades. A list of championships, MVP awards, stats that mean nothing to her. Then she reaches the section on his retirement. Recurring injuries. Surgery— She closes the tab. It feels too personal.

The link below his Wikipedia and Instagram is for The Styles Foundation—a charity founded by Harry that focuses on youth mental health initiatives and, more recently, covering the cost of therapy for retired athletes who can’t afford it.

Reading about his charity, Y/N feels a different kind of connection to him that she never did before. Connected not only by their past but also a cause—the desire to make mental health care more accessible.

Next, she looks up videos of Harry playing hockey. Watching him masterfully weave his way through his opponents on the ice makes something stir in her lower abdomen. After spending fifteen minutes watching his top ten career highlights and slow motion fan edits of his best goals, she snaps out of her trance and abruptly closes the window.

***

A few days later, Y/N parks outside her clinic, mentally gearing up for the day ahead. If she remembers correctly from her calendar, she has a day full of back-to-back sessions. As she exits her car, she notices a woman standing outside the clinic entrance, watching her. She’s in her forties, maybe, with a neat bob and a blazer. Not one of her clients.

“Are you Y/N Y/L/N?” asks the woman as she approaches.

“Yes.”

“You’re my daughter’s therapist.”

“Who’s your dau—”

“How dare you?”

The vitriol in her voice takes Y/N by surprise.

“How dare you report me to child protective services? I have never hurt my daughter or any of my children. I would never do such a thing!”

Now she understands. This is Kayla’s mother. Nineteen-year-old Kayla began seeing Y/N six months ago. Last month, she opened up about being physically and verbally abused by her mother growing up. Although Kayla is an adult now, she has younger siblings still living with their mother, which meant Y/N had to report the abuse.

“What has Kayla told you?” asks the woman.

“Ma’am,” Y/N begins slowly and calmly, “I can’t disclose that. I understand you’re upset—”

“You are tearing our family apart, do you understand?” The woman steps closer, her voice rising with each second. Y/N takes a subtle step back. “Do you have any idea what this is going to do to us? Are you even a real therapist? I heard about what goes on at this clinic. I should be the one reporting you!” She points an accusatory finger at her. “My daughter is never coming back here.”

Y/N’s jaw tightens. “Your daughter is an adult. She can decide for herself.”

“Not when I’m the one paying for her sessions.”

Y/N’s heart sinks. Kayla never mentioned that her sessions were being funded by her mom. Not that that would’ve changed anything. Y/N would’ve had to report the abuse regardless. But it still stings to know that this may prevent Kayla from accessing therapy again.

The woman finally turns on her heel and storms off to her car, slamming the door shut and speeding off.

Y/N unlocks the clinic with trembling hands and steps inside. Tears well in her eyes as she walks to her office. It’s not the first time something like this has happened in her career, but it never gets easier. She collapses at her desk and takes a few deep breaths to calm her racing heart.

The sound of the front door opening sends her heart into a tailspin again.

“Y/N?” Harry’s voice carries down the hallway.

She quickly wipes the tears off her face and walks out to the waiting room.

“Morning,” he says. “I was just— What’s wrong?” His brows furrow in concern, eyes scanning her face.

“Nothing.” She shakes her head. “Just a client.”

“You already had a client? I thought you just opened.”

“No, um…” She pauses, carefully considering her words. “It was a client’s mother. She was waiting for me when I got here and yelled at me for reporting her for child abuse.”

“Shit. That’s awful. I’m sorry.”

She shrugs, but her eyes fill with tears again.

Harry appears to move towards her instinctively, then stops himself. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She shakes her head.

He studies her for a moment. “How can I help? Let me take something off your plate today.”

His offer lifts some of the weight in her chest.

“Really? Don’t you have, like, stuff to do?”

He shrugs. “Nothing important.”

“I have back-to-back sessions today, but I’ve been wanting to organize the back room. There’s a ton of boxes with documents that need to be shredded.”

“I’m a great shredder.”

She laughs. That weight lifts a bit more.

***

When Harry first reached out to Y/N, he wasn’t expecting it to turn into… this. He was prepared to drop a large sum of money directly into her bank account and call it a day. He didn’t think she’d be so reluctant to accept the offer.

It didn’t seem like pride. She just seemed skeptical at first and then like someone who isn’t used to having things handed to her, which Harry could respect. Still, he was determined to help her, and when he met her in person, that impulse only grew stronger. She was so… genuine. And tenacious. And inspiring.

After everything she went through in high school, she could’ve turned into a bitter shell of a human being who takes her grievances out on everyone else, and she would be totally justified in doing so. But instead, she turned into someone that spends her days helping people heal from trauma and other mental struggles. How could anyone not be inspired by that?

When he found her crying after getting yelled at by a client’s mother, it reminded him of the last time he saw her cry, which was in high school. She was hiding under a cold, dark stairwell by herself, sobbing quietly into her knees.

“Are you, um… Are you okay?” he asked when he found her there.

The sobbing abruptly stopped. She stared up at him wide-eyed, a deer caught in headlights. “Y—yeah.”

“You can’t let them see you cry, you know,” he told her. “It’ll just make things worse.”

“I know.” She sniffled. “That’s why I’m here.”

That was the day they made the deal. She was vulnerable and desperate. Harry thinks she would have agreed to just about anything. And he used that to his advantage. Maybe if it had been someone else in his place, they would’ve gone even further, made even bigger requests, but he couldn’t use that to excuse his own behaviour.

Now he’s trying to make things right. He’s not sure if he believes in karma, but he does believe in taking accountability.

He spent that whole day at the clinic, shredding papers in the back room while Y/N saw clients. He put his headphones in and listened to music to entertain himself. It felt oddly relaxing. And it was nice to see Y/N popping her pretty head in every now and then to check on him.

He kept returning that week to help out, even bringing her coffee some days. She eventually asked him to sign a volunteer contract, explaining the confidentiality rules to him, and to get a background check.

“Not because I think you’re a criminal,” she reassured him. “It’s just protocol.”

He understood. If anything, he found it admirable that she wanted to do things the right way.

He enjoyed being in the clinic. Even if he was only doing menial tasks, like shredding papers, cleaning, and organizing. It felt… meaningful.

“I noticed you don’t have a receptionist,” he said to her one day. “Is there a reason for that?”

“We used to have one. She was pretty flaky. Then she just became another expense to stress over, so I had to let her go.”

“We?”

“Huh?”

“You said ‘we’ used to have one.”

“Oh. Did I? Whoops.” She gave a sheepish laugh and walked back to her office.

Except Harry had noticed the other office. The one that remains unused with nothing but a desk and two chairs inside it. It looks like it once belonged to another therapist. But he doesn’t want to pry, so he keeps his questions to himself.

It’s Friday now and he’s in the back room again, shredding documents, headphones in, humming along to Joni Mitchell. He pauses for a moment to lean back in his chair and stretch. That’s when he notices her standing in the doorway, a small grin on her face as she watches him.

“Oh, hey.” He removes his headphones.

“I just wanted to let you know I have to close the clinic early because I have plans tonight.”

“Wow. And here I thought you were a workaholic.”

She gives him a wry smile. “I am on most days. But I can’t miss this. My best friend Cindy got a promotion, so a few of us are going out to celebrate.”

Good, he thinks to himself. This past week, he has seen her work ten-hour days, which apparently is the norm for her. She deserves a night out.

“Actually, would you…” She hesitates, biting her lip. “Would you want to come?”

He doesn’t even have to think about it. “Sure. Your friend won’t mind?”

“No, I think she’ll be happy to finally meet you.”

“You told her about me?”

Her eyes widen briefly. “Only in passing. She’s nosy.”

He chuckles. “Alright, I’m in.”

He offers to drive them to the bar. Her friends are already there when they arrive, sitting at a table in the back. She introduces all of them. Cindy, Poppy, Sara, and Jamal. Harry tries to commit their names to memory.

Cindy is a short brunette with a sharp wit. Y/N was right. She seems thrilled to meet Harry, exchanging sly glances with Y/N in the way that women do sometimes when they seem to be telepathically communicating.

Her other friends seem alright, though a couple of them make comments at Y/N that could pass as innocent on the surface but seem to have snarky undertones. Maybe he’s reading into things too much or doesn’t understand their dynamic quite yet. That can happen when you’re the outsider in a friend group.

It’s fascinating to see Y/N in a different setting, in non-therapist mode. She’s dressed in a fitted white t-shirt with a short black skirt and boots. Her hair is down, her shoulders relaxed. Her hands nurse a margarita. She laughs freely and often, and when Harry realizes it’s the sweetest sound he’s heard in a while, he knows he’s in trouble.

“Harry, how do you and Y/N know each other?” asks Poppy.

“We went to the same high school.”

“Oh! High school sweethearts!”

“We never dated,” Y/N quickly corrects.

Poppy gapes at her. “What?! Let me guess. You were too busy paying attention in class and being a good student,” she says in a patronizing tone. “Boring!”

Harry quirks a brow and glances at Y/N, who just quietly sips her margarita.

“What was Y/N like in high school?” asks Sara.

Now she shifts uncomfortably in her seat, brushing her fingers through her hair, avoiding his gaze, like she’s afraid to hear what he has to say.

“She was smart. Really smart. She was kind, even to people who didn’t deserve it.”

He keeps things vague. It seems like most of her friends don’t know what she endured in high school.

“Wow. You make her sound like a saint.” Poppy laughs. “She can’t be that perfect. C’mon, give us some embarrassing stories.”

“Poppy, shut up,” Cindy cuts in, then turns to Harry. “Was Y/N always this hot?”

Y/N nearly chokes on her drink, coughing into her elbow.

Harry smirks. “I thought she was pretty, yeah.”

Pretty felt too simple. He remembers watching her during an exam. He told himself it was just part of their deal—cheating off her meant frequently looking over at her. But then he started getting lost in the details. Like the way her brow would furrow when she reached a difficult question, puckering her soft lips, tapping her pencil against her temple as if the answer was just stuck somewhere in her brain and the pencil would knock it loose. Yeah, pretty was just skimming the surface.

Y/N seems taken aback by his admission. Cindy grins, pleased by his answer.

“Harry, my brother is a huge hockey fan,” says Poppy, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“Oh yeah?”

“You were actually his favourite player until you retired. He would kill me if I don’t at least get a selfie.”

“Poppy,” Y/N says sternly.

“What?”

“It’s fine,” says Harry. “I don’t mind.”

Y/N still gives him an apologetic look.

Later that night, he leaves to use the restroom. When he returns, the live band has started their set and most of their group has moved to the dance floor, leaving their drinks behind at the table. Y/N is still there with her friend Jamal, patiently listening to him rant about his toxic ex-boyfriend who keeps calling to fuck with his head.

“J, you really need to block him,” she shouts over the music.

“You know I can’t do that!”

She sighs, like they’ve had this conversation fifteen times. Eventually, Jamal tires of ranting and saunters off to the dance floor. Y/N watches her friends dancing with a small, wistful smile on her face, one hand fiddling with her dangly gold earrings.

Harry leans closer and says in her ear, “You should go dance.”

“I promised to guard everyone’s stuff,” she replies, gesturing to the unfinished drinks, purses, and other belongings messily strewn across the table.

Harry doesn’t like that sweet Y/N had been relegated to guard duty. “I can guard it.”

She hesitates. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Go dance.”

She gives him a grateful grin and then she’s off. He watches as she joins her friends on the floor, throwing her hands up in the air and grooving along to the music. Cindy starts grinding on her theatrically, and she returns the favour by giving her friend’s butt a few playful spanks. Harry laughs, thoroughly entertained by their antics.

By the end of the night, Y/N is happily drunk and high on life. So much so that she nearly crosses a busy street without looking on the way back to Harry’s car, but he grabs her by the waist just in time. When they reach his car, he opens the door for her before getting in himself.

“Did you have fun tonight?” she asks as he pulls out of the lot.

“Yeah, I did.”

“Did you really? I hope you don’t feel like I just brought you along to take selfies with my friends and guard our stuff while we danced. I swear that wasn’t the plan. I didn’t even know Poppy has a brother who likes hockey? She might have made that up, now that I think about it.” She frowns thoughtfully, her lips set in an adorable pout.

“I didn’t feel that way at all, lovie.” The pet name slips out before he can stop it, and he feels his ears go warm. But she hardly seems to notice. “And Poppy is, um… an interesting character.” That’s the most polite descriptor he could think of.

Y/N gets an odd expression on her face when he says that. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” He decides that having this conversation while she’s drunk is probably not the best idea and drops it.

She falls asleep at some point, and Harry subconsciously drives smoother to avoid waking her up. He glances at her periodically, the image of her sleeping face under the glow of passing streetlights too beautiful to resist.

She stirs awake on her own when they reach her apartment.

“Thanks for the ride, Harr bear,” she says. “You’re the best.”

He chuckles. “You’re welcome.”

He waits until she’s inside the building before driving away.

***

Y/N sleeps in the next day. Well, her definition of “sleeping in,” which involves getting up at eight instead of six.

She eats breakfast and gets ready to go to the clinic. She keeps her Saturday afternoons open for clients who can’t meet during the week. It’s half past noon when she leaves her apartment and gets in her car. Except when she turns her key in the ignition… The car doesn’t start. She tries again. And again. Nothing. Not even a click.

Fuck. That’s what she gets for ignoring the check engine light for so long.

She has a session at one o’clock. She could take the bus, but it would take her an hour to get there. She would call Cindy, but she’s out of town for the weekend. She calls Jamal. No answer. She calls Sara. Voicemail. She doesn’t even bother with Poppy. Sighing, she realizes she’s left with one choice. Harry. She feels bad asking him for yet another favour. Not that she necessarily asked for the other ones. But still.

The clock is ticking. She doesn’t have time to deliberate. She calls Harry and explains her situation. Not surprisingly, he agrees to give her a ride.

“I’m really sorry about this,” she says as she gets into his car a few minutes later. “No one else was available.”

“No, no, I’m glad you called,” he says with a smile.

“Really? I thought you’d be sick of me after we basically spent all of yesterday together.”

“Please. I could never be sick of you.” He says it like it’s a given, like there’s nothing he’d rather do than spend time with her.

When they reach the clinic, he asks what time she gets off work that day.

“At six,” she answers. “But I can take the bus home, it’s fine.”

He gives her a disapproving look. “You’re not taking the bus. Text me when you’re done, okay?”

“Okay.”

She’s smiling as she walks into the clinic, her dead car forgotten and filed away in the back of her mind. Her good mood doesn’t last very long though. Her sessions are tough that day. One client recently got back together with her abusive ex-boyfriend, seemingly undoing all the work they’ve done in therapy. Another client lost a loved one to a long battle with cancer. And finally, her last client lays into her for not immediately fixing all her problems, even though they’ve only had three sessions so far and she has refused to do any of the homework Y/N assigns.

By the end of the day, she is utterly exhausted.

While she waits for Harry, she decides to check her banking app. Another loan payment was automatically withdrawn today. Her balance is hovering close to zero yet again. She’s been paying off this loan for three years. Three years, and it feels like she’s barely made a dent. She groans, feeling twice as drained as before.

Harry must see it on her face when he pulls up in his car because he says, “Rough day?”

“Yeah,” she sighs, settling into the passenger seat. Then she pauses, pokes her nose in the air like a dog and sniffs. “Were you eating in here?”

He turns to look in the backseat. She follows his gaze to find multiple takeout bags sitting there.

“I got Thai food,” he says. “I was going to invite you over for dinner, but if you’re too tired, I—”

“I love Thai!” She looks at him with wide-eyed excitement.

“I know. You bring it for lunch all the time.”

Y/N could cry. She could actually physically burst into tears right now. He noticed what she was bringing for lunch? And went out of his way to get it for her and was planning to invite her over for dinner?

“I’d love to join you for dinner,” she says instead of crying.

***

Y/N has never felt more comfortable, snuggled under a fluffy blanket on Harry’s big couch, legs curled under her, belly full of Thai food. Harry goes to the kitchen to put away their dishes and trash. When he returns to find her wrapped up like a burrito on the couch, he seems quite pleased, as though his mission has been accomplished.

“I have a confession,” she says as he sits down next to her.

“I’m listening.”

“I googled you.”

He lets out a laugh. “To be fair, I googled you first. That’s how I got your clinic number.”

“Oh. Yeah.” She frowns, realizing it’s not as wild of a confession as she initially thought. “But I mean, I watched you play. You’re really good on the ice. Like, scary good. Do you ever miss it?”

He thinks for a moment. “Sometimes… Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, and I think I have a game the next day. And then I remember I’m retired. And there’s this mix of relief and…”

“Grief?”

He meets her eyes. “Yeah. Not just missing the game, but, like, the structure that came with it? The schedules, the teammates, the expectations. It was all so predictable. And then suddenly, I was just… a guy with a lot of money and no idea what to do with himself.”

“How did you deal with that?”

“Well, at first, with a lot of alcohol.” He laughs sheepishly. “That wasn’t quite working, so I started talking to people. Other retired athletes. That helped. And I started putting my time and money into things that matter to me.”

“Is that how your foundation came about?”

He raises his brows. “You really did your research.”

She shrugs, a small proud smile tugging at her lips.

“I actually started the foundation while I was still playing. I lost a teammate to suicide, and I wanted to contribute to mental health initiatives, so that’s how it started. Then after I retired and struggled with that transition, I wanted to help other retired athletes.”

She watches him closely as he speaks, the way he gestures with his hands, the grief in his eyes when he mentions his teammate, the determination when he explains wanting to help others like himself. The warm feeling in her chest expands and spreads through the rest of her body.

“You’re a really good guy, Harry.”

He smiles, then looks away briefly, like he’s contemplating his next words. He opens his mouth, then closes it.

“What?”

“I have a confession too,” he finally says.

Her stomach flips.

“In our last year of high school… I was going to ask you out.”

She blinks at him, hardly processing the words at first. “You were?”

He nods.

It’s suddenly too hot under her blanket, so she pulls it halfway down her body. “Why didn’t you?”

He thinks about it.

“Were you scared of what people would think? It’s okay if you were,” she says softly, though her heart sinks at the thought.

“No, I was scared of what you would think. I thought you were too smart to go out with a dumb jock like me.”

She frowns. “That’s not true.”

He tilts his head. “No?”

“No.”

They gaze at each other for a long moment. She realizes how close they are on this couch and how warm her face is and how he’s directly staring at her lips now. He shifts closer and closer. Her breath catches in her throat.

And then he kisses her. A soft, lingering kiss at first. Then another. And another. It’s only once she has fully melted into goo that he properly kisses her, hands cupping her face and angling it towards him so he can slip his tongue in easily. He tastes like the guava candy they found at the bottom of their takeout bags—sweet and tangy.

She brings her hand to his chest, gripping the front of his shirt in her fist. She’s breathless when he pulls away. He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head like he’s in disbelief.

“What?” she asks.

“You have no idea how many times I imagined doing that back in high school.”

And she stops breathing again. She really had no idea. Not a clue how he felt about her. Of course not. She was too busy trying to survive.

His thumb traces her bottom lip. Then he gently pushes her onto her back and props himself up on one elbow next to her, a hand resting on her lower abdomen, which twitches and clenches under his touch. Leaning down, he hovers just inches from her mouth. She tries to kiss him, but he pulls back. She tries again and he does the same thing, smirking. The teasing bastard. Finally, she grabs his face and plants a firm kiss to his lips.

His hand shifts from her abdomen to her waistband. She’s still in her work clothes. Undoing the top button of her pants, he slips a hand inside, fingers grazing over the wet spot that has formed over her panties. He nips gently at her bottom lip before pulling away and shifting down the couch. His fingers hook into her waistband.

“Can I?” he asks, looking up at her.

She nods, acting like her entire body isn’t vibrating with anticipation.

Soon, her bottom half is exposed. He wastes no time in spreading her legs apart and bringing his mouth to her clit. The sudden contact makes her flinch away.

“Too much?” he asks.

“Just sensitive. Sorry.”

He hushes away her apology, then takes his time sprinkling kisses all over her inner thighs. He pulls her legs up over his shoulders, hands firmly gripping her sides when he licks her clit again, more gently this time.

“Tastes so good, Y/N. So sweet,” he murmurs against her clit.

She grins to herself, letting her head drop back as he slips his tongue directly into her wet hole. Her hands grasp at the blanket beneath her at first and then the back of his head. No part of her was expecting tonight to go like this. He laps at her pussy like some sort of starved animal until the orgasm rips through her, making her toes and fingers curl.

“Fuck, Harry, oh my God,” she stammers out as she comes.

He licks her clean with his tongue, being careful not to overstimulate her. Then he stands up and her gaze lands on the clear outline of his bulge pressing against his sweatpants. When he begins undressing, she starts to move towards him.

“Wait,” he says. “Stay where you are.”

She obeys, sinking back into the couch, her eyes never leaving him. She knew he was fit—former athlete and all that—but seeing the proof before her eyes is something else. The broad shoulders, the thick pectorals, the insane biceps and quads, but also the slight pudge that has formed around his middle and sides—she admires all of it.

He leaves the room for a moment and returns with a condom, rolling it on before sitting down on the couch.

“Come here,” he says, patting his thighs.

Entranced, she crawls over to him. He pulls her into his lap so that she’s straddling him. Between them, his cock is swollen thick, the veins visible through the flushed skin, pulsing and throbbing in a way that makes her salivate.

“Put it inside you,” he says.

She doesn’t hesitate. Her hands grasp his cock. She already knows how full and thick and tight he’s going to feel inside her. She lines his tip with her entrance and presses down slowly, taking him inch by inch, moaning at the overwhelming sensation of his length filling her up.

He hisses, closing his eyes for a moment. “Fucking hell, Y/N.”

Once her pussy swallows him whole, he grabs her hips and holds them there. His gaze scans over her face, eyes swimming with lust.

“Jesus. You’re so beautiful.”

He unbuttons her blouse, pulling it off of her, then unclasps her bra. His large hands cup her exposed breasts, fingers tweaking the hardened nipples, making her gasp.

Then with a hand wrapped around her throat, he pulls her in for a brief kiss and says, “Ride me, pretty girl.”

And she does. Her hips start bouncing on his cock. He grabs her ass with his other hand, kneading the thick flesh, as she rides him faster and faster.

“That’s it, baby,” he grunts. “Good girl. Don’t stop.”

He thrusts up into her, meeting her halfway. His hand remains around her throat, squeezing lightly at the sides. She wraps her hands around his forearm, keeping it there.

“Harry…” she moans, unable to form any other word with her mouth right now.

“Feels good, yeah? Are you going to come on my cock?”

She nods, swallowing thickly, feeling the pressure of his palm around her throat.

“Yeah, you are. Give it to me, Y/N.”

She comes hard, clenching around him intensely and repeatedly. He coaxes the orgasm out of her before following it up with his own, his cock throbbing against her walls and filling the condom with each spurt.

She lets herself collapse on him, burying her face in his neck, his cock still inside her. He wraps his arms around her and keeps her close until she’s ready to get up. Then he carries her up to his bathroom so they can get cleaned up.

As they lie in bed that night, she reflects on what a turn of events today has been. From her car breaking down to Harry confessing he had feelings for her in high school to them having sex? Her teenage self could’ve never foreseen this. She almost chuckles to herself as she falls asleep.

***

When Y/N awakens the next morning, it takes her a few moments to remember where she is and why she suddenly has curtains on her window that weren’t there before. She rubs her eyes and looks beside her to find Harry lying on his side, his soft gaze trained on her. He wraps an arm around her waist and slides her closer with no effort at all. He kisses her forehead and the tip of her nose.

She laughs softly. “Morning.”

“Morning.”

“What time is it?”

“Nine-ish. Please tell me you have the day off.”

“I do.” She never sees clients on Sundays. Thank goodness.

“Good.”

Then she remembers. Her car. A dreadful groan escapes her.

“What?”

“I still have to deal with my car.”

“Are you going to take it to the mechanic?”

She shakes her head. “It’s been giving me trouble for a while. Too many repairs this past year. I fear it’s time to let her go.”

He gives her a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry.”

She stretches her arms overhead. Harry pushes up on one elbow, his green eyes deep in a thousand-yard stare. She can almost see the wheels turning in his head.

“So, hypothetically, if you were to get a new car, what kind would it be?” he finally asks.

She narrows her eyes at him.

“What? It’s a hypothetical. Humour me, will you?”

“I don’t even know. I’ve had this one since I was in college. I never imagined replacing it.” She thinks about it. “Maybe I should go look at some cars.”

His eyes light up. “We’re going car shopping?”

“We’re going to look at cars,” she corrects.

“Right. Looking. Very serious, non-car-buying looking.”

She rolls her eyes.

***

As soon as they enter the dealership, car salesmen start circling them like sharks. Harry handles them smoothly, telling them to fuck off in the most polite way possible (“we’re just looking, thanks”).

He lets her take the lead on where to go first, so she heads over to the row of sensibly priced sedans, though they’re still far out of her price range. She sits inside one of them. Harry joins her in the passenger seat.

“I like this one,” she says, hands smoothing over the steering wheel.

“It’s very… practical,” he says, looking over his shoulder at the backseat, clearly unimpressed.

“That’s the point.”

“But it lacks personality, don’t you think?”

She glares at him. “Harry, it’s a car. It just needs to get me places.”

He throws his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. But let’s just look at some more. For fun.”

She sighs and agrees. Why is she not surprised that he’s a car guy?

He takes her over to some of the more high-end models. Y/N’s eyes rake over the glossy exteriors of the cars, the obscene price tags making her chest cave. Harry excitedly points out some cool features he notices. When one of the salesmen walks over, he doesn’t turn them away this time. Instead, he lets the guy tell them about the car they’re looking at.

Y/N feels strange all of a sudden. Like the world around her is fading into the distance, the salesman’s voice turning into muffled background noise. Her heart feels like it’s in her throat. She’s vaguely aware of Harry glancing at her, his hand finding her elbow.

“Are you okay?” his voice breaks through the fog.

She shrugs him off and heads for the exit. Except she doesn’t know where it is. Where the hell did they enter from? Why is this place so fucking big? Why are there no exit signs?

“Y/N!” Harry catches up to her and grabs her hand. “Hey, stop. What’s wrong?”

“I can’t do this.” She shakes her head, not meeting his eyes.

“Do what?”

“Act like this is normal. Someone buying me a car? And don’t say ‘we’re just looking.’ I know you’re seriously thinking of getting me one. And I know it’s not a big deal to you, but it is to me, okay?”

“Okay, I—”

“And it’s not that I’m ungrateful.”

“I never said you were—”

“I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me so far. But this”—she gestures at the showroom around them—“is too much. I can’t keep taking from you like this. That’s not— That’s not who I am.” Her voice quivers. She swallows hard, pushing down the emotion. “Can we go?”

***

Harry keeps glancing over at Y/N on the way home, wondering if she’s okay. She appears calmer than she did at the dealership, her gaze focused out the passenger side window, but she looks so defeated, it makes his chest ache.

Did he push her too hard to accept his money? He just wants to help her. That’s been his goal this entire time. He thought that buying her smaller things for the clinic might warm her up to bigger purchases, but maybe he was wrong. The last thing he wanted to do was stress her out even more, and now he feels like that’s exactly what he’s done.

It’s late in the afternoon when they get back to his house. Y/N is quiet for the rest of the day. She takes a nap on the couch, while he gets some chores done. When she wakes up, they put on some trashy reality TV and eat dinner. That’s when she starts to seem more like herself, roasting the guys on the show for their mediocre attempts at impressing the women.

She pauses the show after a couple episodes. He looks at her.

“I need to tell you something,” she says, fidgeting with the remote in her hands.

He nods encouragingly.

“The clinic was previously co-owned by someone else... My ex-husband, Mark. We met in grad school and came up with the idea of opening a practice together. The first couple years were great.” She pauses, a haunted look creeping into her eyes. “And then the complaints started coming in.”

“What kind of complaints?”

“Mark was flirting with clients. Bringing wine into sessions. Kissing them. Sleeping with them. The list goes on.”

“Jesus Christ,” Harry mutters.

“I know. I had no idea. I know that sounds dumb. Our offices were literally across the hall from each other. How could I not have known? But he hid it so well.”

“I believe you.”

She looks at him. He sees the relief there, like she’s been bracing herself in case he didn’t.

“I filed for divorce after that,” she continues. “Several clients sued. He lost his license. And then… He vanished.”

“Vanished how?”

“His office had been emptied out overnight. He texted me that he was sorry, that he needed a fresh start. And then he blocked me.”

“Hardly an apology.”

“Yeah.” She scoffs. “Anyway, I was left with the debt. We took out a loan to start the clinic. It was in both our names. When he left, I had to pay it off. And the settlement from the lawsuits. The clinic was liable. I had to pay that too.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s my punishment for being so fucking oblivious.” She shakes her head at herself. “I didn’t see what he was doing to those clients. God, I’m a therapist. I should’ve seen it. That’s my entire job.”

“You can’t blame yourself for that.”

She shrugs, staring down at her hands. She’s shaking.

“How much?” he asks softly.

She closes her eyes. He can tell she’s debating whether to answer the question honestly.

“The loan is about 40k. The settlement was way more. Like 80k. I’ve been paying it off for three years. I’m down to about 60k.”

The numbers don’t shock him. He doesn’t even flinch. But the fact that she’s been carrying this burden—largely the consequences of someone else’s recklessness—all on her own shoulders makes him irate. His jaw tightens. He imagines bashing Mark’s head in, then running him over with a bus. Repeatedly.

But beneath the anger is something else. Guilt. The same guilt that drove him to contact her in the first place. Didn’t he once exploit her vulnerability too? Perhaps not in the same way as Mark. But still. Is he really that much better than this guy he wants to rip to shreds?

“I’ve been paying it off bit by bit,” she says. “But I’m barely staying afloat. It’s a constant reminder of the biggest mistake of my life, and I can’t take it anymore.” She finally breaks, the tears pooling in her eyes. “I thought I could do it on my own, but… I need help, Harry. And I hate the way I feel when I say that. I don’t know if it’s pride or what—”

“It’s not pride,” he interjects gently. “You’re just so used to fighting and enduring and working your ass off for every little thing. That’s all you’ve ever known, lovie.”

She puts her face in hands, body trembling with quiet sobs.

“Come here.” He moves closer and wraps his arms around her. “It’s okay. You don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

Harry hardly sleeps that night. He lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, while Y/N is sound asleep next to him. He keeps replaying what she told him about her ex-husband and the debt. The way she took responsibility for someone else’s actions and called it her punishment made him sick.

He doesn’t want her to go through something like that ever again. Not just the financial hardship. But also the betrayal by someone she deeply trusted, someone who was supposed to love and protect her. He can’t let that happen again. He won’t.

***

The next day, Y/N and Harry have an honest conversation about how this is going to work. She agrees to let him pay off her debt in full. She also agrees to let him buy her a new car… on one condition.

“I get to choose the car,” she says. “No luxury models. Just a normal, sensible car.”

“But a Lamborghini would look so sexy on you,” he whines.

“Harry.” She gives him a stern look.

“I’m kidding. Mostly.” He smirks. “Okay, no luxury cars.”

“Thank you.”

“No, thank you for letting me do this. I know it’s not easy for you.”

For the next few weeks, she feels lighter than air. She hasn’t felt like that in years. At least not since before the debt. She’s sleeping better. Opening her bank account doesn’t make her stomach turn. At the clinic, she’s more present with her clients.

To make things even better, she’s been spending most nights at Harry’s place. They’ve fallen into a routine of having dinner together, sleeping together, waking up together, moments of intimacy sprinkled into every interaction.

One morning, she wakes first and heads to the kitchen to make breakfast while catching up on her friends’ group chat, which was popping off last night, but she was too busy having fun with Harry to read the messages.

Poppy: Mandatory drinks tomorrow night!!

Everyone except Y/N and Cindy liked the message.

Cindy: i’m out of town for a work trip again sorry babes

Jamal: Y/N pls say you’re coming. We need your therapist superpowers

Sara: Yeahhhh I need help dealing with my narcissist boss

Jamal: And my narcissist ex!!! :(

Y/N leaves her phone on the counter with the group chat open, as she finishes preparing breakfast. It’s been a while since she has seen her friends. She briefly considers the consequences of not going. Poppy wouldn’t be too happy. Not because she adores Y/N. She just hates when someone cancels on her plans and acts a bit cold to them the next time they see her. When Poppy plans something, everyone is expected to be in attendance.

Harry enters the kitchen and immediately walks up behind her, hugging her waist and kissing her cheek. She grins and turns her head to kiss him back. Then he moves over to pour himself a cup of coffee. She notices him glancing at her phone on the counter.

“Therapist superpowers?” He looks at her with a cocked brow. “Aren’t you supposed to be off the clock when you’re with friends?”

She shrugs. “I’m the therapist in the group. They come to me for advice.”

He takes a sip of his coffee and walks over to the fridge, out of sight.

“Are you going?” he asks.

“Yeah, probably. Do you want to come?”

“I have some foundation stuff to take care of.” He pauses. “Is Cindy going?”

“No, she has a work thing.”

“Is it even going to be fun without your best friend there?”

Her brows furrow slightly at the odd question. “Yeah, why not? I love Cindy, but I don’t need her there to have fun.”

He doesn’t say anything.

She turns around now to face him. “Why do I feel like you’re trying to convince me not to go?”

He shuts the fridge, laughing softly. “Maybe because I am?”

“But why? You won’t even be home tonight.”

“It’s not about that.”

She stares at him expectantly, waiting for him to elaborate.

“I just got a weird vibe from your friends last time,” he says. “Especially Poppy. She called you boring to your face.”

“That’s just how she is. She’s insecure and annoying. She’s also fun and hilarious sometimes.”

“But even the others… They treat you like a free therapist to help solve their problems. Doesn’t that bother you?”

She laughs. “Harry, they’re joking around. It’s banter between friends. That’s all.”

He gazes at her quietly, like he’s holding back from saying more.

“Okay,” he finally says. “Maybe I misread things.”

She gives him a gentle smile now. “Thanks for looking out for me. But everything’s fine. Really.”

He smiles back, but the skepticism is still there, just below the surface.

***

“I’m glad he ended things, but… I don’t know.”

“I’m sensing some ambivalence there.”

“I just feel like everyone leaves me eventually—”

A loud bang outside the office makes both Y/N and her client jump. The client’s eyes dart towards the door.

“I’m so sorry. I’ll be right back,” says Y/N.

She hurries out of the office and finds the light in the restroom is on. Inside is a large man lying on the ground beneath the sink with a wrench in hand.

“Um, hi, excuse me?” she says, taking a tentative step towards the stranger.

He looks at her. “Hi! Harry said you had a leak in the bathroom?”

A leak in the— She never told him that. He must’ve caught it himself.

“Good news!” the man continues, beaming like he just won the lottery. “It was just a loose compression nut. Took two minutes.” He scoots out from under the sink and stands up. “You have a good day now.”

“Wait, don’t you need payment?”

“Harry said he’ll handle it.” He leaves.

She stands there for a moment, somewhat flustered. She appreciates that Harry had taken care of something that otherwise would’ve been a nuisance for her. She just wishes he would’ve given her a heads up to make sure the plumber wouldn’t interrupt one of her sessions. She returns to her office and tries to resume where they left off, though the client seems a bit guarded after that.

Her last session runs late, so she’s the last of her friends to show up at the bar that evening. She parks by the front and joins them inside. Poppy immediately brings attention to her lateness.

“Y/N! We were worried you got lost.”

“Sorry, things ran late at the clinic.”

“How are things at the clinic? Any psycho client stories?”

Y/N gives a nervous laugh. “You know I can’t talk about clients.”

Poppy pouts. “Well, that’s no fun.”

She called you boring to your face. Harry’s words from that morning ring through her mind.

“Is that a new car?” asks Jamal, pointing out the window at her car.

She suddenly regrets parking so close.

“Oh, um, yeah.” She starts perusing the drinks menu.

“Wait,” says Sara. “Didn’t you say a few weeks ago that you can’t afford a new one?”

Before she can respond, Poppy says, “Harry got it for her.”

Y/N is taken aback by the confidence in her voice. “Wh— How did you know that?”

Poppy smirks. “I didn’t. But I do now.”

Y/N shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

“I knew you looked different,” she says, giving her a once-over. “So, what? He’s your sugar daddy now?”

Y/N laughs. “We’re the same age.”

“Doesn’t matter. He’s buying you a car? Did he get that dress too?”

She doesn’t respond. Because the answer is yes. She and Harry went shopping last weekend. She saw a dress she liked with a ridiculous price tag. He pleaded with her to at least try it on, which she did. She fell in love with it. And well, there he was, ready with his credit card.

“Hey, I’m not judging,” says Poppy, leaning towards her. “If I knew a guy like that, I’d be milking him for his money too.”

Y/N frowns. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

Poppy just smirks again. Y/N tries not to roll her eyes. The conversation moves on to Sara’s narcissistic boss, but she can’t stop thinking about how Poppy’s last comment got under her skin. She’s not milking Harry for his money. But she can see how it may appear that way to an outsider. And now she’s insecure about it. Great.

The comment keeps nagging at her for the rest of the night and into the next day. She knows she shouldn’t bring it up to Harry. She knows.

And yet, that evening, while they’re cuddling on the couch watching some corny romcom that she can’t pay attention to, she blurts out, “Do you ever feel like I’m using you for your money?”

He’s quiet at first, then pauses the movie and shifts on the couch so he can see her face. “Why would I think that, lovie? I practically had to beg you to accept my money.”

She instantly feels reassured by his answer. But now she has to deal with the concern on his face.

“It was just something in the back of my mind I had to clear up,” she explains, reaching for the remote to resume the movie, but he doesn’t let her.

“It was in the back of your mind or did someone else put it there?”

She frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It was Poppy, wasn’t it? Or one of the others?”

She sighs and rubs a hand over her face. “Look, I’m sorry I brought it up, okay? Let’s just drop it.”

“No, Y/N.” He sits up, making her do the same. “I don’t like that your friends say shit like that. It clearly bothers you too or you wouldn’t have brought it up.”

“What do you want me to do, Harry? Stop hanging out with them?”

“Yes.” His jaw tightens.

She scoffs and leans away from him, genuinely shocked by his response. “Well, that’s... kind of controlling.”

He blinks, equally as shocked by her choice of words. “Controlling? How’s that controlling?”

“You want me to stop hanging out with my friends because you don’t like them? Do you hear yourself?”

“I’m not trying to control you. I’m trying to protect you.”

“We’re not in high school anymore, Harry. I don’t need you to protect me from people. I can do that myself.”

“Can you?”

She narrows her eyes. “Excuse me?”

He sighs. “Y/N, you constantly let people take advantage of your kindness. Your friends, your clients, your ex? Can’t you see? It’s all the same fucking pattern. I hate it because I love you, and I know you deserve better than that. So, no, I’m not being controlling when I say you have shitty friends.”

She doesn’t say anything. His words settle like a pit in her stomach. Harsh, acidic, and, worst of all, true. Softened only by the confession of love casually thrown in there.

Her job is about recognizing patterns in people’s behaviours. Patterns that they repeat from childhood, from past relationships and friendships, from past mistakes. Has she seriously failed to recognize them in her own life?

Harry stands up, visibly frustrated and tired. “I’m going to bed.”

He leaves her on the couch and heads upstairs. She stays there for a while, stewing in her own mix of anger and hurt. When she finally goes up, he’s on his side of the bed with his back to her. She gets in on her side and tries to sleep, neither of them saying a word.

***

The next day, Y/N is up and out of the house before Harry’s even awake. At the clinic, she buries herself in her work, though her mind is still processing the argument from last night. A client cancels last minute without good reason, and she once again waives the late cancellation fee because… Well, she can’t help it. Maybe Harry was right. She does let people walk all over her.

Still, she doesn’t appreciate the way he said it. Implying that she can’t take care of herself. That she can’t think for herself. That she needs someone else to step in and tell her what to do. She’s not that incapable of looking out for herself. Right?

At lunchtime, she stares at her phone, wanting to text him but not knowing what to say. When her screen lights up, her heart flutters, expecting it to be him. But instead, it’s Jamal. Shoving her disappointment deep inside, she picks up the call and listens to her friend vent about his ex for the hundredth time. Ten minutes into his monologue, she finally works up the nerve to lie and tell him she has a client waiting to see her. He takes up five more minutes of her time before hanging up.

Y/N shakes her head at herself, pinching the bridge of her nose. Before her fight with Harry, she might not have thought much of these interactions. Now, it’s impossible to ignore the way she fails to set boundaries with people.

Then she hears someone out in the waiting room. She goes out there to find a delivery person setting down a bouquet of wildflowers on the front desk.

“Hi there! Delivery for a Y/N Y/L/N?”

“That’s me.”

She walks over to the flowers after the delivery guy leaves, feeling the delicate texture of the petals between her fingers. A small note is nestled among them.

I’m sorry. — H

She sighs, staring at the two words, hating the way her heart liquefies in her chest, hating the way she wants to call him up right now and tell him all is forgiven, and especially hating the way she craves his presence. A craving felt deep in her abdomen, raw and tantalizing.

She recalls what he said to her last night. Not the criticism of her friends or her tendency to let people take advantage of her. But how he said he loved her. The way it naturally slipped out in the midst of his rant, like the words had been sitting on the tip of his tongue for far too long.

Y/N: The flowers are pretty

She texts him once the flowers are in a vase and she’s sitting in her office.

H: Glad you liked them

H: I really am sorry. I hope you don’t really think I was trying to control you

“I don’t” is what she types at first but then deletes it.

Y/N: I know that wasn’t your intention

He doesn’t reply for a while after that. He texts again as her workday nears a close.

H: Can I take you out to dinner tonight?

Y/N: Yes

***

Y/N’s texts have seemed distant today. Harry knows trying to decipher tone over text is not wise, but he can’t help it after their argument last night. He hoped that the flowers would show he’s thinking of her and he’s sorry. Not for recognizing that her friends treat her poorly or that she deserves better, but for conveying it in a way that came off as controlling.

He hates the idea of Y/N thinking that he wants to control her life. Sure, every time he sees her, he’s consumed with the primal urge to wrap her in his arms and shelter her from everything horrible in the world, and it takes everything to rein in that part of himself, but he would never want to make her feel like she’s not a person that can make her own decisions.

When she comes over that evening to go on their date together, he expects her to be just as distant as her messages. But she greets him at the door with a firm smooch on the lips, arms wrapped around his neck. He grins and takes in her appearance. An olive-coloured satin dress with a lace trim around the low neckline and a fuzzy brown jacket over it. Cute gold butterfly earrings. Her hair swept back in a low bun. She looks like a tiny fairy that flew over and put a little spell on him to make him weak in the knees.

“You look stunning.” He kisses her cheek, then adds with a sheepish laugh, “I realized this is my first time taking you out on a proper date. I’m not sure why it’s taken this long.”

He knows why it’s taken this long. Because he enjoys having her to himself when they’re at home, where he can cuddle and kiss and touch her however he likes and not worry about odd looks from anyone while he sniffs her hair when she’s not looking.

She smiles. “It’s okay. I like spending nights in with you…” Her gaze travels down his body, taking in his appearance now. A dark button-up, sleeves rolled to his forearms, and tailored trousers. His curls are more tamed than usual but not too perfect. “But it’s also nice seeing you like this.”

A smirk tugs at his lips. “Yeah?”

She nods, her eyes flicking down to his mouth, then back up. And he’s a goner.

He takes her face in his hands and kisses her hard, tongue finding hers with ease. She leans back against the door, her hand on the back of his head keeping him close. He reaches down to find the slit in her dress that exposes her thigh. His fingers trail up to her underwear.

She hums against his lips and pulls away briefly. “We’re going to be late.”

“That’s fine.” He bites her bottom lip. A soft whimper escapes her.

Dropping down to the floor, he hooks his fingers into her panties and pulls them down her legs. She steps out of them, her heels still on her feet. He adjusts the dress so it bunches up around her waist and tells her to hold it there. Then he lifts her right leg over his shoulder to give himself better access. And then he notices the arousal leaking out of her, the dampness along her inner thigh.

“What’s this?” He looks up, smirking when he finds her blushing.

“I was thinking about you on my way here,” she confesses, a little breathlessly.

“Thinking what about me?”

“Just… Your eyes. Your hands. Your mouth…” She swallows. “Your cock.”

The swelling in his pants intensifies. He digs his fingers into the thigh resting on his shoulder while his tongue nudges her hole. He licks a single line from her entrance to her clit. He’s not sure how it’s possible, but every time he tastes her, it feels like the first time and it makes him want to devour her even more. His tongue moves ardently between her folds. She nestles her fingers in his hair, grinding her hips against his mouth.

“Harry, that feels so good. Please don’t stop.”

Her moans get louder, thighs tensing around him as the orgasm sweeps through her. He licks her clean with his tongue, not missing a spot. Then he helps get her panties back on and rises to his feet. She looks unbelievably cute with her flushed cheeks and dazed eyes.

“Now we can go,” he says.

***

Harry’s hands keep finding her that night. A hand on her thigh as he drives them to the restaurant. On the small of her back as they enter. Caressing her arm as they peruse the menu together.

After ordering, he asks about her day and listens to her vent about a frustrating call she had with a client’s insurance company. Their food arrives fairly quickly. He’s about to dig in when he notices Y/N eyeing her plate oddly. Then he realizes.

“You asked for no mushrooms,” he states, noticing the mushrooms sprinkled all over her plate.

“It’s fine.” She waves a dismissive hand.

“You should tell them.”

“It’s no big deal.”

He glances around and makes eye contact with their server, waving her over.

Y/N gives him a look. “Harry…”

The server approaches their table.

“Hi, I think there’s been a mistake,” he says. “She asked for no mushrooms.”

The server’s brows shoot up. “Oh! I’m so sorry. We’ll get that fixed up right away.”

Harry gives her a polite smile. “Thank you.”

The server walks away with the plate.

Y/N glares at him.

“What?”

“I said it wasn’t a big deal,” she says in a hushed but firm tone.

His brows furrow. “Well, it is to me.”

She sighs and looks away, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Y/N—”

“I’m going to use the restroom.” She starts to scoot to the end of booth.

“You’re upset.”

“I’m not. I need to pee,” she says flatly without looking at him.

He stares down at his food after she leaves, pondering her reaction to what he thought was a kind thing to do. They brought her the wrong order; he spoke up because she didn’t want to. What was so bad about that? He thinks back to their fight last night.

Controlling.

Does she think he was being controlling again? He just wanted to make sure she gets what she asked for. She did say it wasn’t a big deal, but he thought she only said that to avoid being an inconvenience. Maybe he was too quick to assume she wanted him to speak up for her. Maybe she felt embarrassed. Maybe he should’ve asked first…

She returns a few minutes later. Her food has arrived by then too, without mushrooms this time. They eat in silence for a bit. Then she asks about his day. He tells her about the meetings he had with some of his foundation’s donors and the cute puppy he met on his run that morning, pulling up a picture on his phone. She coos at the happy little Corgi in the photo.

The rest of their night proceeds normally. They finish their food and share some cheesecake for dessert. He pays the bill. They head home.

When they reach his bedroom, he sits on the edge of the bed and begins unbuttoning his shirt, preparing to sleep. Y/N slips off her dress, leaving her in just her panties, then walks over to stand between his legs. She takes his face in her hands. His fingers freeze on the second last button of his shirt. He meets her gaze with curiosity.

“You said something last night,” she says.

He immediately knows what she’s referring to. He was worried after he said it. Worried that he chose the worst possible time—the middle of an argument—to say the three most important words. But they slipped out before he could even assess the context in which he was saying them. Maybe that’s what happens when you love someone as much as he loves Y/N—it eventually overflows through every crack and crevice.

“Did you mean it?” she asks, studying his face.

“Of course.”

“I love you too.” She plants a tender kiss to his lips.

His hands rest on her forearms, caressing her wrists with his thumbs. Then he shifts one hand to her hip, thumb tracing the lace on her panties. He’s already thinking about burying his face between her legs again, getting lost in the sweet scent and heavenly taste, but before he can do anything, she sinks down to her knees on the floor.

He watches as she finishes undoing the last two buttons on his shirt, letting it fall open. Then she unzips his pants and releases his hardening cock from its confines. He leans back against his hands on the bed, inhaling a shaky breath as she wraps one hand around the base and her lips around the tip. Her gorgeous eyes blink up at him as she takes more of him into her mouth, tongue stroking the underside of his cock deliciously. She bobs her head along his length, stroking whatever’s left of him with her hand.

“Look so pretty like that,” he says. “Taking my cock on your knees. Just the filthiest sight.”

She closes her eyes and moans around him.

“Touch yourself,” he tells her. “But don’t come.”

Her free hand disappears between her legs, fingers rubbing her clit while she continues sucking him.

“Good girl. So good for me.”

He places a hand on the back of her head, applying some pressure, guiding her mouth along his cock. His tip makes contact with the back of her throat with every other thrust, which alone might drive him to madness. Her moans send the most gratifying vibrations down his length.

He pulls out before he can come and takes a second to enjoy the sight of her. The drool and pre-cum coating her chin. Eyes gazing up at him as if he hung the moon in the sky just for her.

“Get up here, sweet girl.”

As she stands, he positions her face down across his lap. He pulls off her panties and spreads apart her legs. He can see the arousal glistening between her thighs before feeling it with his fingers. She makes a sound when his hand makes contact with her clit, burying her face into her forearm.

“Got yourself nice and wet for me,” he says with approval, inserting a finger into her slick hole.

She squirms in his lap, pushing back against his hand. He removes his finger and lands a sharp spank on her bum, making her squeal.

“Stay still,” he warns.

She whines in protest but obeys, keeping her hips in place as he inserts two fingers this time, nudging them in and out at an agonizingly slow pace.

“Harry, please,” she groans, her toes curling.

“Please?”

“I need more!”

He smiles. “Getting greedy, are we?”

“Not greedy. Just…”

“Needy?”

She nods.

“Yeah? Are you my needy little slut, Y/N?”

She nods again, moaning. He relishes the filthy sounds her soaking pussy makes each time he thrusts his fingers inside and the way she struggles to keep herself still but tries anyway. Then he retracts his fingers and takes his time licking her juices off of them, savouring the taste.

“Stand up and bend over the bed,” he says.

As she gets into position, he moves to stand behind her, somehow still in his unbuttoned shirt and trousers. He runs a hand down her spine and over her ass, spanking her once before pressing his cock directly into her pussy. She cries out, hands clawing at the sheets. He lets out a low groan as he bottoms out inside her.

“Fuck,” he breathes. It’s like her pussy was made for him, the way her walls adjust so perfectly to his length, clenching around him just right, forcing him in deeper.

He fists a hand in her hair and starts pounding into her. The sound of his hips slapping against her ass fills the room, but his ears zone in on her moans and whimpers and pleas to fuck her harder.

“So needy for me,” he chuckles darkly. “My perfect needy slut.”

His fingers tighten in her hair, pulling her head slightly off the bed. His other hand grips her hip, keeping her steady while he fucks her senseless.

“Harry, I’m going to come. I— Please—”

“Come for me, baby.”

And she does, the orgasm turning her into a quivering mess beneath him. But he’s determined to coax a second one out of her, so he doesn’t slow down, only thrusting in deeper and harder, grinding his hips against her ass. She screams out as she comes a second time. He joins in now, letting the elation consume him as he lets go inside her.

They’re still for a moment, their breathing gradually slowing in tandem. Then he helps her stand back up on shaky legs, gathering her into his arms, praising how well she did for him.

“Love you. I love you,” she murmurs into his chest.

He kisses the top of her head. “I love you too.”

He finally takes off his clothes, leaving them both naked. They decide to take a warm shower before bed, scrubbing each other clean and deliriously giggling over nothing. Soon, they’re curled up in bed, limbs tangled, drifting off together.

***

The next few days are quiet, peaceful. They have a lazy weekend, going outside only to stroll through the neighbourhood and admire the changing colours of the leaves. Y/N notices that Harry seems different. He pauses before doing things for her, asks instead of assuming. It’s not perfect—she still has to talk him out of driving back to the Thai place when they forget to add the guava candy she loves into their takeout bags—but she realizes he’s trying.

That Friday, she arrives at the clinic for another day of back-to-back sessions, though there are a couple clients she’s really looking forward to seeing. She tries not to grow attached, of course, but she’s human and it happens sometimes.

She’s taking off her coat in her office when she hears someone in the waiting room. It’s a tall blonde woman who appears to be in her early twenties with thick eyeliner around her large brown eyes. Y/N doesn’t think her eyes could possibly be any bigger until they widen at the sight of her.

“Y/N! It is so nice to meet you. I’m really looking forward to working together.” The woman holds out a hand for her to shake, but Y/N just squints at her, trying to figure out who this person is and how she knows her name.

“I’m so sorry, but who are you?” she finally asks.

“Uh, Vanessa? Your new receptionist?” She eventually retracts her untouched hand, clutching the strap of her bag instead.

Y/N’s frown deepens. “My new… receptionist?”

She nods. “Harry hired me. I used to work for his foundation. He said you had a position open and asked if I’d be interested.”

“Huh.” She can’t help the way her facial expression contorts into an irritated glare.

“Should I just set up over there?” Vanessa points to the front desk. “Or maybe there’s paperwork to do first? I already got the background check, as Harry requested. I also have the—”

Y/N has zoned out at this point. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she feels guilty for being impolite to this poor stranger, but the guilt is drowned out by her exasperation with Harry. She has half a mind to pull out her phone and call him up right now to ask why he thought hiring a whole employee for her clinic (hers!) without discussing it with her first was a good idea, but she has a session in a few minutes and she needs to maintain composure.

She ends up leaving Vanessa with some basic tasks of cleaning and organizing the back room, which Harry had mostly done weeks ago, but she can’t think of much else on the spot and she doesn’t exactly have time to train Vanessa on anything.

Compartmentalizing her feelings about the situation carries her through the day. She sends Vanessa home well before 5 p.m., waving off her concerns about “not getting much done today.” Although she has several session notes to complete, she decides to put it off and head out early for once. It happens that she pulls into Harry’s driveway right as he’s getting out of his own car.

He automatically smiles when he sees her, walking around his car to greet her.

“You got me a receptionist?” she says, stopping him in his tracks a few feet away.

He tilts his head to the side. “Vanessa? Yeah, she’s great! She worked for the foundation a while back. I thought I’d pay her for a month, and you can see what you think. I think you’ll like her though.”

“Harry, you can’t just hire a receptionist for my clinic without talking to me first.”

His smile falters. “Well, I thought you’d say no.”

“Exactly!” She splays her hands up in the air before letting them drop by her sides. “If you had talked to me, I would’ve told you that I don’t want this.”

“Y/N, you work twelve-hour days—”

“More like ten.”

“—And it’s because you’re doing it all on your own. You shouldn’t have to deal with all the scheduling, billing, and insurance on top of seeing clients.”

“You don’t get to make that decision for me.”

He just stares at her wordlessly.

“You keep deciding what I need before I even get the chance to tell you!” She can feel her voice going up an octave and pauses to take a breath. “This is my clinic. I get to decide who works there. You know how I felt walking in there this morning? It felt like I wasn’t the owner anymore.”

His brows pinch together. “That’s not— I was just trying to help, lovie.”

“But this isn’t helping. I didn’t ask for this.”

“I—I’m sorry.”

He takes a step forward. She takes one back.

“I think I need some space,” she says, rubbing her forehead and averting her gaze.

“Y/N, I’m sorry. I overstepped.” There’s something in his voice that she isn’t used to hearing from him. Panic? Fear?

“You’re suffocating me, Harry,” she says quietly, her own chest constricting at the words, but what’s more painful is the look on his face as she says it. The way he deflates. “I need to be on my own for a bit.”

She gets back in her car and tries not to look at him as she pulls out of the driveway because she knows his sad eyes will make her tear up and she’ll be driving home blind.

***

For the next week, every time Y/N’s phone buzzes with a notification, she expects it to be him. But it never is. He has been respecting her request for space. She can’t say she doesn’t miss him though. She misses him when she wakes up alone, when she gets in her car, when she goes home to her empty apartment, which was once just fine.

But intermingled with all the longing is her lingering frustration with him. She can’t get past how he thinks it’s okay to decide what’s best for her without even consulting her, and she’s reminded of that every time she sees Vanessa behind the front desk, who she still hasn’t fired because it doesn’t seem fair to let the poor girl get caught up in her and Harry’s quarrel.

At first, the protectiveness just looked like love, but it has since turned into something else—a threat to her autonomy—and she can’t have that. She rebuilt this clinic from the ground up after Mark burnt it all down. That wouldn’t have been possible if she wasn’t competent and capable all on her own.

When she goes to Poppy’s place for a group hangout that weekend, she’s already not feeling her best. She sits in her car for five minutes, staring out the windshield with a dazed look, before heading inside. It’s their usual dynamic at first, everyone talking over each other, not letting anyone finish a thought before moving on to the next, voices getting louder with each minute. Y/N gets interrupted five times, mostly by Poppy, and it grates on her nerves more than ever before.

“Can’t believe Cindy bailed,” Poppy says.

“Did she say why?” asks Jamal.

“Just that she has some work thing again.” She rolls her eyes, pursing her lips. “You know, I don’t even think her job is as demanding as she makes it seem. She’s in marketing, for fuck’s sake.”

“People are allowed to cancel on plans, Poppy,” Y/N interjects.

Everyone turns to her, like she spoke for the first time that day.

“Okay, Y/N. That was rude,” says Poppy.

Y/N narrows her eyes. “What?”

“That sounded so judgmental.”

The irony feels like a slap in Y/N’s face. All Poppy does is judge other people, from complete strangers to dear friends. For her to accuse anyone else of being judgmental is so absurd that it makes Y/N laugh out loud.

“It kind of did,” Jamal agrees, making Y/N even more bewildered.

Sara just looks away, quietly sipping her beer.

“Anyway,” Poppy says, changing the topic.

The interaction leaves Y/N fuming in her corner of the couch. Her face is hot. Angry, exhausted tears prick the backs of her eyes, but she holds them in. She contributes nothing to the conversation after that, not that anyone notices she’s acting any different. They don’t know her. They never have.

At some point, they’re talking about renting out a cottage for the holidays.

“Y/N, you should ask your sugar daddy to rent one out for us,” says Poppy in that annoying singsong voice of hers. The condescension masked behind a thin veil of hospitality.

“I’m not doing that,” Y/N snaps.

“Why not? All you have to do is bat your eyes and he’ll open his wallet.”

“Fuck off, Poppy. Like, seriously, fuck off.”

Everyone’s eyes widen. The silence in the room is palpable.

“I was just kidding, Y/N.” Poppy laughs nervously, shifting in her seat. “You know I was just kidding.”

“No. I’m tired of your little jabs and jokes that aren’t funny to anyone but you. I’m done.”

She stands up and walks straight out the door, not looking back. As soon as she gets in her car, she takes out her phone and pulls up her text conversation with Cindy. Her fingers tremble as she types.

Y/N: I hate Poppy

Y/N: I hate all of them

Tossing her phone on the passenger seat, she starts her car and pulls onto the road. Her heart is racing. Her hands grip the steering wheel hard enough to mask the tremors. The adrenaline is the only thing keeping her tears at bay. For now.

Cindy calls two minutes later, her name popping up on the centre display. Y/N picks up.

“I hate them,” she states, voice dripping with venom.

“I know,” her friend replies.

“Why did I ever think I’d fit in with them, Cin?” She lets out a humourless laugh. “I’ve never fit in. Not in high school. Not now.”

“Okay, that’s not true. You’ve got me. You’ve got Harry—”

“Harry and I haven’t talked in a week.” Her voice breaks now, the adrenaline wearing off quickly with the mention of the man she loves, replaced simply by heartache.

“What happened?”

“He keeps trying to fix things! He got me a receptionist for the clinic without talking to me first. He thinks he’s helping, but it’s becoming too much.” She wipes the tears streaming down her face now. “It’s overbearing.”

She vaguely mentioned to Cindy a couple weeks ago that Harry’s protectiveness was starting to overwhelm her, so none of this comes as a shock.

Cindy pauses before responding, “Do you think maybe that’s just… his way of expressing his love? Like, he thinks he has to solve your problems and make your life easier to show he loves you, but to you, it comes across as overbearing?”

“That’s probably it.” She sighs, pulling over to the side of the road because she definitely should not be driving when she’s this worked up. “But I don’t need him to do all that. I just need to know he’s there for me, not to swoop in at the first sign of danger but to trust that I’m capable of handling things. Am I crazy to want that?”

“Of course not. You just need to tell him.”

She chews on that for a moment. Then her mind returns to her outburst from five minutes ago.

“What about Poppy and them?”

“Fuck them,” Cindy says calmly. “You don’t need that energy in your life.”

“I don’t want you to have to choose between me and them.”

“Meh. I’ve already been pulling away. Why do you think I wasn’t there tonight?”

Y/N releases a sigh of relief, feeling some of the tension in her shoulders loosen. “You’re the best, Cin.”

She can hear the smile in her best friend’s voice as she responds, “You deserve nothing less.”

***

Harry has had the worst week. As if Y/N not talking to him wasn’t bad enough, he fucked up his hip trying to help his elderly neighbours across the street lift their massive old dresser out of their house.

His hip has been weak for years. He injured it a few times while playing hockey and decided to push through until he literally couldn’t anymore, his body revolting against his decision in the form of debilitating hip pain. Surgery and physical therapy worked wonders, but they didn’t magically return his hip to its original condition.

This is his first flare-up in a while, but it’s a bad one. A deep ache runs along the front of his hip and groin area every time he stands up. He’s been limping around the house. Getting comfortable in bed at night is damn near impossible, leaving him awake at odd hours.

He doesn’t mind the pain. He can handle pain. What he can’t handle is how slow it makes him. The mere task of walking from one part of the house to another takes twice as long. When he gets up from the couch, he has to wait a few seconds for the stiffness to subside before moving. Even putting on a pair of socks takes fucking forever.

Layer on his heartache about Y/N, and he’s downright miserable. He told himself he was helping. That he was making her life easier. But the truth is uglier than that. When he sees a problem, he has to fix it because he can’t stand feeling useless. It’s the same thing that drove him to push through injuries and play through pain until his body gave out. The thing that made him start his foundation. His unrelenting need to fix.

But Y/N is a person. And he keeps treating her like a project. Countless times this week, he found himself staring at his phone, typing out a message to her, then deleting it.

I’m sorry.

Please talk to me.

You don’t have to talk to me. Just tell me you’re okay?

I miss you.

I love you.

It takes everything in his power not to send those messages. She asked for space. He’s going to give her space, dammit. Even if it kills him. Even if it makes this hip flare-up feel worse than it is.

The house has felt so cold and hollow and lifeless without her around. It used to feel lonely, living here all by himself, especially post-retirement. But he found his coping mechanisms—running, playing hockey recreationally with friends, foundation work. Now he can feel himself slipping back into that loneliness, but without the same coping mechanisms because his hip won’t cooperate.

On the tenth day—yes, he’s been counting—since his fight with Y/N, he’s genuinely considering driving to her clinic and parking across the street just to catch a glimpse of her. Is it creepy? Yes. Has the past week driven him to insanity? Possibly.

He’s on the couch with an ice pack attached to his hip, weighing the pros and cons of this foolish idea, when the doorbell rings. He groans. It must be his package. He ordered a new heating pad recently since his old one is over five years old.

He braces himself as he stands up, pausing to let his body adjust. Then he carefully walks to the door, ready to greet the delivery driver. But that’s not who he finds.

“Y/N?”

“Hi.” She gives him a small smile. She’s dressed in a cozy sweater with black tights, her hair pulled up in a messy ponytail, a few strands falling loose around her face. God, he missed her.

“Hey. Um, come in.” He steps aside, letting her in before shutting the door.

“I was hoping we could talk,” she says.

Fuck. She’s here to break up with him. Fuck.

He tries to ignore his heart plummeting in his chest and gestures towards the couch, letting her walk in front of him so he could limp behind her. But she notices. Of course she does. She notices the way he winces as he sits down next to her. She notices the ice packs. The painkillers.

“You okay?” she asks, studying him to figure out what’s wrong.

“Yeah.”

She gives him a look.

“It’s my hip.”

Her brows furrow. “Did you get hurt?”

“It’s an old injury. From hockey. It just flared up recently when I was helping a neighbour move their dresser.”

“Oh no. How bad is it?”

“Not terrible. Just… hard to do some things.”

“Like what?”

“Um, walking. Sitting. Sleeping.”

“So… everything?”

He laughs softly. “Pretty much.”

“Have you been resting?”

“Yes. Mostly.”

Another look.

“I hate sitting around.”

Her gaze drops to his hip, where he’s now holding an ice pack. The frown is still there, etched between her brow. He doesn’t like her seeing him like this. Not because he’s ashamed of the pain, but because this version of him—weakened, slow, useless—is so different from the way he views himself.

“I didn’t know you had hip problems,” she says quietly.

He shrugs. “I don’t like talking about it. It’s why I retired.”

She nods, understanding.

“You wanted to talk?”

“We can do that later.”

“No, it’s fine. We can do it now.” If she’s here to break up with him, he’d rather just have her rip off the band-aid and leave him to wallow in his misery alone.

“Okay…” She still seems hesitant, her gaze flicking from his hip to his eyes. “Well, I’ve been thinking a lot about why I was so angry… And part of it was because you weren’t wrong.”

He blinks a few times, trying to hide his surprise.

“It has been a lot, trying to do everything myself. Especially with the amount of clients I’m seeing. But the solution isn’t a receptionist. I need to reduce my caseload, restructure my schedule. That’s something I needed to decide for myself.”

He shifts on the couch, wincing when his hip protests. Y/N watches him unsurely.

“Sorry. Continue,” he encourages.

“It’s not the first time something like this has happened. You do it a lot. Making decisions for me. I know you’re trying to help, but it’s starting to feel like I don’t have autonomy in this relationship.”

He forces himself to keep his mouth shut and listen rather than getting defensive. He’s done plenty of reflecting of his own these past ten days, and something he’s realized is that his true intentions are not always translated through his actions.

“I’ve seen clients have relationships like that. They don’t last. Even when they do, one person ends up resenting the other. I don’t want that for us.”

She’s silent then, giving him the floor.

“Neither do I,” he says. “I don’t know why I’m like this. I don’t know why I feel the need to…”

“Fix things?”

He nods. “I don’t do it because I think you’re incapable or weak. You’re the toughest person I know. I just…” His eyes widen. “Fuck, maybe I am controlling.”

She smiles sweetly and reaches for his hand. “You’re not controlling, Harry. You just have a big heart, and you get carried away.”

He stares at their intertwined hands. “I’m scared I don’t know how to be any different. I like feeling needed.”

“You are needed. But not in the way you think. You don’t need to save me. You don’t need to be ‘Harry the fixer.’ You just need to be… Harry.”

For a moment, he imagines what that would look like. Not Harry the fixer. Just Harry. Not stepping in to save the day. Not anticipating every need before it arises. Not making every decision. Just being present, available, supportive.

“I’m sorry I took your choice away,” he says.

She scoots closer to hug him, but when the couch shifts with her weight, his hip screams at him. He winces. She freezes and stands up, leaning down to hug him instead.

“I feel like I’m sixty years old,” he says, hugging her back, though not as tightly as he would’ve liked to.

“Take solace in the fact that you’d make a sexy sixty-year-old.”

He laughs.

She straightens up. “Okay. What can I get for you? Water? Food? Have you eaten yet?”

“You don’t have to do that.”

She places her hands on her hips. “You’re not the only one that likes feeling needed.”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “I haven’t had lunch yet.”

“On it. You stay right there.” She points at him with a stern look before disappearing into the kitchen.

He finally relaxes into the couch, soothed by the sound of her footsteps in the next room, opening and closing the fridge, rearranging pots and pans, humming softly while she works. And he smiles to himself.

***

It turns out Harry is just as bad, if not worse, at receiving help as Y/N. He tries to do everything himself, even though he can barely walk without being in pain.

“It’s not that bad,” he’ll say, then proceed to demonstrate that it is, in fact, that bad.

It’s actually somewhat amusing for Y/N because she realizes this is exactly how she sounds when she tries to pretend that everything is fine. They’re both shit at acting. At least around each other.

She helps him get comfortable in bed that night with a heating pad wrapped around his hip and an extra pillow under his leg. Then she gets under the covers on her side of the bed.

“You’re so far away,” he whines, reaching for her.

“I don’t want to hurt you!”

“You won’t. Come here.”

She slides into his arms, placing her head on his chest. He lets out a content sigh. As they lie there, she remembers an important update she has yet to share with him.

“By the way,” she says, “you’ll be happy to hear you were right about Poppy and them.”

“That doesn’t make me happy at all, lovie. Are you okay?”

She nods and lifts her head to look at him. “I told Poppy to fuck off.”

A proud smirk tugs at his lips. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you feel about it?” His eyes search her face.

“Relieved… Sad.”

He kisses her forehead, gently stroking her hair. She rests her head back down.

“I always thought something was wrong with me,” she says. “High school. College. After college. Always feeling like the outsider.”

“You know what I think?”

She smiles. “You’re going to tell me anyway.”

“I think you’ve been trying too hard to fit into places that weren’t made for you. I think when you find the right people, you won’t even have to try. Because it’ll feel easy and natural.”

“Like coming home.”

“Exactly.”

“Like I feel with Cindy…” She looks at him again. “Like I feel with you?”

He grins. “I would hope so.”

She kisses him on the lips, soft and tender.

When she pulls away, he says, “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to help this old man take off this heating pad. It’s getting way too hot.”

She chuckles, moving before he even finishes his sentence. “I got you.”

***

It’s Y/N’s last day at the clinic before she takes two weeks off for the holidays. Something she never would’ve done in previous years.

“But my clients need me!” she’d argue when Cindy suggested she take some proper time off over Christmas.

But things are different now. The dangers of sacrificing her own needs for the benefit of others are so much clearer to her. The very real possibility of burnout, which she naively considered herself immune to, is also clearer to her. To put it simply, she’s done with putting herself last on the priority list.

Now she’s at her desk, about to shut down her work computer when her email pings. The subject line makes her smile before she even opens the email.

Subject: Thank you

Hi Y/N,

I wanted to let you know that I settled into a new apartment six months ago. My new job is going well, I’ve made a lot of friends there. I might actually be going on a first date this weekend. I’m safe, happy, and hopeful. I wanted to thank you for helping me navigate my trauma and get to a better place in my life. I truly appreciate everything you’ve done for me.

Happy holidays!

Sincerely,

Yasmin

Y/N is smiling from ear-to-ear by the second sentence and tearing up by the last one. Yasmin was a former client trapped in an abusive relationship. Together, over the span of two years, they formed a plan to help her leave safely and create a new life where she wasn’t constantly living in fear. To read that she’s still thriving makes Y/N want to ugly cry happy tears. She keeps it together enough to type out a response, making sure Yasmin knows she did the work herself.

After hitting send, she shuts down her computer. Her phone buzzes.

H: Done for the day?

Y/N: Yeah, you?

H: Same. I’m outside. Got you a little something…

She hurries to make sure everything is in its place and all the lights are off before locking up. Harry’s car is parked directly in front of the clinic. He’s dressed in a hockey jersey and jeans, his hair hidden under a black beanie, a hot drink in each hand. He looks up when she walks over, greeting him with a kiss.

“Hot chocolate,” he says, holding out the cup in his left hand.

She caresses his cheek, tempted to squeeze it. “Sweetest boyfriend over.”

He chuckles. As they get into his car, he asks, “So. Are you ready to go to your first ever hockey game?”

They’ve been watching several games this season on TV together. Y/N asks a lot of questions—why do they fight so much, how is that allowed, why is the net open, where is the goalie?!—and Harry patiently answers each one. It’s been a fun, enlightening introduction to his world. Now she gets to see it in person. Cindy and her new partner are also meeting them there.

“I am,” she answers. “The real question is: are you ready to answer my stupid questions about the game every five minutes?”

He starts the car and backs out, his hand automatically resting on her thigh. “No such thing as a stupid question, my love.”

“I’d beg to differ.”

On the way to the arena, they exchange updates about their day, everything from the mundane to the extraordinary. Y/N tells him about the thank you email. Harry tells her about the new donors he had lunch with. She notices how easy it is, how safe she feels. Safe, happy, and hopeful. Just like Yasmin.

“OH, MY GOD YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN IT”

Looking up from your papers, you see your client; Gojo Satoru, at the door with his arms spread and a joyish grin on his face.

“Hello Satoru” You murmured, a gentle smile on your face as if you haven't done this every day for the past two years.

Satoru greeted you with a friendly greeting and carried on speaking while his life is on the line, while sitting on the chair opposite you. You checked the time when your next appointment and saw that it was soon but a certain blue — eyed person was here right now.

"Hey Satoru," You cut him off apologetically from his rambling "But why are you here if you're not actually going to speak about your problems?”

Gojo felt fear rush through him and in a flash, he was kneeling by your side and kissing your knuckles "I'm so disappointed in myself, I have disregarded my beautiful girl's feeling. Forgive me angel, how was your day?"

You chuckled as Satoru kissed your forefinger, your metal ring, cold against his lips “I will be forever grateful that Nanami introduced me to such a beautiful soul"

"And I'm not surprised that girls fall for your charm when you use it to get out tricky situations" Satoru just simply smirked at you

"Satoru, as much as I enjoy your company, I believe you have to go soon because I have a client coming in, in less than 20 minutes" You continued talking and by the end of your speech, Satoru was giving you puppy eyes.

You sighed, looked to the time and back to Satoru's blue puppy eyes and you reluctantly gave in "Fine, but you have to leave when I tell you okay?"

And so Satoru grinned brightly and chatted away, while sitting opposite you, and you shared that beautiful smile with him, adoration in your eyes and he wondered, i'll tell her soon.

Simon, who has a hard time expressing his gratitude to his Sergeant, but he can show it in more 'unconventional' ways. Simon, who needs to feel Johnny close to him in bed, in order to have a good night's sleep. Simon, who cannot help but imagine what a life with Soap would be like, if he were to retire from the military altogether. Simon, who feels his mouth dry a little, whenever he glances at even a sliver of Soap's exposed skin from his too-loose tank tops. (Summer has been brutal this time around, for some reason and Soap has been killing him with his tempting body, to be frank.)

Simon who's instructed by Price to go to therapy/get a psych eval before he re-joins the task force. Simon, who along with Soap, is forced to look through newspapers and online articles and reviews until he stumbles upon a therapist who specializes in veterans and is covered by his insurance, thank fuck.

Soap drives Simon to the therapist and even stays in the reception hall while Simon goes through a session, but by God is he distracted by how pretty his therapist is. You're just the most beautiful woman he had probably laid his eyes on in years, and he's pretty sure the filthy thoughts he has for you are totally inappropriate and only reserved for you and Soap. Simon has his dark eyes flutter shut and move around the room, trying his best not to ogle you but failing anyway as he notices your cleavage in your tight white blouse. He's aloof, and curt - if only to save you from the depravity that has consumed his brain.

He wonders how you'd react if he were to bend you over that office table of yours and fuck your brains out. You always look so stressed, you seem like you need it - need someone to take care of you the way you seem to be trying to 'take care' of him.

You're frustrated. You know that someone like Simon clearly has gone through hell, and you want to help him, but you're out of your depth regarding how to assist him. You almost refer him to a more experienced therapist, that is until Simon decides to show you a glimpse or two into his life - telling you about his mother and about Tommy, rarely would he be amenable to talking about his late father though. And you wouldn't force him to talk about things he doesn't wish to touch upon either.

He would sometimes talk about Johnny - 'a dear friend' of his who is helping him out during his recovery. He would sometimes get this almost fond look in his eyes, and you'd wonder how long it takes for Simon to realize that Johnny is more than a friend to him.

Simon talks briefly about his time in the military, almost all names and, places, and information are hidden for your safety. The first time he musters up the courage to talk about his father, he couldn't stop tapping his foot against the marble floor, his hands trembling as he recalls memories of his terrible childhood. Seeing the behemoth of a man

Simon, who finds himself falling deeper in love with Soap, and yet feels shame surrounding him at the prospect of his obsession with his sweet little therapist and her caring attitude. Simon, who wants to be happy just this once, and have the family that he so desperately craves and deserves after the shitty life he had to suffer through, decides to finally plan how to bring you and Johnny closer to him - creating a safe haven for all three of you.

You don't know that he has your phone tapped and that he has been able to track out your address (thanks to military connections). You barely pay attention to the stuffed toy on your vanity table, unaware of the nanny cam inside of it that allows Simon to spy on your every move. He's a gentleman, still. So he doesn't necessarily spy on you when you change into your clothes, or get out of the shower - wet and dripping, your soft body wrapped up in a towel. He definitely tries his best to ignore the hard boner he pops even at the slightest show of your skin.

Soap gets increasingly worried at the prospect of Simon regularly going to the therapist, and then disappearing into his study room for hours on end - barely speaking a word to him ever since he started taking therapy seriously.

On one such day, when Simon leaves for therapy on his own, he insists that Soap stays home and rests - he's been working so hard and clearly deserves to have a day to himself. In his hurry to meet you, the lieutenant leaves his study room unlocked and unguarded - and Johnny lets his curiosity get the best of him. 

Johnny spots the still-open laptop, and surfs through it all - his mind feeling a concoction of disgust, envy, and even awe as he notices how thorough Simon had been when it came to not only vetting you but also keeping eyes on you constantly through secretive means. The device has probably hundreds of hours of footage of you and to be honest, the more he snoops around, the more he can see why Ghost would go out of his way to do it. 

"She's perfect, ain't she?" Simon grumbles from behind him, and Johnny feels his heart fall to his stomach. He realizes that leaving the room unlocked was not a mistake, but rather an intentional move on his partner's behalf. 

The masked man claps his shoulder with his firm hand, egging him on to watch you relax in your office - leaning back into your leather armchair, your chest heaving as you close your eyes and relax before your next patient arrives. 

"Made for both of us", Simon goads him, and Johnny cannot find it in himself to disagree. 

Note -