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Chapter One — Six Years Later 

There was exactly one person Y/N had hoped wouldn’t be at the wedding. Unfortunately, he was already standing at the entrance. 

Harry Styles leaned against one of the pale stone pillars framing the guesthouse door, a ceramic mug resting between both hands while he listened to something Ben was saying. The sleeves of his dark jumper had been pushed carelessly to his elbows, revealing his forearms, and the afternoon light caught the edge of his face whenever he tipped his head back to laugh. He hadn’t noticed the car yet. Y/N had. Her fingers remained wrapped around the passenger-side door handle, although she had stopped halfway through opening it. Beside her, Emma switched off the engine. The music vanished, leaving the inside of the car so quiet that Y/N could hear the faint ticking of the cooling engine. Neither of them moved. 

“Don’t,” Y/N said. 

Emma hadn’t even turned towards her. “I haven’t said anything.” 

“You inhaled.” 

“I do that quite often.” 

“You inhaled judgementally.” Emma glanced through the windscreen, then back at Y/N. “He looks good.” 

Y/N closed her eyes. “That was exactly what I told you not to say.” 

“You told me not to say anything. You didn’t specify what.” 

“I hate you.” 

“No, you don’t.” 

Outside, Ben said something else. Harry smiled into his mug, completely unaware that six years of carefully constructed distance were sitting inside a silver car less than thirty metres away. Y/N had spent most of the drive convincing herself that the reunion wouldn’t matter. They were adults now. They had careers, separate lives and an entire collection of experiences that had nothing to do with one another. Whatever had once existed between them belonged to university corridors, badly lit student bars and one evening neither of them had handled particularly well. She had been twenty-one. He had been twenty-two. They had been impulsive, defensive and too proud to admit how much the opinion of the other mattered. Six years should have been enough to make him ordinary. Instead, the sight of him had made her forget how car doors worked. 

Emma rested one arm over the steering wheel. “We can still turn around.” Y/N looked at her. 

“I’m serious,” Emma continued. “We fake a family emergency. Something dramatic but not tragic. Your aunt has locked herself in a conservatory.” 

“I don’t have an aunt with a conservatory.” 

“He doesn’t know that.” 

“Olivia does.” 

“We’ll say she developed an interest in gardening recently.” 

A reluctant smile tugged at Y/N’s mouth. “You’d drive four hours back home?” 

“I’d complain the entire way.” 

“Comforting.” 

“That’s friendship.” 

Y/N released the door handle and leaned back against the seat. The guesthouse stood at the end of a long gravel driveway, surrounded by colourful gardens, open fields and a thick line of trees that climbed towards the hills. It was larger than the photographs Olivia had sent, an old country estate converted into accommodation, with ivy crawling over pale stone and wide windows reflecting the summer sky. 

Cars filled one side of the courtyard. Music drifted through an open window, mixed with voices and an occasional burst of laughter from somewhere behind the house. 

They were among friends. People Y/N had known for almost a decade. People who had seen her drunk, heartbroken, overworked and once wearing a traffic cone as a hat because Mason had dared her to. There was no reason to be nervous. Except for the man at the entrance. 

Emma’s expression softened. “You knew he’d be here.” 

“I knew logically.” 

“And emotionally?” 

“I was hoping he’d catch a mild but inconvenient virus.” 

“Very mature.” 

“I’ve grown tremendously.” 

Emma studied her for a moment. “When did you last see him?” 

“Graduation.” 

“That was genuinely the last time?” 

They had lived in different cities after university. Harry moved to London for an architecture placement that became a permanent job, while Y/N accepted a position in Manchester before eventually beginning to work independently as an interior designer. The group had tried to remain close, but adult life reduced spontaneous weekends to carefully negotiated dates in calendars. Harry attended gatherings she missed. She attended the ones he couldn’t make. At first, the timing had been accidental. Eventually, Y/N stopped asking. 

She knew enough through the others to understand that he was doing well. He had become an architect, travelled often for projects and apparently worked far too much. She knew he had dated someone for nearly a year because Olivia had mentioned the breakup during a phone call. She knew he had moved flats twice and once broken his wrist while attempting something Mason refused to explain. She did not know the details. That had been deliberate. Mostly. 

Emma tilted her head. “You’ve looked at his profile.” 

Y/N turned sharply. “What?” 

“You have.” 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“You did that thing with your mouth.” 

“What thing?” 

“The guilty thing.” 

“I don’t have a guilty mouth.” 

Emma laughed. “How many times?” 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“So more than once.” 

“Everyone looks at people online.” 

“Not everyone scrolls through six years of photographs at two in the morning.” 

“I did not scroll through six years.” 

“Four?” 

Y/N looked through the windscreen again. 

Emma gasped theatrically. “You did.” 

“It was one time.” 

“You paused.” 

“Fine. Twice.” 

“Mhm.” 

“Maybe three times, but one of them was because Olivia tagged him.” 

“Of course.” 

Y/N pushed the car door open before Emma could continue. “We’re going inside.” 

“Suddenly eager?” 

“I’d rather face him than this conversation.” 

“That’s the spirit.” 

Warm air met Y/N as she stepped onto the gravel. Her legs felt stiff after the journey, and she took longer than necessary to straighten the fabric of her cream trousers before walking towards the boot. Emma joined her, still visibly entertained, and began unloading their bags. Harry remained beneath the entrance arch. Y/N kept her head down as she lifted her suitcase from the car, concentrating on extending the handle. It caught halfway. She pressed the release button again. Nothing happened. 

“Need help?” Emma asked. 

“No.” 

“You’ve been fighting it for thirty seconds.” 

“I have it.” 

“You’re pressing the wrong button.” 

Y/N looked down. 

Emma reached across and pressed the button beside her thumb. The handle extended immediately. 

“Thank you,” Y/N muttered. 

“Any time.” 

When she finally looked up, Harry was watching her. Ben had disappeared inside. Harry stood alone now, his mug abandoned on the low stone wall beside him, and the easy smile had left his face. For several seconds, neither of them reacted. 

Y/N had imagined this moment occasionally over the years, although never when she was prepared to admit it. In some versions, Harry looked exactly as he had at twenty-two: curls falling into his eyes, a careless grin on his mouth and the restless energy of someone who believed every night could become a story. 

In others, she passed him unexpectedly in a crowded station or found him sitting at a table with their friends. He would look at her, she would look at him, and somehow she would know exactly what to say. 

Reality offered no useful dialogue. Harry was different. The most obvious changes were physical. His shoulders were broader, his features more defined and his hair shorter around the sides, though still long enough on top to curl in the warm air. Light stubble shadowed his jaw, and there was something steadier in the way he held himself. University Harry had demanded attention without appearing to try. This Harry didn’t seem to need it. 

The confidence remained, but it had settled beneath his skin instead of spilling from him. He looked like someone who had learnt when to speak, when to wait and how dangerous silence could be when used properly. 

His gaze moved slowly across Y/N’s face, as though confirming details his memory had preserved. Then the corner of his mouth lifted. Not the careless grin she remembered. Something smaller. Almost uncertain. Y/N’s chest tightened. 

“Still time to run,” Emma whispered. 

“Shut up.” 

Harry stepped away from the entrance. Y/N gripped the handle of her suitcase and began walking before she could reconsider. Emma fell into step beside her, the wheels crunching over the gravel. The distance between them shortened far too quickly. Harry greeted Emma first. 

“Hi.” 

She abandoned her suitcase and hugged him without hesitation. “Look at you.” 

Harry laughed as he wrapped both arms around her. “That sounds threatening.” 

“You look offensively healthy.” 

“I sleep now.” 

“Disgusting.” 

“I’ve also discovered vegetables.” 

“Marriage material.” 

“Don’t start.” 

Emma pulled back, holding him at arm’s length. “It’s been ages.” 

“It has.” His attention moved past her. “How was the drive?” 

“Long. Y/N threatened to abandon me at a service station because I wouldn’t let her choose the music.” 

“I threatened to drive myself,” Y/N corrected. 

“You don’t know the route.” 

“I have maps.” 

“You missed the exit while holding the map.” 

Harry’s gaze settled fully on Y/N. There it was again—the pause. The sense that everyone else had slipped slightly out of focus. 

“Hi,” Y/N said. 

It sounded embarrassingly inadequate after six years. 

Harry looked at her for another moment. “Hi, Y/N.” 

Hearing her name in his voice was worse than seeing him. It was too familiar. 

Deeper than she remembered, but still carrying the soft rasp that used to appear when he was tired or had spent an entire night shouting over music. For one disorientating second, Y/N could hear that same voice beside her in the university library, asking whether she intended to ignore him forever because she hadn’t answered his previous three questions. 

She straightened her shoulders. “You look well.” 

“So do you.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Wasn’t expecting that.” 

Her brows drew together. “What?” 

“A polite response.” 

“I can be polite.” 

Harry’s mouth curved. “You could always be polite. You simply chose not to be with me.” 

“I wonder why.” 

“That’s better.” 

The ease of the exchange irritated her. She had expected awkwardness, perhaps a stiff hug neither of them wanted or a greeting polite enough to confirm that they had become strangers. Instead, Harry slipped into their old rhythm as though they had paused a conversation six minutes ago rather than six years. 

Emma looked between them. “I’m going to take my bags inside.” 

“Coward,” Y/N said. 

“Survivor.” 

She dragged her suitcase towards the entrance. 

Harry glanced at Y/N’s larger bag. “Want me to take that?” 

“No.” 

“I didn’t finish the question.” 

“You were going to offer to carry it.” 

“I was.” 

“I can carry it.” 

“I know.” 

“Then why ask?” 

“Because carrying it would be easier than watching you fight another handle.” 

Y/N stared at him. 

He held out one hand. 

She tightened her grip. “I have it.” 

“Y/N.” 

“Harry.” 

His eyes flickered with amusement. “Still stubborn.” 

“Still interfering.” 

“Good. I was worried it might be awkward.” 

Before she could answer, the front door flew open. Olivia appeared in the entrance, barefoot and dressed in grey joggers and an oversized white jumper. Her hair was tied messily on top of her head, and she looked nothing like the composed bride from the photographs she had been sending for months. She looked happy. Completely, overwhelmingly happy. 

“Y/N!” 

Olivia ran down the steps. Y/N released the suitcase just in time to catch her, laughing as Olivia wrapped both arms around her waist with enough force to knock them slightly off balance. 

“You’re here,” Olivia said into her shoulder. 

“Obviously.” 

“You took forever.” 

“Emma drives like someone’s grandmother.” 

“Your life expectancy has increased because of me,” Emma called from the entrance. 

Olivia pulled back, keeping both hands on Y/N’s arms. “Let me look at you.” 

“You saw me three months ago.” 

“That was before I became emotionally unstable.” 

“You’ve always been emotionally unstable.” 

“Exactly. This is worse.” 

Y/N smiled, affection softening the tightness in her chest. “You look beautiful.” 

“I look like I’ve spent the morning arguing about tablecloths.” 

“A beautiful woman who has spent the morning arguing about tablecloths.” 

“I’ll accept it.” 

Olivia’s gaze flicked over Y/N’s shoulder towards Harry. Her expression changed almost imperceptibly. 

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Don’t.” 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“Why is everyone saying that today?” 

“Because you keep reacting to things we haven’t said.” 

Harry picked up Y/N’s suitcase. 

She turned. “Put that down.” 

“No.” 

“I told you I can carry it.” 

“And I believed you.” 

“Then—” 

“But now Olivia is holding you hostage.” 

Olivia tightened her grip around Y/N’s arm. “He’s right.” 

“You’re both irritating.” 

Harry began walking towards the house with her suitcase. “Some things don’t change.” 

The guesthouse was even more impressive inside. Patterned tiles covered the entrance hall, leading towards a wide staircase framed by carved wooden banisters. Coats had already accumulated across a long bench, while boxes marked with words such as CANDLES, TABLE NUMBERS and DO NOT LET MASON TOUCH THIS were stacked beneath the windows. Voices echoed from somewhere deeper inside. Noah appeared through an archway carrying a wooden crate. He set it down the instant he saw Y/N and crossed the hallway with his arms open. 

“Finally.” 

Y/N hugged him. “You say that as though I’m late.” 

“You’re the last ones here.” 

“Because your future wife gave us the wrong postcode.” 

Olivia gasped. “I did not.” 

“You sent the postcode for a farm.” 

“It was near here.” 

“It had goats.” 

Noah nodded thoughtfully. “They’re nice goats.” 

Y/N pulled back from him. “I’m reconsidering the wedding gift.” 

“You’ve already bought it.” 

“I can return it.” 

Noah smiled before kissing Olivia’s temple as she moved beside him. The gesture was automatic and unselfconscious, the kind of affection built through years of knowing where the other person would stand before looking. 

They had been together since their second year at university. Nine years. Y/N remembered watching them fall in love gradually, then all at once. Noah began carrying snacks because Olivia became irritable when she was hungry. Olivia learnt to recognise when he needed reassurance but was too proud to ask. Their lives had slowly rearranged themselves until no one could remember what either of them had looked like alone. For a brief, unwelcome moment, Y/N wondered what six years might have looked like if one dinner had ended differently. She pushed the thought away. 

“Everyone’s in the kitchen,” Noah said. “Mason is pretending to cook.” 

“I’m supervising!” Mason shouted from somewhere beyond the hallway. 

“That means Sophia is cooking,” Emma replied. 

“Correct,” Sophia called back. 

Olivia looped her arm through Y/N’s and led her towards the voices. Harry followed with the suitcase, ignoring every look Y/N sent him. 

The kitchen occupied the back of the house, with high ceilings, exposed beams and wide glass doors overlooking the gardens. A long wooden table stood beside the windows, large enough to seat the entire group. The central island was covered with bags, bottles and partly prepared food. 

Mason stood beside the cooker holding a wooden spoon as though it were a microphone. Sophia was chopping vegetables with the expression of someone reconsidering every choice that had led her there. Ben opened wine at the island, while several other friends from university sat on the counters talking over one another. 

The room erupted when Y/N entered. For the next several minutes, she was passed between hugs, questions and complaints about how long it had been. Mason accused her of avoiding them. Sophia inspected her hair. Ben asked whether she still made the same unnecessarily complicated coffee order. It felt easy. Familiar. The kind of affection that survived long silences without demanding an apology. Y/N almost relaxed. Then Harry stepped into the kitchen behind her carrying her suitcase. Mason stopped speaking. His eyes moved from Harry to Y/N and back again. 

“Oh,” he said. 

Y/N pointed at him. “Don’t.” 

“I only said a vowel.” 

“You said it suggestively.” 

“I didn’t know vowels could be suggestive.” 

“You’ve managed it.” 

Sophia took the spoon from Mason before he dropped it into the sauce. “Behave.” 

“I am behaving.” 

Ben looked towards Harry. “How long did the reunion take?” 

“Approximately four minutes,” Harry answered. 

“Before they started arguing?” 

“Three.” 

Y/N turned to him. “We weren’t arguing.” 

Harry placed her suitcase beside the doorway. “You told me to put that down six times.” 

“Because it belongs to me.” 

“Exactly. It gave us something to discuss.” 

Mason looked delighted. “This week is going to be excellent.” 

“It’s Olivia and Noah’s wedding,” Y/N said. “Try focusing on them.” 

“I contain multitudes.” 

“You contain mostly alcohol.” 

“Also true.” 

Sophia ordered everyone to sit down before the food became cold. The group moved towards the table in a noisy wave, carrying dishes, bread and bottles of wine. Y/N reached for an empty chair near Emma. 

Olivia appeared beside it. “That’s Mason’s seat.” 

Mason, standing several places away, looked confused. “Is it?” 

“Yes,” Olivia said quickly. 

Y/N glanced at her. Olivia avoided eye contact. 

“Where am I sitting?” 

“There.” 

She pointed towards a chair halfway down the table. Directly opposite Harry. Y/N looked at him. Harry had already taken his seat, one arm resting along the back of the chair beside him. His expression suggested that he had noticed the arrangement before she did and decided not to comment. 

“There are other seats,” Y/N said. 

“There are exactly enough for everyone,” Olivia replied. 

“I can sit at the end.” 

“That’s where Noah is sitting.” 

“I’ll sit beside him.” 

“That’s my seat.” 

“Convenient.” 

Olivia smiled innocently. 

Y/N lowered her voice. “You promised.” 

“I promised not to interfere.” 

“This looks suspiciously like interference.” 

“It’s lunch.” 

“With assigned seating.” 

“Because Mason keeps stealing people’s food.” 

“I do,” Mason confirmed. 

Harry reached for the water jug. “You could sit down.” 

Y/N turned towards him. “Thank you. I was waiting for your permission.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

She pulled out the chair and sat. Harry filled his glass, then held the jug towards her. Y/N stared at it for a second before moving her glass closer. 

“See?” he said quietly as he poured. “We’re already cooperating.” 

“It’s water.” 

“Small steps.” 

She resisted the urge to kick him beneath the table. Lunch began with several conversations happening at once. Olivia discussed the rehearsal schedule with Emma while Noah explained how many deliveries were still arriving. Mason criticised Sophia’s cooking until she threatened to remove his plate. Ben asked Harry about a project in Copenhagen. Y/N tried not to listen. She failed. 

Harry had become an associate at an architecture firm in London. He had worked on hotels, residential developments and the restoration of a theatre he described with obvious affection. He spoke differently about work than he had at university, no longer dismissing ambition with jokes whenever someone noticed how much he cared. Back then, Harry had often pretended not to take anything seriously. 

He finished assignments at the last moment, arrived late to lectures and spent most weekends moving between parties. Yet his designs had always been the ones professors displayed. He could stare at a blank page for hours, then produce something brilliant while everyone else slept. Y/N used to accuse him of wasting his potential. He used to tell her she worried enough for both of them. 

“You’re staring,” Emma murmured beside her. 

Y/N picked up her fork. “I’m listening to Ben.” 

“Ben hasn’t spoken for thirty seconds.” 

“I’m listening to the space where Ben’s words were.” 

Emma smiled into her glass. Across the table, Harry looked towards them. Y/N immediately focused on her plate. 

“Are we telling university stories yet?” Mason asked. 

“No,” Y/N answered. 

“Yes,” Olivia said at the same time. 

Mason grinned. “Excellent.” 

“We have four days together,” Y/N warned. “You don’t need to ruin everything during the first meal.” 

“I’m pacing myself.” 

Sophia gestured towards Harry. “Tell them how you met Mason.” 

“I’d rather not,” Harry said. 

“He climbed through my bedroom window,” Mason announced. 

“The front door was locked.” 

“You didn’t live there.” 

“I knew Noah.” 

“You’d met Noah twice.” 

Harry shrugged. “I had good instincts.” 

“You were drunk.” 

“Both can be true.” 

Ben laughed. “How did Y/N meet Harry? Was it at the student bar?” 

“No,” Olivia said. “It was at my flat.” 

Harry’s eyes moved to Y/N. 

She knew what was coming before anyone spoke. 

“He stole my chair,” she said. 

“I didn’t steal it.” 

“My bag was on it.” 

“You moved the bag.” 

“To get a drink.” 

“You created an opening.” 

Y/N looked at the others. “This is the sort of logic I had to endure for three years.” 

Harry leaned back in his chair. “You told me to move.” 

“You refused.” 

“You were rude.” 

“You were sitting in my seat.” 

“There wasn’t a name on it.” 

“My bag—” 

“Wasn’t a person.” 

The old exchange returned so perfectly that several people laughed before Y/N realised they had almost repeated it word for word. 

“He followed her around after that.” 

“I did not,” Harry said. 

“You absolutely did,” Sophia replied. “You appeared everywhere she was.” 

“We had the same friends.” 

“You joined a library session for a module you weren’t taking,” Emma said. 

Harry looked towards Y/N. “I needed somewhere quiet.” 

“You fell asleep on my notes,” she reminded him. 

“I was supporting you.” 

“You drooled on economic theory.” 

“Improved it.” 

“You also started bringing her coffee,” Olivia added. 

“That was for everyone.” 

“No,” Emma said. “You brought one coffee.” 

Harry reached for a piece of bread. “Perhaps I was financially struggling.” 

“You knew her order after two weeks,” Noah said. 

“It wasn’t complicated.” 

Y/N watched him break the bread in half. 

“Double espresso, one sugar, a little milk,” Harry said without looking at her. 

The table quieted just enough for the words to land. Y/N’s fingers stilled around her fork. Harry finally lifted his gaze. 

“Unless you changed it.” 

There was no teasing in his voice. 

“No,” Y/N said. “I didn’t.” 

Something passed across his expression. Satisfaction, perhaps, or simple recognition. 

Mason looked between them. “This is entirely normal.” 

“Eat your lunch,” Y/N told him. 

The conversation moved on, but the atmosphere had changed. Small glances passed around the table whenever Harry or Y/N spoke. Their friends remembered enough to know there had once been something between them, even if most had never understood exactly what happened. Y/N wondered how much Olivia knew. At the time, Y/N had told Emma almost everything, but she had reduced the date to a simple disaster when the others asked. Harry had apparently done the same. Neither had offered details, and the group eventually learnt not to mention it. Years softened curiosity. Until now. 

After lunch, Noah carried the plates towards the sink while Olivia opened a note on her phone. 

“Rooms,” she announced. “Before everyone starts drinking and forgets where they’re sleeping.” 

“I already know where I’m sleeping,” Mason said. 

Sophia looked at him. “Do you?” 

“No.” 

“Thought so.” 

Olivia began reading names. Couples were placed in the main house, while the single rooms had been divided between two converted wings connected by narrow corridors. 

“Emma and Sophia, rooms seven and eight in the east wing. Ben and Mason are opposite you.” 

“Why am I beside Mason?” Ben asked. 

“Because nobody else volunteered.” 

“Fair.” 

Olivia continued. “Y/N, you’re in room twelve in the west wing.” 

Y/N nodded. 

“Harry, room eleven.” 

Her head turned. Harry’s did too. Olivia looked suspiciously interested in her phone. Y/N waited. 

Olivia cleared her throat. “The two rooms share a bathroom.” 

Mason coughed into his wine. 

Y/N closed her eyes briefly. “Of course they do.” 

“It wasn’t deliberate,” Olivia said. 

“That sentence has never sounded less convincing.” 

“The rooms were assigned based on arrival.” 

“We arrived last.” 

“Exactly.” 

“What about the room above the garage?” 

Noah winced. “It smells damp.” 

“I don’t mind damp.” 

“It has no heating,” Olivia said. 

“I run warm.” 

Harry folded his arms. “It’s a bathroom, Y/N.” 

She turned towards him. “I’m aware.” 

“I think we can manage.” 

“I never said we couldn’t.” 

“You’re volunteering to sleep above a garage.” 

“That’s unrelated.” 

“Is it?” 

“Yes.” 

Harry’s expression remained infuriatingly calm. “Fine.” 

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Fine.” 

Mason looked between them. “Excellent. Resolved with no tension whatsoever.” 

“Do you want to sleep above the garage?” Y/N asked. 

“No.” 

“Then be quiet.” 

Harry stood and reached for her suitcase. 

Y/N moved at the same time. “Absolutely not.” 

“You left it by the door.” 

“I was going to take it.” 

“You were arguing about damp.” 

“I can argue and carry luggage simultaneously.” 

“I remember.” 

His hand closed around the suitcase handle before hers. For a moment, they stood too close, both holding it. Harry’s gaze dropped briefly to her fingers wrapped beside his. Y/N released it first. Not because she wanted him to win. Because the contact had sent an inconvenient warmth through her hand. 

Harry lifted the suitcase. “Room twelve?” 

“You know it is.” 

“I’m confirming.” 

“You could leave it here.” 

“I could.” 

“But you won’t.” 

“No.” 

He walked towards the hallway. 

Y/N looked at Olivia. “I blame you for everything that happens this week.” 

Olivia smiled. “I accept no responsibility.” 

The west wing was quieter than the main house, its long corridor lined with framed paintings of the surrounding countryside. Room twelve stood at the end, beside a blue-painted door marked eleven. Between them, each bedroom had a second door leading into the same bathroom. Harry carried the suitcase inside Y/N’s room and placed it near the wardrobe. 

The room was bright and comfortable, with exposed wooden beams, a pale quilt and a wide window overlooking the gardens. An armchair stood beside a small fireplace, and fresh flowers had been arranged on the dresser. Y/N remained beside the door. 

Harry looked around. “Nice.” 

“It is.” 

He glanced towards her. “You can say thank you.” 

“I can.” 

Harry waited. Y/N waited longer. His mouth twitched. 

“Thank you,” she said eventually. 

“There she is.” 

He stepped towards the bathroom door and pushed it open. The room beyond contained two sinks, a claw-foot bath and a large glass shower. Another door stood directly opposite, connecting to his bedroom. Harry tested the lock on Y/N’s side. 

“It works.” 

“I know how locks work.” 

“I’m making sure.” 

“Planning to protect your virtue?” 

He looked over his shoulder. “I was thinking of yours.” 

“My virtue doesn’t need your assistance.” 

“That’s reassuring.” 

Harry opened the door into his room, checking that it could also be locked from the bathroom. Y/N watched him move around the space with the confidence of someone who belonged anywhere he stood. When he returned, he rested one shoulder against the frame. 

“Lock your side when you’re in here.” 

“I was planning to.” 

“I remember you forgetting things when you’re distracted.” 

“I don’t get distracted.” 

Harry’s eyes moved slowly down the length of her body before returning to her face. The look lasted only a second. Long enough. Heat rose beneath Y/N’s skin. Harry’s expression remained composed, but his eyes had darkened slightly. 

“No?” he asked. 

Y/N folded her arms. “Get out.” 

He laughed quietly and stepped into the corridor. 

At the bedroom door, he stopped. 

“It is good to see you.” 

The sincerity in his voice caught her unprepared. Harry didn’t smile this time. He simply looked at her, one hand resting on the doorframe, as though the answer mattered more than he wanted to reveal. Y/N noticed the small movement of his tongue against the inside of his cheek. He had done that when he was nervous at university. She had forgotten. Or tried to. 

“You too,” she said. 

Harry held her gaze for another second, then nodded and left. The door closed behind him. Y/N sat on the edge of the bed and released a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. 

“This is fine,” she whispered to the empty room. 

A knock sounded against the bathroom door. Y/N froze. 

“Thin walls,” Harry called from the other side. 

She grabbed one of the decorative cushions from the bed and threw it at the closed door. His laughter followed her across the room. The afternoon was spent unpacking decorations and preparing the guesthouse for the next few days. Olivia had brought enough candles, ribbons and handwritten signs to decorate a small palace, most of which now covered the floor of the main living room. 

Y/N sat cross-legged on the rug beside Emma, writing names onto place cards while Sophia organised the seating chart. Music played quietly from a speaker. Noah and Harry worked near the fireplace, assembling wooden stands for the table numbers, while Ben and Mason argued over a box of tangled lights. 

For almost an hour, Y/N managed to behave normally. She wrote, talked and laughed with the others. She avoided monitoring Harry’s position in the room, although she remained aware of it with an accuracy she found irritating. Whenever he laughed, she heard it. Whenever he crossed behind her, she knew. Once, when she looked up, she found him already watching her. Harry didn’t look away. He simply held her gaze until Y/N returned to the cards, pretending the interaction hadn’t unsettled her. 

“Your handwriting is still intimidating,” Emma said. 

Y/N examined the card in her hand. “It’s handwriting.” 

“It looks printed.” 

“That’s because I learnt how to hold a pen.” 

“Some of us developed practical skills.” 

“You learnt how to open wine with a shoe.” 

“And it has saved lives.” 

A shadow fell across the cards. Harry crouched beside them, one knee touching the rug. “Do either of you have a pen?” 

Emma looked at the dozen scattered around Y/N. “No.” 

Y/N passed him one. His fingers brushed hers. The contact was brief and accidental, but both of them noticed. 

Harry’s gaze lowered to their hands before he took the pen. “Thanks.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

He remained beside them while writing something on the wooden stand resting across his thigh. Y/N tried to concentrate on the next name, but his knee was close to hers, and she could smell the faint warmth of his cologne. When he finished, he held out the pen. Y/N reached for it. Harry kept his grip on the opposite end. 

She looked at him. “Really?” 

“Checking your reflexes.” 

“Let go.” 

“You used to be faster.” 

Y/N pulled harder. Harry released it without warning, making her hand fall back against her chest. He smiled. She hit his arm with the capped pen. 

“There she is,” he murmured. 

Before Y/N could ask what he meant, Noah called his name from across the room. Harry stood and moved towards the fireplace, passing behind Y/N’s place on the rug. His hand brushed lightly over the top of her head. Then he stopped beside her. Not looking at Y/N, Harry began answering Noah’s question about the wooden frame. As he spoke, his fingers found a loose strand of her hair where it rested over her shoulder. He wound it absent-mindedly around his index finger. Y/N became completely still. Harry continued talking. He wasn’t watching her. He wasn’t trying to provoke her or create a moment. His attention remained on Noah, brows drawn together as they discussed whether the frame would support the sign. His hand simply remembered. The strand of hair tightened gently around his finger, then loosened as he turned it again. 

Across from Y/N, Emma stopped writing. Her eyes dropped to Harry’s hand. Then lifted to Y/N’s face. 

Y/N didn’t know what expression she was making, but it caused Emma’s eyebrows to rise slowly. 

A memory slipped through the present. 

Harry had been arguing with Noah about a football match, one arm stretched along the back of the sofa behind Y/N. He wasn’t looking at her. 

He rarely looked at her when he did it. His fingers had found the ends of her hair, winding a strand around them while he insisted the referee had been blind. Y/N had glanced down at the curl trapped around his index finger. Olivia, sitting across the room, noticed. 

See? she mouthed. 

Y/N had rolled her eyes. She hadn’t moved away. 

Harry released the strand only when Noah asked him to hold the other side of the frame. He crossed the room without any sign that he had noticed what he’d done. 

Emma waited until he was out of hearing distance. 

“He still does it.” 

Y/N looked down at the place card in her lap. “I don’t think he realised.” 

Emma’s voice softened. “That’s exactly why it’s a problem.” 

“It isn’t a problem.” 

“Of course not.” 

“It was a habit.” 

“Yes.” 

“Habits don’t mean anything.” 

Emma glanced towards Harry. “Some do.” 

Y/N pressed the pen against the card, leaving a small dot beside the name. The rest of the afternoon passed too quickly. By six, the place cards were finished, most of the decorations had been organised and Mason had somehow tangled himself in a string of lights. 

Olivia eventually ordered everyone upstairs to shower and change for dinner. Noah had reserved a long table at a nearby pub, insisting that nobody should attempt to cook for seventeen people on the first night. Y/N showered early, locking both bathroom doors before stepping beneath the water. She told herself the additional check was sensible rather than paranoid. 

Afterwards, she returned to her room and changed into a black dress with long sleeves and a skirt that ended several inches above her knees. It was simple but fitted closely through the waist, and she paired it with small gold earrings and boots. She was applying mascara when someone knocked against the shared bathroom door. 

“Are you dressed?” Harry asked. 

“No.” A pause. 

“Should I come back?” 

Y/N looked down at herself. “I’m dressed.” 

“Why did you say no?” 

“Why did you ask?” 

“Because I need the bathroom.” 

“Then use it.” 

She heard the handle turn. Harry entered wearing dark trousers and a white shirt, the sleeves folded to his forearms. The top buttons remained undone, revealing the base of his throat, and his hair was still damp from the shower. He stopped when he saw her. The teasing answer Y/N had prepared disappeared. Harry’s gaze travelled over her slowly. Not crudely. Not with the exaggerated appreciation he might once have used to make her uncomfortable. 

He simply looked. His eyes followed the shape of the dress from her shoulders to her waist, lingering there before dropping briefly to her bare legs. When he returned to her face, the intensity in his expression made the spacious bathroom feel smaller. 

Y/N set the mascara on the counter. “What?” 

Harry’s mouth opened, then closed. It was satisfying to know she could still make him lose a word. 

“You look beautiful,” he said. 

Y/N met his gaze through the mirror. “Thank you.” 

Harry stepped towards the second sink. “No insult?” 

“I’m capable of accepting a compliment.” 

“Another new skill.” 

“You’ve missed quite a lot.” 

His hands stilled briefly over the watch he had left beside the sink. 

“Yes,” he said. “I have.” 

The answer was quieter than she expected. Y/N picked up her perfume and applied it to her wrists. Harry fastened his watch, but she saw him looking at her reflection. 

“You changed it,” he said. 

“What?” 

“Your perfume.” 

She turned slightly. “You remember my perfume?” 

Harry glanced down at his wrist as he adjusted the strap. “I remember a lot of things.” The honesty of the answer made her chest feel tight. 

“Why?” He looked up. For a moment, the bathroom contained only the sound of distant voices moving through the house. 

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted. 

Y/N believed him. Mason shouted from the hallway that the first cars were leaving. Harry moved towards his bedroom door. Before stepping through, he looked back at her. 

“That one suits you too.” Then he disappeared into his room. 

Y/N remained in front of the mirror, staring at the perfume bottle in her hand. Six years ago, she had spent an entire evening wishing Harry would pay attention to her. Now every piece of his attention felt like a threat. 

The pub was a fifteen-minute drive from the guesthouse, built from dark stone and surrounded by flower-filled gardens. Inside, low wooden beams crossed the ceiling, candles flickered on the tables and a fire burned in a wide fireplace near the bar despite the warm evening. Their group had been given a private area at the back. A long table filled most of the room. Y/N saw the place cards immediately. She stopped walking. Harry’s card sat directly opposite hers. Again. 

Olivia moved beside her. “Before you say anything—” 

“You promised not to interfere.” 

“I didn’t choose the seating.” 

“Your name is printed at the top of the plan.” 

“Noah helped.” 

Noah, already halfway to his seat, looked alarmed. “Don’t involve me.” 

Y/N pointed towards the cards. “This is deliberate.” 

“It’s symmetrical,” Olivia said. 

“What does that mean?” 

“I don’t know. The wedding planner says it often.” 

Harry appeared beside Y/N, reading the cards. His shoulder brushed hers. 

“Still planning to sit on the floor?” he asked. 

Y/N looked at him. “I’m considering it.” 

“Your dress is too nice.” The compliment was casual, but his eyes lowered briefly as he said it. Y/N felt the look like a touch. 

“Sit down, Harry.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” He pulled out the chair opposite her. 

Y/N took her seat between Emma and Sophia, while Harry sat between Ben and Noah. The arrangement placed them directly across from one another, close enough that their knees might touch if either stretched beneath the table. This time, Y/N suspected Olivia had planned every centimetre. Dinner began with wine and stories from university. The pub was busy, but the private section softened the surrounding noise, allowing the group to speak freely without shouting. Harry sat in Y/N’s direct line of sight. It was impossible not to notice him. 

He listened more than he spoke, resting one hand around his glass as he smiled at the others’ stories. When attention turned towards him, he answered without trying to perform for the room. The difference was subtle but unmistakable. 

At university, Harry had treated attention like oxygen. He had been a frat boy in every recognisable sense: popular, loud, invited everywhere and rarely seen leaving a party alone. His house had hosted gatherings so regularly that the neighbours stopped complaining and simply moved away. There was always a new story about him, often involving alcohol, a reckless dare or a woman whose name nobody could remember the following week. 

Harry hadn’t lied to anyone. He hadn’t promised relationships he didn’t intend to offer. That had almost made it worse. He had been charming, honest and casual enough to leave women convinced they had understood the arrangement, even when they secretly wanted more. Y/N had watched it happen repeatedly. She told herself it proved she had been right not to take him seriously. Then she agreed to the date anyway. 

“Do you remember the last time we were here?” Olivia asked. 

Y/N looked around. “We’ve been here before?” 

“After the mountain trip,” Noah said. “Final year.” 

Mason pointed at Harry. “He nearly got us banned.” 

“I did not,” Harry replied. 

“You stood on a table.” 

“Ben dared me.” 

“I dared you to sing,” Ben said. “The shirt removal was independent.” 

Sophia laughed. “Y/N threw his shirt outside.” 

“It was raining,” Harry said, looking directly at her. 

Y/N took a drink of wine. “Consequences.” 

“I had to walk through mud.” 

“You found the shirt.” 

“It was ruined.” 

“It was ugly.” 

Harry placed one hand over his chest. “You told me you liked that shirt.” 

“I lied.” 

“When?” 

“When I told you I liked it.” 

His smile spread slowly. 

Mason watched the exchange with open fascination. “This is exactly how you used to talk.” 

“No, it isn’t,” Y/N said. 

“It absolutely is,” Olivia replied. 

Harry continued looking at her. “Some things don’t change.” 

Y/N broke eye contact first, turning towards Emma as the waiter arrived to take their orders. The conversation shifted, but Harry remained present across from her like a constant low heat. When the bread was placed on the table, he automatically pushed the butter towards her before she asked. Later, when onions appeared in the sharing salad, Y/N moved the bowl away from him without thinking. Harry noticed. 

“You remember.” 

She looked down at the bowl. “You complained about onions every time we ate.” 

“I don’t complain.” 

The entire table laughed. Y/N smiled despite herself. “You once sent a burger back because it had touched an onion.” 

“It contaminates everything.” 

“You’re dramatic.” 

“You moved the bowl.” 

“Because I didn’t want to listen to you.” 

Harry held her gaze. “Still counts.” 

The main courses arrived. For a while, the meal became louder, everyone speaking over one another as plates were passed around. Y/N relaxed enough to laugh freely, occasionally forgetting to monitor every exchange with Harry. That was when he was most dangerous. Not when he deliberately provoked her. When she forgot she was supposed to resist him. Harry reached across the table for the salt at the exact moment she did. Their hands stopped beside one another at the centre of the table, his smallest finger resting lightly against hers. The contact was insignificant enough that nobody else would have noticed, but warmth moved through Y/N’s hand as though Harry had touched far more than a single finger. 

“You first,” he murmured. 

“How generous.” 

“I’ve matured.” 

“That remains unproven.” 

She drew her hand away. Harry picked up the salt, but instead of using it, he placed it beside her plate. His eyes remained on her face, lowering briefly towards her mouth before returning to meet her gaze. Y/N’s pulse shifted. Then a woman’s voice came from beside the table. 

“Harry Styles?” 

The reaction inside Y/N was immediate and humiliating. Her body recognised the situation before her mind could remind it that six years had passed. Harry looked up. A blonde woman stood beside his chair, one hand curled around the stem of a wineglass. She was beautiful in a polished, effortless way, wearing a fitted red dress and the easy smile of someone who had approached him with complete confidence that she would be remembered. Recognition crossed Harry’s face. 

“Lucy?” 

The woman smiled more widely. “I thought that was you.” 

Harry stood to greet her. Lucy stepped closer and wrapped one arm around him, her free hand settling briefly against his shoulder as he returned the hug. The gesture was harmless. Familiar, perhaps, but harmless. Y/N lowered her eyes to her plate. It wasn’t the same. She repeated the words silently, forcing her grip around the fork to loosen. This was not their date. Lucy was not the woman from six years ago. Harry did not belong to her. He could hug whomever he wanted, speak to whomever he wanted and leave the pub with whomever he wanted. He could return to the guesthouse at sunrise with another woman’s perfume on his shirt and owe Y/N absolutely nothing. That knowledge did nothing to ease the instinctive pressure gathering beneath her ribs. 

“What are you doing all the way out here?” Lucy asked. 

“Wedding.” Harry gestured towards Olivia and Noah. “We’re staying nearby for the week.” Lucy looked along the table, smiling politely at the group. Her attention passed over Noah, Olivia and Ben before settling briefly on Y/N. 

“Sorry,” she said. “Am I interrupting something?” The question struck with the precision of a blade. 

“Sorry,” the other woman had said, although she hadn’t removed her hand from Harry’s shoulder. “Am I interrupting something?” 

Harry had glanced across the restaurant table at Y/N. 

Only for a second. 

“It’s just dinner.” 

In the present, Harry looked directly at her. 

“Yes,” he said. 

The single word silenced something inside Y/N. Harry stepped away from Lucy, increasing the distance between them with quiet deliberation. “Sorry. We’re all catching up, and I haven’t seen some of them in a long time.” 

His eyes remained on Y/N while he spoke. Lucy followed his gaze. Understanding seemed to pass across her expression, though her smile never faltered. 

“Of course,” she said. “I won’t keep you.” 

“It was good seeing you.” 

“You too.” Lucy touched his arm once in farewell before returning to the main area of the pub. Harry sat down. 

The group’s conversations restarted gradually, Mason deliberately asking Noah an unnecessarily loud question about the venue while Olivia became fascinated by the contents of her wineglass. 

Y/N stared at her plate. Harry did not speak to her. He did not explain what he had done or draw any additional attention towards the moment. He simply picked up his fork and returned to the conversation, allowing her to pretend that his answer had meant nothing. That should have made it easier. Instead, Y/N spent the remainder of the main course wondering why he had done it. 

Harry had been perfectly capable of speaking to Lucy for another minute without repeating the past. He could have introduced her to the group, exchanged a few polite sentences and let her leave naturally. He had chosen not to. More than once, Y/N felt his attention from across the table. Whenever she lifted her eyes, however, Harry was speaking to someone else or looking down at his plate. He knew she was thinking about it. He was allowing her to. The main courses were cleared, and dessert menus appeared. Y/N declined before opening hers. 

Emma glanced at her. “You always want dessert.” 

“I’m full.” 

Across the table, Harry’s hand stilled against his menu. The words had been ordinary. The memory attached to them was not. 

“I’m not hungry anymore.” 

Y/N reached for her wine, hoping nobody noticed the shift in her expression. Harry studied the menu for another moment before setting it down. When the waiter approached, he ordered a chocolate tart. Y/N looked at him. Harry did not look back. 

Perhaps it was coincidence. Chocolate tart was hardly unusual, and he had always preferred desserts that contained more sugar than seemed medically responsible. He might not even remember what they had ordered during the date. The possibility lasted until the dessert arrived. The waiter placed one plate directly between them. 

Chocolate tart. Two spoons. Harry stared at it. Every trace of casual conversation disappeared from his expression. Y/N felt the same recognition move through her. 

The chocolate tart had arrived after the woman finally returned to her own table. Two spoons had rested beside the plate. Harry and Y/N had sat in silence, the warmth that had filled the first half of the evening replaced by something jagged and defensive. 

“You can go after her if you want.” 

Harry’s eyes had narrowed. “What?” 

“She seemed disappointed that you were busy.” 

“I was talking to someone I know.” 

“You were doing more than talking.” 

“Now you’re being ridiculous.” 

The memory fractured before the worst of the argument. In the present, the tart remained untouched. Harry picked up one spoon. Then he lifted the second and held it across the table towards Y/N. She stared at it. The pub continued around them—glasses clinking, chairs moving, their friends talking deliberately about anything except the two people sitting in the centre of the table. Harry’s hand remained steady. 

“We never finished it,” he said quietly. He wasn’t talking only about the tart. 

Y/N could hear it in his voice. The dessert. The date. The conversation they had abandoned in anger. Whatever they might have become if neither of them had destroyed the possibility before it had properly begun. She should have refused. She had spent six years refusing in quieter ways. Instead, Y/N reached across the table and took the spoon from his fingers. Their hands touched. Harry released a breath so softly that she almost missed it. He pushed the plate until it rested precisely between them. Y/N took the first bite. The sweetness settled across her tongue, familiar enough to make the past feel physically present. Harry watched her. 

“Still too sweet?” he asked. Her spoon paused above the plate. 

“It’s too sweet,” Y/N had complained after stealing the first bite from his spoon. 

Harry had laughed. “You ordered it.” 

“You chose it.” 

“You agreed.” 

“I was distracted.” His eyes had lowered towards her mouth. 

“I noticed.” 

Y/N swallowed. “No,” she said. “It’s not.” A faint smile touched Harry’s mouth. 

“Guess some things change.” She met his eyes across the candlelit table. 

“Not everything.” The smile disappeared. Something deeper replaced it. 

They ate the tart slowly, passing the plate back and forth without speaking. Occasionally, their spoons touched at the centre. Neither apologised or pulled away quickly. 

When only one bite remained, Harry pushed it towards her. Y/N divided it with the edge of her spoon and returned half to his side. Harry looked down at it. Then at her. For the first time in six years, they finished the chocolate tart. The empty plate remained between them after the final bite. Neither Harry nor Y/N reached to move it. 

The spoon in Y/N’s hand had warmed from her grip, and she became aware of every detail at once: the candle burning between them, the low scrape of chairs from the main room and Emma’s knee pressing lightly against hers beneath the table. Harry looked down at the plate before lifting his eyes. There was something almost disbelieving in his expression, as though sharing a dessert had altered the shape of the evening in a way neither of them had expected. 

Mason leaned across the table. “Was that romantic, or are you both simply very committed to chocolate?” 

Y/N placed her spoon down. “It was dessert.” 

“Right.” 

“People share desserts.” 

“People who like each other share desserts.” 

“People who don’t want to order two also share desserts.” 

Harry leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “She’s financially responsible.” 

Y/N looked at him. “Don’t encourage him.” 

“I’m agreeing with you.” 

“That somehow feels worse.” 

Mason glanced towards Olivia. “Are we certain they haven’t been secretly married for years?” 

“We would have killed each other,” Y/N said. 

Harry’s gaze remained on her. “You say that as though it rules marriage out.” 

Several people laughed. Y/N did not. Not because the comment upset her. Because Harry had said it too easily. The words carried the comfortable rhythm of an old joke, but his eyes held hers for a second longer than the humour required. It created the strange impression that they were having two conversations at once: the one everyone could hear and another that existed entirely inside each pause. 

Sophia pushed back her chair. “I need the bathroom.” 

“I’ll come with you,” Olivia said immediately. 

Emma began to stand. Y/N caught her wrist beneath the table. Emma looked at her. 

“Don’t leave me.” 

Her friend’s mouth curved. “I thought you were fine.” 

“I am.” 

“Then why are you holding me hostage?” 

“Because I value your company.” 

Emma sat again. “How touching.” 

Harry watched the exchange, clearly amused. Y/N released Emma’s wrist and reached for her wine. The rest of dinner passed more easily than she expected. Perhaps the dessert had broken some invisible barrier, or perhaps she was simply too tired to maintain the same level of vigilance. She allowed herself to join the conversation. Harry did too. They still provoked each other, but the sharper edge had softened. When Mason told a story about Y/N accidentally setting fire to a tea towel during university, Harry corrected three exaggerated details without being asked. When Harry claimed he had once won a drinking competition against an entire rugby team, Y/N reminded everyone that he had fallen asleep in a laundry basket twenty minutes later. Harry denied it. Emma produced photographic evidence. The table dissolved into laughter. Y/N looked across at Harry and found him laughing too, his head lowered as he tried unsuccessfully to cover his face with one hand. 

For a moment, she forgot the restaurant from six years ago. She remembered everything that came before it. The nights when the group occupied the same corner of the student bar until closing. The mornings when Harry appeared at her flat with coffee and no explanation. The long arguments over films, music and whether cereal qualified as dinner. She had not merely lost the possibility of something romantic. She had lost one of her closest friends. That was the part she rarely admitted. 

When the bill arrived, Noah attempted to pay for everyone and was immediately overruled. Several cards were placed on the table, calculations became unnecessarily complicated and Mason insisted he had only consumed one drink despite three empty glasses standing beside his plate. Harry reached for Y/N’s receipt before she could. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Checking your share.” 

“I can read.” 

“I’m aware.” 

“Then give it back.” 

“You paid for the wine.” 

“I ordered the wine.” 

“And everyone drank it.” 

“It’s fine.” 

Harry examined the total. “It isn’t.” 

“Harry.” He lifted his eyes. The use of his name sounded more intimate than she intended. His thumb remained over the edge of the receipt. “You always did this.” 

“Did what?” 

“Paid for things before anyone could stop you.” 

“It saves time.” 

“It also means people forget to pay you back.” 

“I can afford a bottle of wine.” 

“That isn’t the point.” 

Y/N studied him. “You remember that too?” 

Harry gave a small shrug and returned the receipt to her. “I told you. I remember a lot.” Before she could respond, he stood and walked towards the bar with Ben. Y/N watched him go. 

Emma leaned closer. “You’re doing it again.” 

“Doing what?” 

“Looking at him like you’re trying to solve a crime.” 

“He’s confusing.” 

“He was always confusing.” 

“No. He used to be simple.” 

Emma laughed softly. “Harry was never simple. He was just loud enough that everyone assumed he was.” 

Y/N looked at the empty dessert plate. Perhaps that was true. At twenty-one, she had believed Harry’s charm explained him completely. He liked attention, parties and women. He moved through life easily because very little seemed to matter enough to frighten him. Yet she remembered details that had never fitted that version. The way he became quiet before important presentations. The nights he stayed in the library after everyone else left. The fact that he always noticed when someone in the group was struggling, even if he pretended his concern was casual. And the way he had looked at her when she arrived at the restaurant. Nervous. Hopeful. As though the night mattered. 

Then another woman had appeared, and Harry became the person Y/N expected him to be. Or perhaps she had decided that before giving him the chance to prove otherwise. 

The group left the pub shortly after eleven. The warm evening had cooled while they were inside, and a fine mist hung beneath the streetlights. Everyone separated between the cars. Y/N followed Emma towards the vehicle they had arrived in, but Olivia called her name from beside Noah’s car. 

“Can you come with us? Emma’s taking Sophia and Mason.” 

Emma was already unlocking the driver’s door. “Sorry.” 

“You don’t sound sorry.” 

“I’m deeply upset.” 

Mason climbed into the back seat. “I get carsick in the middle.” 

“You’re sitting by the window,” Emma said. 

“I get emotionally carsick.” Y/N looked towards Olivia’s car. Noah was driving. Olivia occupied the passenger seat. Harry stood beside the rear door. Of course. 

He opened it and stepped aside. “After you.” 

Y/N considered arguing. Then she noticed the satisfied expression on Olivia’s face. She refused to provide additional entertainment. 

“Thank you,” she said, sliding into the back seat. Harry joined her and closed the door. 

The car was spacious enough that they didn’t need to touch. Still, his thigh rested only a few inches from hers, and when Noah reversed from the parking space, Harry placed one hand behind Y/N’s headrest to look through the rear window. His arm framed her. The scent of his cologne surrounded her before he settled back into his seat. 

Olivia adjusted the radio. “Everyone survive the first dinner?” 

“Barely,” Noah said. 

“Mason attempted to order another round after the bill arrived,” Harry added. 

“He considers financial consequences a problem for the future,” Y/N said. 

Harry looked at her. “He learnt that from you.” 

“I’m financially responsible.” 

“You bought tequila for twelve people during our final year.” 

“It was my birthday.” 

“It was a Tuesday.” 

“My birthday happened to be on a Tuesday.” 

“You had an exam the next morning.” 

“I passed.” 

“You fell asleep during it.” 

“I still passed.” 

Noah laughed from the driver’s seat. “You two remember an alarming amount.” 

The statement settled quietly inside the car. Y/N turned towards the window. Harry didn’t answer. Outside, narrow country roads curved between dark fields and rows of trees. The headlights revealed stone walls, occasional cottages and stretches of mist that seemed to dissolve as the car passed through them. Music played softly from the speakers. Olivia and Noah began discussing the deliveries expected the following morning. Y/N listened without contributing, watching her reflection in the glass. Harry’s hand rested on the seat between them. Not touching her. Close enough that she remained aware of it. 

The car turned sharply. Y/N slid slightly across the leather, her shoulder brushing Harry’s arm. His hand moved automatically to her waist. The touch lasted perhaps two seconds. Long enough to steady her. Long enough for his palm to fit against the curve of her body with unsettling familiarity. Neither spoke. Harry released her slowly. Y/N sat upright, smoothing her dress even though it hadn’t moved. 

“Seat belt,” Harry said quietly. 

“I am wearing one.” 

“I know.” She turned towards him. 

He was looking straight ahead, but the tension in his jaw suggested he had felt the contact just as clearly. The rest of the journey passed in silence. When they reached the guesthouse, the others were already gathering near the entrance. Emma’s car arrived behind them, music loud enough to make the windows vibrate. Noah parked beside the gardens. 

Olivia stepped out first, immediately calling Mason a disgrace when he emerged from the other car wearing Sophia’s scarf around his head. Y/N climbed out of the back seat. The cold air sharpened her senses. Harry followed. The group began walking towards the house, but Y/N remained near the car for a moment, searching inside her handbag for the room key Olivia had given her earlier. 

“You left it in the side pocket.” Harry stood beside her. 

“What?” 

“The side pocket.” Y/N frowned and checked. The key was there. 

She looked at him. “How did you know?” 

“You put it there after lunch.” 

“You were across the room.” 

“I saw you.” There was no reasonable answer to that. She closed the bag. 

“Thank you.” Harry nodded. 

The others were already halfway across the courtyard. Y/N began walking, and Harry matched her pace. Gravel shifted beneath their shoes. For several steps, neither spoke. The night felt different from the afternoon. Quieter. The fields beyond the gardens had disappeared into darkness, and only a few upstairs windows glowed against the stone walls. 

Y/N glanced towards him. “Why did you do that?” Harry didn’t pretend to misunderstand. 

“With Lucy?” 

“Yes.” His gaze remained on the house ahead. “Because I wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.” The words landed more heavily after an entire dinner spent waiting for them. 

“You didn’t have to send her away.” 

“I know.” 

“She was only saying hello.” 

“I know.” 

“You could have spoken to her.” 

Harry stopped walking. Y/N took another step before turning back towards him. He stood beneath the faint light from one of the garden lamps, his face calm but his eyes fixed intently on hers. 

“I could have,” he agreed. “But I saw your face.” 

Y/N folded her arms. “My face was fine.” 

“No, it wasn’t.” 

“You don’t know what I was thinking.” 

“I knew where you went.” Her defences faltered. Harry stepped closer. 

“You weren’t standing in that pub anymore,” he continued. “You were back at that table with me.” 

Y/N looked towards the guesthouse. “You’re giving yourself too much importance.” 

“Probably.” 

His calm acceptance irritated her. 

“But I wasn’t wrong.” 

“No,” she admitted quietly. The word remained between them. Harry pushed his hands more deeply into his coat pockets, as though preventing himself from reaching for her. 

“I should have done that six years ago.” 

“Done what?” 

“Told her she was interrupting.” 

Y/N released a humourless breath. “You told her the opposite.” 

“I know.” 

“You said it was just dinner.” 

“I was trying to stop the situation becoming awkward.” 

“For her.” 

“Yes.” 

The admission came without hesitation. Harry didn’t defend his younger self. He didn’t insist that Y/N had misunderstood or that the woman had behaved inappropriately. He simply accepted what he had done. 

Y/N looked away. “She stood there for ages.” 

“Eight minutes.” 

Her eyes snapped back to him. “You counted?” 

“I replayed the night enough times.” 

The honesty unsettled her. 

“You remember eight minutes?” 

“I remember you becoming quieter with every one of them.” A fine chill moved across Y/N’s skin that had nothing to do with the night air. Harry continued, his voice lower now. 

“I remember you looking down whenever she touched my arm. I remember asking you a question after she left and realising you hadn’t heard it. I remember knowing something had changed and becoming defensive instead of asking why.” 

“You knew why.” 

“I thought I did.” 

“You enjoyed the attention.” Harry’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. 

“Usually, yes.” The answer hurt more because it was honest. 

“But not that night,” he added. 

Y/N laughed softly. “You seemed comfortable.” 

“I was performing.” 

“You weren’t on a stage.” 

“I was always on a stage back then.” She studied him. Harry looked towards the dark fields for a moment, searching for words. 

“I knew how to be that person,” he said. “The loud one. The easy one. The idiot everyone expected to laugh with, drink with or take home. I didn’t know how to sit across from you and admit that the evening mattered.” 

“So another woman appeared, and you chose the easier version.” 

“Yes.” 

Y/N hadn’t expected him to say it. The bluntness stripped away the argument she had spent years preparing. 

“You made me feel stupid for thinking it was a date.” 

“I know.” 

“You made me feel like I was only there until something more interesting arrived.” 

“I know.” 

“You let her speak about things the two of you had done while I sat there.” 

“I know.” Harry stepped closer. His expression had changed, control giving way to something more painful. 

“And I hated myself for it before you even stood up.” Y/N’s throat tightened. 

“You didn’t follow me.” 

“I thought you wanted me to let you go.” 

“You could have asked.” 

“You could have looked back.” 

Silence settled over the driveway. The same old wound. Two people waiting for proof while refusing to offer any themselves. Y/N wrapped her arms more tightly around her body. “You told me the date was a mistake.”

“I wanted you to tell me it wasn’t.”  Harry looked down briefly. 

“That’s ridiculous.” 

“I was twenty-two.” 

“So was I.” 

“Yes.” His mouth twisted faintly. “That was the problem.” 

A memory rose between them. 

“If that’s what you think of me, why did you agree to come?” 

“Maybe I wanted to believe everyone was wrong.” Harry had stared at her, anger disguising the hurt she was too young to recognise. 

“And now?” 

Y/N had looked towards the woman returning to her own table. 

“Now I think they gave you too much credit.” 

Harry’s face had hardened. 

“Then maybe this was a mistake.” 

In the present, Y/N swallowed. 

“I waited.” Harry became completely still. 

“What?” 

“At the door.” She forced herself to meet his eyes. “I stopped.” 

“I know.” 

“You remember?” 

“I remember every second.” The intensity of his answer stole her breath. 

“Why didn’t you come after me?” Harry’s expression held six years of regret. 

“Because you had just told me exactly what you thought of me.” 

“I was angry.” 

“So was I.” 

“I wanted you to stop me.” 

The admission left her before pride could pull it back. Harry stared at her. His voice was barely above a whisper when he answered. 

“I wanted you to stay.” Neither moved. The light from the house stretched across the gravel but didn’t quite reach them, leaving the two of them suspended between darkness and the warmth waiting inside. Y/N’s heart beat hard enough to hurt. 

“Then we were both idiots,” she said. Harry released a breath that almost became a laugh. 

“Yes.” 

It was the first thing about that night they had agreed on. The front door opened before either could continue. Mason leaned outside with a bottle of water in one hand. His gaze moved between them, assessing the distance, the silence and whatever remained visible on their faces. 

“There you are.” Y/N stepped away from Harry. 

“Olivia’s threatening to begin the game without us,” Mason added. 

“That sounds serious.” 

“Potentially fatal.” 

Y/N moved towards the house. When she passed Harry, his fingers brushed briefly against the back of her hand. It might have been accidental. Neither treated it that way. Inside, most of the group had gathered in the living room. A fire burned in the stone fireplace, and bottles, glasses and bowls of snacks covered the coffee table. Mason had found a box containing old photographs Olivia had printed for the wedding weekend. Y/N stopped when she saw them. 

Olivia looked up from the sofa. “What?” 

“You have photographs.” 

“It’s nostalgic.” 

“It’s evidence.” 

“Same thing.” 

Y/N sat beside Emma, choosing a place at the end of the sofa. Harry entered a moment later. The only available space was beside her. She suspected that had not happened by accident. 

Olivia patted the cushion. “Sit.” Harry glanced at Y/N. She looked away. He lowered himself beside her. Their bodies didn’t touch, but the sofa cushions dipped beneath his weight, drawing them slightly closer. Mason held up a photograph of Noah asleep at a library desk with a highlighter stuck to his forehead. The group laughed. For the next half hour, old images moved from hand to hand. Parties. Graduations. Terrible haircuts. Trips where everyone looked sunburnt or exhausted. Y/N began to relax again. 

The earlier conversation remained inside her, but the comfort of the group softened its sharpness. Harry sat quietly beside her, occasionally leaning closer to see a photograph. His arm rested along the back of the sofa behind her, not touching. Then Olivia held up another picture. 

“Oh.” Y/N immediately disliked her tone. 

“What?” Olivia turned the photograph around. It had been taken during their final year at a house party. Harry and Y/N sat together on a kitchen counter. She was laughing at something outside the frame, her head tipped slightly back. Harry stood between her knees, one hand resting beside her hip while he looked at her rather than at the camera. The expression on his face was unmistakable. Soft. Completely absorbed. The room became quieter. Y/N stared at the photograph. She didn’t remember it being taken. She remembered the party, though. 

Harry had spent most of the night near her. Whenever she moved into another room, he appeared minutes later. At some point, he had stolen one of her earrings and refused to return it until she promised to dance with him. They had never danced. Or perhaps they had. Some memories had been damaged by what came afterwards. Mason leaned forward. “How did none of us see this?” 

“We did,” Sophia said. “They didn’t.” 

“We saw it,” Emma corrected. “They denied it.” Harry reached for the photograph. Olivia handed it to him. His fingers tightened around the edge as he studied it. Y/N watched his face. 

“What?” she asked. 

Harry looked at her. “Nothing.” 

“You’re making a face.” 

“I’m looking at a photograph.” 

“You know what I mean.” 

His eyes returned to the image. “I remember this.” 

Y/N’s pulse shifted. “I don’t.” 

“You were angry with me.” 

“That narrows it down.” 

“You thought I’d taken your earring.” 

“You did.” 

“I found it on the floor.” 

“You put it in your pocket.” 

“For safekeeping.” 

“You demanded a dance in exchange for returning my property.” 

Harry’s mouth curved. “You agreed.” 

“I did not.” 

“You did.” 

“Did we dance?” 

The question came out more softly than she intended. Harry’s smile faded. 

“No.” 

“Why?” 

He looked at the photograph again. “You left early.” Y/N tried to remember. A flash of something returned. 

Harry had stood in the middle of the kitchen with her earring held between his fingers. 

“One dance.” 

“Give it back.” 

“After.” 

“You’re insufferable.” 

“You like me.” 

Y/N had laughed because denying it aloud felt safer than remaining silent. “Not even slightly.” 

Something heavy settled inside her. She had spent years believing their date had been the first and only opportunity they destroyed. Perhaps there had been many. Olivia continued passing photographs around. Harry placed the picture on the coffee table, but his attention remained distant for several minutes. Conversation moved towards plans for the following day. They needed to collect flowers, finish the rehearsal dinner decorations and attend a late-afternoon run-through at the wedding venue. Y/N listened while Emma discussed transport. Beside her, Harry turned towards Noah and began asking about the venue layout. As he spoke, his hand moved. His fingers found a strand of Y/N’s hair resting against the back of the sofa. The gesture happened so naturally that she almost missed it. Harry continued talking to Noah, winding the strand around his index finger and releasing it, then catching it again. His eyes never left the conversation. Y/N became still. The earlier moment in the living room had been brief. This time, he continued. 

The touch was gentle, absent-minded and intimate in a way deliberate flirtation could never be. Harry’s knuckles occasionally brushed the back of her shoulder as he played with the strand. Emma, sitting on Y/N’s other side, noticed. Her gaze lowered. Then moved to Y/N. Y/N looked forward, refusing to react. Harry asked Noah another question. His fingers remained loosely tangled in her hair. The physical memory of him existed before Y/N could reason with it. Her body relaxed against the sofa. The tension in her shoulders eased. Six years ago, this had been ordinary. 

Harry would sit beside her during films, study sessions or conversations and reach for her hair without noticing. Sometimes she braided the drawstrings of his hoodies in return. Sometimes he rested his chin on her shoulder while reading over her notes. They had possessed an intimacy neither of them named. Harry finally looked down. He saw the strand wrapped around his finger. His voice stopped mid-sentence. Noah followed his gaze. The room didn’t become silent, but Y/N felt the exact moment Harry realised what he was doing. His fingers loosened slowly. The strand slipped free. He looked at Y/N. She met his eyes. For a second, embarrassment crossed his face. Then something darker replaced it. Not regret. Awareness. Harry’s hand remained on the back of the sofa behind her. 

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. 

Y/N swallowed. “It’s fine.” 

Neither looked away. Mason dropped a stack of photographs onto the floor. The moment broke. Harry withdrew his arm and leaned forward to help gather them. Y/N turned towards Emma. Her friend’s expression said everything. Y/N shook her head slightly. Emma mouthed, Problem. Y/N mouthed back, Shut up. The evening ended shortly after midnight. One by one, everyone began carrying glasses to the kitchen and retreating upstairs. Y/N helped Olivia collect the photographs. When she picked up the image of herself and Harry in the kitchen, she hesitated. Olivia noticed. 

“You can keep it.” 

Y/N looked at her. “Why would I want it?” 

“Because you’ve been staring at it for three minutes.” 

“I was trying to remember the party.” 

Olivia smiled gently. “Harry asked me for a copy years ago.” Y/N’s fingers tightened around the photograph. 

“What?” 

“He asked whether I still had it after graduation.” 

“Why?” 

“He didn’t say.” 

“Did you give it to him?” Olivia nodded. Y/N looked towards the doorway. Harry had already left the room. A strange pressure built beneath her ribs. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“You weren’t speaking to him.” 

“That doesn’t mean—” 

“You asked us not to update you about his life.” Y/N looked down. She had. At the time, every mention of Harry had felt like reopening a wound she was determined to pretend didn’t exist. Olivia placed a hand on her arm. “I’m not trying to interfere.” 

“You placed us opposite each other twice.” 

“That was logistical interference.” 

Y/N gave her a look. Olivia’s expression softened. “I’m not expecting you to forgive him in four days.” 

“I’m not angry anymore.” 

“You still look angry.” 

“I’m confused.” 

“That seems more honest.” 

Y/N slipped the photograph back into the box. “Goodnight, Liv.” 

Olivia hugged her briefly. “Goodnight.” 

The west wing was silent when Y/N reached it. Light from the wall lamps stretched across the wooden floor. Room eleven was closed, and no sound came from inside. Y/N entered her own room and locked the door. She placed her handbag on the chair, removed her earrings and changed into a loose sleep shirt that reached halfway down her thighs. The day had exhausted her, but her mind remained painfully awake. Harry remembered the date. He remembered her walking slowly. He had kept the photograph. The facts circled without settling. Y/N entered the bathroom to wash her face, locking Harry’s door before turning on the light. His watch remained beside the second sink, exactly where he had placed it earlier. She looked at it. The leather strap was familiar. He had worn something similar at university, though that watch had been cheaper and permanently scratched after a night involving Mason, a bicycle and a hedge. Y/N finished her routine and returned to her room. She lay in bed with the lamp off, listening to the guesthouse settle. Pipes moved behind the walls. A door closed somewhere down the corridor. Faint laughter drifted from below before finally disappearing. Sleep refused to come. She turned onto one side. Then the other. The conversation outside replayed itself. 

I wanted you to stop me. 

I wanted you to stay. 

The most frustrating part was that Y/N still didn’t know what she wanted now. At twenty-one, she had wanted Harry to follow her. She had wanted him to prove that she mattered more than his pride. At twenty-seven, she wanted to believe she had outgrown the need for that proof. Then he looked at her, and every carefully matured part of her became uncertain. Movement sounded through the bathroom wall. A drawer opened in Harry’s room. Footsteps crossed the floor. A moment later, someone tried the locked bathroom door. The handle moved once. Then stopped. Y/N remained still. A soft knock followed. 

“Y/N?” She closed her eyes. 

“What?” 

“Are you awake?” 

“No.” 

Harry paused. “You’re very articulate in your sleep.” 

“What do you want?” 

“My watch is in there.” 

“You can get it in the morning.” 

“I need it.” 

“At midnight?” 

“I feel incomplete.” 

Y/N pushed back the quilt. “That sounds serious.” 

“Potentially fatal.” 

She crossed the room barefoot and opened her side of the bathroom door. Harry’s remained locked. Y/N unlocked it. Harry stood on the other side wearing dark pyjama trousers and a grey T-shirt. His hair was untidy, falling over his forehead, and without the structure of the white shirt and coat from dinner, he looked less like the composed man from the driveway and more like someone she remembered. His eyes moved over the sleep shirt. The gaze lowered once. Then returned to her face. Y/N stepped aside. “Your watch.” 

Harry entered the bathroom. The room was bright after the darkness of her bedroom, forcing both of them to narrow their eyes slightly. He picked up the watch. 

“Thank you.” 

“You could have survived until morning.” 

“Debatable.” 

Y/N remained beside her door. “Goodnight.” 

Harry didn’t move. His fingers worked the strap of the watch absent-mindedly. 

“Did Olivia show you the photograph?” 

Y/N’s heartbeat shifted. “Which one?” 

“You know which one.” 

“She showed everyone.” Harry nodded. 

“She said you asked for a copy.” 

His hands stilled. “Olivia talks too much.” 

“So it’s true.” 

“Yes.” 

“Why?” 

Harry looked down at the watch, then placed it back on the sink instead of wearing it. “I liked the photograph.” 

“That isn’t an answer.” 

“It’s the only one I have of us.” The sentence entered the room quietly. Y/N stared at him. 

“There must be others.” 

“There are group photographs.” 

“That one was taken at a party.” 

“I know.” 

“You barely look at the camera.” 

“I’m not looking at it at all.” 

His eyes met hers. The implication was impossible to ignore. Y/N folded her arms, suddenly aware of how little she wore beneath the thin cotton of the shirt. 

“Why keep it after everything?” Harry leaned back against the sink. 

“Why did you look at my profile?” Her mouth opened. Then closed. 

“Emma talks too much too,” he added. 

“She had no right to tell you.” 

“She told Ben. Ben told me.” 

“I’m going to kill both of them.” 

Harry smiled faintly. “How many times?” 

“That isn’t relevant.” 

“More than once?” 

“Goodnight, Harry.” Y/N turned towards her room. 

She looked back. “Why do you care?” His expression changed immediately. The amusement disappeared. 

“Because I looked at yours too.” Silence filled the bathroom. Y/N’s arms slowly lowered. 

“How often?” Harry pressed his lips together, considering whether to answer honestly. 

“Enough.” 

“That’s vague.” 

“It’s safer.” 

“For whom?” 

“Both of us.” 

The intensity in his voice made her remain. Harry took one step closer. Not enough to touch. Enough that she could see the tiredness beneath his eyes and the faint shadow along his jaw. 

“I looked whenever someone mentioned you,” he said. “Whenever Olivia posted a photograph. Whenever I knew the group was meeting and you might be there.” 

“Why didn’t you come?” 

“Sometimes I couldn’t.” 

“And the other times?” Harry looked at her for several seconds. 

“Because you might be there.” 

The answer hurt before she understood it. Y/N’s expression hardened. “You avoided me.” 

“Yes.” 

“That’s comforting.” 

“I didn’t say it was the right choice.” 

“You seem to have made many wrong choices.” 

“So did you.” 

The response carried no cruelty, but it struck the defensive place inside her. Y/N stepped closer. “I didn’t humiliate you during our date.” 

“No. You only told me I was incapable of taking anyone seriously.” 

“You had spent two years proving it.” 

“I never lied about who I was.” 

“That didn’t make it less hurtful.” 

“To whom?” 

The question silenced her. Harry’s gaze sharpened. 

“To you?” he asked. Y/N looked away. There it was. 

The admission they had both avoided six years ago. She had been hurt because Harry mattered. Not because another woman interrupted. Not because he behaved badly. Because Y/N had wanted the night to be different. Harry moved closer. 

“Were you hurt because you liked me?” 

She gave a quiet laugh, but no humour accompanied it. “You knew I liked you.” 

“No.” 

“Everyone knew.” 

“Everyone assumed.” 

“You flirted with me constantly.” 

“So did you.” 

“You asked me on a date.” 

“And spent the entire evening wondering whether you were there because Olivia forced you.” 

“She didn’t force me.” 

“I know that now.” Y/N looked at him. Harry’s voice lowered. 

“I didn’t know it then.” The distance between them had reduced to less than a step. Neither appeared to have made the final movement. The bathroom doors stood open behind them, each leading into a separate bedroom. Two exits. Two opportunities to end the conversation. Neither used them. 

Y/N searched his face. “You were nervous.” 

Harry’s mouth curved without humour. “Terrified.” 

“I had never seen you nervous.” 

“You weren’t supposed to.” 

“You acted as though everything was easy.” 

“Most things were.” 

“And I wasn’t?” 

His eyes lowered briefly to her mouth. 

“No.” The answer entered her body like warmth. Harry lifted one hand. For a second, Y/N thought he might touch her face. Instead, his fingers found a strand of hair resting over her shoulder. He wound it slowly around his index finger. This time, the gesture was not absent-minded. He knew exactly what he was doing. Y/N watched his hand. Harry’s knuckles brushed the bare skin near her collarbone as he turned the strand once, then again. 

“You did that twice today,” she said. 

“I know.” 

“The first time, you didn’t.” 

“No.” 

“When did you realise?” 

“When Noah stopped talking.” Y/N’s mouth threatened to curve. Harry moved the strand between his fingers. 

“I used to do it without thinking.” 

“I remember.” 

“You never told me to stop.” 

“Sometimes I did.” 

“You never moved.” The words mirrored the old memory. Y/N lifted her eyes to his. 

“Maybe I was comfortable.” Harry’s expression darkened. 

“So was I.” The air between them shifted. He released her hair, but his fingers remained near her shoulder. Y/N could feel the warmth of his hand without contact. Harry looked down at her mouth again. This time, he didn’t hide it. Her pulse became unsteady. 

“Harry.” 

His eyes returned to hers. “What?” 

She didn’t know. A warning. A question. Perhaps only his name, spoken because the silence had become too intense to survive. Harry’s hand touched her waist. Barely. His palm rested against the side of the sleep shirt, fingers curving around her as though testing whether she would retreat. Y/N remained still. The touch was more deliberate than the one in the car. Slower. Harry stepped closer. Their bodies were not quite touching, but the distance between them had disappeared enough that Y/N could feel the warmth of him. 

“You should tell me to move,” he said quietly. 

“You should know whether you want to.” 

“I know what I want.” The certainty in his voice sent a shiver through her. Y/N’s hand rose before she could stop it, fingers resting against the centre of his chest. Harry inhaled sharply. His heartbeat was faster than she expected. The discovery gave her courage. 

“You always did,” she said. 

“No.” Harry’s fingers tightened slightly at her waist. 

“At twenty-two, I knew what I wanted for approximately five minutes at a time.” 

“And now?” His gaze held hers. 

“Now I know exactly what I want.” The answer felt dangerous. Y/N’s fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his T-shirt. Harry lowered his head. Not enough to kiss her. Enough that his breath touched her face. For one suspended second, the entire week seemed to narrow towards that point. Then a door slammed somewhere in the corridor. Voices followed. Mason laughed loudly outside their rooms. Y/N stepped back. Harry’s hand fell from her waist. The loss of contact felt immediate and unreasonable. They stared at each other. Neither pretended that nothing had happened. Mason’s footsteps passed their doors and disappeared towards the east wing. Harry released a slow breath. 

“You should sleep,” he said. 

Y/N’s heart was still racing. “So should you.” 

“I was trying.” 

“Try harder.” A hint of the old smile returned. Harry reached for his watch, fastening it around his wrist. At his bathroom door, he stopped. 

“Y/N.” She looked at him. “I meant what I said outside.” 

“Which part?” 

“All of it.” Before she could answer, he stepped into his room. The door remained open for another second. Harry looked back at her. His gaze travelled once more to her mouth. “Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight.” 

This is (Y/N) and Joey’s fourth date and she couldn’t be any more pleased with him.

He’s sweet and thoughtful and most of all, he knows how to communicate. That’s a big one. He tells her good morning and goodnight, he tells her when he’s busy and might not be able to get to his phone. He lets her know that this is going well and that he really likes her. He might just be on his way to securing his spot as her boyfriend if he keeps it up.

They met on a dating app, which is probably the easiest way to meet people nowadays, (Y/N) thinks. Most matches that come through are make or break. She can usually tell right away what type of person swiped on her profile and so sure, she’s had a lot of misses and a few guys ghost her but that’s what comes with using the apps. And to think she almost didn’t match with Joey. She almost deleted the app altogether, vowing that she was just going to go out and meet people the old-fashioned way and then the notification came through. He was a charmer right away, asking about her cat that she posted and answering all the questions on her profile just the way she wanted.

He was very kind and very, very nice on the eyes. So, now four dates in, (Y/N) could really see this going somewhere. She almost couldn’t believe she actually made a decent match on the app she was using. She didn’t think guys like Joey even existed anymore.

“So, it’s been a long week. Better now that I get to see you though.” He smiled, reaching his hand over the table to grab hers.

See what she means? It’s like he has some kind of playbook that tells him exactly what she wants him to say at all times. He’s perfect.

“I feel the same. Mine was definitely interesting.” Her eyes rolled the tiniest bit but she didn’t elaborate. Joey would never understand even if she tried to describe it to him. The only way he’d come close to believing her was seeing it with his own eyes and even then, he’d probably never want to see her again.

There was no reason to let the two meet in the first place, so she tried to keep that part of her life very, very, very separated from this one with Joey.

But her phone kept on ringing.

In her defense, she didn’t tell him she was going anywhere tonight, and most times when her phone rings, she answers it. Now that she’s not, she’s sure that he has a pretty good idea about what she’s doing tonight. And plus, he’s probably already tried her apartment.

“Do you need to get that? It sounds important.” He glanced toward her bag at the edge of the table. You could hear it buzzing away even inside the bag and on silent. It’s been going for about thirty minutes. It’ll stop because she didn’t answer and then start right back up again. She would turn off her phone completely but she knew he’d throw a fit.

“No, no. It’s not important. I don’t even know who it is.” It stopped buzzing. And started again. “Probably a debt collector or something. You know, they just keep calling and they don’t even really want anything when you ask.” She laughed it off, snatching her bag off the table and hooking it around her chair instead.

“Sorry about that. I don’t want anything to interrupt us right here so—” She was cut off by the Find My sound playing on her phone, in her bag, probably disrupting the entire restaurant. It was ear-piercing and she can’t even believe he would ever go that far. And she didn’t know that her phone was on his Find My and that just boils her blood because that also means he has her location. “Give me one second.” Trying to smile politely at Joey, she grabbed her purse up and walked towards the back of the restaurant where the restrooms are. There was a long and vacant hallway connected to that going back to the kitchen, so it was absolutely the best place to answer this phone call.

“What could you possibly want?” She asked immediately upon clicking the answer button.

“I don’t appreciate being ignored all day. You know that very well, (Y/N).” He spoke in the same tone he always does. Cold and no emotions seeping through at all. Just straightforward, no room for any type of misinterpretation.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I do have a life outside of whatever you have planned for me, you know that very well, don’t you?” They’ve had this conversation many times and she’s not sure what he doesn’t understand about it yet.

“You need to come home now. Wherever you are, doesn’t matter. Home. Now.”

It was laughable to have him demand her to do anything. Even if he sounded scary and a small part of her internally trembled, she didn’t like to come running. She liked to push him as far as he’d let her.

“We haven’t even made it through the main course yet. And I’m enjoying myself so you’re going to have to wait.” She leaned back against the wall behind her, listening to him huff through the phone.

“(Y/N). It would be in your best interest to leave that restaurant now. Unless you’d like me to come get you myself.”

“I’m almost done. Another hour at most, I promise.” Her tone switched up, hoping that he would understand a little bit that she’s smack dab in the middle of dinner with a guy she really likes. He doesn’t care about the guy part, it probably only infuriates him, honestly. But she was hoping he’d cut her some slack.

“I don’t care. Be home in fifteen minutes or I’m going to come find you. And you don’t want that.” The line cut and she shoved her phone back in her bag and stomped back to her table with Joey, wondering what kind of excuse she’d have to make up this time.

He must have been able to tell by the look on her face that the phone call was bad news.

“Do you have to go? Is everything alright?” He was always empathetic too. He was the perfect guy and so understanding. Hopefully this would all be over soon and she could really focus on Joey instead of whatever this is.

“Yeah, I’m so sorry. Something just…came up. I hate to leave like this. Here’s the cash for mine.” She sat down only to open her purse and get to her wallet but he stopped her right away.

“Don’t worry about it. No need to apologize. I’ve got the bill. You just get to wherever you need to be. Text me when you can and we can set something up for another time.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. It was nice having dinner with you again.”

A gem, truly. And now she has to go deal with some other man that acts the opposite. Just because he dares to call whatever this is fate and divine intervention and something that they can’t control.

When she got home, she didn’t even have to unlock the door. Harry flung the door open from the inside and dragged her in by the front of her dress.

“Excuse me! You don’t have to grab me like that! I was on my way in, you fucking psycho.” She batted his hand away and watched the disapproval melt onto his face as he looked her over.

“That skirt is atrocious. I’m not sure why you bothered to wear it in public.”

(Y/N) knows better than to let him bait her into an argument, so she just takes a deep breath and turns on her heel. She knows he only wants her to lay down in bed and that’s really it. But he’s so annoying about it.

“(Y/N).”

“What?” He was standing in her doorway when she turned around.

“I’ve been waiting too long for you. The sooner you lay down, the better for us both. Please.”

She hadn’t noticed when she walked in because she was so angry that he disrupted her. He looks like he always does when he comes to her in the middle of the month. When the new moon hides away and he’s feeling extra vulnerable. He’s supposed to be with his mate until the full moon, which is apparently very hard on him too, but he never really looks worse than he does now.

It wasn’t ideal. It was never going to be. Their dynamic and how strange it is.

(Y/N) met Harry on a trail in the woods near her house. She just needed a breather and might have stepped off the allotted path for just a second, to see what else was out there, beyond the trail. It was a bad idea and she did know she shouldn’t be doing things like that alone. But it really didn’t take Harry long to sniff her out and then look at her like he was absolutely appalled by what he’d stumbled upon.

From what he tells her, he caught a scent two towns over and followed it to the source. The source being her. It was a scent reserved for mates. So as Harry was rushing to find his mate, he never for a second thought she’d be human. And apparently that was a huge deal in his world. It was rare enough that he had to do his own “research” to figure out how to go about it.

(Y/N) honestly didn’t give two fucks when he told her that in the beginning because she thought he was crazy. He spoke about moon phases and how they only had six moons left to mark her as his mate or fate would do as fate does and force the two of them together. And forcing a mate didn’t seem like something he wanted to do. But she was human and it didn’t seem like he liked the idea too much.

At first, she didn’t even believe a word he was saying. Talking about wolves and mates and his pack that he was apparently the leader of. But it didn’t take long for it to start making sense.

Her body felt…different. There was a slight pull to be around him. It was strange. She adored his smell which was even more strange. So much so that she found herself nuzzling her nose into his chest just to breathe him in. She could feel how far away he was. If he was ever too far, pain. Somewhere deep inside of her that felt like she was crumbling from the inside out. It wasn’t something she could really put into words, but as soon as their eyes locked in the woods, it was over for them both. Whether they wanted it to be or not.

This is their last full moon to mark (Y/N) before all their feelings amplify and it all turns into a huge mess. And Harry has been on edge, she can tell.

He doesn’t want to mark her because he doesn’t know what will happen to her. That was reserved for wolves only and as far as she knows, she’s not a wolf and never has been. So they’re unsure how the whole process will go with her being human.

And he’s not sure how she’s supposed to meet his pack. Bringing a human on their territory wasn’t normally advised . At least that’s what he says.

She did some research of her own but most of it seemed out of fairy tales. She asked if he had an aversion to silver and he was on his way to laughing at her by the time the conversation was over with. She asked about vampires because to her the two go hand in hand and he just told her she watched too many movies. None of it made sense. What was real and what wasn’t. She couldn’t be sure anymore after meeting him. And he wasn’t a fan of straight answers so that really made it difficult.

But he tries to explain it to her in a way that doesn’t sound so awful, but all of it does. He sinks his teeth into her neck and they both run away and live out their days on his land somewhere in the mountains. It was inevitable, according to him. So the only thing they’re doing is buying themselves time to get her adjusted to the thought of it. There is no choice in the matter.

The new moon had Harry being a little gentler. He’d ramp back up as the full moon approached but right now, he patiently waits for her to change her clothes and then tucks her into bed just the way she likes.

“Are you comfortable?”

“I guess.” She shrugged, forcing her eyes to look at the ceiling so she didn’t have to watch him pull his shirt over his head and show off his insanely toned upper body. It almost hurt to look at.

He crawled in beside her, onto top of the blankets because he ran really warm, and stuffed his nose into the side of her neck.

“You smell like him.” He pulled back, grimacing.

“I’d really smell like him if you gave me more than five minutes with him.” She rolled her eyes, turning her head away from him.

(Y/N) wanted to live out the rest of her free days as normally as possible. She wanted to go on dates and kiss cute guys and get one last fuck in, but Harry prevented all of that. She couldn’t even stand the idea of Joey leaning in to kiss her much less actually kissing him. It was against everything she was thinking about. She thought she would want to kiss him, he’s cute and sweet. But her body knows something that she hasn’t quite accepted yet.

She wonders why Joey goes on dates with her if she won’t let him get close enough to touch her. But he does. He probably thinks she’s just really shy. And that couldn’t be farther from the truth.

“It is not written so it won’t be.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” She felt his nose nudge further into the side of her neck.

“This is our last moon.”

“I’m aware.”

“It’ll be different this time.”

“Apparently.”

“(Y/N).” He pulled back, forcing her to turn to him. “It’s important that we’re together that night. Things will happen fast.”

“What things?”

“Your mark.” His finger brushed over her neck where he said all the other mates have theirs. She shivered every time he touched her. “Both of us will want to be together. It’s best that we’re here.”

“Yeah. Sure. Thanks for the bedtime story.” She pulled the blankets up over her shoulder and turned to her side. He followed, pressing right against her and nudging his nose right back against her throat. Since they weren’t mated, the only thing that stopped the ache was closeness and each other’s scent. It was annoying, as were many things about Harry, but she couldn’t lie and say his presence didn’t feel like a key in a lock or a puzzle piece snapping into place. Like he was something she’d been missing and she finally found it. She didn’t dare mention that to him though.

“Goodnight, (Y/N).”

****

As it turns out, Harry can be very moody.

(Y/N) thinks it’s mostly the upcoming full moon but she’s not sure what else. Maybe it’s the fact that she’s giggling and awing at her phone next to him because Joey is sending her all these cute things.

It probably is that. He peeked over her shoulder once and grumbled something under his breath that she didn’t catch.

They weren’t doing much today, but most of her plans include Harry. He doesn’t say much but he likes to be near her. So, when they watch tv, he’s pawing at her, pulling her under his arm, and breathing her in.

That was weird, at first. Having him grab her and snuggle her but look so frustrated about it at the same time. It threw her off. But she knows that he’s really only frustrated with the fact that his mate is human. And that she isn’t exactly returning his attention like another wolf would.

And he absolutely hates Joey. Which is to be expected. He’s in the way, technically. (Y/N) keeps holding onto him when she knows it’s not going to last much longer. She doesn’t know why she does, but she does. It will only end up hurting Joey in the long run but there’s just something that keeps her hanging onto him.

“Why do you keep making those noises?” His arm came over her shoulder and across her chest to grab onto her waist and pull her back against his chest. She sat up to reply back to Joey because she could feel how broody Harry was getting. But he pulled her right back.

“What noises?” She was barely paying attention when she leaned her head back against his shoulder, immediately being enveloped by his warmth. Her bed never got cold anymore. It was insane how much heat he put off, but it definitely wasn’t something she didn’t like.

“Laughing like that.”

“Like what?” She glanced over at him, seeing his brow furrowed and his face set like he wasn’t amused. He never seemed to be amused about anything actually. Ever.

“Like that. I don’t know, but it’s making my ears ring.”

(Y/N) could tell he was complaining just to complain. He didn’t like that she was texting Joey, so he had to make it into something it wasn’t. She doesn’t tell him he’s acting insane though. Because she tried that and he only got more insane. It wasn’t worth it to disrupt their quiet morning.

“Okay, well, I’ll stop then.” It was best to compromise with him because he'd get his way anyway. “I can’t believe she just sits with you like that.” She nodded towards Mittens who was sitting on the other side of him, nudging against his leg, demanding he scratch at her head. And he always did.

(Y/N) was once again dumbfounded. Because Harry is essentially a dog and as far she knew cats and dogs did not do well together. Mittens had never even been around a dog long enough to adjust to one so she was sure that she’d want nothing to do with Harry. And since she’s an animal, (Y/N) also assumed that she was well aware that Harry was nothing close to a normal person. But the opposite happened just like it always seemed to.

She was always beside him whenever they were on the couch. She followed him through the apartment. Rubbed all over him when she first allowed him over. He liked cats, he told her when he noticed the expression on her face. And cats liked him. So (Y/N) gave up on being surprised by anything. Stranger things have happened and do happen quite constantly now.

“She doesn’t mind me, I guess.” He gave in to her incessant nudging and scratched her head which in turn caused her to purr like he was the best thing that ever happened to her when (Y/N) pet her all the time. A totally normal amount but she acted like she was starved for attention.

“That makes one of us.” She commented with an eye roll that made him tug on the ends of her hair gently.

“That will change.” He tugged a pinch harder and pulled her back against him again while keeping Mittens happy with pets on the other side of him.

“Joey invited me out next weekend.” She felt him tense behind her and his hand clench around her tee shirt.

“Next weekend isn’t a good weekend. You know very well why.”

“But he wants to take me to the fair. You know they only have it up for a few weeks and this is the last weekend. I’ve never been before.” Her voice got a little whiny and she dropped her phone to turn and look at him. “Please.”

“That’s the full moon, (Y/N). I don’t think you’re understanding just how serious it is.” He kept his tone and expression stern. Yeah, she doesn’t know how serious it is because she hasn’t been preparing since birth for this moment like he has. He hasn’t told her much, just that he’ll have to leave a mark most likely. And while that sounded the least appealing of it all, a tiny part of her felt her skin buzzing whenever he even hinted at marking her.

“I’ll come home early. Before the moon rises. Please?” Her hands came together like she was begging him. It wasn’t like he was that much in control of what she does, she would probably end up going even if he did forbid her. But she wanted to at least ask so he felt like he was in charge. And because he’d track her down and drag her home himself.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea. You should be saying your goodbyes to him, not making more plans.”

True, but this would be the last, last time that they’d see each other and she wanted to leave on a good note. But he was right. It would be best to cut ties now and not give him more false hope. (Y/N) just wanted one more night before things changed forever.

“Harry.” Another pout. He looked away from her, his word final, but she scurried into his lap, latching onto him around the shoulders and squeezing. “It’s the last time, please. You know this won’t happen again, so you should just let me.”

“I should just let you? You’re not listening (Y/N).” He huffed like he was frustrated but then grabbed her up under the thighs to drag her closer.

“I want to go. I’m asking.” This time she toughened up her tone. Because if he didn’t say yes, she’d go anyway and she wanted that to be perfectly clear. It didn’t matter what he said because she would be seeing Joey that night, no matter what phase the moon is in.

“You’re impossible.” His eyes rolled and that’s how she knew she’s nearly got her way. “My one condition is I have to come. I can’t be away from you at a time like that and you know it.”

She scowled at him, dropping her head back on her shoulders.

“But Harry!”

“It’s the only way. You’d probably be sick to your stomach if you’re too far away at moonrise and come home anyway. So it’s either I come or your night gets cut short.”

She knew that he was right. It’s happened similarly before. She refused to let him in her bed and she literally felt ill when he was sleeping on the floor beside her bed instead of right next to her.

It came on like a fever. She got chills and felt nauseous. And she knew it wouldn’t go away until he was next to her but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. It didn’t take long for her to be curled up on the floor right beside him. He told her off in the morning and ever since then he’s been in her bed.

“Fine. I guess. We’ll make it work.” She shrugged, not sure how she was going to explain their third wheel to Joey yet. He probably wouldn’t be ecstatic about it. “Thanks for letting me go. You have no idea how happy I am.” Her hands came up to hold his face. It was times like this that she felt outside of her body. Whenever she touched him by her own free will, it was always more intimate than she planned it to be.

Her smile dropped when she met his eyes. It was like they always set her into a trance. They were so green and it was hard to look away once you started. Whenever this happened, the only thing that cycled through her mind was pushing their mouths together. She knows it’s because they’re mates that she feels so inclined to be close to him but it’s moments like this that it really affects her. She could feel herself leaning while he just waited for her to get close enough.

Harry’s gorgeous. Striking even. When she met him in the woods, she thought she was seeing someone not human. Which he isn’t but his features were so perfect she was thinking he wasn’t real. And then he started lamenting about how disappointed he was that she was human and things took a turn.

So whenever they lock eyes, the seconds feel like hours and it takes a long time for her to come back to her senses.

She pushed at his shoulders just as she was a breath away from his lips and then shook her head.

“Sorry, I…sorry.” She rushed out, carefully moving herself from his lap and sitting a cushion away from him. She picked up her forgotten phone and tried to ignore how heavy his gaze felt.

****

Harry growled, like actually growled, when he saw the outfit she was wearing to go to the fair.

“How can you be mad at a jean skirt!” She threw her hands up. He made her change ten times now, lecturing her about how cool it was going to get once the sun was down and how a dress wasn’t appropriate to wear to a fair. She argued that there wasn’t a dress code to go to a fair and he argued back that she’d never been to one so how would she know?

“Don’t you have something more comfortable? Don’t you want to be warm?” He was sitting on the couch, but now his back was straight as he tried to get her to change her outfit for the millionth time. She thought they could compromise since she put tights on underneath, but (Y/N) isn’t sure that Harry would ever be happy with her outfit choice. Mittens perched on his lap giving her the same disapproving look he was didn’t help one bit.

“I’m wearing a skirt and a jacket. Get over yourself before I leave you here. I’d be late if I had to change again.” She rolled her eyes when she turned her back to him and grabbed her purse. She hurried to the mirror next to the door and checked herself over one last time. She looked cute. And cozy. She’d be plenty warm with the flannel jacket she was wearing so all Harry’s worrying is for nothing.

When she brought out her lip gloss to finish off her look, she heard Harry mumbling to himself again. He hated when she put in any effort to see Joey but this would be the last time, so she wanted to dress how she’d normally dress on a date.

“Let’s just go before I call the whole thing off.” He snatched his car keys from the coffee table and waited for her at the door.

(Y/N) told Joey it was best that they meet at the fair. And then she told him how her cousin from out of town was staying with her and she’d feel really bad to leave him alone after he came all this way to see her. Joey didn’t mind either one and she was grateful he didn’t. She didn’t want Harry to have to squeeze himself in the back of Joey’s car because he’d be huffy the whole way. And she was glad Joey didn’t mind her “cousin” tagging along because she wouldn’t have been able to go at all if Harry didn’t come. Joey didn’t know this was the last time he’d ever see her so he didn’t think it was a big deal that they wouldn’t be alone, but (Y/N) was going to try her best to be in a good mood and not pay much attention to Harry.

The fair was pretty from the parking lot. All the lights from the rides and the sun setting, it looked like the movies and she couldn’t be more excited.

“He said he’s at the tables by the fun house.” She said just as Harry parked the car. He shot her a look and sat back in his seat.

“When I say it’s time to go, it’s time. I don’t care what you have to tell him, we’re leaving.” She barely heard him because she was already out of the car and halfway to the entrance of the place.

He caught up quickly and grabbed her by the back of her jacket collar.

“And don’t run off again because you know I’ll find you.”

(Y/N) had to pry Harry’s hand from her waist when she caught sight of Joey sitting at one of the tables people watching. He didn’t see them yet, thankfully, and she made sure to shoot Harry a look before announcing herself.

“Hi, Joey!” He turned at the sound of her voice and immediately stood to hug her. She hugged him back over the shoulders, feeling him give her an extra squeeze that nearly pulled her feet from the ground.

“Hi, (Y/N). Nice to see you.”

There was small talk for maybe two minutes before Harry just had to insert himself into the conversation. He cleared his throat and stood right beside (Y/N), keeping his face neutral.

“I’m Harry.”

(Y/N) just blinked at him and then turned to see Joey’s reaction. He took the rude interruption in stride and reached to shake his hand.

“Right! The cousin. Nice to meet you, man.”

(Y/N) had to elbow Harry in the side to get him to reach out and shake his hand. He did but she knew Joey was probably really aware that he didn’t want to.

Joey bought them all tickets before they got there. For rides, games, and food. (Y/N) couldn’t help fawning over that, because it was nice and because she knew it would grate on Harry’s nerves.

He was trailing behind them as (Y/N) held onto Joey’s arm as they caught up on their week apart. It felt natural, even though she knew that this wasn’t supposed to happen, according to Harry. Maybe they’re not meant to date at all. Obviously, but she really does like Joey as a person.

They rode a few rides, like the Tilt-a-Whirl, bumper cars, and the carousel. Harry didn’t ride anything and instead stood at the gate and watched them with a very discontented look on his face. She almost felt bad, but she didn’t really know why.

Harry hasn’t been the nicest since she’s met him, but the pitiful expression he had made her heart hurt a fraction. It was probably the fact that they’re mates that she feels anything but irritation for him. The very idea of what the rest of tonight holds is keeping her in good spirits. And that has nothing at all to do with Joey surprisingly, but all to do with Harry.

Whatever happened to her in the last few months has now turned on its head. It’s like she almost wants Harry to snatch her away from the rest of her life. It didn’t sound appealing when he explained it to her then, but it doesn’t seem as bad when she thinks about it now.

They met back with Harry after the last ride and her stomach growled, but she ignored it. She wasn’t sure what Joey wanted to do yet and while she was going to suggest getting something to eat, she didn’t get the chance to. Harry already spoke up.

“I think it’s best if we eat now.” His eyes assessed her for a long moment before he turned to Joey. “She’s withering away.”

“Oh.” Joey blinked, looking down at her. “You’re hungry? You could’ve said something, let’s go.” He pulled at her hand, heading in the direction of the booths with food and treats. She met eyes with Harry before turning and she shot him a look.

He always knew exactly how she was feeling or what she wanted to an extent that it was annoying. He heard her stomach growl through all the noise and just knew. If she cared for him, she might be endeared by it, but at the moment it just bothered her.

They got in line at one booth and (Y/N) felt really impatient all of a sudden. Standing in line seemed like such a drag and while she was hungry, she just simply didn’t want to stand here with Joey’s hand on her back. It might have only been his hand that was the problem and the more she became aware of the weight of his hand, the more she felt like crawling out of her skin.

She stood straight and turned to him instead of standing beside him.

“I, uh, think I have to go to the bathroom. Do you mind ordering?” She rushed to say, trying to ignore the confusion on his face that slowly turned to understanding.

“Sure. Hurry back.” He smiled so sweetly it almost made her want to swoon. Almost. She feels bad more than anything because he’d never know the truth, he’d just never hear from her again.

“Harry. Come with me?” She nudged his arm. He was already watching her intently when she looked at him to ask. He said nothing and just followed her away from Joey and between the booths to get to the portable toilets.

Which, she was not a fan of, but she still made sure they were out of sight before grabbing Harry by the collar of his jacket and bringing her nose to his neck. (Y/N) felt so out of sorts. Smelling him like an animal. Like she needed it. He stumbled slightly before reaching his arms around her and tugging her closer.

“I feel insane. This is too much.” She breathed, looking up at him now and feeling so utterly helpless. There was nothing she could do. She wanted to be close to him, needed to be. Joey’s hand on her back made her feel like her skin was melting. Not in the way that Harry made her feel like she was going melty. In a bad, bad way. In a way that made her cringe. Because it wasn’t right. This is what Harry meant. This is what he was talking about when he said they needed to be together tonight.

“It will only get worse.” He offered no consoling words, only facts. He held her back with the same ferocity, he was just better at hiding it.

“I don’t want him to touch me.” She shook her head. “It makes me want to drown myself.”

He cracked a smile, bringing his hand up to brush some of her hair behind her ear.

“Good. Are you decent? Can we go back? I’m actually hungry.” He dropped his hands and shifted back the tiniest bit and she came right after him, wrapping her arms around his middle and whining.

“Fine.”

She stood straight only after breathing him in one last time. When she looked over her shoulder, the moon had risen just over the tops of the trees.

It was only a matter of time before this got unbearable and (Y/N) really wasn’t sure how it could get worse than this. She already felt like she needed to be in his skin, she can’t imagine what will happen once the moon is higher in the sky.

Joey was out of line when they got back and sitting with the food order they gave him before disappearing. He didn’t seem weirded out, so he must not know what they were actually doing. There would be no sane way to explain it, Joey would just think she’s a little strange. And she’d really like to avoid that before she never sees him ever again.

(Y/N) focused on the food and let Joey do most of the talking. She kept on asking questions that she knew would get him talking as she started on her cheese fries. They were very filling but she still wasn’t completely satisfied and she knew why, she just didn’t want to actually let the thought flesh out in her mind because she probably wouldn’t be sitting here much longer.

She was up out of her seat when Joey reached to grab onto her hand. There was an awkward couple of seconds as she cradled her hand and took a step toward Harry who was watching very knowingly but saying nothing as he usually does.

“Uh, how about the ferris wheel? Those are my favorite.” She pointed, a nervous laugh leaving her mouth. Joey shrugged before nodding.

“Sure.”

It’s a shame that he’s such a good guy. She hopes that he gets everything he deserves after this.

Harry trailed after them to the ferris wheel. His hands were in his pockets and he looked almost casual for someone who was apparently feeling this just as badly as she was. She glanced back at him, secretly wishing that he was walking next to her instead. But she had to be polite. Only for a little while longer.

They got in line for the ferris wheel and while it was a little longer than she wanted it to be, she didn’t mind waiting. She couldn’t wait to be at the top so she could look down on the entire fair. And then after that, she supposed it would be time to go. Time to turn her life upside down.

(Y/N) isn’t sure how she did it, but she managed to keep Joey occupied all the way up until they were at the front of the line, just waiting on an empty car to get into. She still seemed interested and she entertained all his thoughts and ideas when all she really wanted to do was bury her head into Harry’s chest and pathetically grind away in his lap. It was just a second that she thought about it and then she had to banish it from her mind because she wouldn’t be able to think straight if she thought about that.

Somehow, they got rearranged in line and when the teenager running the ride asked them how many, she said three, forgetting that the ride only fit two people. They were still ushered on and before she realized what was happening, she was buckling herself into the seat beside Harry while Joey was stuck waiting for the next car to come down.

“Sorry!” She called to him and he waved her off.

“Have fun!”

Sighing, she sat back in the seat, careful not to rock the car in any way. While she did like the ride, she wasn’t fond of the seat tilting back and forth too far, so she tried to be as still as possible.

“Is this everything you were hoping it’d be?” Harry spoke up. She jumped when the car moved up a spot so Joey was let on the seat in behind them. She waved when he looked back, smiling like he wasn’t bothered by the seating arrangement at all.

“Yeah. It’s nice.” Not a complete lie, but not that truth either. It was fun until the full moon made an appearance and was lingering in the background every second. She couldn’t think about anything else. She wasn’t sure how high in the sky it needed to be, but it was only getting higher as the minutes dragged by.

“This isn’t your last fair, you know that? You’ll still live a pretty normal life. You can keep your home and your job. It’s only me that will be much different.”

Like he hadn’t already shook things up just by finding her in the woods that day. She’s been doomed ever since then. And that fact that werewolves just exist, like that didn’t blow her mind. She still hasn’t seen him in wolf form but she really doesn’t know what it’ll do to her already fragile state of mind so she isn’t looking forward to it too much. But she knows it’ll come up eventually.

“Yeah. Somehow I don’t think that’s true.” Her hands tightened around the lap bar when the ride started. Taking them up and then over top of the wheel, just to bring them back down and around.

“You don’t see yourself being happy?”

“I mean, it’s a little weird, yeah. But I think if it’s meant to be then it won’t be after a while. I don’t know.” She shrugged, gasping when they reached the top again and she could look at all the lights down below. It was only a second because they were going back down and around again.

“It is meant to be. It won’t be weird in only a short while.” His hand shifted towards hers on the lap bar and just barely touched.

“Yeah, but what about you? You hate the fact that I’m human and pretty much rejected me as soon as you saw me.” Her eyes rolled and then she hurried to look over the scenery again. It hurt her feelings. They obviously had a strong connection despite knowing little to nothing about each other and that part excited her. But Harry didn’t seem to ever be excited about anything.

“What are you talking about?” He turned to her just as the ride jerked to a stop at almost the top, but not quite.

“You don’t like that I’m human. You’d rather be mated with someone in the pack, right? Isn’t that how it goes?”

“That’s not how it works.” He shook his head. “There aren’t many wolves that find mates within their own pack. That’s very rare.”

“Well, you seem so thrilled to be stuck with me.” Another eye roll.

“A mate at all is always a gift. Wolf or human, I couldn’t ask for anyone else to be my mate. This might be all new now, but soon you’ll understand just how grateful I am to have found you and so soon.”

“But I can tell—”

“No. You can’t. A mate is a gift.”

“Then why are you so…grumpy all the time?”

“I’m ready to fuck you. That’s why.” He said it so casually and tacked on a shrug that made her mouth twitch.

“It’s that bad that you have to be an asshole all the time?” That was almost more shocking than all the rest of it. “Wow.”

“It’s just the way it is right now. I’ve been nice enough to you I think.”

“Yeah but it never made me think you want to fuck me. It made me think you were annoyed with me.” She crossed her arms, getting a chill since they were still waiting for other people down below to load and unload. It would probably be a minute until they were able to get off.

“Same thing, isn’t it?”

“No. If you want human girls to like you, you have to be sweet. Like Joey.” Harry scoffed, his arm coming up behind her shoulders. His hand squeezed the back of her neck.

“You’re my mate. We’ll love each other anyway.”

“Love you? I’ve only known you for like, three weeks.” He was talking about things she wasn’t even ready to consider. Love. That sounds like too much too soon.

“Time doesn’t mean much when you’re mates.”

That did little to console her. He did say things would happen fast just as soon as the moon touched the sky.

Her eyes shifted from his face to the moon behind him that seemed much larger than she’s ever seen it. It was bright, the sky was clear, and it felt like everything was falling perfectly into place. It also felt like a fire was starting somewhere deep in her belly. It wouldn’t be much longer now and she knew it.

“I want to kiss you.” It left her mouth before her brain could process the meaning of even saying it. Harry didn’t look surprised, he just shook his head.

“I don’t think your date would appreciate that.” He nodded ahead at Joey who wasn’t paying them any attention and instead looking at the scenery around him.

“He’s not going to look back. Please. I need it and you know it.” She pressed close to him again so their legs touched, their shoulders, their feet. Any way she could get close to him on this stupid ride, she would. At the slightest shake of his head, she was tugging at the collar of his jacket again and leaning her head into his chest.

“Please.”

Part of (Y/N) knows he’s only doing it to torture her. He wants to be right so badly that he would let himself suffer just to prove a point.

If the lap bar wasn’t in the way, she’s sure she’d be all over him. Smelling him and pressing herself as close as possible. She couldn’t wait to leave. She’d probably have to fake sick just to get back to the car. Joey would understand, wouldn’t he?

Her eyes flashed back to the moon. It felt eye level now. Like it was spotlighting right down onto her and transforming something within her now. And then, she felt what could only be described as a gushing. Through her underwear and onto the tights. She really hoped no one would be able to see that.

Harry’s hand on her neck tightened and he huffed.

“Great. You’re soaking yourself already and we’re stuck on this ride for who knows how long.” Like he was the one that was being inconvenienced.

“Shut up. It’s you that won’t let me kiss you.” Her thighs squeezed and she shifted even closer.

“He’s going to see and how are you going to explain to Joey that you kissed your cousin?” It sounded ridiculous when he said it like that. And Joey would certainly look at them like they were insane if he saw in the first place. But she really doubted he would. It’s too much work to turn himself around in that tiny car.

“I don’t care! He’s not going to see. Please,” She pried his hand from his lap and did her best to shove it between her legs. “Anything, please.”

He sighed as if he was being bothered before he pushed his fingers further under her skirt until they brushed the now wet tights.

“Jesus.”

“It’s all your fault.” She gripped his arm and pushed him closer.

“You wanted to come here.”

“You let me. You should’ve used that dumb little alpha voice and told me no.”

“You wouldn’t have listened.” The back of his hand added pressure to the front of her underwear finally.

“You should’ve made me,” Just the warmth of his hand was enough. For now. But she still wanted a kiss. “Kiss me now.” She leaned to nip at his neck and if she knew that was all it was going to take for his free hand to grip onto her jaw and press their mouths together, she would’ve done that weeks ago.

She hoped every single pathetic little whine that she let out into his mouth was muffled, at the very least. Her mouth moved fast, she didn’t want to feel anything slow. She wanted him now, but the very top of the ferris wheel wasn’t a great place to do that. Not with all these people around anyway.

(Y/N) had been too busy with his mouth to worry about his hand between her legs. But when her tights were ripped open at the center, she knew he was probably done playing around.

Then, he just stopped. Because of course he would.

“I’ll take care of you as soon as we’re home.”

“At least kiss me!” It was louder than she meant it to be but there was no part of her that cared.

“I did.”

“Not enough.

“Plenty actually.”

“But, I don’t think I can—” (Y/N) shut her mouth as soon as she glanced to her right and saw Joey in front of them, staring back. He looked confused and a pinch hurt. Before she could find anything to shout to him, some excuse, an apology, he turned right back around and didn’t face them again for the rest of the ride.

“You’ve done it now.” Harry pulled his hand from her skirt and wiped it over his pants leg. The glare she sent him was meant to be angry, but he just smiled at her and rested his arm behind her back again.

“This really isn’t going to plan.” She pulled her hands from Harry’s jacket and sat back in the seat. Everything simmered for a moment. She felt herself pout. It was never meant to be serious with Joey but she knows that he’s still not going to be the slightest bit happy about what he just saw. There’s nothing she can even say that will make an ounce of sense. She might as well just keep quiet and let him say whatever he needs to say, if anything at all.

“He’ll be alright.” Harry brought his other hand to her cheek and gently ran the back of his hand over it. It was probably the most tender touch he’s ever offered to her. She leaned into it without thought and didn’t move until they were getting ushered off the ride.

It’s just her luck that Joey stuck around. She almost hoped he’d ditch them as soon as he got off, but it just goes to show that he really is a good guy. He looked between the two of them with a neutral expression and shook his head.

“You could’ve just told me you didn’t want to go.”

Harry hung back and let her have the space to say goodbye to Joey. (Y/N) really didn’t know what would make it better, she wouldn’t still be here if she were him. She’d be halfway to the parking lot.

“That wasn’t meant to happen like that…” She trailed off, watching him shift uncomfortably and then cross his arms. “I’ve never…kissed him before. I don’t….I’m sorry.”

It was unbelievable to her as well. She really thought she’d be able to resist what Harry claimed to be fate. She tried but it didn’t take long for her to relent as soon as the moon was high enough in the sky. She should’ve listened to Harry and stayed in. That’s a tough pill to swallow.

“Yeah. I’m sorry too. Bye (Y/N).” He turned on his heel and started walking away from them. Harry took his place back beside her and wound his arm around her waist.

“Want me to rip his throat out?” He offered casually, pulling her to face him.

“No. He gets to be a little upset. I mean, we were on a date! Imagine if you saw me kissing him, you’d die!” She doesn’t want to know what he’d really do. It would probably be much worse than that. He tugged her impossibly closer until she was pretty much forced to reciprocate the hold around his shoulders.

“No. He would. Because I’d kill him,” He stared over her shoulder at what she assumed to be Joey. “Now. I think we have somewhere to be.”

Both of their gazes shifted to the moon looming high over their heads and then back to each other.

Harry kept his hand tightly woven with hers as they tried to refrain from running to the car. Rushing, yes, but not running because that sounded ridiculous when she thought about what exactly they were rushing for.

But then he looked down at her with this heated stare as they were waiting for a line of people to cross in front of them on their way out to the parking lot. It burned all the way to her core and she remembered exactly why running was probably a great idea and made the most sense.

Once they both reached the car, as soon as the doors were shut, (Y/N) was halfway over the center console to kiss him again.

“Do you think we’ll be able to leave the park lot?” She said between breaths, only taking as long as it took to say that before pressing her mouth back to his. He didn’t even answer her before dragging her over the middle console and sitting her in his lap.

“I think I have to mark you now.”

Two weeks ago, that would’ve freaked (Y/N) out. She would have been stressing about pain or about what happens after he sinks his teeth into her, if that’s even what marking means.

But right now, nothing sounds better.

“Do it.”

You know you should've left the office hours ago, but you don't move, standing there as you watch Harry like you haven't been trying not to all night. The executive floor is empty now. The conference rooms are dark, the assistant desks are abandoned, and the marble hallway outside Harry's office is quiet beneath the soft lights. It's long past midnight, and the city glitters far beneath Harry's office, rain sliding down the windows and turning everything outside into soft streaks of gold and white. You should be home by now, showered and curled up in bed, pretending you aren't thinking about the man sitting behind the desk in front of you. Instead, you're standing across from him with your tablet pressed to your chest, watching him read through a contract you've already summarized three times.

Harry knows you're watching him. Of course he does. He always knows, even when he's looking down, even when he seems focused on work, even when he's acting like his usual terrifyingly calm self. His suit jacket is off, his waistcoat is still buttoned, and his tie is loose around his neck, making him look less like your boss and more like the kind of mistake you'd make twice. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showing off the tattoos on his forearms, and every time he turns a page, his rings catch the warm light from the lamp. His curls are messier than they were this morning, probably from how many times he's dragged his fingers through them during the evening, and you hate how badly you want to do the same.

"You're staring," Harry says, not even looking up from the contract.

Your cheeks warm instantly, but you refuse to let him see how flustered you are. "I'm waiting," you say, shifting slightly in your heels. "There's a difference."

His mouth lifts at one corner, barely enough to be called a smile. "Waiting for what?"

"For you to admit you don't actually need me here."

Harry finally looks up, and the whole room seems to change with it. His gaze settles on you slowly, moving from your face to the open collar of your blouse, then down to your skirt before coming back to your eyes. He leans back in his chair like he owns every second of the night and has no plans to give any of them back to you. "Maybe I don't need you here," he says, his voice low and smooth. "Maybe I just wanted you here."

You laugh once, but it comes out softer than you mean it to. "That's not a business reason."

"No," Harry agrees, setting the contract down on the desk. "It isn't."

The honesty of it should make you nervous. It does make you nervous, just not nervous enough to leave. You glance toward the office doors like you're reminding yourself you could still leave, but both of you know you won't. This has been building for months, through late meetings, quiet car rides, and hotel bars, in the way his hand sometimes brushes your lower back when he passes behind you, and in the way his eyes linger when he thinks you're not paying attention. You've told yourself a hundred times that tension isn't permission, that wanting someone doesn't mean you get to have them, and that Harry is your boss, which should be reason enough to stay away. Unfortunately, none of that changes the way your body reacts when he stands.

He walks around the desk without rushing, because Harry never rushes when he already knows he has control. The soft sound of his shoes against the floor feels too loud in the quiet office, and your fingers tighten around the tablet when he stops in front of you. He's close enough now that you can smell his cologne, warm and expensive beneath the sharper scent of whiskey and a long night. You look up at him, refusing to step back even though the desk is behind you and Harry is right in front of you.

"You've been distracted all evening," he says.

"I've been working."

"You've been pretending to work."

Your eyebrows lift. "I finished everything you asked for."

"I know." His gaze drops to your mouth for a second, and his voice gets lower. "You always do."

The praise is simple, almost professional, but it still makes your stomach twist. You hate how much you like pleasing him, especially when you spend so much of the day pretending he doesn't affect you. Harry reaches up, his fingers brushing your chin so lightly it almost doesn't feel like touching, but your breath catches anyway. His eyes flicker at the sound, and the faintest bit of satisfaction curves his mouth.

"There it is," he murmurs.

You swallow. "There, what is?"

"That little breath." His thumb slides along your jaw slowly enough for you to feel every inch of it. "You make it when you're trying not to want something."

"I don't want anything," you lie.

Harry smiles properly then, looking unfairly beautiful for someone who seems to know exactly how this is going to end. "No?"

"No."

His hand moves from your jaw to the side of your neck, warm and careful, not holding you there, just resting against your skin. "Then tell me to stop touching you."

You stare at him, your heart beating too fast. The office feels warmer than it did a moment ago, or maybe it's just Harry standing so close. You could tell him to stop. You know that, and more importantly, you believe he would listen. Harry may be arrogant, controlling, and impossible, but he isn't careless with you. Not when it matters. The realization makes something inside you soften in a way you don't want to think about.

"I don't want you to stop," you whisper.

His jaw tightens, the only sign that your words affect him, too. "Say it again."

You should hate that he asks. You should roll your eyes, make some joke, and put distance between you before this becomes something neither of you can ignore tomorrow morning. Instead, you lift your chin and meet his eyes, even though your face feels hot. "I don't want you to stop."

Harry takes the tablet from your hands and sets it on the desk behind you, never looking away. The movement is calm, almost polite, which only makes the way he kisses you a second later feel more intense. His mouth is warm and firm against yours, not gentle at all, while one hand slides into your hair and the other grips your waist to pull you closer. You make a small sound before you can stop yourself, and Harry swallows it, kissing you harder like he's been waiting months to hear it.

Your hands find his waistcoat because you need something to hold onto as he backs you against the desk. The edge of the desk presses into your thighs, cold even through your skirt, while Harry's body is warm against yours. He kisses you with the same focus he brings to everything else, confident enough to make you forget you were ever trying to stay in control. When his teeth catch your lower lip, a soft moan slips out before you can stop it, and Harry pulls back just enough to look at you.

"Sweetheart," he says, sounding almost amused. "You're already making noise."

Your face burns. "You're already insufferable."

"I haven't even started."

The words roll through you like heat, and Harry feels you shift toward him. His hand tightens on your waist, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you that he notices everything. His mouth moves from your jaw to your neck, kissing the skin just beneath your ear as his fingers find the top button of your blouse. He pauses there, and somehow the pause makes you ache more than if he'd kept going.

"Can I?" he asks.

You nod, but Harry doesn't move.

"Words," he says softly.

"Yes," you whisper. "You can."

Harry undoes the first button slowly, then the second, taking his time in a way that feels almost cruel. He watches your face more than your body, noticing every swallow, every uneven breath, and every tiny shift of your hips against the desk. By the time he reaches the third button, you're gripping the edge of the desk with one hand and his arm with the other, your fingers pressed against the tattoos you've spent too many meetings pretending not to look at. When the silk parts enough to show the black lace underneath, Harry goes very still.

You glance away, suddenly embarrassed by how intensely he's staring. "Don't."

His fingers slip beneath the open edge of your blouse, brushing the bare skin just below your ribs. "Don't what?"

"Look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you've never seen lingerie before."

Harry's mouth curves, but his eyes stay dark. "I've seen lingerie," Harry says. "I haven't seen yours."

The way he says it makes your thighs press together before you can stop them. His gaze drops, catching the movement, and you immediately regret giving him something else to be smug about. He leans closer, his mouth brushing your ear while his hand settles on your hip. "You wore this under my nose all day?"

"I wear nice things for myself," you say, though your voice doesn't sound as sure as you want it to.

"Mm." His thumb brushes over the lace at your waist. "Of course you do."

"You don't believe me."

"I believe you like pretending I'm not part of the reason."

You open your mouth to argue, but Harry's lips return to your neck before you can get the words out. His mouth is slower now, softer than the first kiss but somehow more dangerous, like he has all night to figure out exactly what makes you weak. His hands push your blouse from your shoulders, and you let it fall down your arms because modesty feels pointless when he's looking at you like that. You're sitting on the edge of his desk in your skirt and lace bra, the city glittering behind him, and Harry looks at you like you're the only thing worth seeing.

"You're beautiful," he says.

Your chest tightens. You don't know what to do with that when it sounds so honest, so you look down and smooth your hand over his waistcoat. "That sounds like something you say when you want something."

"I do want something," he says, his hand sliding up your thigh. "But that doesn't make it less true."

His fingers stop just beneath the hem of your skirt, and your breath goes shallow. He's still watching your face, still waiting for some sign that you want this too, even though your body has already made it embarrassingly obvious. You shift closer to the edge of the desk, and Harry's eyes flicker with approval.

"There you are," he murmurs.

You frown, mostly because it's easier than letting him see how needy you feel. "Don't talk to me like you've been waiting for me to behave."

"I have been waiting." His hand moves higher, pushing your skirt up inch by inch. "But I never expected you to behave."

That shouldn't make you warmer, but it does. Harry's fingers trace the inside of your thigh, not touching where you need him yet, just close enough to make your stomach tighten. You force yourself to stay still, even though every part of you wants to move toward his hand. He notices the effort and smiles, his thumb rubbing a slow circle against your skin.

"Tell me what you want," he says.

"You know what I want."

"I do." His thumb moves closer. "I want to hear you say it."

You let out a breath that sounds too much like a whine. "Harry."

"That's not an answer."

Your cheeks burn hotter, and you hate how easily he makes you shy. You can handle investors, emergency calls, ruined schedules, and Harry in one of his ruthless moods, but asking him to touch you makes you feel like you're coming apart before he's even done anything. His fingers brush the edge of your underwear through your skirt, and your hips move before you can stop them.

Harry's smile deepens. "Needy."

"I'm not."

"No?" His hand slides over the lace between your thighs, barely pressing. "Then why are you so wet?"

Your eyes squeeze shut. "Don't say it like that."

"Like what?" His fingers press more firmly, dragging over you through the soaked lace. "Like it's true?"

You grip his wrist, not to pull him away, but because you need something to hold onto. "You're awful."

"And you're dripping for me on my desk."

A broken sound leaves you. Harry's expression shifts, his amusement turning into something hungrier when he feels the way you react. He leans down and kisses the corner of your mouth with surprising gentleness, his fingers still teasing you through the lace. "Ask me properly," he murmurs.

You shake your head, embarrassed and aching. "Please."

"Please, what?"

"Touch me."

"I am touching you."

You glare at him, but it's ruined by the way your hips roll toward his hand. "Properly."

Harry hums, pleased. "Where?"

"Between my legs."

His fingers slip beneath the lace immediately, and you gasp when he finally touches you skin to skin. He moves slowly at first, sliding through your wetness with controlled pressure that makes your whole body tense. His other hand settles on your waist, holding you steady when your thighs start to tremble around him. The office feels too quiet, with the sound of your breathing, his fingers moving against you, and the faint rain against the windows.

"Look at you," he says softly. "You were sitting across from me in meetings like this?"

"No," you breathe, though you're not sure it's true.

Harry circles your clit with two fingers, slow enough to make you frustrated. "No?"

You bite your lip, refusing to give in that easily. He watches you struggle for a few seconds, then slows even more, and panic rushes through you so fast you forget to be proud. "Harry, please."

"There it is." His mouth brushes your cheek. "What was it? The office? The desk? My hands?"

You hate how warm your face gets, but you're too far gone to lie properly. "Your hands."

His fingers press a little harder, and pleasure sparks through your stomach. "What about them?"

"The rings," you whisper, your voice unsteady. "Your tattoos. The way you look when you're signing things and not paying attention to anyone."

Harry laughs quietly against your skin. "I pay attention to you."

You moan when he slides one finger inside you, slow and deep. His forehead nearly touches yours, and for a moment, he looks less arrogant and more affected. "Fuck, love," he says under his breath. "You're so tight," he breathes.

Your body clenches around his finger, and Harry's eyes darken.

"Oh," he murmurs. "You like when I tell you?"

You nod, too overwhelmed to pretend otherwise.

Harry adds a second finger carefully, watching your face as he stretches you. The fullness makes your mouth fall open, and Harry kisses you immediately, swallowing the sound before it gets too loud. His fingers move with patient precision, curling inside you while his thumb finds your clit again, every controlled stroke making it harder to remember where you are. This is Harry's desk, his office, his whole empire beneath your shaking hands, and you're half-undressed in front of him while he touches you like he's thought about it too many times to stay gentle.

"You need to stay quiet for me," he says against your mouth.

The words make you clench again.

Harry notices and smiles. "Of course you like that."

"I don't," you whisper, even though your body proves otherwise.

"Liar." His fingers curl again, hitting a spot that makes your whole body go loose. "You like being told what to do when you're this needy."

Your hands clutch at his shoulders, wrinkling his shirt and waistcoat, and Harry doesn't seem to mind at all. If anything, he looks satisfied by the mess you're making of him. His thumb circles faster, and the pleasure starts building too quickly, hot and tight and impossible to stop. You turn your face into his neck, trying to muffle yourself against him, and Harry lets you, his mouth pressing to your temple while his hand keeps moving between your thighs.

"That's it," he says, his voice low and warm. "You're doing so well."

The praise is what finally ruins you. Your orgasm hits hard, rolling through you in sharp waves that make your thighs close around his wrist and your fingers dig into his shoulders. Harry holds you steady, murmuring against your skin while he works you through it, only slowing when your body starts to tremble from too much. When he finally slips his fingers out, the emptiness makes you whimper before you can stop yourself.

Harry stills.

Then his smile turns wicked. "Already missing me?"

You hide your face against his shoulder. "Don't."

He lifts his hand between you, his fingers wet and shining under the warm light. Your breath catches as he brings them to his mouth, tasting you without taking his eyes off yours. The sight sends heat through you all over again, and Harry's gaze sharpens because he sees exactly what it does to you.

"You're going to kill me," he says, almost to himself.

You glance down before you can stop yourself. He's hard against the front of his trousers, straining beneath the expensive fabric, and knowing you made him that way sends confidence rushing through you. Harry follows your gaze, and when you look back up, his expression has gone still enough to make your stomach flip.

"Careful," he says.

You swallow. "What if I don't want to be careful?"

His hand returns to your hair, fingers sliding in gently before tightening just enough to make your breath catch. "Then tell me exactly what you want."

You hate him for making you say it. You want to thank him for it, too, because the way he waits and makes you choose it out loud only makes the wanting worse. "I want you inside me," you whisper.

Harry's eyes close for half a second, and when they open again, he looks less controlled than before. "Turn around."

The command rushes through you. He helps you off the desk, his hands steady at your waist when your legs almost wobble, then turns you carefully until your palms press flat against the glass. The glass is cold beneath your hands, and your reflection shimmers faintly in the dark window beyond his desk. You can see yourself with your blouse gone, your hair already messy, and your skirt pushed higher than it should be. Behind you, Harry stands close, his body warm against your back, his hands moving over your hips in a way that makes your knees feel weak.

"You're shaking," he says.

"You keep making me."

His laugh is soft against the back of your neck. "I know."

The sound of his belt opening makes your fingers curl against the desk. He takes his time with that, too, but not because he isn't affected. You can feel the tension in him now, the impatience beneath every controlled movement. His hand smooths over your lower back, then down over the curve of your ass as he pushes your skirt all the way up around your hips. When he pulls the lace aside and settles behind you, you stop breathing.

Harry leans over you, his mouth by your ear. "Still want this?"

"Yes."

"Color?"

"Green."

His lips press softly to your shoulder. "Good girl."

He pushes into you slowly, and every thought leaves your head. The stretch is intense, filling you inch by inch until your arms almost give out beneath you. Harry catches your waist with one arm, holding you up as he keeps pressing deeper, his breath uneven against your skin. He feels warm and thick and overwhelming, and when he finally settles fully inside you, both of you go still.

"Fuck," he whispers. "You feel perfect."

Your eyes flutter shut, and your forehead dips toward the glass. He doesn't move yet. He holds you there, letting you adjust, his palm spread over your stomach and his chest pressed to your back. It feels too intimate for something this filthy, too careful for the way he has you bent over his desk in the middle of the night. You push your hips back slightly, needing him to move, and Harry's grip tightens.

"Impatient," he murmurs.

"You made me wait eighteen months."

That breaks something in him. He pulls back and thrusts into you, hard enough that a gasp tears from your throat before you can swallow it. Harry's hand comes to your mouth immediately, gentle but firm, covering the sound as his lips brush your ear. "Quiet, darling, unless you want the whole building knowing what we're doing up here."

You clench around him, and his rhythm falters.

"Oh, you filthy thing," Harry breathes. "You like that."

You shake your head against his hand, but it's useless. He knows. Your body tells him everything before your mouth can lie. He starts moving properly, each thrust deep and controlled, his hips meeting yours with enough force to make the desk shift beneath your palms. The city lights blur in the window as your reflection moves with his, and seeing Harry behind you with one hand over your mouth and the other gripping your hip sends pleasure twisting through your stomach.

It feels so good, it makes you want to cry, not softly or delicately, but in a desperate way that has your body trying to take more of him with every thrust. Harry curses under his breath when you push back against him, his hand leaving your mouth to grip your waist instead. "That's it," he says, his voice rougher now. "Take me just like that."

You try to answer, but all that comes out is his name.

Harry's mouth finds your neck. "Again."

"Harry."

His hips snap harder into yours. "Again."

You say it because he asks. Because he sounds like he needs it, and because his cock is hitting something inside you that makes every bit of pride useless. "Harry, please."

He groans, low and almost broken. "You're so good when you beg."

"I'm not begging."

"No?" His hand slides between your legs, finding your clit again with cruel accuracy. "Then what's this?"

The first circle of his fingers makes your knees buckle. Harry holds you up easily, his arm tight around your waist while his other hand moves between your thighs. The pressure is too much after your first orgasm, and still, you rock into it because you can't help yourself. Your body is already tightening around him, pleasure building again faster than you're ready for.

"I can't," you gasp.

"You can," he says, his voice low and steady. "You will."

Your fingers slip against the glass, and Harry presses a kiss behind your ear, softer than the words he's saying. The contrast makes your head spin. He fucks you hard, talks to you softly, holds you as if you belong to him, and still checks just enough to remind you that you're choosing this, too. When his fingers circle faster, your whole body starts to shake.

"You're close," he says. You nod helplessly. "Tell me."

Your face burns even now, even with him deep inside you. "I'm close."

"Good." His mouth brushes your jaw. "Come for me on my desk."

The words undo you completely. Your orgasm tears through you, hot and blinding, your body clenching around him so tightly that Harry curses and goes still for a second. You press your mouth to your arm to stay quiet, trembling through it while his hand keeps moving until you're whining from how sensitive you are. Only then does he pull his fingers away and wrap both arms around you, thrusting into you with shorter, rougher movements.

"That's my girl," he says, his voice wrecked. "My perfect girl."

You don't know if it's the words or the way he says them, but something in your chest tightens along with the pleasure. Harry loses his rhythm behind you, his breathing rough against your neck, his body tense from how hard he's trying to hold back. You push your hips back again, wanting him to stop being so controlled, wanting to see what happens when he finally lets go.

"Inside," you whisper.

Harry stills immediately. "You're sure?"

"Yes."

His hand slides up to your jaw, turning your face enough for him to see you. "Say it again."

You meet his eyes over your shoulder. "Come inside me."

The sound he makes is almost painful. He thrusts deep once, then again, before burying himself fully and coming with a low, broken groan against your shoulder. His fingers press into your waist as warmth fills you, his whole body shuddering behind yours. For a long moment, neither of you moves. There is only your breathing, the rain, and the knowledge that you've crossed a line neither of you can uncross.

Harry kisses the back of your shoulder, once and then again, softer each time.

"You okay?" he asks.

You laugh weakly, your cheek still close to the glass. "That's a very polite question from a man who just bent me over his desk."

Harry laughs softly against your back, his hands still steady at your waist. "I'm allowed to check on you."

You let out a weak laugh, still trying to catch your breath. "I didn't say you weren't."

"There she is."

He pulls out slowly, and the feeling of him slipping from you makes your face heat all over again. Harry is careful as he helps you straighten, one hand steady at your waist while the other reaches for the tissues on his desk. You clean up as best you can with shaking hands, trying to gather whatever dignity you have left while Harry watches you with open satisfaction.

"Stop looking at me like that," you say.

"Like what?"

"Like you're proud of yourself."

"I am proud of myself."

"You're unbearable."

"And yet." His gaze moves down your body, taking in your wrinkled blouse, your flushed skin, and your skirt still sitting too high on your thighs. "You're still here."

You should leave now. That's the reasonable thing to do. You should put your blouse back on, fix your hair in the bathroom, and go home before this gets even more complicated than it already is. Instead, your eyes drift down again, and Harry notices before you can pretend you weren't looking.

He's still getting hard again.

Your breath catches.

Harry's expression changes instantly. "Don't look at me like that unless you mean it."

You look back up at him through your lashes. "What if I mean it?"

His hand flexes at his side. For the first time all night, he looks genuinely thrown, like he didn't expect you to push back. The confidence it gives you is warm and reckless. You step closer, then slowly sink to your knees on the rug behind his desk, watching Harry's jaw tighten as he looks down at you.

"[Y/N]."

Your name sounds like a warning, but not one that tells you to stop.

You rest your hands on his thighs, feeling the tension there. "You told me to be specific."

Harry's eyes darken, and his hand slides into your hair, gentle at first as he gathers it away from your face. "Open your mouth, love."

You obey, opening your mouth as Harry's fingers stay gentle in your hair.

The first taste of him makes Harry's breath catch sharply. He guides himself between your lips carefully, almost like it costs him effort to stay gentle, his fingers tightening in your hair when your tongue slides over him. You take him slowly, cleaning him with your mouth and tasting him, warm and salty, still mixed with the evidence of what you just did together. Harry's head tips back for a second before he forces himself to look down again, and seeing him try to stay composed while your mouth is on him makes your thighs press together.

He sees that too. Of course he does.

"You like this," he says, his voice rough.

You hum around him, and his hips jerk slightly.

"Fuck." His hand tightens in your hair, guiding you a little more firmly. "You're going to make me lose my mind."

That only makes you want to try harder. You take him deeper, moving slowly enough to feel his composure thinning with every pass of your mouth. The office feels hotter now, smaller, the city outside forgotten behind the sound of Harry's breathing and your mouth moving over him. Harry praises you under his breath, filthy and tender at the same time, his thumb stroking your cheek while his words make you ache between your legs again.

"So good," he murmurs. "Look at you."

You glance up at him, and whatever he sees on your face makes him pull you away gently. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, his expression dark but almost soft, like he's trying to keep some part of himself gentle with you. "Come here," he murmurs, guiding you toward the couch.

The words go through you softly.

Harry helps you stand, kissing you the second you're on your feet. He doesn't seem to care that you taste like him. If anything, the kiss becomes hotter and messier, his hands gripping your waist as he walks you backward toward the black leather couch near the windows. He sits first and pulls you onto his lap, your knees settling on either side of his hips. Your skirt is still bunched up, your blouse hanging open, and the lace between your thighs is still pushed aside as his hands move over you with less control than before.

He looks beautiful beneath you. His curls are a mess, his shirt is wrinkled, and his mouth is swollen from kissing you. His eyes move over your face, and for a moment, he doesn't say anything. The quiet makes you nervous in a different way.

"What?" you ask.

Harry's hands move slowly up your thighs. "I'm deciding whether I should tell you what I'm thinking."

"You usually do."

"Not this."

Your stomach dips. "Tell me."

His gaze lifts to yours. "I'm thinking I don't want this to be the only time."

The words hit harder than any touch he's given you tonight. You look away, but Harry gently catches your chin and brings your eyes back to his. He doesn't look smug now. He looks serious, and that feels far more dangerous.

"We can talk tomorrow," Harry says. "Properly. About work, boundaries, whatever you need. If tonight was just tonight, I'll respect that."

"And if it isn't?"

His thumbs stroke your hips. "Then I take you to dinner somewhere private and try very hard not to touch you under the table."

You laugh before you can stop yourself, and the tension loosens just enough for Harry to smile. The warmth only lasts a second before Harry's hands guide your hips down, rubbing you against him. Your breath catches, and his expression shifts back into something darker.

"But right now," he says, "I want to watch you."

You rise slightly as he positions himself beneath you, and when you sink onto him again, the angle makes both of you moan. This time is different, slower at first and more intimate because you're facing him, because his eyes stay on yours as you take him inch by inch. His hands stay at your waist, gripping hard enough to guide you but not enough to take over, and for a few moments, he lets you set the pace.

You roll your hips carefully, still sensitive and aching, and Harry's head falls back against the couch. The sight makes your confidence flare. You do it again, deeper this time, watching Harry's jaw tighten as his fingers dig into your hips.

"You like that?" you ask, breathless.

His eyes open. "Don't get smug."

"You're always smug."

"That's different."

You laugh, and Harry thrusts up into you hard enough to turn it into a gasp. His mouth curves as he does it again, finding the angle that makes your hands fly to his shoulders. "There," he says. "That's what you needed."

You try to glare at him, but it's impossible when he feels like this. You ride him slowly at first, then faster, your hands braced on his shoulders while his move over your body. He touches your waist, your back, and your breasts through the lace, then reaches behind you and unclasps your bra with annoying ease.

You look down at him. "That was too quick."

"I'm talented."

"You're annoying," you say, even though your voice is too breathless to make it convincing.

Harry's mouth curves. "I'm about to make you come again."

"That doesn't make you less annoying."

Harry smiles, then lowers his mouth to your breast, and your next complaint turns into a moan. He licks and sucks at your nipple while his hands guide your hips, helping you move when your thighs start to tremble. The pleasure is slower this time, deeper, building in a way that feels almost unbearable because you're already so sensitive. Your body keeps trying to pull away from how intense it feels, but Harry holds you close, kissing your chest, your throat, and your jaw.

"One more," he murmurs. "You can give me one more."

You shake your head, though your hips keep moving. "I can't."

"You can." His voice is softer now, coaxing. "You're doing so well."

That praise again. It gets under your skin and finds the part of you that wants to be good for him, wanted by him, the reason his control keeps slipping. You move faster, chasing the pleasure even as it overwhelms you, and Harry starts meeting you from below. Each thrust pushes him deeper, stealing your breath and making the city behind him blur through your tears.

"Harry," you gasp.

"I know, baby." His hand slips between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit. "Come with me."

You break apart against him, your orgasm rolling through you in heavy waves that make you collapse against his chest. Harry follows with a rough groan, holding himself deep while his arms lock around your waist. His face presses into your neck, and for once, he sounds just as ruined as you feel.

Afterward, you stay folded against him, both of you breathing hard. His hands move slowly over your back, calming you while the rain keeps sliding down the windows. The office smells like sex, his cologne, and the faint sharpness of whiskey. It should feel awkward now that the heat is starting to fade, but it doesn't. It feels quiet, intimate, almost safe.

Eventually, you lift your head. "That was an extremely irresponsible use of company time."

Harry laughs, low and warm. "I'll mark it as staff development."

"You absolutely will not," you say, trying to sound firm even though your mouth wants to smile.

Harry's mouth curves, his hands still warm at your waist. "Team morale, then?"

"You're disgusting."

"Productivity research?"

You press your hand over his mouth before he can continue, and his eyes smile above your fingers. Then he kisses your palm, and the softness of it makes your chest ache again. You pull your hand away, suddenly unsure what to do with all the tenderness that keeps appearing between the filthy things.

Harry notices, because he notices everything. "Tomorrow," he says quietly. "We talk."

You nod. "Tomorrow."

"And tonight?"

You look at him, at his messy curls and swollen lips, and the man who has just made your life far more complicated. "Tonight, you're buying me a new blouse."

Harry's mouth curves. "Obscenely expensive?"

"Obviously."

His hands squeeze your waist. "Done."

You slide carefully off his lap, wincing slightly, and Harry immediately steadies you with one hand. The smugness returns to his face before he can hide it.

"Don't," you warn.

"I haven't said anything," Harry says, though his face makes it obvious.

"You're thinking it."

"I'm thinking several things."

"Keep them to yourself."

Harry stands and helps you fix your clothes, though it takes longer than it should because he keeps touching you like he hasn't had enough. By the time you're dressed, your blouse is wrinkled, your hair is hopeless, and your lipstick is mostly gone. Harry looks only slightly better, which feels deeply unfair.

You collect your tablet from the desk and head toward the office doors before you can lose your nerve. Harry follows you to the elevator, one hand in his pocket, his tie undone, and his gaze still heavy on you. When the doors open, you step inside and turn around.

"Goodnight, Harry."

His eyes darken at your voice. "Text me when you get home."

You lift an eyebrow. "Is that an order?"

His mouth softens. "A request."

That makes you smile despite yourself. "Goodnight, boss."

The elevator doors begin to close, and the last thing you see is Harry standing in the warm light of the executive floor, his suit ruined, his hair messy, and that slow smile on his face like he's already thinking about next time.

Your phone buzzes before you even reach the lobby.

Harry: Tuesdays and Thursdays?

You stare at the message, then laugh under your breath.

You: For staff development?

His reply comes immediately.

Harry: Obviously.

You shake your head, cheeks warm, your body still aching in ways that will make tomorrow morning interesting. The elevator slides down through Pleasing, carrying you back toward the rain-soaked city while Harry's office light still burns above you.

Another message appears.

Harry: You were perfect tonight.

Your smile softens.

For a moment, you only stare at the words. Then you type back.

You: You're still buying me a new blouse, though.

His response comes so quickly, you can practically hear his voice.

I don’t know what I expect Harry Styles to look like. Older, maybe. Crueler, probably. Someone soft around the edges, with a bored mouth, thinning hair, and too much money, the kind of man who buys desperate girls because no woman would ever walk into his life willingly.

But that isn’t what I find when the elevator doors slide open.

He’s standing at the far end of the office with his back to me, one hand tucked into the pocket of his black trousers, the other wrapped around a glass he hasn’t touched yet, and the city glitters behind him through the rain-streaked windows, looking like one more thing a man like him could own.

For one stupid second, I forget why I’m here, and then I remember Maeve — the hospital bed, the oxygen line, the monitor counting every fragile beat like it’s charging me for the privilege of keeping her alive. I remember the amount Dr. Harlow told me, a number that belongs in bank vaults and property listings, and things people with surnames like Styles probably buy without checking their accounts first.

My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag as Graham Hale stands beside me, polished and impassive, as if escorting a girl to sign away a year of her life is just another appointment in his calendar.

The office smells of leather, rain, and something sharp beneath it — clean, cold, expensive. Nothing here looks as if it has ever been touched by need: not the dark wood desk, not the silver pen waiting on the contract, not the walls of books I doubt anyone has time to read.

Harry turns around. And fuck — that’s my first thought. Not because I want it to be, not because I’m stupid enough to look at a man like him and forget the danger buried inside this offer, but because he’s nothing like what I prepared myself for: not old, not soft, not bored. He’s beautiful in a way that feels dangerous. The kind of beautiful that feels less like a gift and more like a warning, with sharp cheekbones, unreadable eyes, dark curls falling loose around his face, and a stillness that makes the whole room wait.

His gaze moves over me once, quick enough to deny, thorough enough for me to feel it: my wet shoes, my cheap coat, my work clothes hidden badly beneath it, the hospital bracelet still looped around my wrist because I forgot to take it off after visiting Maeve. Then his eyes stop at my throat — at the silver nightingale.

Something flickers across his face. It’s gone too quickly for me to name, but I see it, and something about that frightens me more than the deal itself.

Recognition.

“Miss Bennett,” he says, his voice lower than I expect, calm in a way that makes me want to break something just to see if he flinches.

Graham clears his throat and steps toward the desk, breaking the silence between us. “The terms are straightforward,” he says, and I almost laugh because men like him only call things straightforward when the damage has already been put in writing.

Harry doesn’t move, but I can feel him watching me.

I look down at the contract waiting on the desk, all those white pages ready to swallow a year of my life, and for a second, all I can see is Maeve’s face when she told me not to make my funeral face. One year. That’s what Graham said on the phone — one year of marriage. One year in Harry Styles’s house, wearing his ring, smiling for cameras, and keeping my mouth shut whenever his family decides the truth is none of my business. And in exchange, Maeve gets the treatment.

In exchange, my sister gets a chance.

God, I hate that word. It’s such a small word for something people expect you to bleed for.

“You should read the whole thing,” Harry says.

I look up. His eyes are on the contract, not me, and there’s something tight in his jaw that almost looks like anger, which makes no sense because he’s the one buying a wife, and he doesn’t get to look angry about the price.

“I read the important part,” I say.

His gaze lifts to mine. For the first time since I walked in, Graham goes completely still. Harry’s mouth doesn’t smile, but something changes there, something almost amused and almost sad.

“And what part is that?”

“The part where my sister lives.”

The room goes quiet — not empty quiet. Heavy quiet. The kind that presses its hand over your mouth and dares you to breathe around it.

Harry looks at me for a long moment, and I get the strange, awful feeling that he wants to say something else, something that might change the shape of this entire room, this entire deal, this entire night.

Instead, he says nothing.

That’s the second thing I learn about Harry Styles: he keeps his secrets better than he keeps his pity.

So I step forward, pick up the silver pen, and sign my name before I can think too hard about the fact that my hand is shaking.

Isla Bennett.

The ink looks too dark against the page, final and irreversible, like a wound in the paper.

Graham reaches for the contract, but Harry gets there first, his fingers closing over the edge of it before the lawyer can touch it. For one second, they look at each other, and something passes between them. Something sharp. Something I am not meant to understand.

Then Harry takes the pen from my hand, his fingers brushing mine for barely half a second, and my whole body reacts like an idiot, like danger is heat and not something with teeth.

He signs beneath my name.

Harry Styles.

There it is — my future, reduced to two signatures.

Graham exhales softly, satisfied in that quiet, polished way of his, and starts speaking about next steps, medical transfers, press statements, security arrangements, the kind of words that turn a person’s life into an itinerary.

I hear almost none of it.

I’m staring at Harry, and he is staring at the nightingale around my neck as if it has just confirmed something terrible.

“What?” I ask before I can stop myself.

His eyes return to mine. Nothing in his face moves.

“Nothing.” Liar.

I know it immediately. I know it the way I know the hush of waiting rooms and monitor beeps, unpaid bills, and Maeve’s smile when she’s pretending not to be scared.

Harry Styles is lying to me. And somehow, impossibly, that’s the least terrifying part.

Because as Graham gathers the papers and rain drags silver lines down the windows behind us, I realize this contract doesn’t begin with my signature. It began before me — before Maeve’s hospital room, before the black card, before Harry looked at the nightingale at my throat like he already knew what it meant.

Somewhere in this city, somewhere inside his family’s beautiful, rotting world, there’s a secret with my mother’s name on it. And I’ve just married the man standing between me and the truth.

───── 𓆩♡𓆪 ─────

wc: 1,235.

welcome to nightingale 𐙚

i really hope you'll enjoy stepping into this story with me

likes, comments, and reblogs are always loved and appreciated — they help more than you know

"You're not fine. This is the third time this week you've stayed late to 'catch up.' And last week you volunteered for that 36-hour trauma rotation when you were already scheduled for a full surgical slate."

She shrugs, not meeting his eyes. "We were short-staffed. And Dr. Wilson specifically asked for someone with experience in vascular trauma."

"Dr. Wilson asked for an intern with vascular experience. There are four others in your year who qualified."

"Well, I was available."

Harry reaches across the table, gently closing her chart. "We need to talk about this."

"About what?" She tries for casual, but there's a defensive edge to her voice.

“About how you flinch every time someone questions one of your clinical decisions. You're pulling 80-hour weeks when you're only scheduled for 60." His voice softens. "Baby, you're running yourself ragged trying to prove something to people who don't matter."

Y/N stands abruptly, gathering her files. "They do matter. Every attending in this hospital matters. Every nurse, every resident, every person who looks at me and wonders if I actually earned my place or if I just—"

She stops herself, jaw clenching.

"If you just what?"

"If I just slept my way into the chief's good graces." The words come out sharp, bitter. "If I'm getting preferential treatment. If my surgical skills are actually worth a damn or if I'm just here because Harry Styles wants to fuck me."

Harry's expression darkens. "No one thinks that."

"Don't they?" She laughs humorlessly. "You should hear the whispers in the scrub room. The way conversations stop when I walk in. Morrison paired me with Kellerman last week and he spent the entire surgery questioning every decision I made like I was a first-year medical student."

She runs a hand through her hair, frustration building. "And let's not forget your reputation before me, Harry. The Doctor who casually slept his way through half the surgical staff. The attending who had residents fighting over who got to scrub in with him and not just for the surgical experience.”

Harry flinches slightly. "That was different—"

"Was it?" Y/N's voice rises. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like I'm just the latest in a long line. Do you know what they say? That I'm just a phase. That eventually you'll get bored and move on to the next willing resident. That I shouldn't get comfortable because Dr. Styles always goes back to his routine."

Harry's jaw tightens. "That's not fair. I never—"

"It's not about what you did or didn't do! It's about what people believe." She presses her palms against her eyes. "Every time I walk into an OR with you, I can feel them watching. Wondering if this is the day you'll realize you're done with me. If I'll suddenly stop getting picked for interesting cases because we're over."

Her voice cracks. "So yes, I work twice as hard. I stay twice as late. I volunteer for every difficult case because I need them to see me as more than just another notch on your bedpost."

Harry moves around the table toward her. "So you're working yourself to death to prove them wrong."

"What else am I supposed to do?" Her voice breaks slightly. "I can't control what they think. I can only control my work. So I work harder. Stay later. Volunteer for the difficult cases. Show them I deserve to be here."

"You already deserve to be here. You've always deserved to be here." He reaches for her hand but she pulls away.

"That's easy for you to say. You're not the one they're talking about."

The words land like a slap. Harry's jaw works for a moment before he speaks. "You think I don't know what they're saying? That I don't hear the comments about how I'm compromising my professional judgment? How I'm showing favoritism?" His voice drops. "I recused myself from your evaluations entirely. I barely speak to you during rounds. I've bent over backwards to maintain appropriate boundaries and it's still not enough for some people."

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "And yes, I had a reputation. I won't deny that. But this—us—it's different. You know that."

"I do know that," Y/N says softly. "But they don't. And sometimes...sometimes I wonder if they're right. If I'm just setting myself up for heartbreak when you eventually decide this isn't worth the hassle."

The vulnerability in her admission hits him hard. "Y/N..." His voice gentles. "I'm not going anywhere. What we have isn't some hospital fling. It's not a phase or a routine or whatever else they're saying."

He moves closer, hands finding her shoulders. "I love you. I've never said that to anyone else in this hospital. Never meant it the way I mean it with you."

She looks up at him, eyes shining with unshed tears. "I know. I do. It's just...hard. Constantly fighting against your history."

"Then stop fighting." He cups her face. "My past is my past. But you? You’re my future, baby. And no amount of hospital gossip changes that."

"I know." Y/N's shoulders slump. "And I'm grateful, I am. It's just..."

"Exhausting."

"Yeah."

Silence settles between them, heavy with everything they're both carrying. Harry takes a breath, changing tactics. "When's the last time you took a day off?"

"I don't know. A few weeks ago?"

"Try six weeks. You haven't had a full day off in six weeks." He leans against the table beside her. "Remember that weekend away I promised you? After the Daniella situation?"

A flicker of conflict crosses Y/N’s face, a visible struggle between her yearning for a break and her instinct to remain guarded.

"Harry, I can't just—"

"You can. You have vacation days. Use them." His hand finds hers this time, and she doesn't pull away. "Two days. Somewhere far from this hospital. No pagers, no charts, no one questioning whether you earned your spot in the OR."

"People will talk."

"People are already talking." Harry's thumb traces her knuckles. "Let them. I'm tired of letting other people's opinions dictate how we live our lives."

She looks at him and he can see how bone-deep exhausted she is. How much this has been costing her.

"I don't want them to think I'm getting special treatment," she says quietly.

"Taking a weekend off isn't special treatment. It's basic self-care." He squeezes her hand. "And honestly, love, you're no good to your patients if you collapse from exhaustion in the middle of a surgery."

Y/N lets out a shaky breath. "I just...I need them to respect me. To see me as a surgeon, not as your girlfriend who happens to work here."

"They will. They do." Harry pulls her closer, wrapping his arms around her waist. "But you can't control their perceptions by destroying yourself. That's not proving anything except that you're willing to sacrifice your health for their approval."

She leans into him, forehead resting against his shoulder. "I'm so tired."

"I know, baby. I know." He kisses the top of her head. "So let me take care of you for two days. Let yourself rest. The hospital will survive without you."

She's quiet for a long moment, and he can feel her wavering. "Where would we go?" she asks, so quietly he almost doesn't hear.

Harry smiles against her hair. A small victory. He'll take it. "Anywhere you want. The coast. The mountains. A cabin in the middle of nowhere." He squeezes her shoulders. "Just somewhere that isn't this hospital."

She takes a deep breath, then nods slowly. "Okay. This weekend."

Relief washes over Harry's face. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet." She attempts a smile. "I might sleep the entire time."

"That's fine by me." He brings her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles. "I'll happily watch you sleep for 48 hours if it means you actually rest."

For the first time in weeks, her smile reaches her eyes. "That's creepy, Styles."

"That's devotion, Y/L/N." He grins back. "Now finish your charting so we can go home. I'll even cook tonight."

"You'll order takeout and plate it nicely."

"Semantics."

She laughs, and it feels like the first real laugh he's heard from her in too long. "This weekend." He cups her face, thumb brushing her cheek. "I'll handle the scheduling. You just pack a bag and try not to work yourself into the ground between now and Friday."

A real smile touches her lips for the first time in what feels like weeks. "I'll try."

"Good." Harry leans in, kissing her softly. "Now go home. Actually go home, not back to the surgical floor to 'just check on' your post-ops."

"How do you know me so well?"

"Because I love you. And because you're terrible at hiding your workaholic tendencies." He steers her toward the door. "Home. Sleep. I'll see you tomorrow."

Three Years Later

 Y/N stands in front of the surgical board as it glows in the dimly lit hallway with patient names and procedures laid out in neat columns. With the marker in hand, she adds her name to a complex aortic repair scheduled for tomorrow morning. She's different now and definitely more confident. The exhausted intern has become a capable chief resident in her final year, respected by her peers and sought after by patients. Her name on the board carries weight.

The whispers have mostly died down. Hard to question someone's qualifications when they've got one of the highest surgical success rates in the program and a growing reputation for handling the cases other residents won't touch. Y/N’s earned her respect the hard way. 

Danielle never came back. Harry's "casual conversation" with his friend at Johns Hopkins apparently had consequences after all. Nothing official, nothing public, but her visiting privileges at other hospitals became mysteriously difficult to arrange. Karma, Harry called it. 

Harry approaches quietly, stopping beside her to study the schedule. "Stealing my aortic repair, Dr. Y/L/N?" His voice is warm, teasing.

She doesn't look away from the board, but a smile plays at her lips. "Not stealing. Taking what's rightfully mine. You promised me the next complex repair when I finished my research paper."

"Did I?" Harry pretends to consider this. "I don't recall making such a generous offer."

"You did." She caps the marker, finally turning to face him. "Tuesday night. Your place. Right after I—"

"Ah, yes." He cuts her off with a cough, glancing around the empty hallway. "Now I remember."

Y/N grins, unrepentant. "I thought you might."

Three years have changed their dynamic, too. The careful distance at work has evolved into something more comfortable. They've learned to navigate the hospital together without hiding and without overcompensating.

"You should add Wilson to that case," Harry says, nodding at the board. "He's never seen this approach before."

"Already texted him. He's in."

Harry smiles, pride evident in his eyes. "Look at you. Chief resident, running the board and teaching the attendings."

"Just the ones who need teaching." She bumps his shoulder lightly with hers. "You ready to go? I'm starving."

"Almost. Need to check on the Hernandez kid first."

"Already did. His echo looks good, vitals stable. I told his parents you'd stop by in the morning to discuss discharge planning."

Harry shakes his head, laughing softly. "Is there anything you haven't handled today?"

"Well, I haven't packed yet." She falls into step beside him as they walk toward the locker room. "For this weekend. Which is your job, by the way."

"Ah, yes. The mysterious anniversary trip you've been badgering me about for weeks."

"Three years deserves a celebration."

"It does." He glances at her, expression softening. They reach the locker room door, pausing before entering.

"Seriously, though," Harry says, voice dropping. "Are you sure you can get the full weekend off? The Harper case is Monday."

"Harper's stable. Pre-op workup is complete. And I've briefed Rodriguez on everything." She meets his eyes steadily. "I'm all yours for sixty-four hours."

"Good." His smile turns slightly wicked. "Because I have plans."

"Care to share these plans?"

"And ruin the surprise? Not a chance."

She narrows her eyes. "You know I hate surprises."

"You love my surprises." He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Pack light. Warm clothes. Nothing fancy."

"That narrows it down to approximately five hundred possible destinations."

"Exactly." Harry grins, then glances at his watch. "Meet you at the car in fifteen?"

"I’ll be ten. I'm efficient."

"That you are, Dr. Y/L/N." His voice drops to that low register that still makes her stomach flip, even after three years. "That you are." He disappears into the attendings' locker room, leaving her smiling in the hallway.

Three years ago, she'd been fighting to prove herself, terrified that their relationship would undermine everything she'd worked for. Now she's six months from finishing her residency, with fellowship offers from three top programs earned entirely on her own merit.

And Harry...Harry is still Harry. Brilliant, demanding and of course arrogant, but also hers. She pushes open the residents' locker room door, already mentally cataloging what she'll need to pack for this mystery trip.

Y/N moves through Harry's apartment, opening drawers and checking closets. The place has become as much hers as his over the past three years, her clothes taking up nearly half his closet space.

She's looking for her favorite cashmere scarf. A soft gray one Harry gave her after her first solo surgery. Perfect for whatever mysterious destination he's planned for their anniversary weekend.

"Where did I put that thing?" she mutters, pulling open the drawer of his bedside table.

Her hand freezes mid-rummage. There, nestled between a dog-eared medical journal and a spare watch, sits a small velvet box. Y/N stares at it, heart suddenly hammering against her ribs. She doesn't touch it nor does she open it. All she can do is just stare at it, her mind racing through possibilities.

Could be cufflinks…Could be earrings…Could be...

She knows exactly what it is. With shaking hands, she closes the drawer and backs away from the nightstand. Her phone is in her hand before she consciously decides to call anyone. Niall answers on the third ring.

"Yo, Y/L/N. What's up?"

"I found a ring."

There's a beat of silence, then: "Come again?"

"A ring, Niall. In Harry's nightstand. A small blue velvet box with what is definitely an engagement ring inside." She's pacing now, her voice pitched higher than normal.

"Holy shit." Niall sounds genuinely surprised. "Did you open it?"

"No! Of course not. That would be—I don't know—bad luck or something."

She hears him chuckle. "Since when are you superstitious?"

"Since I found an engagement ring in my boyfriend's nightstand five minutes before we're supposed to leave for a surprise anniversary weekend!" She runs a hand through her hair. "Oh my god. He's going to propose. This weekend. That's the surprise."

"Breathe, babe. You're spiraling."

"I'm not spiraling. I'm...processing." She stops pacing, sinking onto the edge of the bed. "It's just...we've never really talked about marriage. Not seriously at least. We've been focused on my residency and his research and just...surviving the hospital."

"Uh, you guys have been living together for like two years."

"We don't live together. We just...stay at each other's places. Most nights."

"You have a joint Costco membership." Niall's voice is dry. "You live together."

She sighs, flopping back onto the bed. "Okay, fine. But marriage is different. Marriage is..."

"What? Scary? Permanent? A legally binding commitment to the man you've been disgustingly in love with for three years?"

Y/N stares at the ceiling. "When you put it that way, it sounds ridiculous to be freaking out."

"That's because it is ridiculous." Niall's voice softens. "Look, I've watched you two together for three years. Through the Danielle disaster and through your board exams and, and, through his mom’s heart surgery. You work. You make each other better."

She closes her eyes. "I know. I know we do. It's just...unexpected."

"Is it? Really?" Niall challenges. "The man looks at you like you personally hung the moon and all the stars. He rearranged his entire surgical schedule last month so he could be there when you presented your research. He keeps a photo of you in his wallet, for god's sake."

A small smile tugs at her lips. "He does?"

"Don't tell him I told you that. He'll kill me." Niall pauses. "So what are you going to do?"

Y/N sits up, resolution settling over her. "I'm going to pretend I never saw it. I'm going to finish packing. And I'm going to let him surprise me, whenever and however he's planned."

"Good call. For what it's worth, you look at him the same way. Like he's the best thing that ever happened to you."

Her throat tightens. "He is."

"Then there's your answer. Now go finish packing and act surprised when he gets down on one knee at some scenic overlook or whatever cheesy thing he's planned."

She laughs, the tension finally breaking. "Thanks, Niall. For talking me down."

"That's what best friends are for. That, and being your best man at the wedding."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

"Too late. I'm already planning my speech. It's going to start with 'I told you so' and end with embarrassing stories about you as an intern."

"Goodbye, Niall."

She hangs up, still smiling. Carefully, she moves back to the nightstand and closes the drawer properly, making sure everything looks undisturbed. Then she resumes her search for the scarf, eventually finding it in the hall closet where it belongs. By the time Harry texts that he's on his way home, she's packed, composed, and ready for whatever this weekend holds. Including saying yes to the question she now knows is coming.

The cabin Harry's brought them to is secluded and perfect. Its nestled in the mountains a few hours' drive from the city, with a stone fireplace and windows that frame the forest like living paintings. The evening has been lovely. They started with a home-cooked meal and wine by the fire and ended with reminiscing about their early days together.

Now they're in bed, the room lit only by moonlight filtering through the curtains. Harry's arm is draped across Y/N's waist, his breathing slow and even against her neck, nearly asleep. But Y/N is wide awake, staring at the ceiling, her mind racing. The weight of the secret she discovered combined with the reality of her upcoming fellowship decisions has her restless and tense.

Harry stirs beside her, sensing her unease even half-asleep. "Mmm, you're thinking so loudly I can hear it," he murmurs, pressing a lazy kiss to her shoulder. "What's wrong?"

She turns toward him in the darkness, studying the familiar lines of his face. The strong jaw now covered in slight stubble and the eyes that are blinking sleepily at her.

"Nothing," she says automatically, then sighs. "Everything."

Harry shifts, propping himself up on one elbow. "That's specific." His voice is gentle, teasing. "Care to narrow it down a bit?"

She hesitates, choosing her words carefully to avoid revealing what she knows. "I've been thinking about fellowships," she admits finally.

"Ah." Harry nods, suddenly more awake. "You got another offer?"

"No, not yet. But I've been thinking about the ones I have." She traces patterns on the sheet between them. "Hopkins. Mayo. Stanford."

"All excellent programs," he says neutrally, though she can hear the effort it takes.

"All far away." She looks up at him, vulnerability plain on her face. "What if I get matched across the country? I don't want to be away from you for that long." Her voice drops to barely a whisper on the last words.

Harry's expression softens. He reaches out, tucking her hair behind her ear in that gesture that's become so familiar over the years. "Is that what's keeping you up? Worrying about distance?"

She nods, not trusting her voice.

"Come here," he says, pulling her closer until her head rests on his chest. "First of all, we'll figure it out. Whatever happens, wherever you match, we'll make it work."

His fingers comb gently through her hair. "Second, there are excellent cardiothoracic programs much closer to home. Including, I might add, the one at our very own hospital."

"I know, but..." She hesitates.

"But you're worried people will think you only stayed because of me," he finishes for her.

"Something like that."

Harry sighs, his chest rising and falling beneath her cheek. "Y/N, listen to me. You've spent three years proving yourself. Your research is being published in the Journal of Thoracic Surgery. You've developed a modified technique for valve repair that surgeons twice your age are adopting." His voice grows firmer. "No one—absolutely no one—would question your decision to stay, because they know you've earned your place."

"Is that selfish? Wanting to choose a program based on geography instead of just prestige?"

Harry pulls back, his free hand comes up to cup her face. "It's not selfish." His voice is rough with emotion. "And for what it's worth, I've been terrified of the same thing."

Y/N's eyes widen slightly. "You have?"

"Of course I have." He lets out a quiet laugh. "You think I haven't been watching you research programs and wondering which ones are going to take you away from me? Wondering if I should say something or keep my mouth shut and let you make the best decision for your career?"

He pulls her back against him until there's no space between them. "I don't want you across the country either, love. The thought of it makes me feel physically ill." His forehead rests against hers. "But I also don't want to be the reason you don't pursue the best possible training."

She's quiet for a moment, absorbing his words. "And what about us?" she asks finally. "If I do go somewhere else?"

"Then I'll rack up so many frequent flyer miles they'll name a plane after me." Harry's arms tighten around her. "We've survived worse than distance, love."

"Long-distance is hard, though. Especially with our schedules."

"It is." He doesn't try to sugarcoat it. "But it would be temporary. Fellowships end. And then..."

He trails off, and she can hear the unspoken future in his silence. The one he's planning and one waiting in a velvet box.

"And then?" she prompts softly.

Harry shifts, tilting her chin up to look at him. "And then we figure out the next chapter." His eyes search hers in the moonlight. "I love you, Y/N. That doesn't change whether you're across the hall in surgery or across the country at Stanford."

Something loosens in her chest. "I love you too." She reaches up, tracing the line of his jaw. "I just...I don't want to mess this up. Any of it. My career, our relationship..."

"You won't." He says it with such certainty that she almost believes him. "Whatever you decide about your fellowship, it'll be the right choice because it'll be yours."

He kisses her softly. "And as for us..." His lips curve into a smile against hers. "We're pretty solid, Dr. Y/L/N. I'm not going anywhere."

Relief washes through her both at his words and at the knowledge of what's coming this weekend. "Promise?" she whispers.

"Promise." He settles back, pulling her close against his side. "Now try to sleep. We have a big day tomorrow."

"What are we doing tomorrow?" she asks innocently.

"Nice try." Harry chuckles, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "It's still a surprise."

She smiles in the darkness, finally relaxing against him. "Fine. Keep your secrets, Dr. Styles."

"Just for a little while longer," he murmurs, already drifting back toward sleep.

The afternoon unfolds like a winter postcard. They hike through snow-dusted trails and a picnic overlooking the valley. Now, as the sun begins its descent, they've stopped at a scenic overlook. The mountains stretch before them, painted in gold and amber by the setting sun, the snow glittering like scattered diamonds.

Harry has been unusually quiet for the past ten minutes, his hand repeatedly patting his jacket pocket. Y/N pretends not to notice, though her heart races with anticipation. "It's beautiful up here," she says, breath fogging in the cold air.

"Worth the hike?" Harry asks, coming to stand beside her at the wooden railing.

"Definitely." She leans into him, enjoying his warmth. "Though I'm still not convinced you didn't bring me here just to test my cardiovascular endurance."

Harry laughs, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Busted. This whole weekend is actually an elaborate stress test." His eyes crinkle at the corners. "You're passing with flying colors, by the way."

She smiles up at him, noticing the slight tension in his jaw, the way his free hand keeps fidgeting. It's happening. Anytime now. She turns to look at the other, pretending to admire the view while giving him enough time. 

Harry takes a deep breath, turning to face her fully.

"Y/N, I wanted to bring you up here because—"

As he reaches into his pocket, his fingers wrestle with the small velvet box. It opens in his pocket, and the ring, just the ring, tumbles out, landing with a soft, nearly inaudible "plink" in the snow at their feet. Harry freezes, eyes widening in horror.

"What was that?" Y/N asks, though she knows exactly what it was.

"Nothing!" Harry says too quickly, his voice pitched higher than normal. "Just dropped my...um...quarter."

He drops to one knee, frantically scanning the pristine snow.

"Must have fallen out of my pocket," he mutters, hands carefully sifting through the powdery white.

Y/N bites her lip to keep from laughing or helping as Harry, the renowned surgeon known for his steady hands during twelve-hour procedures, scrambles in the snow looking increasingly panicked.

"Need some help finding your...quarter?" she offers innocently as she looks down at him over her shoulder

"No! No, I've got it." He shoots her a quick glance, his expression so transparently guilty that she has to look away to keep from giving herself away.

For a surgeon with legendary dexterity, he's making a mess of the snow, creating a small crater around himself as he searches with increasing desperation.

"Harry," she says gently. "What are you really looking for?"

He stills, then sighs, sitting back on his heels in the snow. His expression is so crestfallen that her heart melts.

"I had this whole thing planned," he says, running a hand through his hair. "The perfect spot, the perfect sunset, the perfect speech..."

He looks up at her, resignation mixing with affection. "And then I dropped the damn ring in the snow."

Y/N can't help it. She laughs, the sound bright in the winter air.

"It's not funny," he protests, though his lips twitch. "This is a disaster."

"It's a little funny," she counters, dropping to her knees beside him. "The great Dr. Styles, who can thread a needle through a heart valve with his eyes closed, defeated by a snow drift."

She starts helping him search, their gloved hands carefully combing through the snow.

"For the record," she says casually, "I would have said yes even without the ring."

Harry's head snaps up. "You knew?"

She meets his eyes, a guilty smile spreading across her face. "I may have...found it yesterday. When I was looking for my scarf."

For a moment he just stares at her, then he starts laughing. Deep, genuine laughter that echoes across the mountainside. "Of course you did." He shakes his head. "I should have known better than to hide anything from you"

"In my defense, I didn't go looking for it," she says. "And I didn't open it."

"Small mercies." Harry's expression softens. "So you knew this whole time? The whole weekend?"

"Well, not the specifics. Just the general concept."

A minute later, Y/N's fingers close around something small and hard buried in the snow.

"Found it!" she exclaims triumphantly, holding up the ring.

It's cold and wet from the snow, but still sparkling beautifully in the fading light. She hands it to Harry, who takes it with visible relief.

"Thank god." He brushes snow from the platinum band, then suddenly looks determined.

"Turn around," he says abruptly.

"What?"

"Turn around. Right now." There's that commanding Chief of Surgery tone she knows so well.

"Why would I—"

"Just do it, Y/N." His voice softens. "Please. For me."

Amused and confused, she complies, standing turning to face the mountains.

"Count to thirty," he instructs. "Slowly."

She begins counting, smiling to herself as she hears him fumbling behind her. The sound of the velvet box being retrieved from his pocket, snow being brushed from his pants, a deep breath.

"Twenty-eight...twenty-nine...thirty," she finishes, still facing away.

"Okay," his voice comes, steady now. "Turn around."

She turns to find Harry on one knee, looking up at her with such love it takes her breath away. The small blue velvet box is open by his foot and empty because the ring is held carefully between his thumb and forefinger, catching the last rays of sunlight.

"We're going to try this again," he says with a determined smile. "And we're going to pretend I didn't just drop a three-carat diamond in the snow like an idiot."

She presses her lips together, nodding seriously though her eyes dance with amusement. "What drop? I didn't see anything drop."

"Exactly." He takes a deep breath. "Y/N Y/L/N, three years ago, you challenged my diagnosis in the ER and changed my life forever. You were brilliant and stubborn and completely unimpressed by my reputation."

He smiles, remembering. "I think I fell in love with you that first day, though it took me months to admit it. You've made me a better doctor, a better teacher, and just a better man. You challenge me every day, and I wouldn't have it any other way."

His green eyes hold hers, sincere and full of love. "I don't care if your fellowship takes you across the country or around the world. I don't care if we have to navigate time zones and airport terminals. What I care about is building a life with you wherever that takes us."

He holds out the ring, still perfectly poised between his fingers despite the cold. "Will you marry me, Y/N? Will you keep challenging me, arguing with me, loving me for the rest of our lives?"

Tears fill her eyes, happy ones that glitter in the last rays of the setting sun. "Yes," she says, voice thick with emotion. "Yes to all of it."

Harry's smile is radiant as he first takes her glove off, slipping the ring on. He takes her hand, placing a kiss right next to the ring. 

"We'll have to do this again when we get inside," he says, standing and pulling her up with him.

"I don't know," she teases, wrapping her arms around his neck. "I think this version of the story is much better. 'World-renowned surgeon loses engagement ring in snowdrift' has a certain charm to it."

"You're never going to let me live this down, are you?" he asks, pulling her close.

"Not a chance, Dr. Styles." She rises on tiptoes to kiss him, snow falling gently around them as the last light fades from the sky. "Not in this lifetime."

His laugh is warm against her lips as he lifts her off her feet, spinning her in a circle that sends snow flying.

"I can live with that," he says when he sets her down. "I can definitely live with that."

Hand in hand, they start back toward the cabin, the ring safely on her finger, their future stretching before them. 

The wooden door of the cabin closes behind them with a soft thud, shutting out the winter night. The temperature inside is warm, but it's not just the crackling fireplace that causes the sudden shift in atmosphere.

Harry's eyes meet Y/N's in the soft golden light, and something in his gaze has changed. The tender emotion from the proposal still present, but now joined by a darker more urgent hunger.

As Y/N reaches for the zipper of her coat, Harry steps forward. "Let me," he says, his voice low and rough.

He moves closer, crowding her space in that way that still makes her pulse quicken after three years. His fingers find her beanie first, gently tugging it off and letting her hair cascade free. His lips press against her forehead, lingering.

"I've been wanting to do this all day," he murmurs against her skin. "Watching you in the snow, cheeks flushed, laughing...knowing you were going to be my wife."

His hands move to her scarf next, unwinding it with torturous slowness. As the fabric falls away, his mouth descends to the exposed column of her neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to her pulse point.

"Harry," she breathes, her head tilting to give him better access.

"I love the way you say my name," he growls against her throat. "But I'm going to make you scream it before the night is over."

His fingers find her coat zipper, dragging it down inch by inch. The sound is obscenely loud in the quiet cabin."Do you have any idea what you do to me?" His voice drops even lower, becoming that honey-rough timbre that sends heat pooling between her thighs. "Three years, and I still get hard just watching you put your hair up before surgery."

The coat falls open, and his hands slip inside, spanning her waist. "Three years," he continues, walking her backward until she hits the wall, "and I still think about bending you over my desk every time you argue with me in front of the residents."

Y/N breathes out a smile. "Is that why you argue with me so much? To get me worked up?"

Harry's laugh is dark and knowing against her collarbone. "Maybe." His teeth graze the sensitive spot where her neck meets her shoulder. "Does it work?"

"You know it does," she admits, her hands finding their way into his hair.

He pulls back just enough to look at her, pupils blown wide with desire. "Tell me what you want, Dr. Y/L/N." His thumb traces her lower lip. "My mouth? My fingers? My cock?"

The crude words in his refined accent still have the power to make her shiver. "All of them," she answers, tugging him closer. "I want all of you."

"Greedy," he chides, but his smile is wicked. "I like that."

He helps her shrug out of her coat, letting it fall to the floor. His own follows quickly. Then he's lifting her, hands firm under her thighs as her legs wrap around his waist.

"I'm going to fuck my wife now," he says against her lips, the word 'wife' spoken with such possessive satisfaction that she feels it like a physical touch. "I'm going to make her come so hard she forgets every medical term she's ever learned."

Y/N laughs breathlessly, tightening her legs around him.

"Big talk from a man who dropped the ring in the snow."

Harry's eyes narrow dangerously, but his lips curve into that devastating half-smile.”I think someone needs a reminder of exactly what these hands can do," he says, carrying her toward the bedroom. "When they're not dropping things in the snow."

"Remind me," she challenges, eyes bright with desire and mischief.

He kicks the bedroom door closed behind them. "With pleasure, my love. With fucking pleasure."

He lays her on the bed gently, then stands back, his gaze raking over her with such naked hunger that it feels like a physical caress.

"Look at you," he murmurs, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. "The most brilliant surgeon in the hospital, spread out on my bed, wearing my ring."

Y/N holds up her hand, admiring the way the diamond catches the light. "It is beautiful," she says softly.

"Not half as beautiful as you'll be when you're coming around my fingers," he counters, shrugging off his shirt to reveal the lean, defined torso she knows by heart.

"Now," he kneels on the bed, "let me show you exactly how steady these surgeon's hands can be when it really matters."

He reaches for her ankle but she giggles as she dodges him. He tries again but she moves her again, teasing glint in her eye. Harry's eyes narrow as Y/N pulls her leg away from his grasp a second time, her laughter filling the cabin bedroom.

"Someone's feeling playful," he says, voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes her stomach flip. "After I spent all that time digging through snow for your ring."

He lunges for her ankle again, but she's quick, rolling to the other side of the bed with a triumphant grin.

"Poor Dr. Styles," she teases, kneeling on the mattress just out of reach. "World-renowned surgeon defeated by a little snow...and now can't even catch his fiancée."

Harry sits back on his heels, watching her with calculated patience.

"You know what they say about surgeons, don't you?" His smile is slow, deliberate. "We excel at...waiting for the perfect moment."

He quickly moves across the bed, catching her wrist and pulling her beneath him before she can react. His body covers hers, warm and solid, pinning her to the mattress.

"There it is," he murmurs, satisfaction evident in his voice as he captures both her wrists in one hand, securing them above her head. "The perfect moment."

Y/N's breath catches, her pulse racing beneath his touch."Show-off," she whispers, but there's no real complaint in her tone.

His free hand slides under her sweater, fingertips tracing patterns on her bare skin. "You love pushing me...seeing how far you can go before I snap."

His mouth hovers just above hers, not quite touching. "Tell me I'm wrong."

She arches against him, seeking contact. "Maybe I just like reminding you that you can't always be in control."

"Is that what this is about?" Harry's laugh is low and intimate against her neck as his hand moves higher, cupping her breast through her bra. "Because from where I'm lying, Dr. Y/L/N, I seem to be very much in control right now."

His thumb brushes across her nipple, and she gasps. "That's not fair," she manages.

"All's fair in love and surgery," he counters, releasing her wrists to pull her sweater over her head.

The moment her hands are free, she reaches for him, fingers tangling in his hair to drag his mouth to hers. The kiss is deep and hungry, three years of knowing exactly how to unravel each other evident in every slide of tongue and gentle bite.

When they break apart, both breathing hard, Harry's eyes are dark with desire. "God, I love you," he says, the words rough with emotion. "Even when you're being a complete brat."

Soon they're both naked, skin against skin, the playfulness giving way to something deeper. Harry's hands map her body with precision, knowing exactly where to touch and how much pressure to apply.

"Harry," she breathes as his fingers find her center, already slick with want.

"Yes?" he asks innocently, circling but not quite giving her what she needs.

"Don't tease."

"But you started it," he reminds her, pressing open-mouthed kisses down her sternum. "Running away from me...making me chase you..."

His mouth moves lower, across her stomach. "I think turnabout is fair play, don't you?"

Before she can answer, his tongue replaces his fingers, and Y/N's head falls back against the pillows, a moan escaping her lips.

Harry takes his time, alternating between deep strokes and quick precise flicks that have her hands fisting in the sheets. Just when she's close—so close—he pulls back, earning a frustrated whimper.

"Fuck. Harry, please," she gasps, hips lifting in search of contact.

"Please what?" He moves up her body, positioning himself between her thighs. "Tell me what you need."

"You," she says simply, reaching between them to guide him. 

His expression softens at her words. He leans down, kissing her deeply as he pushes into her with one smooth thrust.

"You always have me," he promises against her lips, beginning to move.

The pace he sets is so different from their usual urgent coupling after long hospital shifts. This is slow, deep, every thrust an affirmation as Y/N wraps her legs around his waist, changing the angle, taking him deeper.

"Yes," she breathes, nails digging into his shoulders. "Right there."

Harry's rhythm falters briefly as she tightens around him. "Christ, baby," he groans, forehead pressed to hers. "The things you do to me..." His hand slips between them, finding her center again, circling in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation is overwhelming, and Y/N feels herself spiraling toward release.

"Don't stop," she pleads, eyes locked on his. "Please don't stop."

"Never," he vows, increasing his pace slightly. "Come on. Let me feel you."

It's his voice that does it. That cultured accent gone rough with desire, promising forever even as he drives her toward oblivion. She comes with his name on her lips, body arching beneath him, inner muscles clenching around him in waves. Harry follows moments later, face buried in her neck as he pulses inside her.

For a long moment, they lie tangled together, hearts racing in tandem, bodies still joined. Harry's weight is solid and comforting above her, his breath warm against her skin. Harry lifts his head, bracketing hers between his forearms as he hovers over her, green eyes intense and adoring.

"My wife," he murmurs, kissing her deeply. "My beautiful, gorgeous, sexy, brilliant wife."

His lips move against hers with tenderly, the weight of his body still pressing her into the mattress in the most delicious way. When he finally pulls back, Y/N's smile is mischievous.

"You know I'm technically not your wife yet," she teases, fingers tracing lazy patterns on his bare shoulders.

Harry narrows his eyes and nips at her bottom lip in response, the gentle bite sending a renewed spark of desire through her. "Don't make me drag you to a courthouse right now. I'll do it," he threatens, voice rough with lingering passion. "I know a judge who would love to help me out after I fixed his mitral valve."

Y/N laughs, the sound bright in the quiet cabin.

“Harry Styles! I’m naked. You wouldn’t dare! And I’m pretty sure that's a public offense”

Harry's grin turns absolutely wicked as he shifts his weight, pulling out of her slowly enough to make her whimper at the loss. "Naked? Well, that's easily solved." He sits back on his heels, running an appreciative hand down her thigh. "I'll throw some clothes on you. Won't even need to be fancy. Just enough to make it legal."

He leans down, pressing a kiss to her hip bone. "Besides, love, I'm a cardiothoracic surgeon. I've seen people in far more compromising positions than naked in a courthouse." His teeth graze her skin. "You'd be the best-looking bride they've ever had."

Y/N props herself up on her elbows, eyebrows raised. "You're actually serious, aren't you? You'd really drag me to a courthouse right now?"

Harry meets her gaze, and despite the playfulness in his tone, there's genuine intensity in his eyes.

"In a heartbeat." He crawls back up her body, caging her in again. "I've waited three years to call you my wife. Now that I've asked and you've said yes, waiting even one more day feels like torture."

His hand cups her face, thumb stroking her cheekbone. "But," he continues, voice softening, "I also know you probably want the whole thing…the dress, the ceremony, your family there..."

He pauses, studying her expression. "Though if you're game for a courthouse wedding followed by a proper celebration later, I'm absolutely not joking about that judge."

Y/N stares at him, caught between laughter and genuine emotion at his eagerness.  "You're insane," she says finally, pulling him down for a kiss. "Completely and utterly insane."

"About you? Absolutely." Harry nuzzles into her neck. "So is that a yes to the courthouse? Because I can have us there in forty-five minutes. I'll even let you wear one of my shirts. Very romantic."

She swats his shoulder, laughing. "No! We are not getting married in a courthouse while I'm wearing your oversized button-down like some sort of rom-com cliché."

"Pity." He sighs dramatically against her collarbone. "Would've made a hell of a story to tell the residents. 'Dr. Styles was so desperate to marry Dr. Y/L/N, he couldn't even wait for her to get dressed.'"

"That story would end with our boss having an aneurysm and both of us in HR."

Harry chuckles, the vibration traveling through both their bodies. "Fair point." He rolls onto his side, pulling her against him. "So how long are you going to make me wait, then? A year? Two?"

There's genuine curiosity beneath the teasing. Y/N considers, tracing circles on his chest. "I finish residency in six months," she says thoughtfully. "After that...I don't know. Summer wedding? Something small?"

"Small works for me." Harry's fingers comb through her hair. "As long as at the end of it, you're wearing a ring on your left hand and I get to introduce you as Dr. Styles."

She looks up at him sharply. "Who says I'm taking your name?"

His smile is infuriatingly smug. "You don't have to. Though I have to admit, the thought of you keeping 'Y/L/N' just to spite hospital gossip is oddly arousing."

"Everything is oddly arousing to you."

"When it comes to you? Duh." He pulls her closer, nuzzling into her hair. "Dr. Y/N Y/L/N-Styles has a nice ring to it, though. Best of both worlds."

Y/N goes quiet, and Harry tilts her chin up to look at her. "Hey. I'm joking about the name thing. You can keep Y/L/N, take Styles, hyphenate, or change it to something completely random. I don't care." His expression is serious now. "I just want you. However you come."

She kisses him softly. "Y/L/N-Styles," she murmurs against his lips. "I like the sound of that."

Harry's answering smile is brilliant. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She settles against his chest, suddenly exhausted in the best way. "Now stop trying to drag me to courthouses and let me enjoy being your fiancée for a while."

"Fine," he concedes, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "But the offer stands. Any time you want to make this official, just say the word."

"Noted." Her eyes are already drifting closed. "Though maybe next time, try not to drop the ring in the snow first."

Harry laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest. They lie in comfortable silence for a while, the fire crackling in the other room, snow falling gently outside the window.

"So," Harry says eventually, his voice casual, "about that fellowship..."

Y/N groans, burying her face in his chest. "Can we not talk about work right now? I'm naked, engaged, and very comfortable."

"Fair point." His hand slides down to cup her backside appreciatively. "Though I was going to say, I hear the cardiothoracic department at our hospital is getting a substantial research grant next year. Enough to fund an additional fellowship position. With a focus on innovative valve repair techniques."

She lifts her head, studying his face. "Harry Styles, did you create a fellowship position for me?"

"Not for you specifically," he clarifies quickly. "That would be nepotism. It's a position that happens to align perfectly with your research interests and surgical skills. The fact that you're sleeping with the department head is entirely coincidental."

Y/N narrows her eyes.

"When were you planning to tell me about this?"

"After you made your decision about the other programs." His expression turns serious. "I meant what I said before. Whatever you choose, we'll make it work. This is just...another option."

She considers this for a moment, then smiles slowly. "Dr. Styles, are you trying to keep me around for another two years?"

"Dr. Y/L/N-Styles," he replies, rolling her beneath him once more, "I'm trying to keep you around for a lifetime."

a/n: I just can’t. They’re so cute. My babies….I want to see them have babies (who said that?)

A part of you never expected to be here, seeking fertility advice from a man who’s paid to understand your body better than you. You hadn’t even shared the details of your upcoming appointment with your husband, too embarrassed to tell him where you were going, setting everything up under a false name, just in case.

All your research had said Dr. Styles was the best fertility doctor in the area. He had amazing reviews, with several women touting their successes, and even more reviewers complimenting his looks, making special mention of his sultry, British accent. One woman even claimed that when he walked into the room, she instantly felt pregnant. It was hard to argue with results like that. So here you are, sitting half-naked on an exam table, the air overwhelming with the sterile scent of cleaner, the lights droning out in a monotonous buzz above you, the paper underneath you crinkling with every little movement as you anxiously wait for the doctor.

You weren't too sure where you were going wrong. All the apps were synced to your cycle, you were jumping your husband's bones every opportunity, yet nothing stuck. Not that your husband was complaining about your increased sexual activities. Normally, you wouldn’t complain either, but you were too anxious about getting pregnant to really let yourself enjoy the moment, nearing your climax before losing it in a flood of worries. You’d forgotten when you’d last had an orgasm.

The knock against the door pulls you from your thoughts.

“Good evening,” the doctor greets you, warm but distracted as he saunters into the room, his gaze focused on the clipboard with all your medical information. Lifting his eyes to you, he lingers in the doorway, his eyes slowly dragging over your body, taking you in, in all your paper gown glory. Or, more likely, he was allowing you a moment to take him in, probably used to his clients inappropriate and blatant fawning.

Who could blame them though? None of the reviews did him justice, he is truly delectable. His jaw clenches momentarily before he swallows, your eyes following the dip of his Adam's apple down his throat. The collar of his button down peeks out from the neck of his green sweater which matches his piercing eyes as they make their gradual climb back up your frame. Tall, broad, and a voice so deep, you swore you could feel the vibrations of it tingling up your spine, it was no wonder he had an impressively long client wait list.

“I’m Dr. Styles. Why don’t you tell me what’s been going on?” he asks, a professional smile gracing his lips, two dimples pinching into his cheeks, a little quirk that none of the reviews had warned you about.

God, you were in trouble.

Clearing your throat, you look down at your hands, wringing them together in your lap. “Yeah, I um… I'm trying to get pregnant. My husband and I have been trying for almost a year now and I know it doesn't always happen right away, but I think I'm just really impatient and I want to make sure I'm doing everything right, and to know that everything is working properly down there and they say you’re the best so I thought it wouldn’t hurt to come down and… just make sure.” Your cheeks burn as you finish your rambling, nervously glancing up at the doctor before averting your gaze again.

“Okay, well first of all, it’s important to remember that lots of people have these struggles, it doesn’t always mean there’s something wrong,” he assures you. “But we can take a look, do a few tests, relieve your concerns, and then hopefully we can get you pregnant.” His confidence is immediately reassuring, even as your thighs quiver at his wording, your hormonal thoughts misconstruing his words.

You needed to calm down. Surely, he would notice if you appeared aroused.

“I have a few questions I’ll ask as we go along regarding your menstrual cycle and sexual history,” he says.

“Um… I already filled that out on the paperwork.” You point at the clipboard in his grasp.

The doctor sets the clipboard down, offering you a small shrug. “I know, but I like to hear the answers for myself, dig a little deeper, ask a few more personal questions, if you’re okay with that.”

You nod. “Sure, whatever, yeah, I’m pretty close to doing anything to get pregnant at this point.” The second the words leave your mouth, the underlying implications of your statement hit you, making your eyes bulge out. “With-within, y’know, reasonable means…”

Dr. Styles’ eyebrow raises, the corner of his mouth twitching with a smirk he was trying to hold back. “Reasonable means?”

“Y-yeah,” you swallow, looking away again.

Licking his lips, he says, “Let’s begin, shall we?” Stepping in front of you, his legs nearly knock into yours as he unwraps the stethoscope coiled around his neck. Warming the metal in his palm, he then pulls back the neck of your shirt to expose more of your chest, placing the device along your skin. Goosebumps prickle where the skin-warmed metal touches, the doctor's fingernails almost brush against the plump of your breast. Could he pick up your racing heart, the palpitations beating sporadically in his ear? Did he know he was the cause?

“When was the last date of your last period?” he asks, moving the stethoscope across your skin, listening in a few different spots.

“Um,” you think back, shivering when he lifts the stethoscope away, “I believe it was two Fridays ago? I use an app to track it.”

“Ok, and have you been sexually active since then?” Dr. Styles questions you like he's asking what you had for breakfast, his tone casual and loose, accustomed to asking such invasive things.

“Yeah…”

“How often?” Reaching behind you, he grabs the blood pressure cuff from where it hangs on the wall. As he leans closer, you get a generous whiff of the cologne he must have sprayed on his neck that morning, a breath of something woody and intoxicating you can't quite place.

“Huh?”

He quietly huffs out a laugh as he sets up the device, making the band squeeze around your upper arm with the click of a button. “How often are you having sex with your husband?”

“Oh, right, um… usually once a day but sometimes more,” you admit, your face flushed with embarrassment, trying to gulp down your nerves. It was his job to know this stuff, there was no need to get flustered.

The room fills with the sound of the velcro ripping as he takes off the device, placing it back in its designated spot. “And would you say you’re getting off every time?”

If the blood pressure cuff was still wrapped around your arm, he would’ve noticed the immediate spike his question caused. “Wh-why does that matter?”

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” Dr. Styles reassures you. “Some people believe that both parties reaching climax increases the couples’ chances of becoming pregnant. No study has ever proven it, but, over the years, I’ve learned not to doubt the power of placebo effects.”

Great, now you find out that the barrier for having a child could have been your own inability to come. “I have been struggling to reach… my peak,” you admit, still uncomfortable with relaying the intimate details of your sex life to a stranger.

“Would you say that’s unusual for you?” he presses as he walks around the exam table, pulling out the stirrups. A flicker of concern passes across his features as he digs further, prodding at your sexual history like an old wound. Locking his eyes onto yours, his eyebrow raised suspiciously, he asks, “Or did you have a hard time reaching your orgasm before you started trying?” There’s a hint of accusation in his tone, his implication clear.

Something inside you leaps up to defend the perceived slight against your husband. “No, no, I usually, um… y’know… before all this, it wasn’t a problem. It’s just recently I haven’t been… able to.”

His eyes remain locked onto yours for a moment longer, gauging your reaction, before he nods, patting the edge of the table. “Go ahead, and scoot over here, put your legs up, and we can get started.”

The paper scrunches underneath you as you shuffle your butt over to where he indicated. While you lift your legs up into place, settling them in the supports, the doctor turns to the sink, rolling his sleeves up. Each fold of fabric exposes another tattoo, the variety of designs capturing your attention. Without realizing it, you’re leaning up on your elbows, watching as he begins the methodical ritual of washing his hands. Inexplicably, the way he massages the soap into his skin, cleansing himself in preparation to touch you, hypnotizes you. What would it feel like to run your own fingers over his knuckles, to grasp his wrist in your hold, to feel the smooth tattooed skin in your palm? Your legs try to clamp shut, your thighs buzzing with the need to press them together, to keep your arousal at bay, but the stirrups make it impossible to cover yourself.

You’re so preoccupied with his hands you almost miss the turning of his head, his gaze shifting to where you lay. At first, you’re embarrassed, thinking you’ve been caught in your ogling, but that wasn’t where the doctor was looking. Despite your attempts to cover yourself, his place at the sink offers him the perfect view of your entire crotch, everything left on display for him. Even as he dries his hands, his focus stays honed in on the spot between your legs. Could he already see how wet you are? Was he judging you over it? Or did most of his patients flash their arousal, proudly showing off the effect the doctor had on them?

Slipping on the blue latex gloves, the room is filled with the sputtering of a near empty squeeze bottle as he smears thick globules of lube over his fingers. He slowly makes his way over to the exam table, back over to you, standing right in front of where you’ve exposed yourself for him. “Ok, I’m going to take a look now,” he explains, his voice deeper than before and tight with restraint, “feel around a little, see if I notice anything. If you feel at all uncomfortable, just speak up and let me know, okay?”

Leaning back against the table, the paper crinkles in your ear as you nod. Your view of him is partially obstructed, his chest blocked by the hospital provided blanket, hanging off your knees like a curtain. Briefly, you wonder if you should move it, but he didn’t say anything about it. Meanwhile, you are too preoccupied worrying over whether you’ve leaked onto the parchment beneath you and praying he doesn’t notice the hitch in your breath when you feel his finger brush against your cunt, the lube chillier than expected.

“Ok, I'm going to touch you now,” he warns. When he slides his finger inside of you, you have to remind yourself to breathe, coaching yourself through each inhale and exhale, careful to not let a whimper accidently slip out. The vulgar sound of your slick pussy fills the room as his finger audibly wades through your arousal. He pushes in until his knuckles press against your labia, his thumb hovering above your pulsating clit.

Tilting his head to the side, he hums as he slides his finger out. “Let me just…” he trails off, inserting two fingers inside this time. “There we go… Are you doing alright?” His gaze flicks up to your face before returning to the parts you can't see.

“Mhmm,” you respond, tight-lipped. If you dared to open your mouth, you would be unable to control what sounds would escape from you. Closing your eyes, you focus on the expansion of your lungs inside of your chest, trying to ignore how far his fingers reach inside of you, or how close he is to rubbing against your most sensitive spot.

Sliding his fingers out of your pussy with a sick squelch, you expect the exam to be over, praying this humiliation will soon be over, when his voice cuts through your focus. “Okay, everything feels good. Your labia are a little puffy,” he notes, pinching at your lips. “Remind me, did you want to address your recent lack of orgasms?”

You lean up, blinking against the fluorescent lights. “What do you mean?”

Clearing his throat, Dr. Styles flicks his gaze up to you, then back down to your pussy, as if he can't stand to look away. “If you wanted, I could perform a little procedure to test your orgasmic responses and make sure there's nothing medically wrong.” His gloved knuckles brush against your thigh as he continues pinching at your lips, raising his hand until his fingers are dangerously close to your clit. If his grip slipped just a bit, if your hips shifted only a little, he’d make contact. “I only bring it up because earlier you said you were willing to do anything… within reason,” he adds on, a sly smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.

Words fail you. No wonder all those women were leaving positive reviews if this was the kind of service they were being offered. You know the answer you want to give, the one dancing on the tip of your tongue, eager to tumble out of you, but it’s impeded by several complications. Would the nurses overhear you? Were you saying yes because you believed this would get you pregnant or because you wanted to orgasm? Would your husband find out? Dr. Styles waits patiently as you contemplate your choices, occasionally glancing down and admiring your cunt, keeping his touch just out of the way of where you crave him most.

Your mouth forms different shapes as you struggle to find an answer, before your shoulders bounce up towards your ears, stammering out, “Ye-yeah, s-sure.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, dragging his fingers around the sides of your pussy, tracing around the lips, a trail of cold lube tracking his progress. “Because I can stop now, if you’re satisfied.”

“No!” you practically shriek, lunging forward as you push yourself upright, surprising yourself with your sudden outburst. “I mean, I would like to… continue… please.”

Carefully, he stares down at you, giving you time to change your mind, challenging you with his intense gaze to back out. But you don't, you can't, you're already under his control.

Laying back down, you position yourself back on the exam table, pushing your hips forward until they’re on the table's precipice, your voice masking itself in a breathy whine. “Please?”

Dr. Styles’ smirk grows even more smug at your pathetic pleading. This time, he gives you no warning as he slips his fingers into your eager pussy, sliding all the way in.

Your chest heaves at the intrusion, letting out a low mewling sound as he pulls his fingers out, the sound pitching up when he shoves them back in. Slapping a hand over your mouth, you hope to muffle your noises, afraid of being caught.

“Now, some people miss it,” Dr. Styles explains, “but there’s a spot in here, known as the G spot, named after some German guy. It should be right about…” His fingers explore around your walls until you gasp, your muscles clenching, the metal of the stirrups clattering at your movement. “Right about there,” he smiles deviously, dragging the latex over that spongy spot, making you writhe along the exam table until he abruptly stops, extracting his fingers. “I’m sorry, but these gloves can get in the way. Would it be alright if I touched you without them? It’ll help me give me a better feel of what’s going on.”

Huffing out through your nose, you shake your head up and down, impatiently waiting for him to continue.

“I’m going to need a verbal resp-”

“Oh God, please just do it already,” you beg, not caring that you interrupted him, only thinking about the stretch of your cunt around his fingers and the way he rubbed you. How much better would it feel without the barrier of latex between you two?

Out of view, you can hear the tearing of his gloves, the doctor ripping them off his hands, but it offers you no relief until the palm of his hand covers your cunt, the pad of his fingers playing with your lips. “You feel appropriately wet enough,” he notes before sliding his bare fingers inside. “That’s good, it means you’re properly aroused. And now your clitoris will grow and expose the glans underneath.” His thumb flicks at your clit, making your breaths falter, groaning into your palm, holding back your loudest sounds. “Yeah, just like that. You hear how aroused you are?” Thrusting his fingers, the audible wet slapping fills the room, making your cheeks burn beneath your hand. “God, I love that sound,” Dr. Styles admits through clenched teeth, his laugh coming out more like a growl. “Love feeling how wet you get.”

His fingers speed up their rhythm, stroking along your walls, his thumb maintaining its circling around your clit. Raising your other hand, you press both palms against your mouth, keeping your moans and whines contained. It’s an all out assault on your most sensitive areas, receiving no reprieve from his touch as he paws and flicks and plays with your body. He’s practically an expert on curling his fingers at just the right spot, twisting his wrist at the right time, using all his medical knowledge to perfectly tune your body like an instrument.

“That’s it, I can feel your muscles contracting, you’re getting closer. Now focus on that feeling, don’t let yourself think about anything but my fingers, okay? Just focus on my fingers.”

In your head, you repeat his instructions like a mantra. Focus on his fingers. When your usual anxieties rise up, you bat them away, not willing to let them ruin your fun. Focus on his fingers. Your body feels tightly wound, pressure building towards something you haven't felt in so long. Focus on his fingers. Whimpering into your palms, your body begins to rock, seeking more as your hips meet the doctor's hands, taking him in deeper. Focus on his fingers. It was right there, you could almost reach out and grab it. Focus on his fingers. Behind your hands, your moans crescendo, little whines trickling out. Focus on his fingers.

That's when the snap occurs, the band loosening around your orgasm as you release it, monthslong sexual frustration melting away as you ride out your climax. Your hands fall away from your mouth, a long, drawn-out groan stuttering out as your body shudders with your release.

“Oh, there you go,” Dr. Styles’ voice is barely above a whisper, his fingers still rubbing over your clitoris as more of your arousal leaks out of you, dampening the paper underneath. “That's it, get it all out. It's been a while since you felt this good, huh? Just let it out.” He keeps massaging you until your body starts to twitch, beginning to shy away from his touch. That's when he carefully pulls out, checking on you with a simple, “Are you alright?”

Slowly blinking your eyes open, you pant heavily, trying to get your breathing back under control. God, you forgot how good that felt. A smile starts to bloom across your face, shaking your head side to side as you begin to come down from the high. “That was…” you struggle to find the right thing to say, your brain stuck rebooting, “that was very nice.”

You hear a small, breathy laugh before he covers it up with the clearing of his throat. “Well, in that case, it seems like there's nothing wrong, everything looks to be in proper condition, but if you're still having issues in a few months, you can come back in and we'll look at more options, okay?” Dr. Styles flashes you another one of his professional smiles, the filthy smirk and dirty glint in his eyes have vanished completely. Then he’s backing away.

“Wait…” you call out, sitting yourself up, “wait, it's over?”

He stops himself just a few steps away from the door, casually looking down at his wristwatch. “Yeah, I have another patient who's supposed to be coming in soon-”

“But isn't there…” your hand flails around as you try to find some excuse to make him stay. After your first orgasm in who knows how long, you weren't ready to go without again. “Isn't there another test you need to run or something?”

“Another test?” he echoes, raising his brows at your demand. “I’m not sure what you think that would accompli-”

Interrupting him again, you say, “I don’t know, I thought that… It’s just that I… You said-” You have nothing to offer, no bargaining chip to negotiate with, he was going to leave with his fingers still shiny with your arousal and there was nothing you could do to stop him. “You said you’d get me pregnant… and I’m… I’m willing to do anything.”

“Within reason, right?” he attempts to joke, his professionalism dropping just a bit to smirk at you.

“No. Anything,” you emphasize. Maintaining eye contact, you watch the realization hit him, his smug exterior vanishing beneath an uncertain wariness, the truth of your statement settling in. His tongue prods at his cheek while his eyes trail over you. It was a good sign that he hadn’t walked out yet, that at least meant he was considering your offer. “Isn’t there a-a… an insemination test you can do?”

Quirking his brow, Dr. Styles clears his throat. “You’ve heard about our insemination trials?” he questions you. “It’s still in the testing phase, we don’t really offer that to our patients unless they specifically ask for it.” He makes his way back over to between your legs, his steps slow and deliberate, not letting himself peek at your crotch, keeping his eyes on you. “Are you… asking for it?”

Maybe there should have been more warnings going off in your head, maybe you were acting a bit impulsively, but you had come this far. “Yes, doctor. I- I want it.” This time, even though you intend for the double entendre to land, humiliation still burns across your face as you say it.

Dr. Styles then lets his gaze slip, dropping down to where you could not see, but you could feel the damp paper underneath. “We’ll just keep this, off the record, yeah? I’d hate for your insurance to bill you over this.”

“Yes,” you agree, all too quickly, “yes, of course, thank you.”

“I’ll have to prep you first, the device is quite big,” he warns, giving you a cheeky glance before his fingers are slipping back inside of you, scissoring side to side, stretching you out more than he already had. Your pussy pulls him in, effortlessly accepting his fingers, like they belonged inside of you. A moan rumbles low in your throat as he pulses into you. “That’s it, loosen up, I’m gonna need you good and wet.”

While his right hand thrusts into you, he brings his left hand up to his mouth, licking his thumb before pressing it to your clit. Your legs shake in the stirrups, making the metal rattle. “Whoa, okay, let’s not concern the nurses out there, yeah?” Sliding his fingers out of you, he quickly sucks them clean with a quiet moan, before grabbing hold of your ankle. He lifts your leg out of the plastic and rests it on his shoulder, repeating the same steps with your other leg, until you’ve boxed in his head with your feet. The blanket that once covered you falls back, revealing your lower half, and the doctor’s thumb rubbing along your bud. Now, your legs quiver against his body silently. “Much better.”

Humming, you’re too wrapped up in the pleasure to pay much attention to what he’s saying, too engrossed in the pressure of his thumb as it spirals around your clit, unable to hear the dragging of his zipper. Everything besides the doctor’s thumb disappears. Until the tip of his cock nudges against your lips, the heat radiating from his member drawing a sharp gasp from you. Looking down, resting in the crux of your thigh, erect and long, is his dick, a little bead of precum just starting to spill out of his slit.

“During this procedure, we’re going to test how much strain your cunt can take,” he informs you, adjusting himself so that his dick can prod at your entrance, “as well as how much of my come you can hold.” His filthy words make you squirm, the facade of professionalism completely gone. He’s now acting on his more feral urges, the wild look in his eyes making you clench expectantly. The bulge of his head dips between your lips, collecting some of your arousal before smearing it over with his hand, using your slick to lube himself.

You’re whimpering and whining and vibrating with need, the slow drag of him running through your lips making you feel crazed, his cock sweeping right by where his thumb was still rubbing circles. “I’ll hold it all,” you murmur, delirious with desire. “I want all of it.”

“I’ll give it to you, don’t worry,” he coos at you, pushing himself just inside. “I’m going to get you pregnant just like I promised, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you whine pathetically, gasping when he drives his dick in further, brushing along your sensitive core. Your eyes squeeze tight, blocking out the rest of the world as you get lost in the feeling of his cock shoving into your cunt, massaging over your G-spot.

“It’s right there, right?” he asks when you hum sweetly, thrusting shallowly, he rubs over that area again and again, making your toes curl. “That’s the spot, right? That’s where you like it? Well, I like it…” Pushing into you, he doesn’t stop until he’s fully encased inside you, his hips flush against you. “Oh, here,” he groans, his dark eyes meeting yours. “I like it here. Buried so fucking deep inside you.” He moves your legs so they’re both on his left shoulder, causing your pussy to tighten around him. “Mmm, yeah, that’s it. Oh, you’re gonna be so full of me, you’ll be dripping.”

“No, no dripping. Want it all.”

“Of course, baby, we’ll make sure it all stays. Gotta keep it inside if we wanna see your belly fat with my child.” His hand abandons your clit to slide underneath your shirt, sweeping across your stomach, a dreamy look passing across his face.

“Yes, yes, I wanna give you a child. Please,” you plead, your finger curling around the edge of the bed, gripping it frantically. “Oh, God, please.”

That’s when your mind begins its usual trailing off, wandering away from the pulse of the doctor's cock. What if you still didn’t get pregnant? What if you had pissed off some high being and they cursed you to never have a child? What if you disappointed your husband by never making him a father, and he grew to resent you for it, then you'd go through a nasty divorce and-

When his thumb connects back to your clit, you're reminded of the mantra you repeated earlier. Focus on his fingers. Your worrying thoughts don't go away, prickling at the edges of your brain, but they aren't as loud now. Focus on his thumb. Pressure tickles at your belly, another orgasm rising inside. Focus on his cock. Your legs begin to shake, your heart beats in your ears, and your nails imbed into the vinyl of the table. Focus on him.

Blinking your eyes open, you look up at the doctor. His forehead carries a light sheen of sweat, his cropped hair starting to plaster to the skin. Gritting his teeth, he pulses into your pussy faster, snapping his hips quicker, his rhythm becoming off-balance as he nears his own release. “Are you gonna take it, baby? Gonna take all my fucking come? Gonna keep it all for yourself?”

“Y-yes, doctor, yes, gi-give it to me!”

“Oh fuck,” he groans, his hips stuttering as his cock pulses, come splattering over your walls. “Fuck, fuck, take it. Ah fuck, take it all, baby.” Even as he releases into you, his thumb doesn't stop looping around your clit, his hips keep pounding against your ass, his dick still rubbing at your core. “Need to feel you now,” he tells you, watching how he disappears inside of your inviting cunt, feeling the way your clench around him. “Come on, baby, you need it, too. Let go.”

Arching your back off the table, your mouth drops open, a choked gasp getting stuck in your throat. Everything coils inside of you, the pressure heightening, the immense pleasure becoming too much to hold back anymore. Then it all collapses, falling back against the table, your legs becoming slack as your pussy constricts around Dr. Styles' cock, your orgasm flowing through your whole body.

“There you go. Oh, you feel so good, baby,” he praises, running a hand through his sweat slicked hair. Resting his forehead against your ankle, he takes in a deep breath, releasing it in a shaky exhale, the air cool along your skin. “You know,” he huffs, his nose scrunching up as he sniffles, “you could've told me you weren't getting off, anymore. My pride would've been only a little wounded.” Harry’s lips curl at the corners, smirking at his own joke.

Rolling your eyes, you shake your head. “I thought it would go away but it didn't and by then it was harder to open up. And it's a lot easier to admit to someone who isn't my husband, but a-”

“But a doctor who just so happens to be your husband?” He finishes for you, carefully pulling out of your cunt.

“Exactly!” Walking over to the sink, Harry wets a couple sheets of paper towels, using one of them to wipe himself clean of your arousal. “Plus, I thought a change of scenery would help the issue.”

“Next time,” he says, turning to you and pressing the wet paper to your pussy, gently wiping away the mess there, “please just rent a hotel room. Don’t defraud my practice.” Discarding the soiled paper in the small trashcan, Harry quickly zips himself back up, walking around the exam table and pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. “I really have to go, but we can talk more about this at home, okay?”

“Okay,” you agree, pulling him in for one more kiss, sneaking in a third just as he went to turn away. Those anxious thoughts still hover on the outskirts of your mind, but as you watch your husband walk out of the exam room, tossing you one last smile over his shoulder before the door closes, you comfort yourself with the knowledge you could always schedule a second appointment.

Tag list:

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It was hard when Harry was on tour. You’d survived the last one (barely) and the two of you had been dreading the start of the new one. He loved it—the fans and the energy and the rush. But it was almost always missing you. With your own job and your own responsibilities to take care of, it’s impossible to follow him around for months on end.

But, now, half way through his tour, you found a pocket of time where you could get away from work and come to support your rockstar of a boyfriend. And, because you’re you, you couldn’t do it normally. You had to surprise him.

So, here you were, perched pretty in your chair in the VIP tent at the 12th show of Harry’s MSG residency. You were just beaming with excitement at the thought of him finding out you had flown here to support him.

The two of you lived mostly in LA, flying around every once in a while but that was where your job was. So that was mostly where you stayed. This month had been fucking hard, spending your days in different time zones and only being able to sneak in a call between shows.

You flew in this morning, booked your own hotel, put on your best dress, and begged Jeff to keep this from Harry.

You had to tell Jeff, in order to get into the venue, but you always had a hard time trusting him. You knew you’d get hit with a ‘I have to let him know, he might choke if he gets surprised,’ and you did. But, after lots of convincing, he agreed to keep your secret from Harry.

You click back a response against your screen as you lounge in the black folding chair, a couple of Harry’s friends next to you and chatting quietly. You had to inform everyone about your surprise so as to ensure it won’t slip to Harry.

Y: Good luck. Love you so so much. Just a phone call away :)

You giggled a little as you sent it, shutting your phone off and shaking your foot against the leg of your chair in an anxious tick.

And then, your phone buzzed again. Weirdly quick, considering Harry was about to go on stage and definitely wasn’t on his phone.

#: Y/n!! Why didn’t you tell me you’re in the city!!

Your old friend, who you met here ages ago, somehow aware of your whereabouts. Oddly creepy, but you were intrigued.

Y: I’m surprising H at his show. How did you know?!!

#: Girl. Fans are posting pics of u in the VIP tent all over the place. Ur lucky Harry doesn’t use socials. Sending you both love!!

You peer up from your phone at the message and scan the crowd around you, noticing small groups of girls staring at you while whispering incoherently.

Ah.

You should’ve known, with Harry’s fans. They were quick to catch everything.

You just heart the message and bite back a smile, interested as to what everyone could be saying. You wondered if they’d point you out to Harry, or let him notice you on his own. You actually wondered if he’d see you at all. There was always the chance that he’d get too locked into his show.

And then, the lights went dark. Piercing screams and hollers bled to your eardrums and you even spotted a couple of girls crying. He hadn’t even come out yet. It was endearing.

His intro rang through the speakers, loud and sudden and you actually felt emotional. It’s been months since you’ve seen him perform, the last time being at his ONO and that was a totally different show than this time around.

For some reason, your heart was pounding like you’d never met him before. Like there was about to be a crazy famous super star on stage who you’d scream for.

It was a silly feeling, really, considering you’d been with him for who knows how long now.

And then, he was out. Running along the edge of the stage and hyping the crowd up even more than they already were. It was electric, watching him have total and complete control over thousands of people. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t turned on.

You wanted to cry at the sound of his voice, ringing through the loud speakers as he greeted his crowd and set himself up for his song. You hadn’t heard that voice in person in so long, and it took everything in you to not run on stage right then and pull him aside to really talk to him. To really get to listen to his luxurious accent and deeply thought out responses.

He played 4 songs, and still hadn’t noticed you. It was getting funnier and funnier, really. His friends beside you would pat your shoulder and joke about his avoidance of the tent, claiming they feel offended that he hasn’t looked over here once. You liked it this way, the thrill of waiting.

And then, he was reading signs. Not near you, but on the other side. He was working the whole room, making everyone laugh (including you), and still not noticing your presence. You honestly thought one of the fans might bring it up to him, but they didn’t. You thought maybe they were in on your little game.

“I wrote this awhile back about someone very important to me,” he starts, adjusting his ear piece. “Um, back when I first met her, I would literally be half asleep every day because she’d keep me up all night.”

He laughs, and the crowd makes some kind of suggestive comment to him that has his mouth falling open and his finger out to correct them.

“Hey, hey, nothing like that, she’s just a talker,” he scolds, “most of the time.”

The crowd erupts in screams and you slapped a hand over your mouth in laughter, so amused by this that you couldn’t even hide it. You couldn’t believe he didn’t know you were here.

“I’m joking, I’m joking,” he shakes his head, “this is a family show…”

More ridiculously loud screaming.

“…Or is it,” his finger is up again, “Ok, no, seriously. Um, she would get these random bursts of energy around 1 in the morning and just talk and talk and talk. And, um, every night I’d sacrifice my sleep just to listen to her.”

You were swooning, completely whipped as you listened to his sweet words.

“I miss her very, very much and I want all of you to scream it if you know it. This one’s about me falling in love. This is Late Night Talking.”

You couldn’t hold in your smile as you listened to him speak, so honest and so vulnerable to a room of thousands. It was the most romantic thing you’d ever heard.

And then he finished the song. And another. And another. And he still hadn’t noticed you.

“Ok, what have we got, what have we got,” he’s scanning the room again, reading the neon and cardboard signs that are held in the air.

And then, as he’s grazing over the entirety of the crowd, he spots you. Standing tall in your yellow summer dress, a small grin on your face.

He freezes completely.

Literally staring at you in silence for a full 15 seconds, frozen in place with his microphone raised to his lips. A very, very slow grin finding its way to his face.

The crowd shifts and turns to face where he’s looking, whispering to one another as they put the pieces together.

And then, screams.

You wave at him, small and polite as a mischievous grin spreads across your face. This, this was what you’d been waiting for.

He drops his microphone to his side and turns around, facing away from the crowd as he slaps a hand over his face. And then the other. Completely covering himself as he avoids eye contact with you.

You can’t contain your giggle as he crouches down on the stage, folding into himself as he shakes his head with his palms still covering his face. It was truly adorable.

And then, he stood again, facing you once more with a red face and a wide smile.

“Have you been here the whole time?!” He shouts, amused and completely shocked.

You just nod, smiling deeper as he takes you in.

“Oh, God,” he scoffs through a laugh and starts to pace the stage, bringing his hand back up to his face as he shakes his head again.

You were thoroughly enjoying this.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?!” He addresses the crowd, throwing his arms up in a startled manner.

The crowd shrugs and acts aloof, acting as if they totally didn’t know you were here that whole time.

“Oh, you’re all full of it,” he spits, “you knew. I know you saw her and you just let me stay embarrassingly unaware. You’re all just a bunch of trouble.”

You can tell his mood has shifted, already so electric but now he was happy. Truly excited as he paced back and forth along the edge of the stage.

A fan starts to scream something up at him, causing him to bend down and take out his ear piece to get a better listen. And when he hears what they said, he’s cracking up.

“She goes..” he puts his ear piece back in, “‘Go say hi to her! You’re being rude!’”

He mimicked the fans' American accent and the crowd laughed once again, enjoying this little surprise just as much as you were.

You threw your arms up in a shrug at the comment, pressing your lips together in a way that said ‘yeah, why haven’t you said hello to me yet?’

Harry sees you and laughs as well now, fixing his hair with a cough before talking into the microphone again.

“See, now you’ve gotten me into trouble. I was getting there, just a bit shell shocked alright?” He laughs, pressing a hand down into the air to try to calm the crowd.

And then, he’s looking at you, and only you. Zeroed in like there’s no one else around.

“Y/n,” he’s calm now, “it’s quite good to see you. I’m now realizing you’ve heard my little speech before Late Night Talking and my inappropriate comment. Other than that, how are you?”

He asks with a subtle smirk, hand on his hip as he tilts his head to the side to wait for your response after the crowd quiets.

“I’m good,” you scream, hoping he can hear you instead of just reading your lips. And then, you add, “I missed you.”

The crowd erupts in aww’s and muffled commentary, and Harry himself gets a bit flustered at the comment.

“I missed you too,” he smiled, “flight go okay?”

You nod, sending him a thumbs up with a smile.

“I got here this morning,” you shout out, the crowd so quiet as they listen to the two lovers catching up that he can actually hear your voice.

“This morning?” He acts offended, “what have you been doing all day?!”

The crowd laughs again, turning to face you to hear your response. It was funny, really.

“Waiting to surprise you!” You shout, pointing at him with a big cheeky grin.

“Sneaky girl,” he tuts with a smirk of his own, “I’m glad you’re here. Wait, so are you not staying with me? Did you get your own hotel?”

He asks as casual as ever, talking with his hands and furrowed brows. It was honestly sweet how calm the conversation was between you two, distanced between thousands of people in the middle of you.

“Yes, but I’m not staying in it. Jeff took my stuff to yours!” You shout, holding in a laugh at the amount of people listening in on your domestic conversation.

“Yess,” he brings a fist down with a smile in celebration, causing the crowd to yet again burst out in laughter at his antics.

“Ok!” He starts again, “everyone please give a hand for that beautiful woman right over there who I get to go home with tonight.”

Everyone claps and whistles and sends you waves with big smiles, and you feel so emotional that you might just cry. It was nice to be loved like this.

With a string of air kisses blown over to you by him, he was back to his set with a little extra pep in his step.

And you? You were more than satisfied.

-

You don’t totally remember how you got here.

Your mind was half conscious the entire way back to the big hotel, as it’s hard to focus with the obsessive touch of a grown man attached to you.

He was latched to you from the moment he could finally see you. The rest of his show felt incredibly long to him as he counted down the songs until he would see you—touch you and hold you and kiss you.

He was completely and utterly obsessed. If his hands weren’t actively roaming around your skin, they were perched resting on your hips absentmindedly.

Through a very affectionate initial reunion and a car ride that was too clingy for your own good, you two had found yourself wrapped up in one another back at his hotel room.

“Y/n,” he spoke into you, “I missed you so much.”

His words were drawn out and deeply passionate as his lips melded against yours.

“I missed you too,” you nod, drowning in the glorious scent of his skin.

“No, baby,” he pulled away to look at you, eyes wide and turned slightly inward, “I missed you so much. Missed your face so much, I don’t know how to tell you.”

His hand is grazing slowly over the skin of your cheek as if he’s afraid he might ruin it. He was looking up at you in awe as you straddled his thighs.

“I promise, I understand,” you smiled soft as you nodded, “maybe even more than you.”

His brows furrowed slightly inward in reflex, shaking his head as he kissed you again like it was the most insane thing he’d ever heard.

“Mm-mm,” he denied through your lips, “feel like I can finally breathe.”

You couldn’t possibly agree more. You were floating, just fluttered with love and finally complete.

His mouth spread yours open further, lapping his tongue around you as he grasped your hips. It was the kind of kiss that could only ensue after long weeks apart from each other.

Hungry, firm, and somehow always dissatisfied. As if everything was never enough.

It didn’t take long before he was flipping you over and off of his lap, letting your back rest softly against the smooth bedding of the hotel.

It was a familiar feeling—him hovered over you like this. But there was a tinge of something different this time that you really had only experienced a handful of times.

He was exhausted, physically and emotionally from his whirlwind of a show. His chest was bare and his hair was ridiculously messy from the aftermath of the concert, and there was something about the way he touched you this time that seemed ground breaking.

It was as if every new piece of skin he touched brought him back into his real world, away from the facade he lives in on stage and the him he has to become in order to succeed.

He was falling undone in front of you, removing that part of himself layer by layer with every minute spent with you. Until he was just him. Just Harry. Soft and delicate and treating you like you were the big star. And you were, in his eyes.

His lips shifted down to your jaw and started their way down your neck, interrupted by muffled sweet nothings slipping through the pinks of his lips.

“Missed this neck,” he shifts lower, “this chest,” and lower, “mm, this stomach,” and even lower, “this skin, you’re so soft.”

He was honestly worshipping you. You just laid back, a hand tangled softly within his locks, grinning to yourself as he scanned down your body.

You felt it was best if you stayed quiet, content. Letting him lead how he pleased without the added weight of you. You just let him shift around you in whatever way his body took him, massaging his head gently with your neck tilted downwards to watch him.

What he really didn’t get was how much you missed him. Seeing him like this, vulnerable and bare and utterly exhausted, it was a piece of him you couldn’t grasp from over the phone. A piece you’ve missed more than anything you’d ever missed before.

“Please, can I taste you, baby?” His eyes peered up at you from down by your pelvis, round and pupils glassed.

You giggle, twisting a piece of hair tighter in your hold at his silly question. A question you’d never even dream of saying no to.

“Mhm,” you nod, soft, tender.

He isn’t in a hurry once he gets your approval. He’s pressing slow kisses against your hip bone, so gentle that you’re convinced he’s worried he’ll break them. It was sweet.

His fingers slip into your sleep shorts, pulling the soft cotton downward until you were left in nothing but your adorable pair of underwear. Pink, soft, a little bow on the front.

He pressed a kiss to your covered core, reeling in the heat that’s radiating between your thighs. You let out a deep exhale at the feeling, so close to what you’ve been needing desperately. His lips, his tongue, all over you. Lapping you up so skillfully.

And his finger slides your cute little panties to the side, revealing you dripping center, so puffy and pink.

He whimpers at the sight in front of him, eyes widening absentmindedly before falling inwards within themselves. He’s folded completely, staring between your legs like it was a bright and shiny treasure. And it was, to him.

He hummed against you as he pressed his mouth onto you, spinning at your sugary sweet taste back on his tongue. Where it belonged. Where he belonged.

And seriously, he did belong here. Nuzzled between your legs and devouring your pussy. It was his favorite place, there was nothing like it. The mix of your honeyed arousal and scent of your fresh thighs and the sweet sounds of your broken moans. There was really nothing he loved more.

“Mm,” his hum vibrates up to your clit, “wish you could taste this. So sweet. So perfect. Fucking perfect.”

His hands held your hips in place as he lapped up and down your wet slit, circling his tongue around your bud and pressing it inside of you whenever he pleased.

You were writhing beneath him, back arched upwards and breathy moans slipping through your lips. Your head was fuzzy already within the first couple minutes of his tongue on you, swarming within yourself with every new lap.

He slipped two thick fingers into you without warning, easily sliding through your dripping hole. It was intense, the pressure of him inside of you replacing the void that has been there for weeks. You cant remember the last time you felt so full, it was a blissful feeling.

“Fuck, Harry,” you breathe out, mindlessly snapping your thighs around his head to which he just groans out at. He was right where he wanted to be.

“So beautiful,” he hums out between his nibs, “thank you, baby, thank you.”

Something about his gratitude for his place between your legs had you vibrating against him, muscles quaking as he pulled you closer and closer to where you needed to be.

“Ohh, right there, so good,” you stutter out as his fingers curl up to where you needed them most, rolling into the same spongy spot that has your eyes rolling to the back of your head every time.

He was just so proud to make you feel good. You could tell by the way he pressed his tongue harder against you and pushed his fingers in deeper. He was doing so good for you, giving you exactly what you needed and more.

“So good, baby,” you breathe out again, legs tensing and fingers locking through his messy curls as you reach your high.

He rode you through it, limbs tired and inflamed but he didn't care. He would’ve done this for hours if it made you feel good. He was just lucky his baby came so quickly with his tongue on her.

He groaned into you at the taste of your orgasm, shoving his mouth deep into you and lapping you up seductively.

You were truly convinced this is what he was put on this earth to do. He was a natural down there, never faltering for even a second and constantly proving himself better than the minute before.

And as you came down from your high, chest heaving and cheeks red, he gave you one final lick before rising back to meet your gaze.

He looked…Perfect. His chin was wet, stubble glistening in the residue of you. His cheeks were red and his eyes were low but rounded all the same, looking at you so desperately as if his meal did not yet satisfy him.

You caught your breath slowly, peering up at him with a lazy grin as he moved to hover back over you. Your limbs were fuzzy and your head felt all floaty and light, paired with the perfect ping of a heart in love.

Your recovery didn't take long before you were grabbing at the thick bulge through his pants, desperate for his cock in your mouth after all of this time.

And then, he stopped you.

“No, this isn't about me. Let me make you feel good, baby, please,” he lowered himself down until his head was horizontal to yours, brushing your noses together purposely.

“You did make me feel good, Harry,” you nod slowly, still trying to paw at his crotch but his hand always seems to get there before you, pushing your wrist away.

“I can do better, please,” he pleads.

You stare up at him, taking in his wide eyes and his turned in brows. And how could you possibly say no?

“Please?” he asks again, quieter this time. Ridiculously vulnerable.

Your nod is all he needs before his fingers are back through your slit, running up and down your slick before pressing one finger in slowly.

And then a second.

And then a third.

And now, you were speechless.

Your neck popped out in thick veins and purpled as a result of your lack of air, sending a more intense wave upwards into your head. It was euphoric, the overwhelming stretch of his wide fingers pumping in and out of you.

It wasn't amateurish either, it was skillful, careful and patient as he threaded up into you. His eyes focused on your face as he carefully analysed what feels good versus what feels best, desperately trying to provide you with the most amount of satisfaction that he can.

You were loud beneath him, crying into his shoulder as you bit down on the thick muscle. Once your teeth made print on the squishy and firm area, it only spurred you on more. And it suddenly had you wanting to bite down on every muscle on his body, nibbling on him until his body was covered in the red marks of your teeth.

The best part? You know he’d want it just as bad. You knew he’d wanna be covered in your bitemarks. You even knew he’d go in public like that. Maybe even on stage. He’d do anything you asked him to as long as it satisfied you.

“Harry, it feels so good,” you cry out, “M’gonna cum again already.”

He hummed into your ear and pressed his thumb to your clit, watching as your face lit up and your brows raised at the second stimulation. Your brows twisted and your mouth fell open, face red and legs shaking against the mattress.

He was so fulfilled watching how good he was making you feel, like it was his only goal in life and he’d struck big. Through quick circling to your swollen clit and the consistent pump of his fingers inside of you, you were about to cum hard.

He knew it too. Right on que, your walls were clenching around his fingers and your body stilled all at once. He watched in a trance as your second orgasm washed over you, fast and long lived as he rubbed quicker on your clit.

“Oh, fuck, Harry!” your yelps were deafening and absurdly high pitched, head thrown back as you came around the stuff of his fingers.

He cooed and keened as he watched you come down again, breaths heavier this time and body weakened. It was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. Mixed with the luxurious sounds of your moans and groans and airy breaths.

“You letting everyone know how good you have it? How much I worship you?” he whispers up to you, suddenly reminding you that no; you’re not at home.

You’re in a fancy hotel room, sharing a hallway with the entirety of Harry’s team who were surely slamming their head into their pillow as they tried to sleep. Oops.

“Baby,” you pressed your palms to either side of his cheeks, “I love you.”

You don't know why you say it, it seems quite random at the moment. But it’s the only thing that comes to your mind as you look at him between your hands. Cheeks slightly pressed into each other and eyes wide, the cutest thing you have ever seen.

“I know you do,” he kisses you, “I love you more.”

He keeps himself softly kissing against you for the next couple of minutes, addicted to the taste of your mouth and the gentle nature of the two of you.

“Wanna make you cum another time, okay? Please?” he asks so sweetly that it makes you giggle.

“Please,” you nod, flicking your eyes between his and knowing what’s coming next.

Proving you correct, his hands shift his pants down as he continues to kiss you, deep and meaningful and full of his undying passion for you.

His cock sprung out of his pants and you couldn't help yourself but to peek down with a half opened eye from the kiss, not having seen this sight in weeks.

And God, it was everything you wanted it to be. Big and thick and glistening in a salty drip of precum. Heavenly.

“Oh,” you moan, “Need it baby, give it to me?”

He nods messily against your lips, whining into you at even just the discussion of his dick inside of your perfect pussy.

He shifts further up to you until his tip nudges into your crease, both of you letting out a simultaneous groan at the tease. It was the most heavenly torture you’d ever felt, the taste of something so familiar yet so foreign for you both.

And when the thick head of his cock pressed into you at just the right pace, your chest swelled and your mind blurred in a haze of totality.

It was better than how you'd been imagining it over the span of your lonely nights, better than how your fingers begged to replicate it in a desperate fit by yourself. He was so full and so warm inside of you, kissing the depths of your belly and rolling into you so beautifully.

He twined himself nice and easy through you, in and out and in and out and in and out. You were stuck in a frenzy, moaning and grunting so sweetly with every nudge.

“Oh, y/n,” his head fell to rest against yours, “I don't deserve this. Your pussy’s so good to me, baby, wish you could feel how tight you are around me.”

You whined at his words, so honest and kind to you. He was rolling through you quicker now, knocking into your sweetest spot everytime like his dick was made for this.

The sounds of your pitched moans and gentle yelps told him all he needed to know. He was fucking you good and right and pleasing his girl just how she liked it. It was more rewarding than any bustling crowd or prestigious award.

“Missed this so much,” you pine your head back onto the pillow, “Feel so fucking good, stretching me out just how I like it.”

That line was more to Harry than anything else could be. He was prideful and so pleased with the sight in front of him–his pretty baby squirming and groaning at the feeling of his cock lodged deep inside of her. This was his heaven, exactly what brought him through his days and gave him the stamina to continue the way he’s been.

He lowered a hand to rub against your clit as you drew closer to your orgasm, knowing you needed the extra push to really get there. He knew your body inside and out, and all you could do was thank whatever the hell was in the universe that brought him to you.

His thumb was pressed hard against your swollen bud, circling long and slow and quick all at the same time. You wrathed and your breaths quickened, louder this time without any sort of pattern.

“Harry! Fuck, Harry, I’m– mmm!” you screamed and clenched around him, jaw slack and so close to reaching that bliss for another time.

You were loud and you didn't care, you couldn't. You were just sure his team, in the surrounding rooms, were texting each other and complaining about you both and your disgusting antics.

You wanted them to know how good their boss made you feel. And honestly, so did he. He didn't even attempt to shut you up.

“Please cum on my cock, baby,” he whines, “I need to feel it. Need to feel you hold me tight, please.”

His thumb picked up against your clit and his thrusts sharpened, pulling you to your third orgasm with so much force that your ears deafened and you lost control of all things normal. You moaned out loud and absurdly drawn out, disturbing the quiet peace around you and filling it with the grotesque volume of your pleasure.

“Oh my god! Harry, fuck! Feels so good, baby, yes!” you scream as your legs spasm and tighten around him, so fragile as your pussy gushes around him.

His head falls deep into the crevice of your neck and the sweat that had beaded onto the tips of his locks dampened your skin, smelling so deliciously erotic as you work through your high.

“I’m- fuck,” he stutters through his orgasm as he shoots himself inside of you, coating your insides with his salty cum that you so badly wished to have tasted.

This was abnormal for you two—to only go in one position. But when it felt the way it felt and your time apart finally came to the perfect end, you couldn't be too surprised.

“Oh, Harry,” you breathe out, quieter now. Peaceful as his body fell limp above you.

“Missed you,” he kisses your neck sloppily, “so,” and another, “much,” and a third.

“So you’ve mentioned,” you tease, giggling up into his heavy body with a twirl of his curls.

“I mean it y/n,” and now he pulls back to look at you deep, “I really missed you. I don't wanna do this again. I can't do this again.”

You look at him softer now, his dick softening inside of you as your sweaty bodies rise and fall on top of each other.

“What do you mean?” your tone is quiet, careful.

“I mean I don't wanna do it again. I want you to stay with me. For the rest of the residency. Take some time off of work, please. I want you here with me,” he asks gently as you push a loose chunk of hair off his forehead.

You sat there.

Considering it in a comfortable silence.

He didn't push, didn’t stare at you too harsh or add any pressure.

It was a risk, as he still had 18 more shows after this which meant weeks and weeks off of work. Away from the career you’ve been building and away from your life back on the West Coast.

But, for some reason, as he drew mindless shapes against your skin with the tip of his finger and waited patiently for your answer, it seemed totally and completely possible. Your boss was nice. Understanding. And, honestly, with a boyfriend like Harry, how much financial trouble could you really get in?

“Ok,” you whisper, low and soft, with a nod of your head and a smile tugging at the left side of your mouth.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I wanna stay with you.”

You barely had time to take a breath before you were being completely smothered in kisses around every inch of your reddening face.

“Thank you so much,” his words were muffled as he littered your face in wet kisses, “Thank you, thank you, thank you. You’re amazing.”

“Harry,” you giggle, hiding your face from him behind your hands as he tries to slip his way back under.

“Hm?” as if nothing too crazy was going on, not like he was stuck to every inch of you like a leech.

“Harry!” you push him off of you, “I think you need to pull out of me before you trap me against you even more.”

“Oh,” he stops kissing your face, peering down between you too, “shit.”

“You seriously forgot your dick was still inside of me?” You tilt your head at him with a teasing grin, shaking it in disapproval.

“It just loves it in there, think it’s like, it’s home or something,” he shrugs, smiling at you at his own joke. “And, you also just gave me the best news of my life, so you can't really blame me.”

“I guess,” you smile sarcastically, “I’ll let it slide. But you need to slide out of me.”

“Feeling a bit punny, I see,” he tuts, kissing one more time before backing up to pull his soft dick out of you.

You hiss at the feeling of sudden movement, still so sensitive as he moves slow and steady. And once he’s out of you, after catching his cum with a tissue from the nightstand, he was right back where he was before. Leaned over top of you and admired the face of the pretty girl beneath him.

“Y/n,” he starts, “If you change your mind, or have any doubts, even for a second-”

“I’ll tell you,” you nod, “I promise.”

And he just smiles, leaning in to kiss you for the millionth time tonight.

But, it’s not like you were complaining.

You were just ready for this to be your new normal.

And then, a buzz of Harry’s phone on the mattress that vibrated up between you two.

Jeff: You both disgust me.

Jeff: If you’re not done, tell me now so I can switch rooms for the night.

You stare at eachother, snort into a fit of laughter, and consider telling Jeff that this might just be something he should be getting used to.

pls like/reblog if u enjoyeddd!!!

more importantly, please check out my recent work on wattpad! a smutty friends w benefits plot where harry and vivian live across the hall from eachother.

⬆️Link to Liminal -> here.

masterlist

You were used to it.

The glares. The corked eyebrows. The subtle tinge of ‘I’m sure that I know what you’re here for and our business does not allow it.’

But you were no prostitute, and you weren’t out of place here. You belonged here and were overly exhausted of stingy employees thinking otherwise.

So when you got the text from Harry, you had already mentally prepared yourself for what would come of your night.

H: Booked us a room at the Ritz on West 28th. Finishing up in the studio and then I’ll meet you there. It’s under your name.

A usual text to receive from your secret lover.

He was older than you, ridiculously older than you to the point where you were sure it would cause some controversy if the public gained any awareness. So, sneaky over-nights at fancy hotels and cryptic stares are what you were used to.

And you liked it—the forbiddenness of it all. You were his cute little thing, a pretty girl to play with and spoil however he pleased.

So when you walked through the big glass door of the luxurious building, you found yourself wet just at the smell.

That was the thing about what you and Harry had going on. He’d opened up new parts of you that you would’ve never known existed if it weren’t for him. You were addicted to the riches of it all. His money. His wealth, more like.

Smooth tile and obscene light fixtures and quiet jazz turned you on, at this point. And it wasn’t because of the fine craftsmanship, it’s because his money brought you here. Allowed you to echo your tiny feet across the slick flooring and take in the thick smell of an expensive room spray.

You pattered confidently over to the front counter, dressed in a cute little outfit that was to Harry’s liking, and placed the tips of your fingers against the tall podium.

“Hello,” you smile politely, “I have a room for tonight under Y/L/N.”

The receptionist peers up from her desk to scan you over, a soft smile on her face as she takes you in silently.

And then, there was that look. The one you were more than used to, at this point.

“Hello,” she finally greets you, “you said you had a room at this hotel?”

A smile smacked on her face so condescending that you nearly screamed.

“I do, yes,” you keep on your smile, remaining composure as you readjust the duffle bag against your side.

She peers down at the movement to take in the bag that was hung over your shoulder, staring at it for a bit longer than you appreciated. It was a soft pink, white stripes down the fabric with your initials embroidered on the side. It was childish, you know. But it’s been yours since you were small and why change something that’s not broken?

“Let me take a look, dear,” she nods, slow and unhurried.

So you wait. Tapping your finger tips against the sleek wood of the counter as she takes her sweet time.

And then, another buzz from your phone.

H: Get to the room okay? I’m wrapping up.

Y: just waiting to be let up

You keep it brief, knowing not enough time has passed to really know if the staff was judging you just yet. You’d like to think the best of them. Maybe your reservation was just dug deep in their files.

H: Are they giving you trouble?

You take a thick swallow, reading over the 5 words like they were here in front of you, low and threatening.

Y: i don’t think so, probably just super busy tonight

He types, stops, types, and then the bubbles go away completely. You just shut off your phone, slipping it back into your purse before peering back up at the front desk.

And when you look up, she’s peering behind you, looking at the nicely dressed man that stood after you in the line of the lobby.

“Hello, sir. How can I assist you?”

Your brows furrow, peering back and forth between the man and the receptionist with innocent confusion.

But then, you think, this is a nice place, right? You’re sure they’ve got you all checked in and probably sending down a concierge to lead you to your room as we speak. Nothing to worry about.

So, you stand off to the side with a sweet smile and toy with the ends of your hair as the two start their conversation.

But then she gave him a room key. And a kind smile, one different from the one you had been given just a couple minutes prior. And ushered him to the elevator with directions that would lead right to his door.

Now, you were stumped.

“Um, excuse me,” you ask so quietly that she doesn’t hear you at all.

You were always like this. Too sweet for your own good and always afraid to rub off the wrong impression.

The receptionist was busy (or so she looked) at her desk, scrabbling through papers and binders that you were only half sure actually had anything written on them. So, you mustered up the courage to speak again.

“Excuse me, ma'am?" A bit louder this time, but still never without your fragile twinge of politeness.

She looks up at you as you stood in front of the tall counter. Glasses hung low on her nose and her red lips glued to a straight and very unamused line.

“Yes?”

“Um, was there a problem with my reservation?” You ask, lacking confidence just a little bit too much. You knew it. The receptionist knew it, too.

She takes her glasses off, glaring up at you from her seat behind the thick counter and takes a deep breath.

“What was the name again, hon?”

You cringed at the nickname.

“Y/L/N. Maybe Y/N.”

She pauses her fingers though the stack of papers and tilts her head at you in a stare of disbelief.

“You’re not sure what your reservation is under?”

Yes, you were used to this. But no, that didn’t mean it got any easier for you. This was always stress for you. An unbelievable amount of anxiety and you almost never handled it well.

“I, um, I’m not totally sure, no. I wasn’t the one who made the reservation,” you say through red cheeks.

She smiles up at you, cold and knowing, like she’s got you all figured out now. Like she’s seen this sort of thing before.

“I see,” she nods, “let me take another look.”

You just nod, backing away slightly and trying to ignore the growing need to nib at your nailbeds and twist around your hair. You didn’t want to seem even more immature.

Another phone vibration from your purse.

H: Assuming you’ve gotten to the room now? Just about to leave.

Y: no not yet, its ok tho they’re looking again now i think

H: Looking for what? You’re still in the lobby?

Y: for our reservation, i think maybe i gave them the wrong name or something. and yes i am

H: I put it under your last name. If that helps.

Y: yeah that’s what i told them, im sure they’re just looking for it

But you weren’t sure. And Harry could smell bullshit right through his phone screen.

H: This is ridiculous. You’ve been there nearly 20 minutes. I’ll be there as soon as I can.

You couldn’t ignore the ping between your thighs at the message, slightly embarrassed to feel so turned on by a string of black letters across your tiny phone screen.

“Here you are,” your texting is interrupted by the shove of a thin black card in your face, sudden and disruptive.

“Oh,” you grab onto it, “ok, thank you. Where is my room?”

She sighs again, acting as if your simple question has seriously disturbed her peace.

“The room number is on the card. There are signs on the walls.”

Your brows turn inward with a small frown, literally having just watched her direct the last young man to his room. You really didn’t want to spend the next couple minutes following plastic signs on the walls like an idiot.

But, you don’t fuss. Don’t put up a fit and don’t mention it. Instead, you just nod, walking away from the counter with really no idea of where to go at all.

You were clearly confused as you walked around the first floor of the luxurious hotel, desperately searching for the signs on the walls and any indication of where an elevator could be.

The staff saw you. They saw how confused you were and they watched as you dawdled around the big tall lobby. Yet, they remained mounted in their place, even looking somewhat amused at your struggle. As if you were a baby deer trapped in the overbearing headlights of an 18 wheeler.

Once you land on the sweet sight of the elevators, you b-line over the large room with your little pink bag clinched tighter against you. You were desperate to get to the safety of your room.

“Can I help you?” A man, tall and dressed formally in a suit, asks as he guards the buttons to the elevator.

“Hi, yes please! I’m in room…” you look at your card, “614. Is that the sixth floor?”

He stares at you. Takes you in, grazes over your cute little outfit that was surely not a fancy dress or a designer brand. Then peers to your bag. Then back up at you—young. Naive. Cute.

“I’m sorry, these elevators are for hotel residents only.”

If you weren’t already confused before, now you are stumped.

Are you not a hotel resident? Are you more of a…hotel guest? Do residents have some sort of special card or something? You were too nervous to ask, so you didn’t.

“Oh,” your brows turn in, “ok.. Can you please tell me how to get up to my room then? I’m sorry, I guess I'm having some trouble finding it.”

“I’m sure,” he chuckles. “You can go speak to the front desk. They will escort you to your room.”

He drew out the word like he was claiming that that’s what you were. Nothing other than a little escort for some rich slob of a man who couldn’t find a woman on his own.

“Um, she already directed me to the…signs. So, should I try to follow those again? I just feel like maybe I'm supposed to be going up the elevator.”

You were rambling now, soft and unsure and all he could do was stare at you unamused.

“The signs will lead you to where you’d like to go,” is all he says, with a nod.

Defeated, you slump away and now you’re left right back where you just were. Wandering around the lobby, peering at every sign you see, desperately trying to get the hell out of this situation.

It wasn’t ‘where you'd like to go,’ it was where you should go. Where you belonged. You knew it, but you just couldn’t muster up the courage to tell them that you knew it.

After another couple minutes of walking back and forth and desperately trying to find any signs other than roof top or pool or buffet, you give up and tip toe your way back over to the front desk. Back in front of the woman who looked like she was already tired of you before you even opened your mouth.

“Hi, you gave me my room key a bit ago but I just can’t seem to-”

“I remember.”

You blink, not sure what to think of her rude interruption but continuing anyway.

“I, um,” you were even more nervous now, “I guess I’m just not sure how to get to my room and no one really seems to be helping me out.”

“And what exactly would you need help with?”

You blink again. Slower this time.

“Finding my room…” you’re confused, feeling like you literally just explained that not even 4 seconds prior.

“I have already explained this to you, as long as you follow the-”

“Is there an issue here? Does anyone want to explain to me why she got here half an hour ago and is still standing in this lobby?”

There he was, Harry, tall and broad and two creases stuck between his brows that were only there when he got angry. Two creases that had your crease dripping.

“Hi, baby,” he drops his voice softer as he comes behind you, letting his big hand rest on your tiny frame as he presses a kiss to your forehead. Your cheeks fade pink at his gentle greeting as you smile up at him kindly, a contrast from his fury towards the staff.

“Mr. Styles, hello! It’s lovely to see you, we were just getting her set up to the room-”

“But you weren’t,” he cuts her off, “if you were half competent and even somewhat decent at your job she would’ve been resting in the privacy of that room ages ago. So really, does anyone want to tell me what’s been going on here?”

He was… terrifying. Deliciously terrifying and just who you needed to come and save you. You were helpless without him and he knew it. Too trusting for your own good and ever so naive.

“Mr. Styles, really, we were just gathering some documents together and then we were going to send her straight up to your room.”

Other staff members were slipping away while they could, leaving the lonely receptionist to take all of the blame. And, to be totally honest, that was fine with you.

“Up to her room,” he corrected, “a room that was booked under her name and a room that she should have had no issue getting into. So, and I do ask that you be honest this time, are you going to tell me what’s been going on?”

She stares at him, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted as she stutters on her own breath. You just stood there, protected in Harry’s grasp as he stood behind you.

“I apologize on behalf of the hotel for any trouble that this misunderstanding has caused and-”

He’s laughing now, deep and cynical and just truly in disbelief.

“And what exactly was misunderstood? I’m yet to hear the reason and I think I’ve asked quite a couple times now,” he knows what went on. It hadn’t been the first time something like this had happened. But he was stubborn. For you, at least. And if anyone even dared to make life difficult for you, he’d wait til they were fully humiliated before he was done.

“I-I’m sorry, we were under the impression that she may have been here for reasons against our policies as a company and we were mistaken.”

He lets out a deeply intimidating smirk before peering down at you, waiting for your attention before he speaks to you.

“I’m sorry, is she speaking some language that only imbeciles can understand? Or has she still not explained why you weren’t let up to your room?”

You shook your head up at him with your big round doe eyes, basking in his behavior and clenching your thighs together tight.

“We were under the impression that she was here for some sort of explicit work, sir. I’m very sorry for this incredibly wrong misunderstanding.” She corrected herself under a mumbled breath, ashamed and terrified of the man on the other side of the counter.

He nods, slow with a deep breath like that’d been what he was expecting.

“Full refund.” He mutters, closer to the desk now with a diving stare that you were lucky you weren’t on the receiving end of.

“I-I’m sorry?” She’s taken aback at his well justified request, but he doesn’t budge.

You knew how much this room cost…it was the largest and nicest room in the building. It was tens of thousands of dollars a night and to stay there for free would be detrimental to them. Harry knew it. He didn’t care. They were lucky he wasn’t shutting them down.

“Full. Refund.” He enunciated sharper this time, pressing his fingers into the wood of the counter and pressing his body closer.

“Y-yes, of course, sir. Again, we apologize for any-”

He walked away before she could finish, hand in yours as he tugged you over to the elevators. His grip was tight and his long legs moved quickly through the dazzling lobby, steps echoing up and down the tall ceilings until we reached the elevators.

And this time, with Harry at your side, the man at the doors pressed the up button hastily and stood to the side with a shaky smile. The wide gold of the elevator doors crank open, and Harry calls out one more thing to the receptionist before you both step in.

“Breakfast sent to the room by 10:30.”

She nodded quickly, “Of course! What would you like?”

“The menu.”

She swallowed thick and nodded without argument, and her reaction had your panties even more soaked than they already were. You were obsessed watching him dominate everyone around him. Controlling them with every little word and watching as they slip further into their fear. It was erotic.

And as the two of you walked into the private confines of the elevator, you were trembling. Nervous to what he would say and daydreaming about how he’d man handle you after this.

They seemed to shut in slow motion, swallowing all the outside noise with them and leaving you two in deafening silence. You gripped the handle of your bag tighter.

“Jesus, y/n,” he shook his head, “You ever gonna be able to speak for yourself? Or are you gonna need me to come and pick up your scraps every fucking time?”

You rounded your eyes as you peered up at him submissively, just how he liked, to find him already staring down on you. Preying on you. Jaw clenched tight and jutted outwards.

“I’m sorry, sir. I thought I could handle myself without you. I thought I was doing good,” you know you weren’t. But you wanted him to tell you that you weren’t. You wanted him to tell you that you were nothing without him.

“You didn’t do shit,” he spits, “you stood there all pathetic and let them walk over you. Fucking embarassing.”

The elevator dinged open. You were dripping. Cheeks red. Lashes fluttering up at him. Legs wobbly and mind fuzzy.

He waited for you to leave the elevator before following suit, staying close behind until you reached your room.

And once you heard that click of the door unlock and the handle twist open, you were quivering in excitement for what would come next behind this closed door.

The room was ridiculously ginormous. Big for a group of fifteen, let alone two people who were constantly attached at the hip. They might as well have counted as one guest.

It was shimmering and spacious and gloriously luxurious. The curtains were pulled open to reveal the most beautiful view of the city you had ever seen, dazzling and high and something you knew was a treasure to get to lay your eyes on.

He followed you into his wealth, barely even acknowledging the space as he was used to it. This was an everyday encounter for him.

But he was watching you. He liked to watch your pretty little face as you took in what he gives you. How he spoils you. It was his favorite thing. He’d even felt himself growing hard just from your reaction to the hotel room.

“All this shit I do for you,” he tossed the key onto the entryway table, “fixing your problems. Treating you to expensive hotels. Buying you whatever you want. Don’t you think you owe me some gratitude? To give me something in return for once instead of swimming in my money like a brat?”

You knew he wasn’t serious. You knew it was play. He’d never expect anything from you in return. And, besides, you did well enough for him already. More than he could ever beg for.

“You’re right, sir, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so greedy,” you say, walking closer towards him as he stands in front of the big window.

His eyes turn into themselves as he locks them on you, resting low and staring into your own with a straight face. So monotone that you nearly faint.

“Get to your knees,” he waves his head forward in demand, signaling for you to drop.

And you do, slow, teasing. Staring up at him with those big glossy eyes during your whole way down.

“Want you to choke on my cum,” he spits, “think you can piece together in your dumb little head how to do that right? Or do you need my help with that too?”

You were dizzy, drunk off of the man in front of you as you bruised your knees for him. You were embarrassingly wet and thought you might even cum while you sucked him off.

“I don’t know, sir,” you played, “Maybe just some help to get started…and then I’ll do it all by myself.”

You weren’t stupid. And he knew you weren’t. In fact, you were smart enough that you knew exactly what he wanted. Exactly how he wanted you to speak to him and exactly the kind of fuck toy he’d been dreaming of.

But, now, with you below him as he peered down to you, he wanted to imagine that you were that fucking dumb. That you were so ridiculously helpless that you couldn’t even shove a cock down your throat without stumbling.

“Fucking useless,” he mutters, taking off his belt for you like you weren’t smart enough to figure out how to do it on your own.

You watched in a daze, teeth sinking into your bottom lip in concentration. He undid his button after too, pulling the zipper down and even shoving all of his clothes off. So helpful to you.

You instinctively hummed at the sight of his rock hard cock in front of you, so big and rigged and swelling for you. His tip was a pretty bright red, aching for relief and glistening in the glory of his precum. It swung heavy against his thigh at the release, steadying now as it adjusts to the world outside of his boxers.

His balls hung low beneath his thick shaft, framing it perfectly and resting against the dark hairs of his thighs.

That was another thing that had you shaking—his thighs. Bare and exposed and paler than any part of his body. A piece that only you see. So raw and meaty and inviting. You lulled on what it feels like to have your wet folds dragging up them, running over his roaring tiger until you hissed just like it.

You lick your lips to keep in your drool, staring at the treat in front of you and not even noticing when your jaw goes slack. It was pure reflex—to open wide for his cock. You hadn’t even known you’d done it until you heard the dark scornful laughter above you.

“You’re a joke,” he taunts at the sight, and it does something sick to you.

Your thighs pressed even harder together than they already were as you kneeled, begging for some sort of friction.

You looked pathetic like this. Squirming on your knees and mouth spread open mindlessly. You even let your tongue fall out flat without thinking too, a silent beg for what was in front of you.

He grabs the base of himself, pulling his hips forward until his salty tip is laid against your tongue. He taps his crown three teasing times against the muscle, watching as your lips flinched in rejection of their reflex to close around you.

He pushed forward, holding your head still with his hand. His hand covered your entire scalp, the heel of his hand at the line of your forehead and the tips of his fingers curved to the back.

He fucked himself into your mouth slowly, pushing deeper than he should. But you didn’t care. You gagged and gurgled around his thick head and even sucked around the length as he did it.

“There we go,” he breathes low, “good for something.”

You moan around him, vibrating up him until it tingles at his balls. His hips stutter and quiver just barely against you, but it’s enough for you to notice and feel satisfied with yourself. You were making him feel good.

You were completely stuffed with his cock, dripping in bubbling saliva and throat aching. It throbbed back into you and slipped around and between your swelling lips, so pink and pretty wrapped around him.

He pushed into you again and again as your hands stayed resting on your lap. You hadn’t been given any instruction to touch him, yet. He was happy you behaved without being asked.

And you looked so pretty. Your rounded eyes were welling in tears and your cheeks were flushed in a deep mauve. You were taking him down your throat so good and you would never dare to complain of the pain he was inflicting onto you. It felt like heaven. In fact, you craved it. You were worried if you showed how much it stung that he would stop.

“Gonna fuck my fist to the thought of this later,” he groans, “letting me treat you like shit just like you let everyone else.”

You were crying around his cock at how turned on you were, how badly you wanted him to fuck you until you passed out. But you wanted this more, this was more fulfilling to you than any orgasm of your own.

He pulls his dick out of you and pinches your chin between his thumb and index finger, lifting your head further upwards to look at him. He examined your fucked face. The way you panted and the way you were swallowing to try and ease the pain in the back of your throat. The way you were looking back up at him, pleading and ready for more.

“Now do it by yourself,” he nudged, “like you said.”

You nodded and grasped the girth of him into your small hand, stroking softly around the skin covered in your saliva.

He exhaled long and deep at the feeling of your sweet hands around him, where they belonged. Hands grasping the hem of his shirt before tugging up and over his head, revealing his ink and the valleys of his abs.

You whimpered at the sight, darting your eyes around his bare chest in defeat. He just smirked at the little sound you made, pushing your hair out of your face as he took in your stare.

You grazed around every inch of him, going stupid at the distracting sight of his dark tattoos and the way they shrunk and stretched with every breath. You watched as they flinched with every sudden flex of his muscles, specifically when you squeezed his cock a little harder or stroked up a little closer to his tip.

“You see that?” He gestures to the butterfly on his stomach. You gasped soft as it moved, deep and slow with every breath he took. Staggered through the pleasure of your hand tugging on him.

“Yes, sir,” you nod, batting up at him as your strokes quickened absentmindedly. You were getting quite worked up, after all.

“Suck me off and watch it flap, baby,” he whispers low and gravelly as he watches you whine.

You obey instantly, locking your lips around his tip again and keeping your eyes up at his stomach. He looked incredible like this, the curve of his pecs so firm from this angle and covered in dark hairs.

You sucked and swirled and gagged around him. Taking him so good and you could tell by the way his face twitched that he liked it.

But you weren’t all that focused on his face. You were doing what was told of you, watching his pretty inked butterfly flutter and flap above you with every breath he took. Sometimes you could make the creature fly quicker, if you licked a certain spot or tugged a bit harder. It was an addicting game and even more addicting sight, one that you were sure you’d masturbate to for weeks on end.

And when you released the suction of your mouth with a pop and instead sucked around his balls, that butterfly flew.

He groaned at the dirty act and you hummed at the taste of them, sucking and rolling them around in your mouth like a filthy whore. Your hand continued to pump at his shaft as you did so, sometimes even massaging his frenulum at the same time which you noticed he liked the most.

His deep ink shuttered and flinched and shape shifted so many times that you felt dizzy, drooling around his heavy balls at the sight of his work melding over you.

“Fuck, y/n,” his hand found your head again, “just like that.”

It was the best thing you’d ever heard. You were so proud and so hungry for him still, even after all that you’ve been fed. He was squirming and twitching and falling undone right before you.

You pull off from his balls to reattach to his cock, replacing your mouth with a hand down there instead which he was relieved about. You peered up at him, exhausted but desperate as his stomach heaved.

“Am I doing good for you? Making you feel good?” You ask, hand still stroking his cock.

“You are, baby. Making up for all your other shit,” he nods, twitching into your hold as he tries to contain himself.

You smile to yourself as you wrap your lips around him again, sucking him hard and watching as his face corrupts into itself. You lapped your tongue around his throbbing head and shoved him down into you over and over and over again, suffocating yourself.

His thick cock pulsated a quick couple of times, and you knew he was about to cum. Your pace quickened and your hands worked overtime on his balls and up his shaft, desperately trying to get him there and have him satisfied.

“Fuck,” he groaned, “that’s right, tire yourself out. Sweat for me.”

You did. You pumped your arm and bobbed your head, working your tongue simultaneously and even humming around his tip to send the waves through to him. You were humiliatingly desperate for his cum and he was fucking obsessed.

He came into the back of your throat sudden and hot, spurting into you with a long and drawn out groan.

“Fuck, swallow it all. Don’t be selfish,” he demands and you quickly follow.

You swallowed up his thick salty insides and let it soothe down your throat, so yummy and addictive. You were obsessed with his cum. You were so fucking greedy for it, constantly craving it in your tummy and on your tongue. You were even wishing he could’ve come in your pussy instead of your mouth, because that’s where it belonged. You wanted his cum constantly swarming up inside of you and dripping out through your creases.

“Mmm,” you hum against him as it swirls in your belly and warms you up, milking him dry until his body relaxed his breathing steadied.

You pop him out of your mouth, kissing the tip before shimmying his underwear and pants pack up while he watches you. You were sweet—zipping them up and buttoning them too. Eyes squinted in concentration.

And when you stood up to face him, wiping your mouth dry with the back of your hand, he realized he had forgotten to kiss you.

So he wasted no time, pressing his lips against yours softly and falling into it in bliss. He tasted the remains of himself in your mouth as you kissed him back, face hot and hair ruffled.

Your hands fall against the back of his neck as the two of you kiss gently, a silent hello to one another as you sort of skipped over your initial greeting. Not that either of you were really complaining.

“How was work?” You ask softly as you pull away from his lips for a moment.

He chuckled, low and barely audible into your mouth. The casualness of your question after such a filthy act messing with his mind. You always did.

“It was good,” he nodded into you, “wrote about you.”

You pull away, hands on his cheeks as you look him deep in the eyes. You weren’t sure if he was toying with you—trying to see if you’d be gullible enough to believe it. But he wasn’t. You knew the second you looked at him.

“Really?”

He breathes out a laugh again, “yeah.”

And you just looked at him, a smile growing up your cheeks and chest swelling full.

“Can I hear it?” You ask, carefully. You weren’t really sure what the proper protocol is for when someone tells you they’re written a song about you. Especially when that someone is a world famous celebrity.

“Mhm,” he kisses your forehead, “why don’t you get into your PJs and wait for me on the bed. Okay?”

You nod with a shy smile, skipping away to your bag as you go to change for the night. The night that you’d be spending here, in this ridiculously expensive hotel room, with a hunk of a man sleeping next to you.

It really couldn’t get better than this.

Or maybe it could.

You’d have to hear the song first.

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She tried to be open about what she liked, at least. They’d had a bit of a rocky relationship but Devon was trying and he was being more open. That’s what counted to her, and she had promised when they had decided to give it one more shot that she would give him the benefit of the doubt and be open to suggestions. 

When they’d started the discussion about what they could do to improve their bedroom activities, Y/N had been going to suggest practice. Toys. More oral, because her orgasms were somewhat (very) lacking. It would have sounded mean to say in the way it truly was, but it had been a problem for them. 

As sweet as Devon tried to be, he just… wasn’t hitting it. He was trying (she thinks?) but he wasn’t able to give her what she needed. She didn’t think she had to orgasm every single time but the tally marks were off. 

It had become a point of resentment for her, washing his cum off her stomach while he fell asleep and she was just sore from lack of preparation and unfulfilled from lack of orgasm.

Everything was lacking. 

She had avoided talking too much of her own current bedroom activities to her friends when they discussed it because, well… she didn’t have much to report on. It made that resentment grow. Sex wasn’t everything, but it was a good part of a relationship! It was intimacy, something meant to bond them closer, but Y/N only felt herself drift further apart when they had sex.

They’d almost called it quits when they had agreed to sit down and try and talk those things out. It had been hard to tell him that their sex life wasn’t giving her much of anything and he had obviously felt really embarrassed about it. She had seen him flush and the way he looked genuinely saddened, he’d apologized for being selfish, and that had been the beginning of them trying to patch it up. 

Talking about their fantasies as they sat on her couch hadn’t been where she imagined her night to begin with when he had suggested a pizza and movie date, but she sure as hell hadn’t been prepared for him to tell her what he wanted.

“I want to watch you fuck someone else.” 

The statement was rushed as Y/N’s eyes widened, pizza getting cold on her plate as she waited for him to laugh or say he was kidding- but all that followed was a nervous swallow and silence.

“I… What?” Y/N blinked rapidly as if she was going to wake up from a dream, but the vision remained the same. Her boyfriend looking red in the face as he wrung his hands together. 

“I want to watch someone else fuck you. It’s my fantasy. I-I know it’s weird, but I’ve thought about it a lot. Especially after you said… I didn’t satisfy you. I want to see you feel good a-and see how they do it. I even know of who I’d want to see you fuck, if that’s something you’d ever be up for.” 

The rambling had made her own face feel hot. He’d been thinking of this for a while, apparently. But he even had a person in mind? It went that far deep? 

Y/N wasn’t sure, but she was curious. 

“Okay… Sorry, I’m not judging you or seem like you need to be ashamed or anything. I just didn’t at all expect that.” Placing her paper plate on the coffee table, she raised the Diet Pepsi to her mouth to take a sip from the straw to give herself something to do other than stare. 

“I know. I know it’s weird and that’s why I never wanted to tell you but I just, I’ve thought about it for ages and I want to see it, if that’s something you’re comfortable with.” Devon looked to his lap before meeting her eyes again. 

“Who is it that you want to fuck me?” Y/N felt no need to beat around the bush at this point. She wanted to know what it was that he wanted so she could mentally go through it. Give him an answer.

If this was in any of her past relationships, it would likely be a ‘hell no’ off the bat. She was pretty much strictly monogamous, but… she couldn’t deny the prospect of having good sex didn’t appeal to her. It wasn’t cheating he wanted it and she wouldn’t lie and say she hadn’t fantasized about other people. It made her feel bad, but being as unfulfilled as she felt… it just happened. 

Shifting in the cushion, Devon took a deep breath before muttering an all too familiar name. “Harry.” 

If she thought she couldn’t be more shocked, she was wrong.

Harry was her friend. Her close friend of quite a few years that belonged to her core friend group, and a man that Devon had been resentful of since day one. 

He’d tried to make her pick between the two of them in the past. The beginnings of their realtionship after a night out, he’d said Harry stared a bit too much and was too handsy-  he really wasn’t, at least in her mind- and he wanted her to stop hanging around him so much or he wasn’t sure he could do it. 

Y/N had told him she wasn’t choosing between friends and a boyfriend and if he felt so strongly he could go- but he didn’t. He stayed, albeit unsettled and irritated whenever Harry was around. 

She could tell he was intimidated by him though considering he barely ever talked to him. When asked about it, Y/N had told Harry that he was jealous and that he was unsure about their friendship but she hadn’t cared, and since then she had noticed he had been a tiny bit more distant. 

Not enough to be worrisome but enough to let her know he was trying to be as respectful as he could. Because Harry was a good guy.

He was a professional MMA fighter, he had a good amount of tattoos and he was bigger than Devon in most ways, so she could see why he was intimidated. He wasn’t the most talkative person in the world, but he was kind and genuinely a wonderful friend. Y/N wouldn’t choose a relationship over a guy who had come with chicken soup when she had caught the flu after attending one of his fights, or who never minded picking up her drunk ramble calls, or who always made sure to walk on the outside of the sidewalk.

He was one of the good ones. And ironically? Someone Y/N had a teensy crush on whenever she was between relationships.

That should have been an automatic contender for her to say no. Harry was complicated both with Devon’s resentment in the past and her own feelings which were never disclosed to him- and never would be.

It was selfish and wrong but she didn’t want to have to stay completely away from him if Devon found out. It wasn’t like she’d ever act upon the feelings whilst in a relationship either. Y/N wasn’t a cheater. 

This new opportunity was something else altogether. It was unexpected, yes, but maybe it was something she could potentially get behind. 

“Harry?” She asked cautiously. “As in, my friend Harry? The… The one you hate?”

“I don’t hate him.” Devon rushed to say. “I never have. I just know… He likes you. I can tell. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said he was staring. He always sat near you or close enough to stare at least. And I know he’s like… bigger than me. More manly and all of that.” Clearing his throat he crossed his ankles, avoiding Y/N’s gaze. “And I wasn’t happy at the idea of him stealing you. But the more I thought about it the more I considered the both of you… together. That way. Where I can see. And it bloomed into wanting to actually see it.”

Y/N's chest feel tight at his admission, but it was her face that felt hot. Harry? Liked her? She had noticed that he stared sometimes but truthfully she hadn’t let herself daydream that he was properly looking at her. It was easier to always chalk it up to  fleeting glances she happened to catch, nothing more. But Devon seemed certain both then and now.

"I..." She swallowed, lips opening for a moment before closing. It felt hard to believe this was a real conversation that they were having. "Harry wouldn't want that. We're just friends."

Devon scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping him. "He'd want you. I've seen the way he looks at you when he thinks no one's watching. You're the only person in this friend group he actually... softens around."

That wasn’t the first time she had heard that particular thing and Devon wasn’t the first one to point it out. Their friends had been convinced they’d get together one day but she hadn’t seen it happening. Quite a few of her girlfriends had told her that he was different around her and if she let herself observe it was true, but especially as of late she hadn’t let herself notice a thing. 

Not when Devon appeared as self conscious about him as he had. 

Now though, she wondered how much of that was true. 

“Is this something you really want, Devon? It could potentially go bad. It could change us for the worst.” The caution had to be said, regardless if her body was thrumming at the idea of Harry taking her. She owed their relationship that much. 

Who’s to say Devon would actually enjoy it? Sometimes fantasies were better off being fantasy- but she couldn’t deny that she liked the idea the longer she sat on it. 

“Yes.” His answer was sure. “I’d like this. I-I’ll even ask him, if you want. If you give me his number. I’ll ask him and explain so you don’t have to. Or I’ll go see him in person.”

She hesitated, chewing on her lip. If Devon asked, she wouldn't have to face Harry and potentially ruin their friendship if he said no. That part was appealing, letting Devon handle the awkwardness. But if Harry said yes... If Harry actually agreed to this, then what?  Would she be able to handle seeing him differently? Touching him differently? Having him inside her while Devon watched, getting to experience something she had been thinking about for ages with guilt that lingered, but with the full permission to indulge?  The thought made her stomach clench.  

It was complicated. Harry wasn’t a stranger. He was someone she saw on a monthly, if not weekly basis depending on the time of year. It had the potential to be awkward and messy and ruin what was left of the relationship she was trying to salvage… But it wasn’t something she wanted to pass up. 

Was it selfish? Yes. But she hadn’t been the one to ask. It was what Devon wanted, and if he was handling the risk, he had to know what the potential outcome could be. There would always be risk in adding a third person to intimacy, but Y/N wanted to fucking cum, and she knew Harry could give it to her. 

He just… had that energy about him. 

"Okay.” Y/N nodded slowly, letting the reality set in. “Alright. Yeah. If you ask him, I’m willing to do it. But you know that fantasy may be different than the reality, right?” Her hand gently brushed his, giving him one last chance to back out. “You could hate watching.” 

“I won’t.” Standing up quickly, he wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans. “I have to ask him now. If I don’t, I’ll chicken out. He works at the gym down on Fern, right?”

Y/N was surprised, honestly, watching Devon nearly vibrate as he grabbed his keys. The nerve was hard to gather she would imagine, but she didn’t think he’d ask him today. 

“Uh, yeah, but I don’t know if that the best idea-“ 

“I’m going now or I’ll lose my confidence. Okay? I’ll set it all up. It’ll be good, I promise.”

Y/N watched the door close behind him with the words echoing in her head. 

It would be good, alright. For her, at least.

——

It was 45 minutes later that she got a text from him. 

Harry🥊: Do you really want to do this? Or do I need to fight your boyfriend for making shit up? 

Y/N snorted, wiping her fingers on her pajama pants printed with kittens and flowers so she didn’t get butter from her popcorn on her phone. The streaks would drive her nuts.

The swirl of nerves hit her stomach as she typed out her response. 

Y/N: He said it was his fantasy to watch you with me. I’m not opposed… sorry for such a shock. I tried to tell him not to go to your job.

Harry🥊: I need an overwhelming yes before I actually agree. I’m not doing it unless you really want to. 

Harry🥊: Respectfully, I don’t give a fuck what he wants. I care about what you want and how you feel. 

God. Y/N felt the heat between her legs already just reading his response. The way he talked had always been a bit blunt and to the point, but reading that he cared the most about her made her feel special in a way she hadn’t in a long while. 

Y/N: it is an overwhelming yes :)

Y/N:  I’d like to. Is that weird? I don’t want to make it weird for you. 

Harry🥊: It’s not weird. I just never expected your sweaty boyfriend to come into my gym shaking and ask to talk to me privately before stumbling all over his words to tell me he wants me to fuck his girl. 

Harry🥊: If you were my girlfriend there would be no way in fucking hell that I’d let anyone else touch you, but I suppose that’s just me.

Why? Why did he have to make her flush like that? Why did he make her so giddy as she stretched her legs out, abandoning her popcorn with her full attention on her phone as the little bubble popped back up to show he was typing. 

Harry🥊: He’s always hated me, or I thought so. Never thought that he’d ask me that. But I suppose he had good reason to. 

Y/N: Why? You didn’t do anything to deserve him hating you… You’re always polite. 

Harry🥊: Well, he wasn’t wrong about me staring at you. Or wanting to touch you. And he really wasn’t wrong about me wanting to fuck his girlfriend, but that seems to work in both of our favors now. Doesn’t it?

Y/N let out a shaky breath, inhaling slowly through her nose as she looked at the message in disbelief. 

So she hadn’t been imagining the energy between them. The vibe. 

It shouldn’t excite her as much as it did, but she kicked her feet in the air as she rolled onto her stomach and let her fingers type out a message back. Risky, maybe, but testing the waters. 

Y/N: Yeah, I think so. The feeling is mutual. 

Y/N: I was surprised when he said he had someone in mind and he said you… but I was happy about it. Excited. 

The bubble showing his typing came up and went back down again, like maybe he was typing and deleting. It made her a little nervous, wondering if confessing that was a little much- until she read his response. 

Harry🥊: I am too. He told me that he had trouble getting you to cum, but I’m not going to have that problem with you. 

Y/N: oh, you think so?

She could feel the throb between her legs as she squirmed, crossing her legs behind her as she felt her phone buzz again.

Harry🥊: I know so. Not just once, either. I’ll make sure it’s something you don’t forget. 

Y/N: I’m sure he won’t, either.

Harry🥊: To put it bluntly, I don’t really care that much about him. He wants us to ignore him, and I plan on doing that, but not for him. My attention is going to be on you and I’m going to make you feel good. It’s not fair you’ve been going without and dealing with the shit he’s out you through.

Harry🥊: I can’t fix everything, but I’ll make sure you’re taken care of. Whenever you want. Just… let me know. I’ll make myself available for you. 

Was this cheating? No. It wasn’t, because Devon wanted this to happen. He had looked overjoyed that she had agreed and ran off to ask Harry himself. 

It did make her question herself for a moment because she was far more giggly and excited over the prospect of Harry. His hands on her, his voice in her ear, his body on top of hers… All of that was milking about in her brain as she shot off her text. 

Y/N: I’d like to make this happen tomorrow if we can. 

Harry🥊: Give me a time and I’ll be there. Just let me know of any limits you have, and safe words. 

Y/N: Uh… I think I don’t want to be blindfolded. I don’t want to look at him when we’re doing it so I’ll find a way to keep him hidden from us. No rope for my hands, not when he’s watching. Besides that, don’t just like… shove it in my ass with no prep or anything. 

Harry🥊: Christ, babe. I’d never do that. 

Harry🥊: Don’t tell me if he’s ever tried that. Not yet. I’ll end up killing him. 

Harry🥊: You okay with kissing? Spanking? Spit? A hand on the throat? 

Y/N had to groan into her sweatshirt, loudly after letting herself think about it. His hands, she loved his hands and she wanted them everywhere. All the time. Letting herself imagine it, letting herself know it would be a reality… It was fucking her up. 

Y/N: yes :) please. 

Harry🥊: Polite. You’re cute.