hi

Two ancient realms. Two heirs who were raised side by side beneath the same sky; one crowned by the sun, the other by the moon. They were inseparable once: best friends, rivals, confidants who believed they would rule the world together someday, until one careless betrayal shattered everything.

Now, ten years later, Crown Prince Harry of Solaryn and Crown Princess Y/N of Nymereth meet again for the first time since the night that drove her away. What was once an unbreakable friendship (or something more?) has hardened into sharp politeness, lingering resentment, and a rivalry neither of them fully understands. Harry believes she abandoned him without a word, whereas Y/N is sure that he revealed exactly how little she meant to him.

But beneath the bitterness and pride, the past still lingers between them in unspoken memories, unfinished apologies, and embers of something neither of them ever truly extinguished.

This is a story about misunderstandings that lasted a decade, wounds that shaped two rulers, and the dangerous truth that sometimes the person you resent the most is the one you never stopped loving.

Part 1 - The Reunion

Part II - The Mistake

Part III - The Battle

“Okay,” Jonathan said, clearing his throat, fingers tightening around his mug. “So. Are we gonna adress the elephant in the room, or…?”

The base of your cup hit the wooden table with a soft knock, not loud, just enough to draw his attention. Jonathan looked at you the way only an older brother could, careful and sympathetic, already bracing himself for whatever might spill. He always had that look, like he was afraid of stepping wrong and breaking something fragile.

The coffee shop was curated to be calming. Low lights, exposed brick, a chalkboard menu that didn’t try too hard to be trendy. The cappuccino was good and the pecan cake was sweet without being cloying.

This was your life now.

After Vecna was defeated, after Hawkins stitched itself back together as best it could, the only thing that made sense was leaving. Running, really. Away from a town that had swallowed most of your adolescence whole, a place that took your innocence, chewed it up, and never bothered to apologize.

People died there. People you loved.

NYU had felt like oxygen, a clean inhale after years of breathing smoke. Jonathan had gotten in too, and even though you lived in the same city, your lives rarely overlapped.

That was the magic of New York. You could disappear in it, become someone new.

Still, some habits never die.

Once a month, without fail, you and Jonathan picked a different café, sat for hours, talked about classes, professors, projects, laughed until your faces hurt, and pretended, just a little, that you were normal siblings in a normal city with normal lives.

Sometimes, it was easy. Like today.

Jonathan was animated, hands moving as he talked about a short film he was working on for class, something experimental, political, definitely anti-capitalist. His eyes were bright in a way you didn’t see often. 

You hadn’t seen that look much. Except when—

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, your voice light, airy, and entirely dishonest.

You did know. Of course you did. You’d just been very careful not to.

There were rules to starting over. Unspoken ones: You didn’t talk about the ghosts.

Jonathan sighed, shoulders dropping as he toyed with a handful of sugar packets. “You do,” he muttered. “You got the invitation.”

The invitation.

It sat on your desk back home, buried under unopened mail and old receipts. Cream-colored paper. Neat lettering. It had a way of catching your eye at night, like it was waiting for you to acknowledge it.

But hearing it out loud did something else entirely.

Steve Harrington’s wedding.

You took another sip of coffee, ignoring the sudden tightness in your throat. Jonathan was reading you, scanning the micro-expressions you were trying so hard to suppress.

“It’s next month,”  he added, his voice softening into a plea. He was offering you a doorway.

You set the cup down carefully. “Tell them I said congratulations. And that I wish them the best.”

Jonathan frowned. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He leaned forward in his chair, elbows hovering near the table, posture folding in on itself the way it always did when he was nervous or about to say something he’d rehearsed too many times in his head.

“As your older brother,” he started.

You scoffed. “You’re older by a year.”

“That still counts,” he said, then hesitated. “I just… I don’t want you to regret the things you didn’t do.  I don’t want you to wake up five years from now wondering if you should’ve done something different.”

Your stomach twisted.

“I don’t want you to do what I did,” he finished quietly.

“With Nancy?”

Jonathan pressed his lips together, nodded once. “Yeah. With Nancy.”

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable, it was just heavy. It was the weight of two people who had survived the end of the world only to realize they didn't know how to live in the one that was left.

Outside, the New York traffic roared on, indifferent and fast. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—” You stopped yourself, then tried again. “Have you talked to her?” You shrugged, though your shoulders felt heavier than they had a moment ago.

Jonathan shook his head.

Nancy Wheeler remained another subject neither of you touched unless absolutely necessary. The love of your brother’s life. Brave, relentless, the kind of girl who would throw herself into danger without hesitation if it meant saving someone she loved.

You knew they weren’t together anymore. He hadn’t given you the details over coffee and cake, but you didn’t need them. The answer lived in the drained tension around his eyes, in the way his gaze drifted when her name came up. 

He wasn’t over her. He had just learned how to live around the hole she left behind.

“Not since she went to college,” he said.

“I’m sorry, Jonathan.”

“Don’t be, okay?” He offered a small, careful smile. “Nancy and I… we were complicated in our own way. But this isn’t about me and Nancy. It’s about you and Harrington.”

You pressed your tongue against the inside of your cheek. Hearing his name out loud sent a chill straight down your spine, sharp and involuntary.

Sometimes, when the sky defiled into twilight and the city felt strangely hollow, the memories came back. Strong red lights. The tower tearing itself apart as the Abyss swallowed it whole. Steve’s body is thrown hard into the void, your knees buckling as a cry ripped from your throat before you even realized it was yours.

You always woke alone, heart racing, tears stinging behind your eyes, your chest aching with the weight of memories that never quite loosened their grip.

“There is no ‘me and Harrington,’” you said, folding your arms, already bracing yourself for an argument.

But once, there had been everything.

The summer of ’85. The sailor suit at Scoops Ahoy that should’ve been humiliating but somehow wasn’t. Becoming El and Max’s personal chauffeur under the excuse that it was too hot to stay home, that they needed air conditioning and the free ice cream Steve handed out like it was currency.

Somewhere along the way, you got close. Suddenly, you were spending every day with him and Robin, lingering during his shifts, laughing behind the counter, decoding Russian messages that dragged you all headfirst into blood, terror, and things no one your age should have survived.

You went through hell together, literally. Loving someone like that rewired you. It meant danger wasn’t just something to fear, it was something you met head-on, something you’d face without thinking if it meant keeping the other person safe.

Jonathan would understand that better than anyone.

Steve was getting married. Good for him. When the invitation arrived on a random Thursday after you came home from your internship, it felt unreal, like your eyes refused to process the words. Steve Harrington, married. Less than two years after everything you’d survived together. The nausea hit so hard you barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up the lunch you’d just eaten.

Not that you would ever say that out loud.

“Hey,” Jonathan said softly, his hand reaching across the table to tap the wood near yours. “Hey. Just think about it. Everyone’s going. Robin. Nancy. The kids.”

You stared at him, at the familiar concern written across his face, and found yourself without an answer.

“I don’t know,” you said quietly. “I don’t know, Jonathan. I don’t know if it’s exactly appropriate to show up at my ex-boyfriend’s wedding just to remind him of the time his life was a literal horror show.”

Jonathan paused, brow furrowing.

“I don’t think that’s how he sees you.”

“And how does he see me?” You leaned forward, arms resting on the table now, searching his face.

Your brother pressed his lips together, then leaned back in his chair.

“I guess,” he said softly, “you’ll have to go to find out.”

You said goodbye to your brother at your monthly meeting with a tight hug and a vague promise that you would think about it. The promise you gave Jonathan was a lie, and you both knew it.

In truth, you didn’t want to think about anything at all.

The moment you turned the key in your apartment door, you gave yourself exactly five seconds before reality came crashing down.

Your breathing fractured into sharp, jagged gasps. You dropped your keys onto the ceramic plate by the door with a jarring clatter, barely making it to the bed before your knees gave out. You collapsed, the weight of the last two years finally crushing you into the mattress. Muffled, ugly sobs filled the small loft.

Steve was getting married.

He was really, truly, finally belongs-to-someone-else getting married.

In that godforsaken town, amidst the rot and the shadows, you had known with a terrifying, bone-deep certainty that he was your epic love. The kind of love that didn't just happen, it forged you.

And there were so many proofs of it.

The evidence was written in the scars on your soul. It was the way he had clawed the Upside Down apart to find you when Vecna used you as bait. It was the way he had cried—shame-faced, gut-wrenching sobs—when the Russians beat you bloody, his voice breaking as he begged them to stop, offering his own life like it was nothing if they’d just leave you alone. It was the way the Mind Flayer had nearly snapped you in two, and Steve had been the only thing standing between you and death.

Every single time, he saved you.

Pretending you were over him was a full-time job, and you were exhausted. Even after the breakup, the one you initiated because you were so terrified of seeing him die that you thought letting him go was a preemptive strike against grief, he had still looked at you with that same, open devotion. Anyone with eyes could see it.

He still loved you. He was just waiting for you to come home.

And you never did.

The phone rang, vintage trill slicing through your breakdown.

You wiped your face with the back of your hand and forced yourself upright, legs heavy as you crossed the room. When you lifted the receiver, you cleared your throat, coughing softly to disguise the damage.

“Hello?”

“Hey, babes. It’s Robin.”

"Hi, Robs."

Despite the hollow ache in your chest, a ghost of a smile touched your lips. Robin was the one constant you’d kept. Even after leaving for Smith, she’d written letters, sent photos, treating distance like a minor inconvenience she refused to acknowledge.

“Jesus,” she said immediately. “Are you sick? Your voice sounds terrible.”

A chill ran down your spine. “No. I mean... I don’t think so.”

“Well… okay.” She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then barreled on with characteristic Robin-velocity. “I just got back from my last class, and I really wanted to talk to you about something.” She put an unmistakable, heavy emphasis on the word really.

“I’m listening, Robs.”

“Okay. Right.” A pause. “Steve’s getting married, right? So I was thinking it might be nice if we—you, me, Nancy and Jonathan—stayed in Hawkins for a bit. You know. For old times’ sake.”

You held your breath, then let it out slowly as your forehead pressed against the worn wallpaper. 

“Oh my God,” Robin said, her voice dropping an octave. “You know about the wedding, don’t you?”

“Yes, Robs. I know he’s getting married.”

He. Never Steve. Never your Steve.

“Okay. Okay. Is this weird? Because if it is, I can just—”

“No, it’s not weird,” you interrupted, rubbing your temple. “Jonathan’s already on my case about it, and now you… I just—I don’t know if I’m going, okay?”

“Have you completely lost your beautiful mind?” Robin nearly shouted.

“My ear, Robin—Jeez!”

“Sorry! Sorry!” she rushed out, though her intensity didn't dim. “But what? Why? You have to go. It’s the end of an era! The hair-spray king is retiring!”

“I don’t think it’s the right choice. For anyone.”

“But it’s us,” she insisted, her voice softening into something more vulnerable. “The team isn’t complete without you. It’s just… it's wrong if you aren't there.”

“I get that, but—”

“Nope. Not hearing it,” Robin cut in, regaining her momentum. “I refuse to take no for an answer. I will literally drive to Manhattan and drag you across state lines in a trunk if I have to. And besides,” she added, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper, “maybe this is exactly what you need.”

You shook your head, even though she couldn’t see it. “Robin, I—”

“I have to go, my roommate is glaring at me! We’ll talk soon! Love you, bye!”

The line went dead.

You stood there with the receiver still pressed to your ear, listening to the hollow silence where her voice had been, knowing, deep down, that Hawkins was already pulling you back.

Hawkins wasn't just a town. It was a gravity well. And it was already pulling you back into its orbit.

Steve was alone in the kitchen when the phone rang.

Late afternoon light slanted through the window, catching on the edges of stacked envelopes and carefully labeled folders spread across the counter. Place cards, seating charts, RSVP lists. His fiancée had an eye for details, Steve had learned to appreciate that. Order made things easier.

He wiped his hands on a dish towel, a domestic gesture that still felt slightly alien, and picked up the receiver.

“Hey, Buckley.”

“Wow. Straight to the last name. Formal groom energy already?” Robin said, breathless in that way that meant she’d been walking fast or thinking faster.

Steve huffed a soft laugh. “If you start making jokes about tuxedos, I’m hanging up, Robs. I mean it”

“Relax. I’m calling from a very non-tuxedo environment.” A pause. “You busy?”

He glanced at the counter, at the future he was meticulously planning. “Define busy.”

“Mentally busy.”

That made him hesitate. He shifted his weight, leaning his hip back against the counter, the cool stone pressing through his jeans. “Okay. Hit me.”

Robin exhaled. He could almost picture her pacing, pushing her hair back, winding the phone cord around her finger.

“So. I talked to her.”

The words landed quietly. No thunder, no crash.

Still, something in his chest went tight.

He closed his eyes for half a second before opening them again. “And?”

“She knows about the wedding.”

“Yeah, no way. I invited her, Robs.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“She might come, Steve.”

For a moment, the room felt too small.

It wasn’t panic that hit him, or even fear. It was memory, keen and unwelcome. Your laugh in the middle of chaos. The weight of your hand in his when everything else was falling apart. The way loving you had felt like standing in a burning building and deciding to stay anyway.

He forced himself to breathe.

“That’s—okay,” he said, the words careful, measured. “That makes sense.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said immediately. Too immediately. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Robin didn’t buy it. She never did. “You don’t have to do the whole cool guy thing with me.”

“I’m not.” He grabbed a stack of place cards and squared them against the counter, grounding himself in the motion. “I’m getting married, Rob. It’s fine.”

But not wholly.

Because he had spent two years learning how not to picture you in rooms he was trying to move on in. Because he had trained himself to think of you in past tense, like a chapter he survived instead of a story that kept going without his permission.

He loved his fiancée. Maybe not in the catastrophic, end-of-the-world way he had loved you but in a steadier way. A kinder way. One that didn’t involve blood or loss or learning how to say goodbye in the middle of a war.

The idea of seeing you again, the sound of your voice, the way you looked at him like you knew him, really knew him, made his chest ache in a way he thought he’d outgrown.

Robin’s voice softened. “I just thought you should know.”

“Thanks,” he said. The word came out heavier than he expected.

A beat passed.

After a moment, he cleared his throat. “She doesn’t… hate me, does she?”

Robin softened. “Steve. You know she couldn't.”

That was enough to answer. He nodded, even though she couldn’t see it.

“I hope she comes,” he said finally.

Robin blinked on the other end. “You do?”

“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers catching on the hair there. “I want her to see that I’m okay. That I made it.”

And maybe, though he didn’t say it, that choosing someone else hadn’t meant erasing what they were.

Because it hadn’t.

After they hung up, Steve stood there for a long moment, the house quiet around him. He picked up a place card at random, read a name that belonged to a future he was building carefully, purposely.

Then he set it back down and stared at the empty space beside it, where another name might have been, in another life.

Breathing the air of Hawkins again felt like filling your lungs with fire and ash. After Robin’s call, the idea of attending the wedding refused to leave you alone, lingering at the edges of your thoughts no matter how hard you tried to push it away.

There was something deeply nostalgic about returning to the place where you were born, where you grew up, where so much of your life had taken shape. The feeling was unsettling, sharp and aching, but threaded with a strange sweetness that left your eyes burning with unshed tears.

A few days later, after a long call with Jonathan, you decided it was time. Time to come back. Time to face it. Time to put an end to whatever unfinished thing Hawkins still had its hands wrapped around.

The town looked exactly the same. Bright sunlight. People laughing on the sidewalks. Tourists stopping at the memorial, snapping photos as if the horrors of the past had been carefully packaged into something consumable, something distant enough to be harmless.

You pressed your tongue against the inside of your cheek and watched the streets pass by. Everything felt familiar and foreign all at once.

Maybe Hawkins hadn’t changed at all. Maybe you had. The town seemed frozen in time, its darker history sealed away, known only by the small group of people who had survived it and sworn to carry the truth quietly for the rest of their lives. The unfairness of it settled heavy in your chest.

You held the tears back until Jonathan pulled the rental car to a stop in front of your old house. The sight of it hit you harder than you expected, a dull, excruciating ache spreading through your ribs.

“Hey,” Jonathan called from outside. “You coming?”

“Yeah,” you replied, forcing steadiness into your voice. “I’m coming.”

You followed him inside. The house was empty, but it didn’t feel abandoned. Everything looked the same, as if your mother might walk in at any moment. Joyce was living with Hopper now, finally allowing herself a life that didn’t revolve around fear and loss. Will was away at college, which meant the house existed in this strange in-between state, reserved for moments like this, when nostalgia took over.

You set your bag down and leaned against the doorframe while Jonathan carried the suitcases into the bedroom.

“We should meet the others at the bar around six,” he said.

You tilted your head. “You nervous?”

He didn’t look at you, just kept unpacking. “I don’t have any reason to be.”

“Oh, really?” You crossed your arms, a knowing smile tugging at your lips. Jonathan had never been a good liar, and growing up with him made it impossible for him to fool you. “So if Nancy doesn’t show up, you’re totally fine with that?”

“She’ll be there,” he said easily.

“And how do you know?”

He straightened, snapping his suitcase shut. “Because it’s Nancy,” he replied, like that explained everything. “Is that okay with you?”

You pressed your lips together and nodded, biting back a comment, letting the silence stretch for a few seconds.

“Okay,” you said finally. “Just so you know, the shower's mine.”

Jonathan barely had time to register what you’d said before you grabbed a towel and sprinted down the hall, locking the bathroom door behind you. He followed instinctively, too slow, stopping short as laughter echoed off the walls. A soft knock tapped against the door, and you could hear him smiling on the other side.

It felt just like old times.

The bar hadn’t changed much.

Same low ceiling, same sticky floors, same neon signs buzzing like they were one bad night away from giving up entirely. Someone had painted over the old water damage, but you could still see the outline if you knew where to look. Hawkins loved pretending things were fixed.

You had been here before, years ago, back when sneaking into places like this felt thrilling. Once because it felt grown-up, rebellious, like borrowing a future that wasn’t meant to be yours yet. Once because Steve Harrington had chosen this place for a date, sliding into a booth with boyish confidence, making the cracked vinyl and warm beer feel romantic simply by sitting across from you. Back then, the bar had seemed softer.

Jonathan ordered first. You followed, mostly out of habit, and then stood off to the side while he waited for the drinks. The place was busy for a weekday evening, locals unwinding, a few college kids passing through, laughter spilling over the music.

You scanned the room without really meaning to.

“Don’t,” Jonathan said quietly.

You blinked. “Don’t what?”

“Look for him.” He handed you a glass. “He’ll show up when he shows up.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you took a sip. “You’re so annoying. I’m not doing that.”

Jonathan smiled despite himself, the corner of his mouth giving him away. “Yeah,” he said gently. “You are.”

Robin arrived like a sudden change in weather, all motion and warmth, dropping into the seat beside you as if the years apart were nothing more than a long weekend. She looked incredible, hair loose around her shoulders, a soft white lace blouse peeking out from beneath her denim overalls, familiar and new all at once.

“Okay, wow,” she said, looking between you and Jonathan. “Seeing you two here feels illegal. Like we’re about to summon something.”

You laughed despite yourself, tension easing just a fraction. Robin wrapped you in a hug without warning, squeezing tight.

“You’re real,” she said into your shoulder. “I was worried you were just a stress hallucination.”

“I missed you too, Robs,” you murmured, meaning it more than you were ready to admit.

She pulled back just enough to study your face, her eyes sharp and uncomfortably perceptive. “You okay?”

“Sure,” you said.

“Great,” she replied, unconvinced but kind enough not to push. “Did you order yet?”

Nancy arrived a few minutes later.

You noticed Jonathan before you noticed her, the way he straightened, the way his shoulders went tense and still, like his body had recognized her before his brain caught up. When you turned, she was already there, standing just inside the doorway, eyes adjusting to the dim light.

She looked older. Just sharper, more sure of herself. Like someone who had learned how to walk into rooms and expect to be heard.

Jonathan stood first. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Nancy said softly.

They hugged, brief and careful, the kind of embrace that acknowledged history without reopening it. You watched closely, surprised by the calm of it. The acceptance.

Nancy smiled when she saw you. “It’s really good to see you. You look great.”

“You too,” you said, and meant it.

The five of you settled into a booth near the back. Conversation came easily at first, college stories, mutual acquaintances, Robin’s latest rant about academia, Jonathan’s short film. You laughed while you drank. You almost forgot why your chest felt so tight.

Almost. Then the door opened.

You didn’t look right away. Neither did Jonathan. Robin noticed first, she always did, and went still mid-sentence, her eyes flicking toward the entrance before darting back to you.

“Oh,” she said. “Okay. So. He’s here.”

Your heart stuttered.

Steve Harrington walked in like the place had been waiting for him.

He looked good in that unfair, effortless way, hair a little shorter, shoulders broader, posture calmer. He wore a jacket you didn’t recognize, one hand shoved into his pocket as he scanned the room. There was a steadiness to him now, something grounded and adult, but his eyes still searched the way they always had.

Like he was counting exits. Or people.

His gaze landed on Jonathan first. Recognition flickered. Relief, maybe. Then Robin, who lifted a hand in an overly enthusiastic, unmistakably Robin wave.

And then he saw you.

For a second, he didn’t move. Neither did you.

The noise of the bar faded into something distant, muffled, like you were underwater. His face changed in the smallest way, something tightening around his eyes, something careful settling over his mouth.

Then he smiled. It was controlled-polite. Not the smile you remembered.

Steve walked over, stopping just short of the table. “Hey.”

“Hey, man,” Jonathan said.

Robin stood immediately, as if she might combust if she didn’t. “Steve! Hi. You made it. Wow. Look at you. Very… groom-y.”

Steve huffed a quiet laugh. “Is that a thing?”

Nancy stood next, offering him a warm, familiar smile. “It’s good to see you, Steve.”

“You too,” he said easily.

Then his eyes came back to you.

“Hi,” he said.

Your throat tightened. “Hi.”

It was just a word. One syllable. And somehow it carried every version of you that had ever existed together.

He pulled out the empty seat at the edge of the booth, hesitated for half a second, then sat. Close enough to feel his presence. Far enough to breathe.

Conversation resumed, but it was different now, careful, aware. Steve listened more than he spoke, his arm resting along the back of the booth, his knee angled just slightly toward yours without touching.

You didn’t look at him again. You didn’t trust yourself to.

But you could feel him there, solid and real and painfully familiar, like a scar you’d learned to live with suddenly aching again.

Hawkins hadn’t changed.

Neither, it seemed, had the things that mattered most.

More drinks arrived, heavy mugs sweating onto the table, the sharp smell of beer cutting through the warmth that had settled between you all. Someone, probably Robin, pushed them into a loose circle, like it mattered that no one was left out.

“We should make a toast,” Robin said, already lifting her mug, eyes bright with something between nostalgia and defiance.

“I agree,” Steve added easily, raising his own. His voice was steady. 

You exchanged looks around the table. Five people bound together by things no one else in the room would ever fully understand. There were soft smiles, the kind born from survival rather than happiness, from having seen each other at their worst and still choosing to sit down together anyway.

“To the future,” Nancy said, lifting her mug with quiet certainty.

“To the good ol’ days,” Jonathan followed, raising his free hand.

His eyes flicked briefly to Nancy before he looked away again, a faint smile tugging at his mouth like an old habit he hadn’t quite unlearned.

“To us,” you said then, your voice calm even as your chest tightened, lifting your mug to meet the others.

For a second, Steve watched you when you weren’t looking, his brow drawn together like the sight of you hurt in a way he hadn’t prepared for. You looked like a memory that had learned how to breathe. Like he was eighteen again, standing in a hallway, staring at a future he hadn’t known he’d lose.

Then you looked up.

Your eyes met his, and something unspoken passed between you, recognition, regret, a shared understanding that didn’t need words. You offered him a small smile, soft and sympathetic, not asking for anything, not accusing him of anything either.

“To love,” Robin said suddenly, her voice rough but bright, stubbornly hopeful.

Steve swallowed and nodded.

“To love,” you echoed.

“To love,” the others repeated, and the mugs met in a quiet clink before you all drank at once.

You had forgotten how effortless it was to be with them. How laughter didn’t need to be coaxed out of you or softened first, how it simply rose, unguarded, from somewhere deep in your chest, surprising you with its ease. For the first time since arriving in Hawkins, your shoulders weren’t tight. Your breath came normally. You almost felt like yourself again.

Hours slipped by unnoticed. Empty glasses multiplied on the table, and the sharp edges of the evening dulled into something warm and familiar. Steve relaxed into the space between you all, his posture loosening, his voice growing more animated. You did too, catching yourself leaning closer when he spoke, answering him without thinking, forgetting, just for moments at a time, everything you were supposed to remember.

At some point, Steve looked around the table with that expression you knew far too well. Eyebrows lifting slightly, eyes brightening with the thrill of an idea that had just taken hold.

“I have a perfect place for us to go.”

“Where?” Nancy asked, smiling in that careful, contained way of hers, curiosity softening her features.

“You’ll see.”

He didn’t elaborate. He just stood and waited, confident you’d follow. A short walk later, you were climbing the stairs of the Squawk building. At the top, Steve lingered behind the others and offered you his hand, casual, almost shy.

“Thanks,” you said softly, taking it.

By the time you reached the top, night had fully settled over Hawkins. It was past nine, the air cold enough to sting your lungs, breath blooming white when you laughed. Robin’s voice carried loudest, her laughter slicing through the quiet as Steve finished telling a story about one of his students, something ridiculous and endearing.

“Sex ed,” Robin wheezed. “I still can’t believe that’s your life, dude.”

“Hey,” Steve protested, grinning. “I’m shaping young minds.”

You watched him as he spoke, the way he gestured with his hands, the way his face lit up when he talked about coaching, about teaching. You remembered the nights he’d confessed his fear of being trapped in his father’s shadow, of never being more than a version of someone else’s expectations.

Seeing him now, steady, fulfilled, made your chest ache in a quiet, complicated way.

You were proud of him.

“Okay, but be honest,” Steve said suddenly, standing and moving closer to the edge. The cold wrapped around him, his breath visible as he spoke. “Don’t you guys miss this? The view? The movies, the late nights, the stupid stuff? I don’t know—everything?”

You looked out over Hawkins. The rooftops. The dim streetlights. A town frozen in time whether it wanted to be or not.

You glanced at Nancy. At Jonathan. At Robin.

Then back at Steve.

“No,” you all said at once.

The laughter that followed was loud, honest, almost cathartic, echoing into the night, carrying with it the relief of knowing that some places are meant to be remembered, not returned to.

Steve tipped his beer back and shook his head, half-smiling at nothing in particular.

“I don’t know. There’s something about this town, man.” He took another sip. “But honestly? I like teaching these kids.”

You hummed. “Why do I get the feeling you go easy on all of them?”

“I have a strict A policy,” he said casually. “B, if you’re a real knucklehead. That’s about the low as I go.”

Jonathan laughed. “Hey, can you come teach at NYU?”

That did it, you laughed too, the sound slipping out before you could stop it.

“What, you want me to grade your weird film about capitalism or cannibalism or whatever?” Steve teased.

Jonathan groaned and launched into an explanation—again—gesturing wildly as he clarified the plot for what had to be the third time. You listened with half an ear, smiling.

When he finally finished, Nancy turned to you. “So,” she asked gently, “how’s New York treating you?”

You inhaled and shared a quick look with Jonathan, something wordless passing between you.

“It’s… different,” you said, tracing the rim of your red plastic cup with your finger. “The city never sleeps. I work, I study, I’m always running somewhere. But it’s good. I like it.”

Robin chimed in about Smith, animated as always, talking about classes and plans and how badly she wanted to transfer. Then Nancy surprised everyone by admitting she’d dropped out and taken a trainee position at the Herald.

“Hey, Robin,” Nancy said suddenly. “Total coincidence, but do you still have the key to the Squawk?”

Robin’s smile turned slow and mischievous as she reached into her pocket. “Nancy Wheeler, today is your lucky day.”

“Thank God,” Nancy said, already standing. “I really need a bathroom.”

Jonathan stood too, finishing his drink in one go. “Yeah. Same. Too much beer.”

Robin glanced at you and Steve. “Anyone else?”

You shook your head, and a moment later the three of them disappeared down the stairs, their voices fading.

You became acutely aware of the silence.

The cool Hawkins breeze brushed against your skin. Even with your eyes closed, you could feel it—Steve’s presence beside you, steady and close. And you didn’t have to look to know he was watching you.

Steve shifted beside you, resting his forearms on the low ledge. He stared out at the view, jaw tight, like he was bracing himself for something.

“So,” he said eventually, voice easy but not careless. “New York, huh?.”

You smiled faintly. “Yeah.”

“Figures.” He nodded once, as if that confirmed a theory he’d carried for years. “Good for you, Byers.”

You didn’t argue. There was no point. Instead, you leaned forward too, close enough that your shoulders almost touched.

“It’s weird being back,” you admitted. “Everything looks the same, but… smaller. Does that make sense?”

Steve huffed out a quiet laugh. “That’s Hawkins. Tries to trap you in time.” He glanced at you, just for a second. “Guess it didn’t work on you.”

Something in his tone softened the words, took the edge off them. You looked at him then, really looked, at the familiar slope of his nose, the faint line between his brows, the way his hair refused to behave no matter how old he got.

“Well, you stayed,” you said gently.

“Someone had to,” he replied, half-joking. “Plus, I’m kind of bad at leaving things behind.”

The words lingered between you, heavier than he probably meant them to be. Steve cleared his throat and straightened, hands slipping into his jacket pockets.

“I’m glad you came,” he added, quieter now. “Didn’t think you would.”

You swallowed. “I didn’t either.”

Below you, Hawkins breathed on, unaware of how much history stood on that rooftop. Steve glanced at you again, this time holding your gaze a second longer.

“Still,” he said, offering a small, crooked smile, “it’s good to see you.”

You returned it, soft and aching.

“Yeah,” you said. “It really is.”

Steve shifted his weight, the tip of his shoe scraping against the concrete with a rhythmic, nervous grit. He didn't look at you right away. He kept his eyes fixed on the horizon, as if searching for something that wasn't there.

“You look... good,” he said finally. 

You let out a breath you felt like you’d been holding since the Indiana state line. “You too.”

He nodded, accepting the compliment like a heavy gift, then a small, bitter frown tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I didn't always think it would be like this. For either of us.”

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the cold railing, feeling the chill seep through the fabric of your jacket. Below, the town looked so normal, so infuriatingly mundane.

“I still wake up sometimes,” you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. “Thinking something bad is going to happen. Like the world’s about to split open again.”

Steve went very still.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “For a long time... I kept the bat next to my bed. I'm not kidding. Right there on the nightstand.” He let out a short, self-deprecating huff. "It's stupid. I know."

“No,” you said immediately, turning your head to look at him. “It’s really not.”

That earned you a brief, unguarded look. It was the expression he used to give you in the backseat of his car after a fight—when the adrenaline had evaporated and the reality of being alive finally settled in. It was raw and terrifyingly intimate.

“I thought moving on would be louder,” he continued, voice low. “Like there’d be some big moment where everything finally felt… over.” He shrugged. “Turns out it’s just quiet. And you’re left with it.”

“With everything,” you added.

“Yeah.”

The wind picked up, tugging at your hair. Steve reached out without thinking, steadying it, then stopped himself halfway, hand hovering awkwardly in the air before dropping back to his side. The almost-touch lingered longer than the wind.

“So,” you said, forcing a wide, brittle smile that felt like it might crack your face. “Marriage, huh?”

 “Oh. God.” A nervous, breathless laugh escaped him. “Yeah."

“I’m happy for you, Steve.” It was the truth, but it was a truth that tasted like ash. You wanted him to be safe. You wanted him to be loved. You just hadn't realized how much it would hurt to watch someone else do it.

“I know,” he said. “I mean—yeah,” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Kristen s’great.”

“That sounds great, Steve,” you said, your voice thick with the effort of holding back a sob that felt like a physical weight in your throat.

“Yeah” He looked out at the town. At the place that had once belonged to the two of you, and only you. “It is. It really is.”

He said it one more time, as if he were trying to convince the silence.

Two days later, the morning was quiet in a way that felt borrowed.

Sunlight slipped through the thin curtains of the kitchen, catching dust in the air and warming the chipped counter where you and Jonathan sat. The house smelled like toast and weak coffee. Jonathan was halfway through his second slice, reading something folded and creased.

You were spreading jam when the phone rang.

Jonathan glanced at it, then at you. That was odd.

You shook your head and reached for the receiver. “Hello?”

“Okay, don’t freak out,” Robin said immediately, words tumbling over each other. “But also—maybe freak out a little.”

Your stomach tightened. “Robin. What’s going on?”

You could hear her breathing, uneven, like she’d been pacing.

“Do you… have any idea where Steve is?”

You frowned, instinctively looking at Jonathan. “What? No. Why would I—”

“Because,” she cut in, then stopped herself. “Because he didn’t show up.”

The room seemed to tilt, just slightly.

“Didn’t show up where?” you asked, already knowing you wouldn’t like the answer.

Robin swallowed on the other end. “Today. The wedding day. He’s not at the house. He’s not anywhere.”

“Robin,” you said carefully, “what are you saying?”

“I’m saying his wife called me,” she replied, voice thinner now. “Crying. She woke up this morning and Steve was gone. No note. No explanation. Just—gone.”

Your fingers tightened around the receiver.

“That’s not like him,” you said, more to himself than to either of you.

“I know,” Robin said. “That’s why I’m calling you. I don’t know why, I just—” She exhaled sharply. “Did he say anything? Anything at all?”

You stared at the table, at the faint ring a mug had left behind, at the normalcy of it all. The memory of the rooftop pressed in on your chest.

“No,” you said. “He didn’t.”

“Okay,” Robin said finally, trying to steady herself. “Okay. I just—I don't know, had to ask.”

You closed your eyes.

“Keep me posted,” you said. “Please.”

“I will.” Her voice softened. “Thank you, babes. See you later.”

The line went dead. You lowered the phone slowly. Jonathan watched you, concern etched into every line of his face.

“He disappeared,” you said. “On his wedding day.”

The silence that followed felt too big for the kitchen, too heavy for the morning light.

Steve Harrington didn’t vanish. He always stayed. He showed up bloody, terrified, exhausted, still there. He was the one who stood between danger and everyone else without asking if anyone would do the same for him. The one who carried guilt like a second spine and kindness like muscle memory.

This wasn’t like him.

"Gimme the car keys."

Jonathan nearly choked on his lukewarm coffee. He stared at you over the rim of his mug, eyes wide. "What?"

You didn't wait for an explanation. You grabbed your coat, shoving your arms into the sleeves. "Jonathan, the keys! Now!"

He scrambled, digging into his pocket and tossing the ring toward you. You caught it mid-air, the metal cold against your palm.

"What—Where are you going?" he called out, his voice laced with that familiar, protective dread.

"I'm going to look for Steve. What else am I supposed to do?" You didn't wait for his answer. You slammed the door, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the hallway.

"Jesus Christ, Harrington," you hissed under your breath as you hit the pavement. "You don't even give me a break on your own wedding day."

Hawkins was slowly waking up, the town bathed in a soft, buttery dawn that felt far too peaceful for the storm in your chest. Heaven played softly on the radio, but all you could see was the way he used to look at you on this very roof. Those big, tender, bambi eyes that always seemed to be asking for a permission you weren't sure you could give.

You wanted to slam your head against the steering wheel, to turn the car around and drive until the Indiana state line was a blur in the rearview mirror.

After two laps around downtown, the school, and every old haunt you could remember, hope was beginning to fray. Steve was gone, and the thought of Kristen—probably a vibrating nerve ending of a person right now—made the guilt churn in your stomach.

Then, something clicked. A memory of a high vantage point and a quiet place to hide.

The trees around the Squawk building danced slowly in the cool morning breeze. You spotted his car before you even put the car in park.

"I swear I’m going to kill that idiot," you muttered, throwing the door open. It was only as you started running toward the building, your hair whipping into your mouth, that you realized you were standing in public in an oversized, faded Bowie t-shirt and pajama pants.

Screw it, you thought. The world already ended once. Who cares about pants?

You climbed the steps, one by one, your hands aching from the bite of the cold metal railing.

Steve was there. He was standing near the edge, a silhouette of silver and gray. He was already wearing his wedding suit, the tailoring sharp, his hair perfectly combed into place. He looked like the picture-perfect groom from a magazine, but he was standing on the edge of a roof instead of an altar. He had his back to you, looking out at the horizon.

You stopped halfway across the roof, your chest heaving, a hot, prickly anger rising to meet your exhaustion.

"Did you know it’s not very polite to run away without leaving a note?" you shouted, your voice cracking the morning quiet. "Especially on your wedding day?"

You saw his shoulders hitch, a small, tired shrug, but he didn't turn around.

"What are you doing here? Everyone’s looking for you," you said, closing the distance.

He lowered his head, then looked back at the skyline. A spark of sharp nostalgia and deep-seated melancholy ran across his face. "I needed some air."

"Bullshit."

"Christ—," he snapped, finally turning his head just enough to give you a profile of his jaw. "Will you just stop for a second and let me think?"

You recoiled, genuinely stung by the bite in his tone. "Oh. I’m sorry. Sorry for being so inconvenient. Sorry for actually giving a damn about a friend."

Steve let out a short, humorless laugh that sounded more like a bark. "Right. Friend."

The word felt like a slur. He turned fully now, his pupils dilated, his brow furrowed in a way that made him look less like a groom and more like a soldier.

"Don't do this," you warned, your voice trembling. "Don't make this about me. This is about you. About your marriage, about your li—"

"Sure. Right, right." Steve poked his cheek with his tongue, a defiant, old-Harrington gesture. He put his hands on his hips, his suit jacket flaring out. "How about you just—I don't know, run away again? Isn’t that your specialty?"

You felt the words like a physical punch to the gut. You flinched, your irises trembling. Steve’s eyes were rimmed with red, he’d been crying, or trying not to, and the sight of it made the anger drain out of you.

"What the hell do you want from me, Steve? Huh?" Your voice rose, desperate and raw. "You said it was okay for me to be here! You invited me!"

"Well, yeah," he stepped closer, his shadow falling over you. "That was a lie."

Your eyes widened.

"And what am I supposed to do with that?" you cried. "You disappear on your wedding day and start dumping all this bullshit on me! This is not fair!"

Steve pressed his lips together and looked up at the sky, blinking like he was trying to outrun something. It didn’t work. Tears gathered anyway.

Seeing him like this—actually breaking—hit you harder than you expected.

“My God,” he muttered, voice rough. He shut his eyes, dragging a hand down his face. “What am I doing?” He laughed once, hollow. “Is this a mistake?”

The wind swallowed the rest of his words, but you heard them anyway.

“Tell me it wasn’t wrong,” he said quietly. “Tell me letting you go was the right thing.”

Your heart felt like it was being squeezed by a cold hand. You looked at his mouth, then back to his eyes. 

"I can't give you permission to leave me behind, Steve," you said, your voice trembling. "I'm still trying to find a way out myself—"

Steve swallowed the lump in his throat and looked at you. There was a wealth of exposure there, you were finally seeing him naked. He closed the space between you and took your hand, his fingers sliding across your skin, caressing every inch as if there was a hunger inside him that knew you inside and out.

He traced your wrist, then gently held it. “I would leave it all behind.”

“St—Steve, you’re getting married in five hours,” you stammered, the reality of the clock ticking in the back of your mind.

“There’s no wedding.” He let out a short, wet chuckle, sniffing as he looked at you.

“Steve, you moved on, you—What?” Your eyes widened, your brain struggling to process the words.

“I canceled everything. Yesterday. I—I can’t do this. I told her I couldn't.”

A cold wave of despair and shock washed over you, your throat suddenly as dry as a desert. “You—what? Steve, what did you do?”

“You think I moved on? That’s bullshit. That’s the biggest lie I’ve ever told. Every time I close my eyes, I’m losing you. Again. And again. Every single night is a different version of you leaving me behind.”

“Please don’t do this—" You let out a shaky sigh, reaching for him, but your hand faltered halfway.

He didn't let it fall. He caught your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours, his grip firm and bruisingly honest.

“No, shit—listen to me," His voice dropped to that desperate, urgent tone that always made you follow him into the dark. “I wake up reaching for you. I turn over in bed to tell you something, and I realize I’m in a house you’ve never been to, next to a woman who doesn’t know me. Not really.”

He let out a trembling sigh, his gaze searching yours with a terrifying, soul-baring intensity.

“I love Kristen. She is… she is safe. She is peace. But she isn’t everything. She isn’t the person I want to fight for. She isn’t the person I would die for.” He reached out, his fingers brushing the hem of your faded Bowie shirt, his knuckles grazing your skin. "I thought if I did the 'normal' thing, the 'adult' thing, this feeling would eventually pass. But it only got stronger. It’s like a rot, but it’s the only part of me that really feels alive."

Tears blurred your vision until the world was just a smear of gray and gold.

"Steve, you have guests arriving. A lifetime awaits you at the altar," you said, even though your heart begged you to stop.

"I don't care," he said. A glimpse of the old, reckless Steve Harrington flashed in his eyes. He moved even closer, his forehead resting against yours. "I'm serious. If you tell me that there's still a part of you inside that—if you give me even a glimpse of a reason to believe there's still an 'us,' I'll give up everything.”

Your breath caught. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying," he swallowed hard, his voice trembling, "that if you say one word—just one word—I'll end the charade for good. I'll call the priest again, I'll tell the truth to whoever is left, and we can get in that car and leave. Together. Like old times.”

He looked at you then, pleading for you to save him from the life he’d built as a consolation prize.

"Just say it," he whispered, his hand closing around your wrist, pulling you so close you could feel the frantic heat of his body. "Please—babe—please. Say you want me to stay. Say you still love me. Gimme the word, and I'm yours. I've always been yours."

You looked into his teary eyes, your lips trembling, and finally, the dam broke. A sob escaped you—loud, ugly, and honest.

"I've always loved you." Thick, hot tears rolled down your cheeks. “I loved you for every second, every moment I thought I could just leave it behind. It never happened, Steve.”

He shook his head, a single tear rolling down his cheek and resting on his upper lip. He looked like he was finally able to breathe.

“You are the love of my life. Always have been. Always will be.” You closed your eyes, letting the tears fall freely. “There isn’t a life where I’m not completely in love with you.”

“Jeez—you’re killing me here.” Steve looked up at the sky and laughed through the tears, wiping his face with the back of his hand. It was a broken, beautiful sound.

You laughed too, sniffling, both of you a total mess of salt and windblown hair on a roof that had seen too much history.

“I want you to be happy, Steve. That’s all I ever wanted.”

“There’s only one way for that to happen, I guarantee you.” He pulled you back into his chest, his arms locking around you like armor.

The wind hummed around the building, carrying the morning song of birds and the soft sweep of leaves against the pavement below. The world was still there, and it was still complicated, but for the first time in two years, the air didn't feel like smoke.

“What do we do now?” you asked quietly. “They’re still looking for you.”

Steve took a deep breath, his chest expanding against yours. He shook his head slowly, a strange, calm clarity finally settling over his features.

“I don’t know. But I know one thing I need to do first.”

Your eyes glistened, fresh tears blurring the sight of him as you looked up. “What?”

“This.”

His gaze dropped to your lips, and the invitation was written in the way he breathed your name. Automatically, your body responded, your heels lifting as you stood on tiptoe. Steve’s hands slid down to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you gripped the lapels of his wedding jacket. Your other hand found its way into his hair and your fingers tangled in the strands, undoing the carefully groomed layers until he looked like the boy you had loved in the woods.

The kiss was everything the last two years hadn't been.

It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't polite. It was a catastrophic-violent battle of lips and breath, a desperate, starving hunger that had been growing day by day since you’d left. He held you with a crushing strength, as if he were physically terrified that if he loosened his grip, you’d vanish back into the New York fog.

You squeezed him back, your palms memorizing the solid weight of his shoulders, your hands realizing they knew no other body but this one. You loved each other in a language that required no words, a dialect of shared scars and whispered promises in the dark.

As you closed your eyes, the memories didn't feel like ghosts anymore, they felt like a roadmap.

You saw him leaning against the lockers at Hawkins High School. You saw him standing on your porch in the sweltering summer of '85, looking ridiculous and beautiful with a bouquet of lilies in his hands. You felt his hand find yours in the dark of the movie theater, the palms sweaty and nervous. You tasted the salt of that first kiss in the backseat of his BMW. You felt the suffocating terror of the Upside Down, when he had held you so tightly you thought your ribs might crack because he truly believed the world was ending and you were dying.

And you felt that last, agonizing goodbye—the way he had kissed the single tear on your lip before pressing his mouth to your forehead and letting you walk away.

That was your Steve.

The boy with the golden heart hidden under layers of bravado. The man who had stayed behind to be the protector, the one who became a "weirdo" to save the world, deciphering codes and fighting demons while the rest of the town slept. He was sensitive to the bone, a unique soul that only a few were lucky enough to truly see.

He rested his forehead against yours, breathing you in like he needed proof you were real.

With the old, unglamorous town of Hawkins looming around you, with the bruised sky, the swaying trees, and the rising sun as your only audience, the old Squawk building stood as a silent witness to a truth that could no longer be denied.

He was yours. You were his.

“Don’t turn in the assignment yet. I need this grade. I need to pass. Just… give me a chance to do something. Even if you tell the professor I only did part of it. I just— I need to graduate, Y/n.”

You scoffed and crossed your arms over your chest as you stared up at him, “And why would I want to help you? I gave you plenty of chances, Harry. It’s too late.”

“It’s not too late,” he countered. “We’ve got two weeks before it’s due. Come on. Don’t be a brat.”

“I’m not waiting two weeks,” you shot back. “You’re an asshole, and I don’t feel like being generous with you.”

Harry exhaled hard like it was all he could do to control his temper. He looked down at the floor for a second, then back up at you. “What do you want? Hmm?” His voice dipped into something dangerous as the edge of his lips worked up into an annoying smirk. “Want me to fuck you again? You seemed to love that the other day. Bet you haven’t stopped thinking about it.”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head despite the way your pulse fluttered. “Wrong. I don’t want that thing anywhere near me again.” A lie. You might not like Harry but his cock? Well, that was a different story.

He huffed a laugh, stepping even closer. “Liar. I know you liked it. Let me give you what you want and I’ll get something I want. I get to participate on the project and you get to have your brains fucked out when you need. Probably help lighten you up a little, too. Then after we can go back to hating one another and never speak of it or see each other again.”

“Wow. You really think that highly of yourself, don’t you? It wasn’t that good, Harry. That day was just a lapse in judgment. A mistake.”

The grin that spread across his face was dirty. “A mistake,” he echoed, leaning in until his breath warmed your ear. “Yeah. But it felt so good, didn’t it? Just imagine how much better it’ll feel with more space, more time. Let me make you come so hard you forget why you ever hated me. I’ll bury my face between your legs until you can’t say my name without shaking.”

He shifted, his mouth hovering over your jaw and then lower where his warm breath cascaded down your neck, making your skin prickle. He raised his hand to your throat, firm, holding you in place but not squeezing. Just enough to remind you he was there, just enough to make your pulse jump under his palm.  

“That what you want? Or maybe you wanna get me all hard and desperate while I eat you out, and you don’t even have to touch me in return? If that’s the deal, fine. I’ll take it. Just let me make you feel good, Y/n. You get that, I get my name on the project, we both get what we need.”

“You’re insane,” you balked. But he didn’t miss the slightest upturn at the edge of your mouth.  

“Probably,” he admitted with a crooked grin. “But so are you. And come on… two weeks? No one has to know. Just you and me.”

His fingers found your hip, the heat of his hand seeping through your clothes. When his nose brushed your cheekbone, the familiar scent of him yanked you straight back to that day in the laundry room. To the moment he was buried deep inside you, eyes locked on yours, both of you wearing those stupid, breathless grins… that rare second when you were just two people too turned on to hate one another.

You hated that memory, even though everything he did to you in that laundry room felt so good. Hated how vividly it all lived in your head. Hated that your body remembered it better than your mind wanted to.

So when his lips grazed the corner of your mouth, you told yourself to pull away but instead a low, helpless sound crawled up your throat. And he heard it. Of course he did. His smirk widened just slightly, the kind of look that said he knew it was game over for you.

You turned toward him before you could think better of it, catching his mouth with yours in a hard, hungry kiss. All at once it was motion and heat with your hands sliding up his strong back, his grip biting into your hips as he lifted you up to sit on the counter. When he stepped between your legs your thighs fell open to wrap around his waist as your bodies rocked together against the cold edge of the desk.

Your mouths moved like you were trying to erase each other. It was insane, reckless, all teeth and breath. The old chemistry room was silent but for the sound of your ragged breathing and the dull scrape of fabric. His hips pressed forward, slow, deliberate, grinding into the spot that made you keen into his mouth.

It was a ridiculous scene… dry humping like teenagers, surrounded by broken faucets and dust with a man you couldn’t stand. All you could think of was the way his tongue slid against yours, the solid weight of his body pinning you there, the growing heat pooling low in your stomach.

Maybe you’d let him have this one. Maybe you’d let yourself. Give him the project, give him another chance, give yourself a few more hate-fueled fucks before graduation. There were worse deals in the world. Besides, no one ever needed to know.

The tinny ringing of the first bell cut through the tension, sharp and sudden. A reminder that the world still existed outside that tiny, dusty room. You both froze, lips slick, breath uneven. 

You broke first. Pushing against his chest, you slid off the table and smoothed your clothes, voice low and shaky. “Fine. I won’t turn it in today. But you’re actually doing work on this project, Harry. I’m not just putting your name on it.”

He followed, still catching his breath, one hand pressed over the front of his jeans as if to steady himself. “Yeah?” His mouth curved in a lopsided, hopeful half-smile. “You’ll do it?”

You stopped and turned to look up at him, “Sure. But don’t think this means I like you. Because I still hate you for what you did to me.”

You left the chemistry room and Harry met your stride down the hallway, “What I did do to you? No, what you did to Stan. He didn’t deserve–”

“You know what?” You snapped, stopping abruptly. “This was a bad idea. I think–“

“Fine,” he interrupted. “We won’t talk about that. I’ll text you later. We’ll figure out when to meet up.”

You were both headed to the same class, the short walk felt like a hundred minutes of scraping nails on a chalkboard until you reached the room. He held the door open, and you brushed past him without looking up. Everything that had just happened still clung to you as you crossed the classroom and dropped into a seat on the far side. Your pulse wouldn’t slow. Your lips still tingled.

Across the room, you could feel his eyes on you. It made your stomach twist with irritation, regret, want, all blurring together.

You couldn’t believe you were going to give him a chance. It would’ve been poetic justice to let him fail. To sit there on graduation day and watch him not walk across that stage, to see the smug look wiped clean off his face. That had been the plan.

And now? Now you were the idiot sitting there, dizzy from his kiss, trying to pretend your hands didn’t still shake when you thought about the way his lips felt.

This was a bad idea. A really, really bad idea.

. .

Harry wasn’t dumb. He knew exactly what he was doing… how close to sit, how low to pitch his voice, how to slide a single sentence against your ear until your pulse gave you away. You pushed at his shoulder, turning your head so he couldn’t see the stupid grin threatening to take over.

“You’re so smart,” he murmured, mock-serious. “That what you want to hear? Cause I’m impressed, Y/n. Really. Thought I’d show up with something you could use, but you…” His lips brushed the shell of your ear. “…you make me look slow.”

You snorted, though your skin tingled where his breath touched it. He was buttering you up, you both knew what he was doing. It just surprised you a bit that he seemed so eager to get to it.

He had actually done some work, and it was enough to show he wasn’t a complete fraud. You looked over his contribution, the two of you in your dorm room, laptops open, papers scattered across the bed. Your roommate had taken the hint and had disappeared.

Of course, the second the door clicked shut when she left, his focus shifted entirely. You waved it off at first. Pushed back a little, acted like the only reason you two were there was because of the project. But that wasn’t true. You were almost feverishly aware of the other reason he was there. Which was kind of humiliating when you thought about it. That you’d accepted his offer so he could have his name on the project as long as your reward was more of him. But you tried not to think too deeply about that part. 

“You’re obviously delusional,” you breathed when he leaned closer.

“M’just being thorough,” he said through a smirk. Then, as if it were the most natural next step in the world, he eased down between your knees, palms gliding up your thighs, slow enough that your breath snagged.

“Harry…”

“Relax,” he said, looking up at you through his lashes. “Just doing my part. You said you wanted equal effort, right? So… you giving me a chance to add in my part on the project in exchange for my work down here.” His grin widened, wicked. “Bet you’re already wet for me. Same as last time.”

“You’re impossible,” you groaned, exasperated, and rolled your eyes as he inspected the space between your legs under your skirt. Even though you were acting nonplussed, your hands tightened around the blanket.

And maybe you’d worn the skirt for a reason. To make things easier. To look cute. Part of the arrangement was that he’d hand over his finished section, you’d check it, he’d get you off, and then he’d leave. And then you’d both do it again until his part of the project was done. It was easy and controllable.

Except nothing about him felt controllable. Not the way he looked at you like he’d already won, not the way your body leaned toward his touch even while your mind screamed that you were being an idiot.

He gave a low hum, thumb tracing the edge of your panties. “Knew it,” he said, voice rough but amused. “You can hate me all you want, still get wet the second I touch you.”

You pressed a foot against his chest, shoving him back just enough to take a breath (he was making your brain misfire or something because part of you wanted to moan yes and beg him for more). Narrowing your eyes at him, disdain still nearly intact, you hooked your thumbs into the waistband and slid the lace of your thong down your legs, tossing it aside.

“Just shut up and do it so we can get this over with.” 

Now that was a phrase you never imagined uttering before in your life.

Harry’s grin lifted. “Bossy,” he whispered, settling between your knees again. “Guess I like that.” He bent, inhaling, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Smell good, Y/n.”

His hands spread your thighs apart as you bunched your skirt upward, leaned back on your elbows, and before you could even steady yourself, he was on you, tongue hot, pace eager, like he’d been starving for it.

A gasp worked its way out of your mouth. You hadn’t expected him to go in like that. When he plunged his fingers through your entrance and lapped at your clit you were certain anyone outside of the room could hear your pathetic moans.

You bit down on your bottom lip, trying to keep quiet, praying your roommate wouldn’t choose that moment to come back. But Harry didn’t make it easy on you. Each drag of his tongue, each slow twist of his fingers, sent another tremor through you until the pressure built too tight to hold.

And, well… not only did you come before your roommate returned, but Harry had also you finishing a second time when he held you down and slurped your clit, catching all of your aftershocks with his mouth. You tried protesting but he was enjoying the noises and the way you were squirming. 

“Harry—” you gasped.

He only looked up long enough to smirk, lips shining, before he went back to it until something unlikely happened. He cooed as he watched you, pulling his fingers from you to see the little gush you made that followed his fingers and wetted your sheets. It was only the tiniest little squirt. But Harry made sure to announce it.

“Ohh… look at that. Squirting on my fingers, Y/n…” he teased.

When he finally pulled back, your sheets were damp and your breath was a wreck. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still smiling that boyish, infuriating smile.

And the worst part? You’d been moaning his name. That definitely hadn’t been part of the plan.

He stayed there for a moment, breathing against your thigh before he drew back, hands sliding away, eyes heavy. As he stood, you watched his chest rise and fall, the way his jeans strained over the unruly lump at the front. 

You swallowed, pulse still unsteady. You were unsure if you wanted more or not. Surely he’d fuck you if you asked him to but then you’d look even more pathetic than you already did. It was hard to gauge what you were thinking post-orgasm. It would’ve been nice to have him want more too. But then maybe that wouldn’t be nice at all. Maybe you just wanted him gone.

“You good?”

You blinked at him, half expecting a joke, some cocky line about how that alone had earned him half of the grade. Instead, he only stood there, shifting on his feet, waiting to hear your reply. 

“Yeah.” You pulled your skirt down, still catching your breath. He straightened his shirt and grabbed his folder from the desk.

When he headed for the door, he glanced back at you. “See you Wednesday?”

You nodded, still dazed at everything, as the door clicked shut. And somewhere in the back of your mind, beneath all the confusion and leftover sparks, a single thought stuck… It was nice that he didn’t complain that you didn’t offer to get him off in return. 

You hated that it mattered. Hated that it softened something in you but of course, that just meant that you needed to snap out of it. This wasn’t a feel-good, happy-ending love story. This was two people who hated each other fucking for a common goal. Nothing more.

. .

“Come to mine,” Harry called as he jogged to catch up with you in the hall. “Roommate’s gone all night.”

It was Tuesday, which was a whole day earlier than you’d planned.

You didn’t slow down, class was about to start, but you were hotly aware that anyone nearby could’ve heard him. Did he not care? “What, can’t wait until tomorrow?”

He grinned, breath a little uneven from the chase. “Why wait?”

Even though you rolled your eyes, his excitement, the grin on his face, unnerved you in the kind of way that felt… sweet? Not to mention, he looked annoyingly good under the hallway lights. Messy curls, soft green eyes, lips too full for someone who used them mostly to piss you off. If he weren’t such a dick, you’d have been in real trouble. But of course, as it was, you were in no real trouble–certainly not.

“Fine,” you said, pretending not to notice the little spark in his smile when you agreed. “Text me where to go. I’ll meet you at eight.”

You already knew the building. You’d been there before back when Stan lived there, back when things were good, before everything fell apart. The thought made your stomach twist. Annoyingly, you were sure you could find Harry’s room blindfolded, but you still wanted him to tell you. It felt safer that way, like keeping a line drawn somewhere in all this confusion.

Stan’s room used to feel like home in a way. You’d spent late nights there studying, laughing, and tangled in his sheets. Now he was spending his nights with her, the new girlfriend. Sweet, soft-spoken… someone who’d never be dumb enough to be accused of cheating. 

You told yourself you didn’t care, that you’d moved on, that what you were doing with Harry was just… mutually beneficial and had nothing to do with Stan. But the memory of how fast he replaced you, how he didn’t even let you explain, still burned under your ribs. 

You hadn’t cheated. You’d been accused, humiliated, left standing in the wreckage of rumors you couldn’t outrun. And when nearly everyone took his side it was not only a breakup, but an exile. You hated him for that most of all. For believing the worst version of you. For helping spread it.

But you pushed the thought away, clutching your books tighter as you turned the corner. There wasn’t time to dwell on the past, not with class starting in just minutes and the promise of a bad decision waiting at eight.

. .

It was only the second time you’d met Harry alone since the arrangement began, and you expected it to be just as transactional as the first time. 

But after he ate you out, when you fell back against his bed catching your breath, he didn’t move away. He stayed there, his weight a solid warmth pressing you into the mattress before he began to climb over you.

You stared up at the ceiling, disoriented. What was he doing? Why wasn’t he moving off you like last time? 

Then his lips brushed the side of your neck, soft at first, like he needed to make sure you wouldn’t push him away, then firmer when you moaned, and his hands slid under the curve of your skull. Something inside you went a little unsteady, that syrupy warmth you didn’t want but couldn’t fight, spreading through your chest.

But it escalated into having his lips on yours then on your jaw and a bruising suckle at the base of your throat. His body shifted, clothes vanished, and suddenly you were naked under him, heat curling low in your belly as you watched him stand at the edge of the bed, big cock stiff in his hand.

You couldn’t help staring. His body was ridiculous, but of course you knew that already. His broad shoulders, the dark tattoos, the strain of muscle in his abs as he reached for a condom… all lit by the soft bedside lamp in a way that made you forget how much you were supposed to hate him.

You took the condom and tore it open without looking away then rolled it down his length. He crawled back over you, lips smeared against yours as he lazily rutted against your slick heat. The condom was a given this time since this was planned, but even with the barrier, his cock felt heavy and hot against you. Just like his mouth. Just like the hard press of his thighs nudging yours apart. You opened wider for him, breath catching as he brought his tip to your entrance and dragged it slow through the mess between your legs, lining himself up.

He stretched you open unhurried, and you felt every inch as he sank inside, his lips winding against yours as he pushed in. Your body arched into him, greedy for his entire length. The mattress groaned and the metal frame rattled with every deep thrust. And then the headboard joined in, thudding a steady, illicit rhythm against the wall.

“Oh my god, Harry—” you gasped as he twisted his hips, grinding up into that spot that made your toes curl, your slippery walls pulsing around him with every drag of his cock through you.

Harry’s voice was wrecked, guttural in your ear as he fucked into you, his muscles straining under your grip. “Missed this, didn’t you? Needed more, yeah?”

You gasped, wordless, and gripped onto his back as he railed you, heavy thrusts splitting you in two. He fucked you like he was furious. Like he was punishing you for letting him burry into you like that. Every thrust brutal, relentless, stuffing you to your end.

It was like he had something to prove to you. And maybe he did in a way. Harry had always been competitive and even if he didn’t think you deserved his best, he couldn’t stand the idea of being forgettable. Not when you’d fucked Stan. Not when Stan was just down the goddamn hall.

It was sick, he knew that. But it didn’t stop the way it thrilled him. Being balls deep inside his best friend’s ex, while the guy could literally walk past the door at any second. Thin walls meant anyone nearby would hear the ruckus. If Stan caught a hint of it, he’d probably just laugh. Clueless that it was you in there getting fucked dumb.

You clung to him, feeling the flex of his muscles under your palms as he drove into you, every stroke pushing you closer to the edge. The rhythm got faster. Rougher. Like he couldn’t stop. Like he wouldn’t stop until you shattered beneath him.

Still, somewhere under it, that flicker of smug satisfaction lit behind his eyes. He wanted to ruin you for anyone else. And well, he might have been successful because your mind was a blank screen, the only thoughts were of Harry on you, in you, hands sliding over your skin, hair brushing against your pelvis, his deep voice… those eyes.

What you were doing was a dirty secret. And you both loved it.

The way your soaked pussy gripped him was fucking criminal. Every thrust had you strangling his cock like you were trying to keep him inside you forever. Your tits bounced beautifully when he snapped his hips up into yours, sweat-slick and flushed, the kind of sight that rewired his brain.

And your mouth, fuck, that mouth. Lips parted in a silent moan, brows pulled tight like it physically hurt how good he felt. Your neck arched back for him like you wanted to be claimed, and he didn’t hesitate. His hand slid to your throat, fingers wrapping gently to one side, his thumb at your pulse, holding you in place. 

He leaned in, hips grinding against yours in deep, filthy rolls that made the bed slam again and again into the wall.

“Just a pretty hole to fuck,” he growled into your ear, voice shredded by breath, by lust. “That’s all this is. You know that, right?”

But the lie cracked at the edges. His thrusts got sloppier, more frantic. He wasn’t fucking you like you were disposable, he was fucking you like he was desperate. You gasped, but your pussy clenched hard around him, like your body didn’t give a single fuck about the insult. Like it wanted more. 

His lips pressed to your jaw, to your cheek, to the corner of your mouth like he was trying to pretend it didn’t mean anything. But then you clenched again, on purpose that time, and his groan was sharp and helpless, voice pitched up like he was just as gone as you were.

“Oh fuck—knew you liked it,” he gasped, hips stuttering. “Gripping me like that... like you don’t wanna let go.”

Your thigh lifted and wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper. He took the invitation immediately, fucking down into you, burrying in with strokes that had your whole body jolting beneath him.

You arched up to meet every thrust, breath coming in gasps now, eyes rolling back as the burn in your core snapped into heat. The wet smack of skin echoed off the walls, loud and dirty, the creak of the mattress, the slush of his cock plunging through you…

“Fuck—Y/N,” he moaned, voice strangled, face twisting like he was in pain, and his mouth crashed down onto yours.

The kiss was messy. Desperate. His tongue pushed into your mouth like he wanted to taste every part of you while he came. It wasn’t supposed to feel that good. Wasn’t supposed make him moan your name when he came. The way he pushed his mouth over yours and kissed you as you shivered through every throbbing push of his dick as he emptied himself into his condom.

But he did moan your name and that tipped you over to your release. You pulsed around him, body trembling as your orgasm crashed through you. His hips were jerking, cock throbbing inside the condom as he groaned your name again and again.

He kept kissing you through it, like he didn’t want to stop. Like he couldn’t. So you slid your fingers into the soft curls at the nape of his neck and drew your tongue against his slowly as you both came down, hearts pounding, bodies still vibrating. 

But the second he pulled out, it was business as usual. He rolled away without a word, to clean himself up. No attempt to offer you a tissue or anything. He hardly made eye contact with you and you weren’t sure if it was because he was disgusted that he’d done it or ashamed that he liked it so much.

When you left his room that night it felt different for you but you weren’t sure what he was thinking at all. He went back to being an asshole, like meeting a day early hadn’t been his fucking idea.

It didn’t take long to realize you weren’t the only one confused about everything. That you weren’t the only one craving more.

What started as three nights a week bled into nearly every night. The excuses wore thin fast… we’re just trying to finish the project early. Except some nights, the laptop never opened. Some nights, you didn’t even make it to the bed.

One night you snuck him into your dorm room, your roommate dead asleep just feet away. You rode him in the hush of darkness, bodies tangled in sheets, hands clamped over mouths to muffle moans. Every time you swore it would be the last, but each orgasm he wrung from you only made you want more. 

When the project was finally done and turned in, grades out of your hands, no reason left to keep seeing each other, you both knew what came next. It was just one last time.That’s what you both said. A farewell fuck for a job well done.

Neither of you said it out loud. Didn’t dare ask if it was a mistake. You just looked at each other, silent and stubborn, and acted like it had been part of the deal all along. There’d been no need to pretend at that point but you were both hardheaded. Like it was just a handshake that closed out a contract.

That afternoon, neither of you even tried to care about class as you dragged him back to your room, hands clutching, mouths searching, need coiling in your gut when you shoved each other through the door, already falling back into the fire you said you’d never touch again.

Though this time was different. You both knew it. All the nights leading up to this had just been a means to an end, just scratching an itch. Even when whatever this was became every night, you told yourselves it didn’t mean anything.

But now to have a post-arrangement celebratory fuck once it was already over? Once you two could finally part ways like you kept saying you couldn’t wait for? It meant something. Whether you wanted to admit it or not.

The raw urgency was still there, but the edge had softened somewhere. When you pushed him down, he didn’t mouth off or resist. He just kissed you hard and let his hands trail down your back, your waist, your hips. Almost gentle.

He held you close when you sank onto him, his body rocking up into yours in deep, languid thrusts, like he was savoring it. The stretch of his cock, the press of your bodies, the way you moved together, already in synch… it was different. 

Harry was still intense, still focused like he wanted to imprint every part of you into his body. But he was quiet, almost distant. There were no crude remarks. No teasing. No insults from either of you. And that silence (both his and yours) confused you. You didn’t want to think too hard about why. The strange sense of disappointment at this being the end was already creeping in, tight in your throat, hot behind your eyes.

Then he murmured it.

“Feels good, baby?”

Baby. You popped your eyes open just as he did and you both stared at one another in slight shock. A slip of the tongue, surely. But that was bound to happen during sex. The brain wasn’t as sharp as it should have been while you were getting fucked like that.

But then he slowly drew you closer, hand at the back of your neck until his nose gently pushed at yours and the kiss he laid on your mouth was searing and… intimate. He moved you both until he was on top and then he nudged back into you, spreading you out under him. There was a different connection in that moment than all the times before. You arched beneath him, gasping as he rocked deeper, the stretch and pressure sending pleasure skittering up your spine. He was almost luxuriating in you. His hips rolled in slow waves, barely withdrawing, just grinding deeper, staying buried, lips on yours that felt insinuative of a lover.

Perhaps in that moment, that final goodbye you could pretend that was true. That you were lovers and this was good and this was right and your hearts were coupled together in a mutual affinity.

When you came it was emotional and gutting all at once. You cried out his name and he kissed you hard as he released into his condom, gasping. He grasped at your hips as his cock pumped heavy inside of you, tongue running into your mouth, lips slotting between yours. That hadn’t been just sex. At least for you it wasn’t.

The moments after were something like the way it all began. Full of fury and anger as he pulled his pants on with jerky movements and barely even glanced at you all while you lay there naked and still panting. Your eyes burned. You knew tears were threatening to spill, and you knew he saw them. But you didn’t miss the sheen in his eyes before he turned away… and that’s why he didn’t dare look back at you before running off, slamming the door behind him as he left. It had all gotten a bit too real… too much.

But it was better that way. Better that he left with a slammed door and a scowl on his face. Better that it ended with hate in your heart and remnants of disappointment on your mattress.

Better than the alternative. Better than leaving it with sad smiles and a nod of understanding. Better than a sad goodbye, or the risk of hope.

You wiped your eyes, sat up, and forced a nod to yourself.

Yes. It was better this way.

.

part 3 coming Oct. 13

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Before him, the Mediterranean crashed against the shore, inhaling matter in a whirl of iridescent reflections. Nothing remained of the familiar calm of Monaco’s harbour; here, on this island far removed from the rest of the world, the Earth was nothing against the Sea.

Sovereign and incontestable, her waters twirled in a fierce dance, wrenching shellfish and crustaceans from the rock. The foam left by the waves colonised the sand, staining it with white froth. Driven by the Mistral, it vanished at once into the eternal cycle of Renewal.

And amid this dance of turquoise and azure—standing alone on the beach’s sole jetty—Lando felt horribly alone.

Yet he had chosen this ‘spiritual retreat’.

The first time Max uttered those words, Lando had nearly choked with laughter. The mother of a mutual but remote friend had apparently praised the concept during a family meal.

It had taken three mimosas for the idea to take root in Max’s mind and three glasses of rum for Lando to be persuaded.

In a few minutes, he would vanish to a small French island between Nice and Corsica, far from Ibiza and its lascivious evenings, where he knew his friends and colleagues would spend their summers.

His bag weighed heavy on his sore shoulder. Lando regretted not wearing his cap; the sun was already burning his cheeks.

A crab scuttled across the sand and disappeared beneath a wave.

A chorus of splashing pulled him from his reverie. Lando turned. A few steps away, on the jetty, stood an old man. The curling smoke from his pipe vanished into the sun’s rays and nestled in the dozens of wrinkles crossing his face.

“T’es l’g’min que j’dois emm’ner su’l’île, c’ça?”

Lando coughed, the tobacco’s nebulous spirals coiling around his throat. He stammered a few words in French, but the man’s lip-smacking around his pipe quickly cut him off.

“Y’th’lad I’m t’take t’t’isle, yeah?” the old man grumbled, spitting more smoke.

Most of his vowels disappeared into his long beard, forming an unfamiliar accent. The smoker had to repeat himself thrice before Lando finally nodded in understanding.

“F’llow me.”

Lando fell into step behind him without question.

Hands in the pockets of his shorts, he struggled to keep pace with the old man. The sun dazzled him even through his sunglasses, and pearls of sea spray, lifted by the breeze, licked his cheeks with their salty tongues.

The old man soon halted before an ancient fishing boat, the only one moored among the jagged rocks and their razor-sharp blades.

“Brav’ beast, this’un,” he knocked on the hull.

Lando nodded, unsure what else to do. His gaze drifted to the ever-raging sea. It never seemed calm here, as if to scream its existence to all.

The old man climbed aboard with ease. Lando could not match his agility. The rickety vessel was a far cry from the opulent yachts he was used to. He handed his bag to the man and hauled himself onto the deck. His legs, shaky from leaving land, sought balance, only finding it when the stranger sat at the edge.

Lando cast one last glance at the coast and its Provençal villages, then looked out at the sea they were to cross.

How would their makeshift boat withstand this furious swell? The paint had peeled away with the salt, and deep scratches streaked the wood—no doubt marks from rocks the hull had scraped against.

Lando swallowed hard and hugged his bag close. The old sailor tapped his pipe thrice against the stern, brought it back to his lips, and untied the rope securing the boat to a thick rock.

“Won’ take long. Sea’s quiet t’day.”

Quiet was hardly the word Lando would have chosen, but he kept silent.

Beneath his feet, the engine roared. Before he could startle, the boat surged forward, leaving civilisation and the bottles he had no time to cast behind them.

The rickety craft rode the waves fearlessly. More than once, Lando felt as if he might fall into the void; his stomach churned; his jaw clenched. The old man’s face, however, remained serene, though his eyes were narrowed and fixed upon him.

Lando fidgeted, uneasy.

“Why’d y’come?”

“What?” he shouted over the noise of the waves and wind.

At least here, he could escape the merciless sun.

“Why’d y’come, eh? No one comes ‘ere,” the old man shook his head. “Last was a lass, two months back. Since, nothin’. Few even know th’isle’s there, y’see.”

It was Charles who had told him about it. Though the Monegasque had never berthed there himself, he had heard tales of its inn—a haven of peace at the crossroads of worlds and times where one forgot the passage of seasons and its woes.

“I needed a change of air.”

A wave splashed against his back. He closed his eyes and savoured the moment’s respite. When he opened them again, the old man’s gaze seemed gentler, and the silence between them, less oppressive.

Twenty minutes later, the sailor announced their arrival.

Lando raised his head. The island was larger than he had thought. The sole trace of human society, apart from the rudimentary harbour—a rotten wooden jetty and a mooring bollard—was the stone building that adorned the verdant landscape.

Lando disembarked, nearly tumbling into the water as a sudden gust rocked the hull. Once ashore, he rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a fifty-euro note, which he handed to the sailor. The man spat his pipe and, with blistered fingers, took the money.

The sailor nodded, crossed the jetty in five steps, and stopped at its end before a small tin box from which he withdrew three letters.

He returned to his boat; Lando set off for the inn.

As he pushed open the door, a wave of cool air embraced him and a bell tinkled.

“Mon dieu, sorry love! Didn’t hear ye! Come in, come in. Make y’self at home, will ye?”

A woman of about sixty hurried down the creaking steps, dusting her hands on her floral apron. She ushered him inside, closing the door behind them with a muffled thud.

Lando might have cried with joy hearing the lady’s perfectly comprehensible English. The southern accent lingered, but the vowels were mostly all there.

Without asking, she relieved him of his bag.

“Thought ye’d be arrivin’ tomorrow, I did. Then I remembered, no, s’today. Just finishin’ up cleanin’ yer room. But listen to me, goin’ on. Ye don’t care ‘bout my old stories,” she waved off his reaction before he could voice it, hauling a huge leather volume onto the dining table.

Everywhere, flowers sprinkled the living room. Dried sunflowers stood proud in frames, while bouquets of hydrangea and chamomile cluttered the sideboards. The mistress of the house, amidst this fragile vitality, seemed impervious to decay.

Her finger slid over the register, mumbling the names of previous guests until she found his.

“Lando Norris, there y’are now! Had yer name outta me head, excuse me. At my age, the mind’s slippin’” she winked. “Ye’re stayin’ two weeks, is it?”

He nodded.

“Well now! Look at tha’! I seem t’attract wanderers. Lucky me, eh?”

Lando didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.

He watched her jot down a few words and tick some boxes before suddenly snapping the register shut. He jumped.

The woman rearranged her bun—held by a wooden pin—and turned to him, wiping her shiny brow. With a wave, she beckoned him to follow.

The steps creaked under her weight. He feared they might give way. Everywhere, gouges in the wood lightened the original colour of the staircase.

“Breakfast’s at seven, lunch at noon, dinner’s at eight in the dinin’ room, though I can bring it up to ye if ye’d rather. No internet here, nor signal. We’ve got electricity, and that’s enough.”

Lando already knew this; it was one of the reasons he’d chosen this inn over others.

They reached the upper floor.

“Y’look after yer own room.”

The old lady pulled a key from her apron.

“Ye’ve got the first room. Easy to remember, there’s only three,” she snorted.

“Is there a phone?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“For tha’, ye’ll have to go to the village. Only post we get is what Jacques brings, once a week.”

The sailor, Lando concluded. An odd fellow, that one.

“Hope he didn’t scare ye, with his big voice. He’s not used to speakin’ English, is all.”

Lando shrugged. He’d dealt with far worse than a grumpy old man with an unkempt beard; this one reminded him of elders from the Spanish and Greek islands where he usually spent his summer breaks.

“Jacques only comes on Wednesdays, ten sharp. Don’t miss him. Ye’ll pick up how things work round here soon enough. S’not too hard. Oh! I’m Solange, by the way.”

She opened the door to his room. Like the living room, few furnishings: a bed, a desk, a chest of drawers. Just enough.

Lando turned his head. At the corridor’s end, a closed door. He stood still a moment, then frowned at the woman.

“Am I the only guest?” he asked.

“There’s another girl about, but ye won’t see much of her. Always off wanderin’, that one.”

Lando thought of the girl the sailor had mentioned. Probably the same. Though the knowledge he wasn’t alone disappointed him, Solange’s words on her discretion reassured him. He nodded and set his bag on the bed.

No one would disturb him here. Silence, sun, sea, and nothing else. It was perfect.

“I’ll leave ye to settle in. Dinner’ll be served shortly.”

Solange closed the door behind her before he could utter a word. Silence enveloped him. Lando hurried to fling open the window—a blast of hot air invaded the room—and began unpacking.

He pulled his laptop from his bag and placed it on the desk, an immediate blot upon the rustic scene, right beside the oil lamp. A glance at his watch showed half past seven. From upstairs came the clatter of dishes and Solange’s grumbles.

His MacBook quickly plugged in, he switched it on, opened the programme Jon had sent before his departure, and hurried down the stairs.

The bowl of bouillabaisse—“a proper Provençal soup, dear! with scorpionfis, caught this mornin’” Solange had explained—turned his stomach.

As everything else here, the sea ruled above all.

Lando stared at the bits of fish swirling in the soup amongst fennel and garlic, wondering why he hadn’t chosen to do his spiritual retreat in Thailand like everyone else.

With a trembling hand, he forced down a spoonful and stifled a gag. Solange watched him pick at his meal, eyes sparkling, before taking pity and replacing his bowl with a plate of tomatoes and mozzarella.

“Ah, ye should’ve told me ye didn’t like scorpionfish, lad. I’d’ve spared ye that trouble.”

He smiled shyly and devoured the plate.

Between two slices of fresh tomato, his gaze drifted to the empty chair opposite, though a place setting had been laid.

His look must have been insistent, for the sixty-year-old explained that the other guest—the mysterious girl everyone spoke of—never came down to eat, but Solange nevertheless set a plate for her in the hope she might one day join them.

“Tha’ girl loses all track o’time out there,” she added with a tender smile.

He nodded, unsure what to say.

Once dinner was finished, he stood, handed his empty plate to Solange, and hurried upstairs.

Lando collapsed on his bed and closed his eyes. He would start Jon’s training tomorrow, he thought. After all, he was on holiday, and summer was in no rush; who was he to break its rule of idleness.

Suddenly, clicks and clacks echoed down the corridor into his room. Lando opened his eyes and tried to locate the source of the noise. Perhaps Solange was washing the dishes?

A door slammed, footsteps hurried down the stairs, and a feminine voice shouted: “I’m going out, Sol’! Don’t wait up for me!”

Exhausted from the day, he fell asleep without further thought, glad to have found a place on this earth where he could escape prying eyes and their ill-judged remarks.

Back on the shore, the rollers pounded against the coast.

It was the sound of the waves that woke Lando that morning.

Aside from the seagulls outside, the rest of the house still slumbered in a lethargy proper to summer mornings.

A quick glance at the clock told him it was a few minutes before seven. The sun already beat warmly on the stone walls; the wind, for now, resisted the invader, though Lando knew it would surrender within an hour or two.

Lando pressed down on his door handle; the rusty hinges screeched in protest despite his care. He grimaced. Solange was up—no doubt about that, he could hear her muttering in the kitchen—but what about the girl in room number three?

His gaze shifted to that very door. The end of the corridor was bathed in light, so much so that the colour of the floorboards, the walls, even the picture frames, seemed to all vanish under the golden veil of Summer.

The door stood ajar.

Lando stepped closer, cursed when the floorboard creaked under his weight, and peeked inside. Nothing much to see, just a messy desk cluttered with mismatched seashells.

“Bonjour, Lando!” was the first thing he heard as he made his way downstairs. His thoughts still preoccupied with what he’d glimpsed, the Englishman stumbled over his own greeting.

“Come on over, I squeezed ye some proper fresh juice. From the island’s own oranges, no less!”

Solange handed him a chilled glass and gestured toward the same chair he’d sat in the previous day.

The first sip—sweet and cold—swept away the remnants of sleep and his questions along with it. The old woman wiped a few drops of condensation from the table with her tea towel, slung it back over her shoulder, and turned to her flour-dusted work surface.

Lando tried to ignore the empty glass in front of him. He kept thinking of the seashells.

“Meant to ask ye yest’day, what with the trip an’ all, what brings ye ‘ere?”

He noticed immediately how the morning seemed to rob Solange of the vowels she’d enunciated so clearly the night before.

“I needed to disconnect for a while. My job is... intense, let’s just say.”

“What d’ye do?”

“I’m a Formula One driver.”

From her blank stare, Lando could already tell the words meant nothing to her. He smiled, pleased.

“I race cars.”

She gave an impressed little nod and began kneading dough.

“And d’ye win?”

“Sometimes. I’m often on the podium, though.”

“Tha’s good.”

The conversation fizzled out. The feeling of being just another normal person warmed Lando’s chest. He took another sip of juice to dampen it. It was already hot enough; it would be unwise to abandon himself to emotions.

The brioche further down the table was calling to him. He hesitated, then gave in. Jon wasn’t there to scold him, and no one here gave a toss about his weight—certainly not Solange, who was already talking about lunch: pistou soup and ‘few-gas’, whatever that was.

“Oh, before I forget–!”

Solange slid a sheet of paper toward him. She explained it was the shopping list they gave Jacques every Wednesday at ten so that it could be delivered the following week.

“If y’need anythin’, jot it down.”

The paper was already half-covered in messy handwriting, which he guessed was Solange’s—hurried, scratchy, listing everything from fruit to fish (he grimaced at that), to soap, even books.

At the very bottom, in blue ink (sea-blue, he couldn’t help but think), was a different, feminine handwriting—one of those elegant old-fashioned scripts where vowels and consonants intertwined in delicate loops.

1 pack of blank paper, 2 notebooks, 3 pens.

His eyes lingered on that blue line, confirmation that the girl from room three was, indeed, real.

He hadn’t imagined her the night before.

Lando considered adding anything, but didn’t want to be a bother. Solange had specified everything on the list was paid for by the inn, not the guests.

He reminded himself he had his laptop, that it was more than enough, and clicked the pen shut.

He drained his glass in one go, popped the last bite of brioche into his mouth, brushed the crumbs into a neat pile, and headed upstairs to change into his running gear.

Lando didn’t need to consult his laptop—Jon’s programme was branded into his memory. After bidding Solange goodbye, he began his run around the island.

I don’t expect performance, Jon had told him, just maintenance. Stay in shape. F1 drivers weren’t exempt from the sneaky dangers of summer holidays—those that tempted you with their sweet laziness and made you forget about discipline.

His pace wasn’t anywhere near Monaco speed. Here, he took the time to let the scenery unfold. He passed the orange groves Solange had mentioned, planted among fig trees and olive branches, climbed the little hills and jogged down to the shore.

And then he saw it. The sight stunned him into stopping.

There, in the middle of the horizon, between rocks and waves, stood a lighthouse—undeniably master of the tide.

A boat was moored beside it.

He frowned as he saw a figure vanish inside, then resumed running, still frowning.

“Is that lighthouse still running?” he asked Solange upon returning.

She handed him a tissue to wipe his brow.

“Not that I know of,” she shrugged. “State won’t put coin into fixin’ it. Says it’s no use now. Boats don’t pass ‘ere like they used to.”

A towel smacked him in the face, cutting the conversation short.

“Go shower. Ye reek. And if ye fancy helpin’ an old woman, start with the veg’, would ye?”

He squinted exaggeratedly.

“That’s emotional blackmail, Solange.”

“Maybe. But it’s workin’, innit?”

And it did, because fifteen minutes later, Lando was peeling potatoes with his hair still damp from his cold shower.

Solange made him laugh with tales of her youth, and the vegetables were soon done.

At noon, despite the pistou soup being delicious, the untouched plate beside him left a bitter taste in his mouth. Solange said nothing, but he caught the flicker of sadness on her face as she cleared the pristine bowl.

After that, Lando wandered aimlessly through the house. The morning run had drained him, and the suffocating afternoon heat finished him off. He ended up sprawled on the sofa, eyes drifting toward the half-open shutters. The distant sound of cicadas and seagulls lulled him toward an inevitable nap.

Solange, seated nearby with a crossword puzzle, peered at him over her glasses.

“Bored already, kid?”

Lando shrugged, not wanting to offend her.

“I’ll see if Jacques can’t take ye out to sea tomorrow. Might do ye good. Give ye somethin’ to do.”

“No need. I wouldn’t want to bother him,” Lando murmured, sinking deeper into the cushions.

The idea of spending hours stuck on a boat with Jacques gave him chills. Thankfully, Solange didn’t insist, and so Lando considered the matter closed; the worst, avoided.

But the next morning, the sound of a motor yanked Lando from sleep. When he drew back his curtain, a knot tightened in his stomach. The small blue-hulled boat—with its tangled ropes and rusted bucket—was tied to the old wooden dock.

Wednesday had come, and with it, Jacques and his ever-present pipe.

He watched Solange embrace the sailor and hand him their shopping list. Jacques stuffed the paper into the pocket of his sea-damp overalls and sank into conversation with her. From here, Lando could nearly hear his gruff voice and chewed-up vowels.

Eventually, Jacques disappeared into the inn, Solange close behind.

“Mornin’, lad,” he said as Lando descended. “Heard y’wanna sail?”

“Oh!” Lando glanced at Solange, whose radiant smile deepened every wrinkle on her face. “Er... yes?” he mumbled.

Jacques’s grey eye—clouded with age and cataracts—sparkled.

Being the people-pleaser he was, Lando felt compelled to keep the pleased look on his face. So, with a bit of hesitation, he followed Jacques outside.

On the way to the dock, the old man explained that the inn lent a little sailing boat to guests for short trips or excursions.

“But th’lass hog it.”

Lando barely registered the comment. His gaze stayed locked on the boat’s hull. He swallowed hard as he counted the cracks; a few more had appeared since the last time.

“Ain’t tricky. Got a m’tor an’ a tiller. Good bit o’machin’ this one,” he added, giving it an affectionate slap. “Y’wanna go right? Turn left. W’nna go left? Tu’n right.”

Lando blinked, then nodded weakly. He silently cursed himself for saying yes to this outing, maybe even to this whole spiritual retreat.

Jacques, lost in his explanation, did not notice his torment.

“Wave comes at ye, only two ways. Gun it or fac’ it head-‘n. Ye? Ain’t cut f’tha’ yet. Most ‘portant thing. N’ver let th’crest catch ye. Else yer done. Seen too many men lost tha’ way. Got it?”

“Not really?”

“S’fine. Ye’ll learn on th’boat.”

He motioned to the rickety craft, which swayed under their weight.

They set out. Soon, the rocks vanished from view. The tide had risen, and with it, his nausea. Lando bent his knees, struggling to find balance on the ever-moving sea. One must adapt to the wave, not the other way around.

He paled when Jacques handed him the tiller. Right is left. Left is right, he recited in his head. Before them, the sea stirred—eager to test the fledgling sailor. Fear clenched Lando’s gut and compressed his lungs. The ocean seemed to challenge him, conjuring deep-born waves to prove its dominance.

Lando looked back at the shore, his back soaked, already nostalgic for solid ground. When he turned his head, the lighthouse—the one from his morning run—towered above the rocks, far more imposing than he’d remembered.

Without thinking, he turned to Jacques.

“Can we go there?”

The sailor stared, puffed his pipe.

“Ye askin’ th’wrong sailor, lad.”

A wave splashed his face, the salt stinging his eyes, cutting the exchange short, but Lando did not look away from the lighthouse. Seawater dripped from his hair, clung to his lashes, slid down his neck. He didn’t care, mesmerised.

Something thudded against the boat. Jacques’s roar burst into Lando’s ears. Straighten th’rudder, god’s sake! He obeyed, barely. For a few seconds, he stood defiant against a raging Poseidon. Then the god grew bored and summoned a wave. Lando stared at it, so vast and immense. The Sublime washed over him, weakened his limbs. How small man was, before Mother Nature.

With a crash, the wave broke over them. He barely had time to shut his eyes. The deck flooded. So did his shoes. And finally, his stomach surrendered.

He leaned overboard just in time to vomit up his breakfast.

The two men returned to the inn in silence.

“What’d ye do to the poor lad, Jacquot? He’s lookin’ green as seaweed,” was Solange’s first remark as she handed Lando a towel.

Too busy lamenting his fate, he didn’t notice the fourth figure on the dock. It was only when a mischievous and feminine laugh rang out that he looked up and froze.

You reminded him of an endless summer. Sun-kissed skin dusted with freckles from hours outdoors. Salt-kissed hair lightened by the sea breeze.

Too beautiful to be real.

A faint memory from school—English class, perhaps—surged in his mind; a tale of sirens, and the men who fell for their charms.

Lando figured one must have swum up the Tyrrhenian and into the Mediterranean Sea.

Your shirt danced in the breeze, but he didn’t notice, captivated by the wide smile on your face. He scrubbed his hair with the towel, suddenly painfully aware of himself, of the sick still clinging to the corners of his mouth, and of you watching him.

“Hi,” you finally said. “I’m the other guest. You must be Lando. Sol’ told me about you.”

“That’s right,” he stammered, offering his hand.

You gave him your name. He tried not to dwell on the feel of your palm against his or the sound of his name on your tongue.

Two wrinkled hands seized his shoulders and yanked him away before he could humiliate himself further. Solange guided him back toward the inn, promising grilled sea bream with herbs.

“Nothin’ better t’set ye straight.”

Lando didn’t even think to grimace, too busy glancing over his shoulder, desperate for one more look at the siren—an anomaly surely sculpted by the gods.

A wave of disappointment struck as he realised you would not be following them. Instead, you were already deep in conversation with Jacques. The old sailor had transformed. He gestured broadly, enunciated his vowels, even stowed his pipe.

For a brief moment, your eyes met his. You winked.

Lando flushed.

Then you leapt into a small sailboat—one Lando swore hadn’t been there a minute ago—and loosened the ropes.

You waved and set sail.

When he awoke the next morning, the seagulls already shrieking at his window, Lando wondered if he had imagined last night’s outing and his encounter with the second host—a mirage, conjured by sea gods to punish his mediocre seafaring talents.

A knock at the door drew him from his lamentations. Three firm raps that startled him upright and tore him from his briny dreams.

Lando nearly choked when he opened the door—still in boxers—and found you standing in the doorway, barefoot, your skin salted by the morning wind.

“Solange’s been going on about bringing you at sea. She says you’re bored. So get ready. We leave in half an hour. Oh! And bring a swimsuit.”

Without waiting for an answer, you turned on your heel and vanished down the stairs, leaving behind a trail of salt and fig, the scented air threatening to drag him under a wave of dreamy sirens and lovesick drownings.

When Lando reached the jetty, the little sailboat from the day before was bobbing just above the water’s surface; you, one knee to the ground, were fastening a rope with a focused expression that he found utterly endearing.

You looked up at him suddenly, wind tangling your hair, and smiled.

“Right on time. You ready?”

Lando nodded and stepped over the hull. You followed with an ease he could not help but envy.

“The sea’s calmer than yesterday,” you reassured him quickly, catching his wary glance at the swell. “I don’t know what Jacques was thinking, taking you out in a weather like that.”

“Maybe he wanted to get rid of me,” Lando joked weakly, gripping the edge of the boat a little tighter.

“Maybe,” you shrugged. “No one really knows what’s going on in his head.”

You untied the lines and pushed against the dock with your foot. Softly, the boat began to drift away.

The two of you left the island in a trail of foam. The water—already glinting under the morning sun—barely rippled beneath the prow, but the gentle rocking was enough to rouse Lando’s stomach.

A hand began to stroke his back as he leaned over the edge, gasping.

“Breathe through your nose. Look at the horizon,” you advised, sitting down beside him.

The now-familiar perfume of fig and salt wrapped around him, drowning out the stench of algae and rotten fish. The nausea began to ease.

Lando straightened, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“So, uh… have you been here long?”

If you caught on to his attempt at changing the subject, you gave no sign, simply returning to the helm. Lando stifled his disappointment as your hand left his back.

“Almost two months now.”

You ducked beneath the boom with the unconscious agility of someone who’d done it a thousand times (which, Lando figured, you probably had), and smiled as you adjusted your sunglasses.

“I was only meant to stay a week,” you went on. “But Solange can be pretty persuasive when she wants. I think she realised before I did. That I needed a bit more time away from all that.”

Lando understood, even without further explanation. ‘All that’ had a way of ruining people’s lives.

Silence settled between you again, broken only by the gentle slap of waves and the occasional cry of seagulls.

He watched you. The ease with which you steered the boat through the swells and rocks. That quiet confidence. An instinctive mastery that reminded him of his own connection to his car.

You tamed the Unpredictable with a calm that demanded admiration.

“Was it Jacques who taught you to sail like that?” he asked after a while.

A bright, unrestrained laugh burst from your throat. Your head tilted back, and Lando watched, entranced, as saltwater droplets glistened on your neck.

“Goodness, no! I don’t think anyone’s ever learned anything from that old sea-beard! You’d have to understand what he’s mumbling for that. No. I learned as a kid. I’m from Saint-Malo. In Brittany.”

Seeing Lando’s blank expression, you added: “It’s in France, on the Atlantic coast. Not far from Jersey, actually. My dad is a fisherman, so I grew up on boats.”

“Sounds cool.”

“It was.” Your smile softened, clearly sculpted by the memories of a joyful childhood. “But probably not as cool as driving cars.”

Lando tensed instantly.

Your eyes sparkled.

Smirking, you tilted your chin toward the west, where a jagged line broke the horizon.

“Marseille’s less than forty minutes from here. Go on another hour–” You pointed at a faint smear of land farther east. “–and you’ll reach Monaco. It’s hard to escape Formula One around these parts, even if you couldn’t care less.”

“So tell me,” you continued. “What’s Lando Norris doing in the middle of nowhere?”

You had said his name with a familiarity he only ever heard from those who knew who he was, and everything that came with it.

His shoulders stiffened.

“Relax,” she said, and somehow, he did. “Your secret’s safe with me. Hell, even if I wanted to shout it from the rooftops, I’d have to sail all the way to the village. And no offence, superstar, but the ten old southerners who live there couldn’t care less.”

He hesitated, then conceded you were right—the world was far away, and here, he was no one. For reasons he couldn’t quite explain, he felt the urge to confide in you, this stranger who no longer felt like one—tossing a bottle into the sea, fully aware of the tide.

“I was tired of being watched. Judged for every little thing I do. I wanted to disappear for a few days. I knew I wouldn’t get any peace in Ibiza. Or Portugal. Or Greece. Anywhere with Internet, really.”

You slid back to sit beside him, your pinkie finger grazing his. Lando had to resist the sudden, foolish urge to intertwine them. There was something about you—something familiar, fig-scented, salt-kissed—that he did not understand but welcomed deep in his chest, and lower.

“My best mate helped me find the inn. I wanted him to come at first, but he said it’d do me good. To be alone.”

He glanced at you, searching for a reaction, but your smile did not waver. It even widened as you looked past him.

“We’re here.”

Lando turned, and promptly flinched at the sudden sight of the lighthouse, closer than ever. A tower of stone, so tall it pierced the sky open.

You moored the boat to a dock even older than the one back on the island and held out your hand to help him down. Lando’s heart skipped, but he masked it and clasped your hand.

You tugged him toward the lighthouse. He barely had time to take in the flaking paint, the worn stone; you threw open the door with a bang and led him up the stairs, higher and higher, your palm never leaving his.

Inside, the lighthouse was nothing like the cold, empty place he’d expected. Though the enormous lantern sat dormant at its centre, the room felt lived in.

Loose pages littered the floor and steps, some scribbled with a cursive handwriting, others with doodles or strange shapes with no obvious meaning. Mismatched cushions were heaped in a corner atop frayed blankets, surrounded by half-open books and board games missing pieces.

The scent of figs and salt hung in the air, and through the cracked glass panes, the Mediterranean sparkled.

“You did all this?”

You flopped onto the cushions.

“Yes. I got tired of picking figs and oranges back on the island. The rustic charm wears off pretty quick. I ended up here by accident, during a storm, and cleaned everything. Took me two weeks just to clear the spider nests.”

He lay down beside you. Your shoulders touched. Your pinkies searched for one another

Staring up at the dome, where a lopsided and seemingly recent mural of sea creatures stretched across the ceiling, Lando thought he could get used to this place.

“Earlier,” he began, tracing the misshapen tentacles of a purple octopus, “you said you needed to get away from things.”

Beside him, you shifted. On impulse, his hand found yours and gave it a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

“I was lost,” you said, voice almost a whisper. “I think I still am, in a way.”

Lando turned his head. He looked at you—this woman with sea-water hair and fig-scented skin—and thought you were like a shoreline: untameable, impossible to grasp, but utterly, achingly beautiful.

“It’s hard to know who you are when all your friends have their lives figured out,” you continued. “My best friend’s getting married in six months. Another already has three kids. All have big careers, big lives. And me? Well, I guess I felt like I was behind. Wandering without a purpose. Maybe to put off the inevitable. Responsibilities. Adulthood. All that.”

You turned to look at him. Your noses nearly touched. Neither of you pulled away from the newfound closeness.

“So I left,” you murmured, eyes flicking briefly to his lips. “Just like that. To try and find something. A purpose. Something to guide me.”

You pulled away and gestured around the room.

“There are loads of lighthouses in Brittany. I know them all by heart. My dad’s obsessed with them. He used to say they’d help me find my way if I were ever lost at sea.”

You cleared your throat and began to play with one of his curls, watching it spring back into place.

“I knew I had to find my lighthouse. One that was just mine. To guide me through storms.”

“And did you?” Lando asked, breathless, eyes locked on your mouth.

You gave him an incredulous look.

“Well, yeah? You’re in it.”

He spluttered. You burst out laughing.

“I’m messing with you.”

You paused, then added more quietly: “Fixing this ruin helped me figure things out. It was therapeutic, all those trips alone. Gave me a purpose and time to think.”

Suddenly, you clapped your thighs and stood. Lando jumped. The moment vanished.

“Right! Up you get! It’s far too hot not to enjoy the beach.”

You went back down.

In front of you, the Mediterranean shimmered, turquoise and undisturbed by the breeze.

“A proper millpond!” you said.

Without hesitation, you stripped off your shirt and shorts, wedging them beneath a stone—or maybe it was a shard of sea-glass, smoothed by the tide—then turned toward him.

Lando, behind his sunglasses, let his gaze drift down your body. He swallowed hard and adjusted his shorts.

“Last one in does the dishes for three days!”

You took off running before he could react.

“Come on! That’s not fair!” he shouted, laughing, before peeling off his shirt and dashing after you.

You plunged—Lando five seconds behind—into a chaotic splash that sent gulls scattering from the rocks.

“Looks like Solange found herself a new kitchen por—”

Lando didn’t let you finish. He raised an arm and sent a wave crashing over you. You yelped. He roared with laughter.

“Oh, you’re on!” you cried, sputtering seawater before lunging at him.

You chased and splashed each other, minutes dissolving into the rise and fall of the waves you stirred and your laughter.

When your legs finally began to tire, you made your way back to shore. Lando collapsed onto the sand, panting, while you climbed aboard the sailboat. You soon returned with a canvas bag full of boxes and fruit, which you set down on your shirt, by his side.

“Solange made the picnic,” you explained, handing him a slice of cold tomato quiche. “Lucky for you. Otherwise, I’d probably have poisoned you.”

They ate in silence, legs buried in the sand, skin still damp from the sea. When the sensation became too much, you pulled two towels from your bag and laid them side by side.

Time dissolved into a familiar post-lunch drowsiness and the lazy rhythm of the waves. You didn’t speak, basking in the presence of the other, content not just to be, but to be together.

You swam again, and again, drifting ever closer, nudged by the waves and something deeper, something that strangely looked like Fate.

Lando realised, watching you draw suns and shells in the sand only to let the ocean erase them and start again, that it had been a long time since he’d felt this at peace.

Max had been right. This spiritual retreat was a good idea.

“Do you think we could come back tomorrow?” he asked suddenly, almost shyly, eyes on the waves.

“Depends,” you replied at once. “You planning to puke on my boat again?”

“No promises. My stomach has a mind of its own. But I’ll do my best.”

“Hm. Then it’s a yes.”

Because a promise is a promise, you both went back the next day. And the day after that. Soon enough, the lighthouse became a landmark, a secret haven just for the two of you.

You climbed over rocks, swam for hours, savoured Solange’s picnics between bouts of laughter, collected seashells or simply sat in silence, gazing out at the horizon.

Days passed, each one perfumed with the same bouquet of salt, sun, and insouciance.

On the evening of the fourth day since that first expedition to the lighthouse, Solange—as she always did—set a plate for you at the table, before letting out a wistful sigh.

“I’m glad the girl’s op’ning to ye,” she said, staring at the empty chair with melancholy in her eyes. “She used to be an oyster, that one. If y’get a moment, tell her I’d love if she joined us for supper sometime.”

Lando opened his mouth to promise he would try his best, but a clamour of creaking steps cut him off before he could. Solange dropped her tea towel when you suddenly burst down the stairs and sat yourself at the table without a word.

“What? I mean. Are you–?” she stammered, mouth agape.

“I thought I might eat with you tonight. If that’s alright for you, Sol’?”

“Yes!” she blurted out immediately, trembling with delight. “Yes, of course, darlin’! No trouble at all. Wait till ye try my red mullet tart — ye’ll be beggin’ for the recipe, I swear!”

She gave your shoulders a quick squeeze before vanishing into the kitchen with a squeal of joy.

“I think you broke her,” Lando chuckled.

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself, and Lando couldn’t help but do the same, charmed by the playful tilt of your expression.

When Solange returned, she carried in a steaming tart smelling of fish. Lando’s stomach churned at the scent. His grimace made you snort. As he accepted a slice with a tight-lipped smile—he never could say no to Solange—he kicked you under the table. You yelped.

“What’s wrong with you, girl?” Solange asked, frowning.

“Nothing.”

“If ye say so. Here, try this!” She sliced you a generous portion. “Patrick brought in the best red mullet o’the season! Oh– hold on, forgot the vinaigrette for the salad!”

Lando didn’t dwell on who Patrick was, or his mysterious status in the island’s tiny ecosystem. His eyes stayed glued to his plate; he swallowed with difficulty, his saliva thickening at once.

Even on land, he hadn’t quite shaken off his seasickness.

You kicked him again. Thinking it was retaliation, he returned the favour—ever the competitor—but you only rolled your eyes.

“No, idiot. Give me your tart,” you whispered, glancing over your shoulder to ensure Solange was still occupied in the kitchen.

In one deft motion, you stole his slice.

“I’ve got biscuits upstairs for this type of emergencies,” you added, sitting upright again as you devoured the tart in four greedy bites.

When Solange came back, vinaigrette in hand, her eyes drifted to Lando’s plate.

“Well, I’ll be damned! Looks like someone liked my tart. Want another slice?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

You shared a knowing smile as Solange launched into the latest village gossip, courtesy of Patrick, who, Lando soon learned, was a fisherman.

From that evening on, you joined them for dinner each night. This new routine became as familiar as your lighthouse visits. Soon, only the dark of night separated you from Lando.

Your days—governed by the philosophy of the farniente—drifted gently by, suspended between two islands: the inn’s and the lighthouse’s. Nothing existed outside the microcosm you’d built together, where trust flowed freely, and nothing needed to be hidden or explained.

Lando told you things even Max didn’t know, and never once considered regretting it. Summer had a way of making one careless; duties, obligations, and consequences melted away in the golden hours. Anyone who surrendered to Summer was trapped in a parallel pocket of time, shaped by cicada song and the crash of waves.

Lando was no exception—enchanted by you, the very embodiment of the season—and, without even noticing, he stopped counting the days left before returning to the mainland.

Until one morning, when Solange, after setting down a plate of fresh fruit, asked casually: “So– what time d’ye want Jacques to fetch ye on Monday?”

Lando frowned.

“Monday?”

“Ten? Or earlier?” she went on. “He’s off to the village after noon, so before then’s best. Someone waitin’ for ye on land, is there?

Lando froze. His eyes darted to the calendar on the wall, and he choked at the date. August 21. A piece of melon slid from his fork into the bowl with a dull thud.

Only four days left.

“Oh.”

Solange gave him a pitying smile, as if she knew what he was thinking of (she probably was). Lando had to look away, embarrassed by the lump forming in his throat.

That was when you came down the stairs, and, seeing both their faces, frowned.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothin’, love,” Solange said gently. “Nothin’, love. Just figurin’ when Landon’s headin’ off Monday.”

“Oh,” you echoed, your voice hollow.

You slumped into your chair, suddenly as heavy as the air between you all.

Your eyes met his. You tried to smile, but it faltered just as quickly. Lando looked down and poked at his melon. Neither of you had to speak to know what the other was thinking: the end was near, and with it came the terrifying thought that you might never see each other again.

“Tell ye what– how ‘bout ye skip the lighthouse fo’ today and go pick me some lemons instead. I’m makin’ a tart for tea. Might as well put ye young ones to use while I still can.”

Solange didn’t wait for a reply. Two wicker baskets were thrust into your arms with startling speed before she slammed the door in both of your faces.

You stared at it, stunned. Then marched off towards the garden, where citrus, figs, and olives weighed down the trees and filled the air with their ripe, sticky perfume.

“Hey! Wait up!”

“Don’t tell me I’m too fast for you, Norris? Aren’t you supposed to be some sort of elite athlete?” you shouted over your shoulder, before breaking into a sprint.

He caught up with you in no time and flung an arm around your shoulders to pull you into his side. You glanced up at him, one brow arched, before adjusting your grip on your basket so you could thread your fingers through his. He squeezed your hand three times and didn’t let go until you stood in the shade of the lemon trees.

“Looking forward to seeing your friends again?” you asked, picking your first lemon.

A twinge of guilt pricked his chest as Lando realised he hadn’t thought of them in days, too consumed by you.

“Of course,” he lied, only partially.

It was true, in a way. He did want to tell Max about the boat, the lighthouse, the fish he had eaten (even if it had been against his will). He missed their banter, their inside jokes, the easy bond between them. But he also knew that going back on land meant putting to an end the memories he’d been making with you.

And that, he wasn’t ready for.

“They’re going to freak when I tell them I sailed a boat and slept in a lighthouse.”

“You gonna tell them you threw up about ten times too?”

“I don’t need to share everything.”

You burst out laughing. Lando beamed with pride at the sound.

You kept working under the unforgiving sun. Bit by bit, the fruits piled up in your baskets. Lando wandered between the rows, lips dry, shirt damp under the arms. The air was thick, stifling; he kept wiping his nape with the back of his hand.

“This heat is insane,” you muttered.

From your back pocket, you pulled a small Opinel knife, flicked open the blade, and sliced into an orange. Juice streamed down your hand, dripping into the scorched grass.

You lifted the fruit to your mouth, eyes half-closed. The nectar slid down your chin, along your throat, and disappeared into your neckline.

Lando followed its trail, unable to look away.

Something cracked open inside him when, with a slow—and far too late—flick of your tongue, you caught a drop lingering on your lip.

“You’re killing me,” he groaned, pulling you toward him before kissing you. Right there. Beneath the orange trees.

The scent of figs surrounded him as you wound your arms around his neck and kissed him back, deeper and deeper. He drank you in—orange juice and soft moans—until your fingers crept beneath his shirt, grazing his stomach. He pressed you against the tree, his knee slipping between your thighs.

“Oi! How long’m I waitin’ on those lemons?” Solange’s voice rang out in the distance.

You both sprang apart, flushed and breathless, lips swollen but bearing the same dazed smile.

“I’ve wanted to do that for ages,” he murmured, before placing a quick peck on your mouth.

“Me too.”

You returned to the inn with your baskets and hearts full.

“I don’t want to leave,” he said the next day, three days before your departure. You were both lying atop the lighthouse, limbs entangled in an intimate embrace, listening to the waves break on the shore.

You gave him a playful punch on the shoulder, laughing, before softening the blow with a kiss a second later.

The citrus-sweet kiss you had shared the day before had opened Pandora’s box. An arm slipping around your waist to squeeze past you. A hand squeezing your thigh during a boat ride. A stolen hug in the kitchen in the morning. Like your trips to the lighthouse and your shared dinners, these tender gestures had become part of your shared routine.

Earlier, you had even kissed him in front of Solange, without thinking. The innkeeper had spilled her coffee in a burst of poorly contained joy before pulling you both into a flowery-aproned embrace.

“I knew it would happen!” She had screamed. “You’ve been dancing around each other for days. ‘Twas driving me mad!”

You had laughed. He had blushed.

Your voice pulled him back from his thoughts.

“Don’t be silly. You’ll get to drive again.”

“Yes, but you won’t be there.”

Your smile faltered.

He nestled his head into the curve of your neck and breathed in the scent of figs like a man famished.

“Is this just going to be a summer fling?” he murmured against your skin, barely audible, as if speaking it aloud might make it real.

“Would it be so bad if it were?” you whispered in reply.

He didn’t answer and just held you tighter.

“I think I love you,” he confessed. “Is that crazy?”

“Crazier than driving a car at 300km/h? I doubt it.”

He raised his head and gazed at you for a few seconds before kissing you softly. You returned the kiss, tracing the edge of his jaw with your fingertips. When you parted, and emboldened by your closeness, he summoned all his courage to ask the question that had been circling in his head for days: “Now that the lighthouse is fixed up… don’t you think you could make room for a second purpose?”

He finished his thought before you could interrupt.

“What if I asked you to come with me?” he added, his voice barely above a whisper, far meeker than he’d intended.

You didn't answer. Instead, you placed a long, lingering, kiss on his forehead.

The conversation ended there. You didn't speak about it again, and Lando was smart enough to understand the no hidden in this silence. Not wanting to spoil the little time you had left together, he swallowed his pain and pretended nothing had happened.

The final two days passed in a softness unmatched, though touched with the weight of the Inevitable. You went back to the lighthouse, ate the inn’s oranges, swam, and kissed each other breathless.

On the very last evening, Lando crossed the threshold of your room for the first and last time, breaking a rule he’d silently set for himself.

You kissed. Your hands joined in. At first hesitant, then more assured. Breaths quickened. Sheets tangled beneath your movements. You clung to his back, your back arched, soft moans escaping your throat like a secret offered to the night. Lando found you all the more beautiful, abandoned to your desire. When he felt you tremble against him, he closed his eyes and followed you into completion.

Then came the quiet. Your body softened against his. You fell asleep naked, your head resting on his chest. Lando tried to view this carnal embrace as something other than a goodbye, but he couldn't, and so, he held you tighter before closing his eyes too.

The irregular growl of an old engine pulled Lando from his pleasant dreams and tolled the bell. Dread washed over him. That mechanical crackling heralded his departure, the one he had tried to postpone. It was the end of summer, and of so much more.

He reached out to his right. His hand met only the sheet, cold, empty.

Maybe she’s just gone downstairs, he told himself, though even he didn’t believe the lie.

In the two weeks he had spent with you, Lando had come to learn you were a wave—unpredictable and untameable. No cotton-sheet bed could restrain you. You would never wait for anyone, not even him.

His chest tightened, and suddenly he felt exposed in his own skin, acutely aware of his nudity. He pulled the sheet up to cover his chest as his breath quickened. Did you regret it? Why hadn’t you waited for him?

Lando stared blankly at the window. Outside, the sea rolled in on itself, whispering its salt-tinged taunts to the shore. It felt, to him, like mockery.

That knot in his stomach followed him all the way to the kitchen, where Solange was waiting.

His eyes went straight to your chair at the table. The untouched plate. The cooling but full coffee cup. His face dropped. He shut his eyes, less for self-pity than to avoid Solange’s knowing gaze.

“Jacques is a bit early,” was all the innkeeper said her voice subdued, but breaking the heavy silence all the same. “If ye want, I’ll tell him ye’re ready.”

“Might as well,” he said, bitterness bubbling up like brackish water, translating as a hollow laugh that made her wince. “There’s nothing keeping me here now, is there?”

Solange gave him a sad smile.

He sat, turning his back to her, and forced down his breakfast, pretending not to feel the lump in his throat.

Once his bowl was empty, he went back upstairs wordlessly. He packed slowly, tucking away the laptop with the training programme he had abandoned after a day.

Before zipping up the bag, he looked around the room one last time. The salt-bleached walls, the half-open window, the bed unmade. In the hallway, his eyes drifted toward your door. He stood there for a moment, taking in the remains of yesterday, then descended the creaking steps of the inn for the last time.

Downstairs, Solange wasted no time to embrace him.

He closed his eyes and nestled into her flowered apron, which reeked of fish, citrus, and olives. He searched the hug for even a trace of fig but caught himself and clung harder. That was when he felt her body tremble against his.

“Sol’?”

“It’s that blasted sea air,” she sniffed into his shoulder. “Makes me sneezy.”

She wiped her nose and looked up at him, her chin trembling.

“Ye’ll come back, won’t ye? That room’s yers now.”

She stepped back just enough to meet his gaze, her eyes glistening.

He nodded and, at last, stepped out of the inn, his heart heavy.

Ahead of him, the waves, always the waves. They danced in that natural rhythm of theirs, lifting, falling, crashing against the coast—a heartbeat born out of salt and sea.

Lando matched his breath to the swell.

This, he knew, was what he’d miss most. In Monaco, the sea drowned beneath the engines of monstrous yachts and behind the towers of concrete.

He turned his head.

In a bittersweet echo of their first encounter, Jacques stood on the jetty, pipe in mouth, silent. Only his old boat remained moored. Your sailboat was missing, having left behind nothing but a pile of frayed ropes.

You were gone. Without a word. Without a glance.

A flush rose to his cheeks—wrath and heartbreak intertwined. You had chosen to slip away, to avoid goodbyes.

Coward, a voice shouted in his mind.

Lando reached Jacques, jaw clenched. Without a word, he climbed aboard while the sailor cast off the rope. The engine coughed under them, then settled into a steady purr. Lando kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, shoulders tight.

He did not look back once, not at the inn, already shrinking behind them, nor at the lighthouse island, for fear of seeing a familiar sailboat there.

As they neared the mainland, a strange nausea coiled in his belly. The port appeared, then the village. He saw coloured cars parked haphazardly up the slope, terracotta-and-concrete houses perched like watchful birds on the green mountains.

Lando heaved.

Great, he thought, bitter. Now I have landsickness.

When they reached the shore, Jacques cut the engine and leapt out to tie up the boat. Lando followed, bag slung over his shoulder, eyes hollow.

The old man laid a big and calloused hand on his shoulder, gave it a firm squeeze, before nodding once. Lando felt a sting behind his eyes, and returned the gesture, swallowing hard. He didn’t think the sailor would handle it well if he burst into tears, so he didn’t.

Jacques didn’t linger. Lando hadn’t expected him to. The old man climbed back onto his creaking boat and disappeared into the waves, leaving Lando alone with his bag and his pain.

He stood frozen on the deck for a minute, eyes lost in the horizon, before startling out of his reverie and checking his watch. 10:12.

Before leaving for the inn, two weeks ago, he’d arranged for Max to pick him up by car at noon.

Out of habit, he switched on his phone. Hundreds of notifications flooded the screen, overwhelming him. Lando swallowed.

He hadn’t missed any of this.

His eyes flicked through the chaos, trying to make sense of it, but a headache was already blooming behind his temples.

A message from Max, sent barely an hour ago, caught his eye.

[09:21] Max: Sorry, mate. Something came up. Can’t pick you up.

Lando sighed, pocketed the phone, and slumped onto a bench at the port, defeated.

This day can’t get any worse, he thought.

He cursed the sea gods and fate—maybe they were the same beings—for making him their scapegoat. What had he done to deserve it?

Suddenly, a car horn blared behind him, jolting him from his brooding.

Lando spun around, and nearly choked.

You.

You, with your salt-frizzed hair and sun-burnt skin.

If he closed his eyes, Lando could almost imagine your fig fragrance, but the mirage quickly disappeared in the hints of diesel emanating from the exhaust pipe of the convertible you were driving.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, breathless just from the sight of you, solid and earthly.

It seemed wrong, somehow, to see you away from the sea, the lighthouse, your sailboat.

You pushed your sunglasses to your forehead and winked.

“Heard someone needed a ride to Monaco.”

For a moment he stood dumbstruck, staring.

Then he sprang into motion, dashed to the passenger side when you opened the door for him, tossed his bag into the back seat before kissing you. Hard.

“I thought you’d left without saying goodbye,” he said when you finally broke apart.

“I wanted to surprise you. Sol’ helped.”

“Of course she did,” he laughed, breathless.

He kissed you again, then froze.

“But– the lighthouse?” he stammered.

You waved it off.

“Turns out a lighthouse doesn’t have to be an actual one,” you said at last. “That was just me being dramatic. Took me a while to realise it could also be someone. I think that’s what my dad meant all along.”

“And… have you found that someone?”

“Yes. Even if he’d be useless if I’m lost at sea. He tends to throw up as soon as he's on a boat.”

You both laughed, more from relief than humour. Then you looked at him, softly.

“The lighthouse, even the inn– It kept me busy just long enough,” you said. “But it’s time to go back to the real world.”

He took your hand and squeezed it three times.

“And did you know,” you continued, “there are eighteen lighthouses on the Côte d’Azur? One of them’s in Monaco. I think I’ll be just fine there.”

It was only then that he noticed the suitcase tucked behind the driver’s seat.

“Does this mean…?”

He left the sentence hanging.

“Yes. I mean– if that’s alright with you, of course,” you added shyly.

“Of course it is! Hell, you can even move in with me!”

His enthusiasm made you burst out laughing.

“Calm down, Romeo. I’ve got a flat in Nice. But I could be convinced to spend a few nights at yours.”

You winked, pecked his lips, and finally started the car.

You drove along the coast, never straying too far from the sea, as if She refused to let go of the story she had helped shape—love erosion.

The radio crackled and filled the air with old French songs, riding the salty wind. Lando closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he turned toward the horizon.

He squinted.

Across the room, Tash sat upright in bed, her hair in blonde braided pigtails, her eyes already open but maybe you can see they’re a bit puffy from either lack of sleep or something else. She didn’t say much but just swung her legs off the side and sat there for a moment, contemplating as she started staring at the floor.

The others slowly came to life around her; Ella mumbling something about needing caffeine, Megan humming absently to herself as she padded barefoot across the room. There was no giddy giggling this morning like there had been previously; there was a certain shift around here now. Just the sound of people existing in the strange, weighty quiet that follows a long, emotional few days.

And somewhere, on the other side of the villa, Harry was waking up in the Hideaway. Not with Tash, not with you. Just him and the weight of his choices, staring up at the ceiling fan. He stretched his arms above his head as he laid there for a moment on his own.

He hadn’t slept much. The bed was too soft without conversation and the feeling of a cuddle against him. The walls felt too quiet when they weren’t filled with your laughter. He rubbed a hand across his jaw, knowing he’d earned the isolation — and not knowing what, if anything, he was supposed to do next.

A little while later, the smell of eggs and toasted sourdough drifted through the villa as the boys took over the kitchen with their shirtless bodies and sunglasses resting over tired eyes. Mitch had tied a tea towel around his head like a makeshift bandana, humming while he burned half the bacon which only made Johnny laugh. Luca was more precise — plating avocado slices like he was on Master Chef, and sneaking glances toward the hallway that led to the dressing room.

Harry stood at the espresso machine, pressing buttons with purpose, like maybe he could steam out the tension in his chest with milk froth and timing.

“Double shot, oat milk,” he muttered to himself.

He poured two cups— carefully, quietly and without any acknowledgement from the other boys.

Inside the dressing room, the girls had taken up their usual spots, hairbrushes in hand, bronzer palettes out, eyes still a little puffy from sleep as they started to place sunscreen and lip gloss. You were seated at your vanity, lips slightly parted as you curled your lashes. Tash was two spots down, brushing through her hair in slow, even strokes, as if control over the tangles meant control over something else too.

Ella was halfway through a winged liner when the door opened. Harry stepped in, coffee cups in hand.

The ease of the morning girl conversation faltered when lingering eyes watched as he held two.

“Morning,” he said, voice smooth but cautious. “Figured you might want one.”

He handed you a cup first — oat milk, the way that you always wanted it. Then extended the second to Tash, whose eyes flicked up to him and lingered for just a second longer than necessary before she reached for it.

“Thanks,” you said, placing it on the vanity in front of you.

He nodded, eyes searching yours for something he couldn’t quite name. Harry made his way out of the dressing room quietly, without much more conversation. But before anyone could comment or fill the space with a joke — Luca walked in behind him, grinning, holding another cup.

“Oi, Y/N — told you I’d get yours right,” he said proudly. “One sugar, just how you like it.”

You blinked, surprised, accepting the second cup with a laugh that you didn’t expect to bubble up.

“Two coffees?” Ella whispered beside you with a smile and a giggle to match. “She’s got them fighting in beans and steamed milk.”

You set one coffee down, still unsure which to drink from first. You hadn’t expected that there would be a moment like this where you had two boys fighting for your attention; you knew how one looked. Harry brought coffee for both girls, but now you had coffee from two boys. You took in a breath as you looked at the girls around you and raised your brows.

“Get it, girl,” Tiana giggled across from you, as she painted on a few freckles.

Tash took a sip of her coffee with a quietness, obviously not impressed that she wasn’t the only one who received the cup, but it seemed to hold implications on either side.

“Dammit, Harry,” you mumbled out, shaking your head.

Ella leaned closer with a wide, knowing smirk as she gave you an eye. “So… which one are you drinking first?”

You bit back a smile, eyes flicking between the cups. “One was made with care. The other with guilt.”

“Ohhh!” Jess gasped, spitting out a laugh, “He really is double-dipping.”

Tash let out a quiet huff of amusement but didn’t look over. She was busy applying lip liner — and pretending she didn’t care. But of course, she cared; she didn’t want to be between them, either. She wanted to explore connections with Harry, but not if it was going to be at the cost of her dignity.

“Let me get this straight,” Megan said, leaning on her elbows. “Harry brings you a coffee… and then Luca walks in and does the same? Back-to-back baristas?”

“It’s giving Y/N is the main character,” Tiana added, twirling her brush. “It’s giving she’s got options.”

You shook your head, laughing despite the twist in your stomach. “I didn’t ask for either. They just—did it.”

“Exactly,” Ella said, pointing at you through her brow pencil. “You didn’t ask. Which means they’re chasing. Which means…”

“You’ve got both of them in a milk steamer,” Jess finished, tongue-in-cheek with her Scouse accent that made you smile every time she spoke. “Extra froth going on, girl.”

The girls started laughing at that comment, even Tash cracked a smile at that one. You stared into one of the cups, then glanced at the other. Luca’s had a smiley face drawn on the lid in Sharpie.

You didn’t say much after that. But your silence said enough.

Down in the main villa, the boys were in various states of gym effort: some actually working out, some just lounging in joggers with towels over their shoulders pretending they might start.

Harry was lifting dumbbells like his life depended on it, trying to stay focused, but mostly failing when he let his mind wander. His thoughts kept drifting — to the coffee, to your expression, to the way your fingers curled around the cup when he handed it to you.

Then Mitch wandered in over to him, towel draped over his neck, taking a sip from his water bottle.

“You see Luca this morning?” he asked casually, flopping down on a bench near Harry.

Harry didn’t look up at him, shaking his head when he placed the thirty-pound weights down. “What about him?”

“He was buzzing, mate,” Mitch looked over to see Luca by the pool with Ronan, casually having a conversation, but Mitch tried to keep his quiet, “Said he made Y/N a coffee and brought it up to her.”

Harry paused, looking over at Mitch with a completely confused expression, almost like he hadn’t completely understood what he had said—or thought that it made sense.

Luca and Y/N?

“What?”

Mitch leaned back, unfazed by it. “Yeah, said he got in there. Drew a little smiley face on the lid and everything. Bit cheeky, actually—sounds like he’s moving in on that, then.”

Harry’s jaw shifted, tongue pressing into the inside of his cheek. He didn’t say anything for a long second before he shrugged and placed his sunglasses over his eyes and on the bridge of his nose.

“Fair enough,” he muttered finally, reaching for his towel and tossing it over his shoulder, wiping some of the sweat from the back of his neck. But then the way he grabbed his water bottle with a little more force than necessary didn’t go unnoticed.

Mitch raised a brow, smirking at his annoyance. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry replied quickly. “It’s fair game, innit?”

“Right,” Mitch drawled, licking his tongue over his bottom lip as he stared at Harry for a moment. “Course. All’s fair in love and war or whatever.”

But Harry wasn’t really listening anymore. He was already replaying the image in his head: Luca, smiling, handing you coffee with that stupid Sharpie face that probably made your heart flutter. You laugh, you sip it, you choose it over his.

Maybe choosing him over him. He let out a long, slow breath and stood, making his way back to the bedrooms to get himself dressed and showered for the day.

The midday sun was relentless over the villa, bronzing bare shoulders and soaking into the terracotta tiles that circled the pool. A few of the boys lingered by the make-shift gym, shirtless and smug as they just want the ladies to give them a second look, attempting half-hearted workouts between bursts of banter.

You were stretched out on a beanbag near the lawn, sunglasses perched on your nose, the edge of your thigh sticking to the vinyl under you. Ella sat beside you, her legs swinging gently as she watched Mitch try to pull himself up on the bars — and fail spectacularly.

“Bless him,” she muttered. “That bar’s got more fight in it than he does.”

You huffed a laugh, only half-listening, your attention flicking, despite every reason to not look, across the pool, to where Harry stood. His curls were messily pushed back into a backwards hat, his skin kissed golden, and he was laughing at something Mitch said with his arms crossed, shoulders flexing with the movement.

He looked good—which, of course, only made it worse.

PING, PING.

Tiana nearly dropped her sunglasses scrambling for it, “I got a text!”

She swiped up, squinting at the screen, then read aloud with a grin in her voice, “Islanders, it’s time for a friendly game of Truth or Dare! Gather at the lawn and get ready to spill… or snog. #NoSecretsNoMercy #MakeItHot”

Jess immediately groaned into her palms. “This is going to end with someone crying or kissing the wrong person.”

“Or both,” Ella added brightly, standing and smoothing down her bikini bottoms.

You pushed up to stand, smoothing your own top with steady hands. You could feel it creeping in — that dull twist of dread in your belly that held fear and anticipation. These challenges always rubbed salt into the wounds, so you hoped that you could at least stand through it.

Harry was still across the way. He had been giving you a glance, gaze catching yours. You didn’t look back.

The Islanders gathered on the lawn, sitting cross-legged in a loose circle around a crate filled with rolled-up dares. Everyone was in swimwear, glistening with SPF and tension so high on their shoulders that it felt like the weight of the world. On the surface, it was all grins and sun and bare skin as they prepared for the game to start.

Mitch, of course, stood up to go first while the rest of the Islanders clapped around him. He reached in dramatically and read it out loud with an exaggerated gasp.

“Dare — give a lap dance to the Islander you think is most your type.”

“Oh God,” Jess muttered, already dreading what was coming. She placed a hand over her face to keep the blush off of it.

Mitch grinned, turned to her like it wasn’t obvious. “Well, she already knows it’s her.”

Then he dropped into a squirming, floppy attempt at a lap dance, humping the air while Jess screamed laughing and swatted at him. The circle erupted into chaotic laughter and dramatic sound effects of barking and whooping.

“I swear,” Jess muttered, wiping tears from her eyes, “if I wanted to see trauma in real time, I’d rewatch Movie Night.”

Next was Tiana, standing up to stand in front of everyone. She plucked a scroll and arched a brow as she took in a deep breath.

“Truth — which couple do you think won’t last on the outside?”

The noise simmered as everyone leaned in, Harry’s nose scrunched at the question before he bit the inside of his cheek.

She chewed the inside of her cheek for a second as she thought and hummed. “I’ll say Harry and Tash. No shade, really. Just… not feeling it.”

Jess and you look at one another as the boys give a slight groan; Tash gives a look of defeat, shrugging.

“Can I ask what you’re not feeling?” She asks Tiana quickly before catching her off guard.

Tiana licks over her lips, “Don’t know—guess it just feels more physical, and don’t think that will translate outside the villa.”

There’s a bit of tension before Tiana sits back in her space with a few people clapping at her wrapping up, and Tash turns to Megan, “She doesn’t even know what kind of conversations we’ve had.”

“Girl, it’s just a game, yeah?” Tiana leans over with a bit of defensiveness in her words, “Don’t need to be worried about it.”

Instead of allowing the bit argument to continue, it was Harry’s turn to stand up as he wiped his palms on his swim trunks.

You felt the air change around you, hugging your knees to your chest as you squint in the sun. You didn’t look at him, but your body was suddenly very aware of his presence — of the way the game could turn, any second, into something personal. He reached into the crate and pulled a scroll, unraveling it.

“Dare — kiss the Islander you think you have the most unfinished business with.”

The entire group fell quiet; you could tell there was a bit of animosity. You kept your face neutral — lips slack, shoulders relaxed, as you bit the inside of your lip, but your heartbeat had gone tight and fast under your ribs. Your lungs would be bruised from the pace of it.

His barefoot steps were soft in the grass before he let himself move towards you. You didn’t look up until he stopped in front of you. When you did, he was already leaning down and into you.

The kiss landed gently on you, a warm hand cupping your cheek, his lips brushing against yours in a way that was neither showy nor smug. It wasn’t for the crowd, it wasn’t performative. It held a tenderness that you had forgotten about, but you welcomed it without any protest. He meant it, and that somehow made it feel worse.

You didn’t kiss back, not really, but you didn’t pull away either. And when he stepped back, your lips still tingled with the ghost of it. Around the circle, the other Islanders were quiet for a beat. Then Ella let out a low whistle.

“Well,” she muttered, “did we just finish it?”

Tash looked away, not wanting to see the aftermath with a jaw clenched when she knew how this felt. You didn’t care—you couldn’t care about her when you felt this. You were too busy being furious with yourself for how much you felt it.

Then it was your turn. You reached into the crate, pulled a scroll, and unrolled it slowly.

“Dare — whisper a secret into the ear of the person you trust least in the villa.”

The entire group erupted in shrieks and dramatic gasps; you took in a breath as you knew that this could change the entire game.

“Oh my God,” Jess howled. “That’s insane.”

You took another breath, another beat. You contemplated for a moment before you looked around the circle, seeing the faces of them looking back at you. Especially one that felt necessary.

One long, slow inhale, and then you started walking around the circle to the one person that you knew you wanted to whisper to.  You didn’t even glance around too much, his expression unreadable.

You leaned in — lips near his ear, your voice low enough that no one else could hear as you cupped your hand around to keep it soft.

“I almost came up to the Hideaway last night but I wanted you to miss me, and I respect myself too much.”

He flinched; a knowing smile left on his lips just barely. Your eyes met his as you pulled away, even though the sunglasses kept them separate—thankfully. Then you turned, walked back, and sat down again.

Around the circle, mouths were open. Tiana’s jaw was practically on the lawn. Even the boys were murmuring amongst themselves, whispering about the fact that you chose him, “Did she just—?”

Harry didn’t move, didn’t say anything cheeky like he normally would. Instead, he just nodded and leaned back on his palms with his legs stretched out. You didn’t say anything else, you pulled your knees back to your chest.

The game rolled on — more dares, more chaos ensued with the truth bombs letting the Islanders laugh until their stomachs and cheeks hurt just the same. Ella kissed Johnny when asked to kiss the Islander with the sexiest tattoos, Megan was asked her favorite sex position. The usual mess unfolded in the usual way.

But nothing that followed hit quite like that kiss, or that whisper. It was all that you could think about; you knew from how quiet he had gotten, he had it just on his mind the same.

You shifted slightly, adjusting your bikini top and leaning back on your palms as the game moved on. The wooden crate at the center was filled with rolled-up dares and truths, some scrawled in eyeliner, others in smudged pen. Tiana had joked it looked like a cursed offering to the gods of villa chaos.

Harry sat across the circle, his legs stretched out in front of him, ankle crossed over ankle, his sunglasses low on his nose. Tash was next to him, knees grazing his. You hadn’t said a word to him since the kiss earlier.  You weren’t sure if that was better or worse.

Ella nudged you gently as Megan reached into the box.

“She’s definitely pulling something,” Ella murmured under her breath.

You gave her a small shrug, feigning indifference. “She’s always pulling something.”

Megan read the scroll silently first to herself before her lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile.

“Dare,” she read aloud, voice syrupy. “Kiss the Islander you’d most like to share a bed with tonight.”

There were instant reactions around the circle — gasps, hollers, the obligatory Ooooh! from Mitch, who had clearly been hoping it would land on him. But Megan didn’t laugh like everyone had started to. Being another single girl in the villa, you could see the wheels turning in her head before she contemplated her decision.

For a moment, you thought she might play it safe. Choose Mitch or Ronan or even Luca — something cheeky, something meaningless since none of them were in completely serious couples. Something that would make everyone laugh, that would be a passing joke.

But then she looked at Harry and didn’t look away as she started to approach him.

“Oh, come on,” Tiana whispered beside you.

Megan walked, slow, confident steps in the purple bikini that held tight against her bronzed skin, until she was standing directly in front of him. Harry looked up at her, head tilted, his grin lazy.

“Hope you don’t mind,” she commented softly with a smile on her face.

He chuckled back with his head tilted back for more access. “Not complaining.”

The kiss wasn’t long, but it was intentional. She kissed him like she wanted people to watch — like she wanted you to watch. Her hand on his shoulder, lips lingering just a breath longer than necessary. You turned your head away from watching, because it wasn’t worth seeing the stupid, cocky grin that laid on his face.

When she pulled back, she winked at him, then sauntered back to her place like she’d just won a round. You didn’t move with the reaction that was probably stoking. But the heat behind your ribs spread into something cold.

Ella exhaled with a whisper. “That was messy.”

“She’s desperate,” Tiana said flatly, raising her brows as she brushed some of the grass off the back of her thighs.

Harry, to his credit, didn’t say anything—no cheeky comment, no turning towards the boys to give a stupid, irreverent statement. He rubbed his jaw again and avoided looking directly at you, which only confirmed everything you already knew.

Then, it was Tash’s turn to draw from the crate.

She reached into the crate, cheeks already slightly pink from sun or nerves, hard to tell. She unraveled the scroll with a flick of her nails and read it aloud:

“Dare,” she said. “Kiss the Islander with the most underrated chat.”

There was a gap after she stated that it was a dare; her eyes wandering around the group for a moment. The girls looked at one another, then back to you.

“Well, that’s dangerous,” Luca muttered.

All eyes shifted to Harry.

Even he seemed to expect it, already straightening his posture slightly, his smirk creeping back. You could see the hope flicker behind his expression — the assumption that he was the obvious answer. That even after the kiss, even after everything, she’d come back to him.

But she didn’t.

Tash stood, didn’t look at Harry, and walked across the circle toward Ronan. Your head tilted slightly. Ella sat up straighter beside you.

Ronan blinked with a stupid smirk, like all of his hopes and dreams had suddenly come true. “Wait, what?”

“I think you’re slept on,” Tash said casually, then leaned in and kissed him.

It was quick with no lingering, but it was certainly not meaningless in the slightest, either. When she returned to her spot, still not looking at Harry, the silence that followed was louder than the few gasps and groans.

“How do you feel about that, Harry?” Johnny asked quietly, a smug smile on his face as he leaned to look at his friend.

Harry shrugged, nonchalance lacing over his features before he shook his head. “We’re not real big on chatting, are we. Guess I can get over that.”

Tash let the smirk on her face take over before she shook her head, “At least we have finished business.”

Harry’s expression didn’t change much, but you noticed the tension in his jaw. The flex of his fingers against his thigh. He didn’t like not being chosen.

And when he finally glanced at you, your face was unreadable.

You didn’t smile; you didn’t gloat. You just looked at him like you’d finally stopped expecting anything at all, which hit him harder than anything had before.

{NARRATOR}

Well, the sun might be going down… but Harry’s emotional confusion? That’s just getting warmed up. Nothing like a kiss with your ex to make your current flame feel super secure.

The heat still clung to everything, the railings, the beanbags, the inside of Harry’s chest. He wasn’t really in a rush to process what just happened — not the way his lips had moved against yours in front of everyone, not the way you’d looked at him after, not the way his pulse had lingered there in his throat for minutes after he’d sat back down.

Instead, he wandered through the villa and caught sight of the daybeds.

He found Tash sprawled on the edge of the daybeds, long legs crossed at the ankles, sunglasses perched on top of her head, glinting in the last light. She was leaning back on her elbows, looking almost bored as she talked with Megan quietly; to which, Harry couldn’t understand the seriousness of the conversation — except for the glint in her eye when she saw him approaching.

“Can I pull you for a chat, then?” Harry asked quietly before Megan gave a smirk, and Tash nodded softly before taking Harry’s hand to get yup.

“So…” she said, her voice light and teasing, “unfinished business, yeah?”

Harry scratched at the back of his neck as he grinned, the charm returning like a reflex he couldn’t help but show off. “What can I say? I follow instructions.”

Tash approached the benches under the balcony, laying softly on them before she arched a brow in question. “Didn’t seem like a hard decision.”

“Didn’t say it was.” He dropped down beside her without ceremony, settling into the cushions with an easy familiarity, head tilted toward her. The tension between them had always been this — playful, poking, just a little dangerous.

“But don’t get it twisted,” he added, voice lowering slightly. “You’ve been trouble since the second you walked into Casa.”

Tash laughed softly, her eyes narrowing in amusement. “You liked it, though.”

Harry pursed his lips, shaking his head, “Never said I didn’t.”

She shifted, leaning in just a hair, her voice dipping into something slower. “Still think I’m a bit of a nightmare?”

Harry chuckled, deep and quiet, making eye contact now before he let his dimples protrude with a smirk. “One hundred percent.” Then, after a beat: “But I rate it. Keeps me on my toes.”

That earned a proper smile from her — small, pleased, but not smug. She liked the game just as much as he did; she liked the teasing, and she knew how much it had bothered him that she kissed someone else.

“So, what now?” she asked, flipping her sunglasses onto the top of her head. “You’ve had your dramatic moment. What’s next, Mr. Mixed Signals?”

He exhaled through his nose, letting his gaze drift up to the dusky sky for a moment. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’m not closed off.”

“Oh, clearly,” Tash said, her voice dry and soft, almost like it was just under her breath.

He turned toward her again, laughing. “Oi.”

“What?” She smirked. “You snog your ex-missus with unfinished business and then come lay with me — what am I supposed to think?”

Harry leaned in slightly, his elbow brushing hers. His eyes flicked to her mouth for a split second — barely long enough to register, but enough that she noticed.

“That I’m exploring my options,” he told her with honesty laced in his voice. He stared up at her, pulling his sunglasses into his curls before he tilted his head.

Tash tilted her head, unimpressed but intrigued. “Exploring… or just being greedy? Can’t buy the cow and get the milk, or whatever the phrase is.”

That slow, half-smirk returned to his face — the one that made it hard to tell whether he was serious or just playing.

“It’s my money, innit?” He joked, “I’m paying my dues.”

She let out a low, breathy laugh and leaned back, giving him space again. “Well. If you’re still exploring…and if you’re paying for the milk.”

She looked at him, all glittering eyes and heat beneath her lashes; she didn’t want to lean in when she knew that others were looking, but Tash felt that her “You know where to find me.”

{CONFESSIONAL - TASH}

Tash shook her head, pulling her lips into her mouth.

“I think that Harry is playing a game with me, but I do think we have undeniable chemistry, so I can see it in his face,” She bites her lip, “I know he was with Y/N, but the whole point of Love Island is to test that connection and I think I’m throwing him for a loop a bit.”

{IN THE VILLA}

Harry watched her for a moment, neither leaning in nor pulling away because they both know what they want but can’t have. Just letting the tension hang there — that charged, magnetic in-between that he never seemed to leave lately.

He didn’t answer; he didn’t have to.

{CONFESSIONAL – HARRY}

He’s sitting on the confessional bench, arms draped on his thighs, sunglasses pushed into his curls. He sighs with a little smirk, shaking his head like he’s completely unaware of the fact that he could potentially be making a huge mistake.

“Look, I don’t regret bringing Tash back.” A single beat passes before he looks up, “But I needed to be more respectful.”

All that he displays is a shrug and a much wider grin, almost like he can’t control himself.

“Did I handle any of this perfectly? Nah. Do I still think Tash is fit? Absolutely. But I’ve got history with her… and now I’ve got chemistry with Tash.”

He leans forward slightly, eyes mischievous.

“The villa’s just got complicated again, hasn’t it?”

{IN THE DRESSING ROOM}

Somewhere outside, a bottle of sunscreen hit the deck with a hollow thud, and someone’s laughter echoed near the pool. Ella tossed her sunglasses onto the marble counter with a casual flick of her wrist, shaking out her hair to prepare to slick it back for the evening cocktail hour.

“Did anyone else clock that little daybed moment?” she said, not looking at either you or Tiana, just raising an eyebrow at her own reflection as she reached for her mascara.

Behind her, Tiana let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Harry and Tash? Yeah, babe. Clocked it, logged it in my journal, highlighted it in bold.”

You sat down on the bench beneath the vanity row, toweling the back of your neck slowly, methodically — like if you focused hard enough on that one motion, it might help you care a little less. It didn’t, obviously.

Ella turned slightly, watching you in the mirror now. “He kissed you today because of ‘unfinished business’. And now he’s laid out all flirty with the girl he brought back?” Her voice was sharp but not cruel; it was the kind of protective edge that only surfaced when someone she cared about was getting mugged off.

“He’s playing it both ways,” Tiana added, applying bronzer without missing a beat. “It’s like he’s not getting properly told off.”

You glanced at your reflection for a moment; you see your hair damp at the ends, face slightly flushed from the heat and all the things you weren’t saying. You weren’t crying. But you looked… tired.

“He said he still wanted to explore,” you murmured, the words tasting thinner out loud than they had in your head.

Ella blinked, putting a hair tie in her mouth to pull her hair back into a pony. “And you think Tash is gonna back off now?”

You shrugged, rubbing the towel between your hands. “She said I could trust her,” you said softly. “I just… feel like I’m the one looking stupid again.”

There was a silence then after you spoke, not a cold one, just the kind that falls when friends are trying to find the right words to say. Then Tiana twisted in her stool to face you properly.

“Babes,” she said, voice firmer now. “He’s the one looking confused.” She gave you a once-over, head to toe. “You? You’re still the girl everyone wants, and you’re going to move on if he’s going to never mind the bollocks.”

You looked up, meeting her eyes — and there it was. That flicker of belief passed between you. You weren’t sure you fully felt it yet, but it was something. Enough to hold onto for the moment, at least until you could talk with him. A slow, reluctant smile curved your mouth.

It wasn’t big or overstated, but it was real. And in this villa, that counted for a lot.

{IN THE VILLA – EVENING}

Glasses clinked on countertops as everyone made their way from the bedroom and dressing rooms down to the main portion of the lawn. Laughter drifted like smoke across the patio as Johnny made a comment about earlier; Harry sat with Tash next to him, having a quick chat. The cocktail hour hum had settled — less chaotic than daytime, more dangerous in its calm.

You walked over to Luca who was standing next to Megan; the light from the string lights overhead was just starting to glow faintly, casting a warm halo on the top of his head.

As you approached, he glanced to the other side of him at the subtle notice of someone next to him. “Well, well,” he said, eyebrows raised. “This feels suspicious.”

You gave him a tired smile. “Mind if I pull you for a quick chat?”

He grinned, tilting his head. “Ooooh. What’s this, then? Bit of unfinished business?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smirk tugging at your mouth. “If I have to hear that one more time,” You joked, shaking your head as you started walking towards the seats underneath the terrace, “Just a little something different, then. Come on.”

You led him toward the corner of the garden, where the fairy lights were brighter and the noise faded to murmurs. There was a bench tucked between two planters, shaded by a low-hanging olive tree. The kind of spot you could be overheard in — but only if someone really wanted to.

Luca dropped beside you, his knee knocking lightly against yours as you both melted into the seats.

He looked at you, taking a drink from his cup. “So… what’s going on? How was that challenge for you today?”

You exhaled, giving him a solid smile but knowing how much was beneath it. “I’m trying really hard not to spiral—but I genuinely think I’m going mad.”

He didn’t press. Just nodded once, because he knew exactly what you meant and exactly who you were referring to.

You shrugged, eyes flicking toward the pool where the rest of the villa buzzed around. “It’s like… I know who he is. I’ve known since the start, right? I could tell he was a flirt and he doesn’t hide it. But today — the kiss, then chatting to Tash after like it didn’t even mean anything — I just…” Your voice trailed off when you realized how mad it all sounded—how completely lost in delusion you may have been from it. The knot in your chest cinched a little tighter.

“I need to stop waiting for someone to pick me, and I guess I’m just stuck in wondering if I should continue with the connection or not because I don’t want leave here with the thought of knowing we could patch things up, you know?”

Luca was quiet for a moment. Then he smiled with a soft, tilted, a little cocky but not performative grin.

“Well,” he started, hands in his lap as he held his cup against his knees, “if you’re done waiting… maybe it’s time you start getting picked by someone who actually sees what’s in front of him—like you’re a catch, and I know that Casa kind of rocked the villa, as it does, but I think you may need to have a bit more stability.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how gentle it landed, and how it could be harsh in the softest of ways.

He shrugged, taking in a deep breath as he turned his eyes up to look at you. “I’ve been single two days and I already know you’re better than that mess.”

You gave a laugh — not the tight, forced one you’d been perfecting lately. A little breathy, but yours.

“So what,” you said, bumping your shoulder into his, “Will you be pulling me for more chats then?”

Luca smirked, licking over his lips. “I mean…,” He bit his lip, letting the silence from your private dwelling hang for a beat before finishing: “If the door’s cracked open, I’d be mad not to try. You’re gorgeous and I think you have a lot more connections you could build, but you put all of your eggs in his basket the first day.”

You looked at him, really looked at his brown eyes and his bronzed skin and something in you settled. Maybe not all the way, but enough.

You smiled, leaning back for a moment. “Consider it cracked—ajar, really.”

His grin widened as he gave you a small laugh, confident now. Sure, but not smug like you had known from some of the other boys. He didn’t reach for your hand, didn’t lean in. Just stayed close — close enough for you to feel the shift.

{CONFESSIONAL – LUCA}

Luca sits on the confessional bench, freshly showered, with his hair still damp, and a grin lazily crossing his features.

“Look, I didn’t come in thinking me and her would be a thing, yeah? She’s been locked in with Harry since the first week, so I didn’t even try.”

He pauses, smirks a little and looks into the camera. “But now? Door’s cracked open. She pulled me for a chat, and I’m not stupid — she’s stunning, she’s smart, and she’s not about the games. Which is rare in here.”

He leans forward, eyes glinting with something that resembled hope and a bit of change that felt scarier to initiate than to think about.

“Do I know where it’s going? Not yet. But if there’s a spark — I’ll go for it. Life’s short, the villa’s mad… might as well see what happens.”

{NARRATOR}

As the sun sets on another chaotic day in paradise, Harry’s losing grip, Tash is lying low, and Y/N might just have a new someone cracking on. And if we’ve learned anything by now, it’s that nothing stays quiet for long in this villa.

You sat near the fire pit, your knees pulled up to your chest on one of the cushions, sipping from your water bottle and letting the warmth of the flames kiss your shins. Most of the Islanders had drifted to have more chats with their respective couple, others bantered laughter which still echoed faintly from the hallway.

Footsteps approached behind you, slow and tentative, and you didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

He hovered for a second, then took the empty cushion beside you without a word—he didn’t ask to sit, didn’t ask for a chat. The space between you felt charged—not in an angry way, but a cautious way. Like the next few minutes would matter more than either of you wanted to admit.

He let out a long breath, then looked ahead at the fire.

“You alright?” he asked finally, voice low, barely above the crackle of the flames.

You nodded once, wanting to give an air of confidence that would allow him to shuffle in his own skin for a minute; you just didn’t have it in you. “Yeah.”

The silene was louder than anything else around here, you came to find. Then you turned slightly, your cheek resting on your knee, eyes on him. His curls were a little damp from his post-game shower. The firelight flickered in his eyes.

“That dare,” you commented softly. “Unfinished business, huh?”

His jaw tensed, then relaxed again. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, like the words he needed were stuck somewhere deep.

“Everyone’s been on me about this, but I just don’t know who else I was supposed to say, like,” he said eventually. “Didn’t do it to stir things. I just—” He looked at you, properly. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

You didn’t answer right away, you just chewed on the inside of your cheek as you stared at the flames in the firepit. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“I know I messed it up—like I know the Tash thing looks like—well, it looks like exactly what it is. And I’m not gonna sit here and pretend like it was the worst thing that could ever happen to our relationship, because it’s not. I’m here to build a connection.”

You looked at him carefully, watching how his shoulders slumped slightly when he said it — like it cost him something to admit out loud.

“It’s not about that Harry,” you said, not wanting to raise your quiet voice. “It’s—fuck, it’s about the trust, you know? Like I get it, I know where you’re coming from. But you were sharing a bed, you were—”

“I know.” His eyes were pained; he rolled them almost like he couldn’t believe himself at how ridiculous it all sounded. “And you had every right to. I shouldn’t’ve—Christ, I shouldn’t’ve let it get to that point with her. I told myself we were open, that I was just testing stuff like everyone else.”

He trailed off, shaking his head.

“But I wasn’t thinking about the game. I was thinking about you. And I just—I didn’t want to be the guy who came back alone and looked pathetic.”

You gave a slight frown at his word choice. “So you brought someone back to save face?”

“No.” He looked at you sharply. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I didn’t use her. I just—look, we got on. But I didn’t feel what I feel with you. And that kiss today?” He leaned back slightly, his voice lowering. “That wasn’t to be a dick. That was real—we have unfinished business because I’m attracted to you and it all just keeps coming back to being intimate and having that to hold onto.”

Your heart kicked at the memory — of his hands, his voice, his mouth whispering into your shoulder in the dark of that shared bed. The covers pulled over your heads, the soft breaths and the warmth of his fingertips as they crept over your skin in a way that felt needed.

“Everything about that meant something to me,” he added, his voice wavered a bit, but you still didn’t look him in the eyes. “And I never said it, because I thought we were taking it slow. But I shouldn’t’ve treated what we had like it was replaceable. I see that now.”

You looked down at your hands, fingers twisting in your lap as you let your legs fall from your chest, down to the group.

“I don’t know if I can trust you again,” you murmured, contemplating. “I don’t know if that door’s still open.”

“I’m not asking you to throw it wide, you know,” he said, licking over his lips with a hesitancy, “I’m just asking if it’s still on the hinges.”

That made you laugh, just a little — a tiny exhale through your nose. He took that as permission to go on.

“I want to do it right,” he said, more quietly now. “I don’t want to force it. I just want the chance to show you I can be who you thought I was — before Casa. Before all this.”

You turned your head toward him; his eyes, his expression wasn’t smug, or flirty, or even hopeful. It was sincere. It was a part of Harry that you hadn’t seen before, this sincerity that wasn’t laced in a flirtation or hunger. You bite your lip, unsure of what to say. You weren’t ready to forgive, but not ready to walk away either.

“Actions will speak louder than words,” you whispered, the only words that would come to mind as you nodded.

He nodded, to confirm with you. “I’m not rushing you. I just… needed you to know where I’m at.”

The silence stretched again — but this time, it felt gentler. Less jagged. Eventually, you both leaned back on your cushions, saying nothing more. The fire crackled between you, and the rest of the villa buzzed quietly behind you.

For the first time in days, you weren’t sure what came next. And maybe that gave you unexplained clarity that you were looking for, in an odd sense.

{LATER IN THE VILLA}

It was late enough that the villa had quieted, the sky a rich navy with stars just beginning to peek through the gaps in the night. Most of the Islanders were winding down — some lingering in the kitchen for a final snack, others getting their microphones changed or slipping into their PJs.

Tash sat outside on the large blue beanbag near the edge of the pool, her hair up in a lazy bun, shoulders bare beneath the thin straps of her pajama cami. She looked tired — not in a physical way, but in the way someone did when they were thinking a little too hard about things they weren’t quite ready to say out loud.

Mitch dropped down beside her without asking, swinging a leg up and letting his water bottle rest against his knee.

“You look like your head’s doing circles,” he said, nudging her with his elbow.

Tash gave a weak smile, sniffling in as she took in a breath. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying,” Mitch added, more gently this time. “Where’s your head at?”

“Don’t know, really. Guess it’s just a bit confusing because I think he’s telling her something different than what he’s telling me,” She huffed, folding her arms. “I knew something was still there with them. You can just… tell, right?”

Mitch tilted his head. “Yeah. But I don’t think that makes you a mug, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

She hesitated, pushing her glasses up on her nose, removed of the makeup that had been added. “I mean, it kind of does. He brought me back here, kissed me, slept in the same bed. And now he’s acting like she’s the only one who ever mattered, you know what I mean? Like, sure, he didn’t do everything right—but he brought me back because we had a connection, too, and now Y/N has his tail between his legs.”

Mitch raised an eyebrow, knowing those were words that would stir the villa up. “Did he tell you he was done with her?”

“No. Not in those words.” She picked at a loose thread on the beanbag. “But he let me think there was space for something. And now he’s running off whispering by the fire pit with her, acting like I’m invisible.”

There was a beat of silence, as Mitch looks over to see Harry talking with Y/N as they brushed their teeth; it looked more of a passing conversation but understanding where the pain may have come from. She looked at him, something honest flickering across her face.

Mitch nodded slowly, taking a sip of his water. “So what’s the move, then?”

Tash exhaled through her nose, looking out at the still water on the beaches beyond the villa.

“I’m not chasing anyone,” she told him firmly, with confidence and a bit of disbelief that he’d think that of her. “If he wants her, fine. But I’m not gonna be the fallback girl he cuddles up to when she ignores him.”

Mitch grinned. “There she is.”

Tash smirked at that. “I’m still in this villa. I’ve still got options. If Harry’s not gonna take me seriously, someone else might.”

Mitch leaned back on his own beanbag. “Fair play. Just… don’t let his drama dim you, yeah? You’ve got more going on than being a plot point in their love story.”

She nudged him with her foot with a giggle. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Anytime, kiddo.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the sounds of laughter drifting faintly from the dressing room. And for the first time that day—or the entire time since she had shown up, Tash didn’t feel like the villain in someone else’s romance. She felt like a girl who still had something to play for.

{THE NEXT DAY}

The villa had that still, sticky quality that made everyone move slower — sunscreen being slathered on shoulders, sunglasses traded back and forth, bodies sprawled on beanbags in soft, easy conversation. You were lying by the pool, legs dangling in the water, head tilted back toward the sun.

It felt like the calm after the storm. Truth or Dare had left its mess, but the edges were softening, and  conversations were mending or fraying quietly in corners.

Until the voice rang out:

“Islanders!”

Everyone’s heads snapped up in unison.

There, framed perfectly in the entrance, stood Maya Jama — radiant as ever in a red halter-neck sundress and heels that somehow didn’t sink into the grass. Her sunglasses were already pushed up onto her head, dark curls bouncing as she stepped down the path like she owned it.

Chaos always followed Maya, and that made your heart skip a beat as you stood and started to put yourself back together.

Ella let out a gasp, quickly walking next to you. “Oh, she’s here. That means something’s happening.”

You stood up slowly, water dripping from your legs, a jolt of nerves waking in your chest.

Maya gave a little wave, her smile knowing. “Get up, everyone! Come join me by the fire pit!”

The Islanders scrambled, towels dropped, sunglasses adjusted. Harry was the last to move, hanging back slightly, his jaw already tight.

Maya waited until everyone was in place, scanning the group with that perfect host smile — the one that said brace yourselves without needing to say it. Then she turned to the entrance.

“How is everyone doing?” She asked with reverent happiness and calmness that told you all that something was going to happen—something was coming.

Everyone gave a few grunts and nods of acknowledgement before Luca answered for the group, “Think we’ve had our share of some ups and down, but I think overall, we’re doing well.”

Maya smirked slightly before she nodded, “Good—good to hear. Well, we have a recoupling tonight, and to help with that, I thought it may be time for you all to meet two new bombshells!”

“Oh, shit—oh hell.” Gasps rippled through the firepit area instantly as your heart started to beat faster in your chest.

From behind her walked a tall, athletic guy with sandy brown hair and bright blue eyes, his white shirt open enough to show off his chest tattoos. A beat behind him came a dark-haired girl in a cobalt blue bikini top and wrap skirt, her smile confident and eyes already flicking over the group like she was scanning for prey.

“This is William and Catie,” Maya announced to the group when they came to stand next to her. “And they’re ready to make some waves.”

You barely had time to register William’s sharp jawline and the fact that Catie was already eyeing the boys like she was placing bets, before Maya continued, looking over at both of them as they looked back at her.

“William, Catie — you’ll each be taking an Islander of your choice on a date today. You’ve had a sneak peek… so who are you choosing, and who needs to get ready to go?”

William stepped forward, his grin easy, his gaze landing right on you—you’d almost wish he stopped looking at you like that, because your heart fluttered for a moment.

“I’d like to take Y/N,” he said, a bit confident. You hear a strong accent, similar to Harry’s, really. You can tell that his blood boils at that—you just know that he’s buzzing.

The breath caught in your throat — not from shock, exactly, but from the sudden shift in atmosphere. You felt Harry look at you before you even turned your head, but you kept your expression neutral.

Catie went next. Her voice was smooth. “I’d love to take Luca.”

Luca laughed, clapping his hands together. “Let’s go, then, Catie.”

The two of you were whisked away a moment later — escorted out to get ready, the villa already buzzing behind you with whispers, glances, smirks.

Back at the fire pit, Harry stood with his arms crossed, watching the path where you’d disappeared. His mouth was set in a tight line, sunglasses hiding his eyes — but everyone who knew him could see the shift.

Mitch leaned over, nudging him. “Fair play, mate. Bit of your own medicine, that.”

Harry didn’t answer. He just stared after you.

{IN A CONFESSIONAL - HARRY}

 Harry leaned back on the bench, rubbing a hand through his hair.

“She looks fit today in that tiny yellow bikini,” he admitted, lips twitching into something that might’ve been a smile — or a grimace. “The lad’s not blind.”

He paused.

“D’you know what, though? Fair play. I’ve made mistakes. I brought someone else back. So if this tests our connection — maybe it needs testing.”

But his eyes didn’t quite match his voice. Not when he added:

“I just hope she remembers what we had before everything got messy. That it meant something..”

He shook his head with a quiet laugh, looking straight into the camera.

Your expression falls flat as you toss a piece of popcorn at him. “H, seriously.”

“What?”

“We’re supposed to be studying.”

“We are.”

“No, actually studying.” You toss another piece at him, which he catches in his mouth. “Harry—"

“The Albedo Effect is the reflectivity of the Earth’s surface,” he finally says before grinning smugly. “There. Happy?” 

“Mm.”

“Since I got it right, do I win a kiss?”

“No. You win another question,” you say before switching to the next notecard. “Okay, what is the average temperature of the Earth’s surface?”

“27.”

“Harry.”

He laughs before he’s reaching across the bed to grab the stack of notebooks, cards, and books all over your lap. Effortlessly discarding of them while leaning toward you to ghost his lips over yours. “59 degrees Fahrenheit.”

Your lashes flutter. You want to argue. Want to fight him and demand your things back. But it’s hard when he’s this close. “Um…right.”

He smiles, mouth dangerously tempting as it dances along the curve of your jaw. “Give me another.”

“I…” You swallow. “I can’t. You stole my cards.”

“Oh, did I? Oops.”

“You’re mean.”

“Yeah. But you like me.”

“Not right now.”

“Yes now. Always.”

You huff. “I’m not…I’m not kissing you until we finish studying—”

“Well, I’m not studying until you kiss me.”

“Harry—”

“What, angel?”

You fist his shirt. You mean to push him away and yet somehow, he ends up even closer. “I didn’t invite you over for this.”

“I know.” He smirks again. “This is just a bonus.”

“We agreed to study.”

“We are.”

“Jessica’s gonna be back soon—”

“So?”

“So, you know you can’t be here when she gets here,” you remind him, finally finding the strength to shove him back. “Come on, a few more questions and then we can take a break.”

“You said that a few questions ago,” he argues.

You grab the cards. “Oops.”

Fifteen minutes go by before you finally reach the end of your notes, earning a loud sigh from your study buddy as he flops onto his back in defeat. 

“That was awful,” he declares. His head rolls until his eyes find yours. A soft green beneath those long lashes. “You take way too many notes.”

“I like to be prepared,” you pout as you stand and put them back on your desk. “You don’t take nearly enough.”

“Because I have you.”

“Yeah, well…that’s cheating.”

“It’s not cheating if I’m helping you use them.”

You turn around and place your hands on your hips. “You’re annoying, you know that?”

“Yeah.” He sits up and reaches for you. Easily tugging you between his legs as you try—futilely—not to fall for that gorgeous grin. “And yet you keep me around.”

“Mm…for now.”

“For now, huh?” His large hands slip beneath the hem of your shirt and you do nothing to stop him. “You just use me for my cock, is that it? Cause I’m a good fuck?”

Your skin grows warm as you look away. “Stop it, don’t say it like that.”

“What? M’I embarrassing you, pretty girl?” he whispers. He squeezes your sides, palms soft against your stomach. “Which part did it? Cock or fuck?”

You close your eyes and groan. “Harry—”

“What? They’re just words, baby.”

“Yeah, but they’re dirty words.”

He’s grinning again. Arrogant and far too smug. “I’ve seen this pretty mouth do far dirtier things—”

You bury your face in your hands to hide. “Please don’t remind me—”

“Why not? Hm? You don’t wanna remember the way you took me down your throat like a good girl?” He lifts your shirt and presses a gentle kiss just below your belly button. “Or what about the way you scratched your nails down my back as you came? Crying my name until your voice went raw?”

“Harry…”

“What about when I fingered you under the table?” he murmurs, then moves his kisses up your torso. One after the other. Slow. “And you had to bite your cute, little lip to keep from moaning?”

You start to squirm. “H…H, please—”

“What about the time I bent you over that desk—” He nods his chin toward the table in the corner of your dorm room. “—and made you cum so hard, you squirted.”

You make another noise and melt into his touch. They’re good memories, you know that. But they do unspeakable things to your anxiety. Just the thought of what someone might say…the idea of what the two of you have done. You weren’t raised to think or feel so freely and Harry is a master at making you nervous.

You’ve done more with him than you ever have anyone else. More than you imagined you’d ever do. And even if you wouldn’t trade it for the world, you can’t say you really welcome the reminder.

His kisses reach your chest. Naked and bare and begging to be touched. “You can be dirty, too, pretty girl.” 

Your hand finds his hair. Fingers sweeping through his soft curls that are normally restrained by some sort of beanie or bandana. “H…”

He hums. He knows he’s embarrassing you. But you suppose that’s why he does it. 

The small room falls silent, save for the gentle sounds of his kisses as they move toward your breast. His tongue is dangerously close and you know if he gets his way, you’ll never get anything else done.

However, just before those pretty pink lips can make contact, you hear the sound of your roommate’s voice down the hall. Loud enough to startle you and pull you out from between his legs.

Quickly, you’re tugging your shirt back down and grabbing his hand to lead him to the window. Nearly shoving him out onto the fire escape before he’s even had a chance to catch his breath.

“Go,” you whisper as you toss his flannel at him. “Hurry.”

“You know, as much as I like being your dirty little secret, you know she’s gonna find out eventually,” he says while dipping beneath the window frame until he’s completely out of the room.

“I know. But today is not that day.”

Once you’re sure she won’t see him, you get ready to close the curtains. But you’re stopped by his large hand slipping around the back of your neck as he yanks your mouths together. Finally getting the kiss he so desperately wanted.

“You’re still coming to the party this Friday, yeah?” he murmurs against your lips.

You kiss him back just once before you’re shoving at him again. “We’ll see,” you call.

He winks.

With that, the window slams shut, and he disappears into the darkness. Right as Jessica slips inside the room and begins to tell you about her incredibly long day.

And every trace of Harry has gone.

“Ten minutes. Just ten minutes. And if we hate it, we can leave.”

“All right, fine,” you agree, begrudgingly following your friend into the large, familiar house that sits a few miles outside of campus. “Ten. But if I get a single drink spilled on me…I’m out.”

“Deal.”

You laugh as Jess throws her arm around your shoulders to lead you inside, shoving past the group of college students already gathering in the living room.

Every inch of the house is packed full of people. The music is loud, the smell of weed is strong, and a lively game of cup pong is being had down the hall. Truth be told, this scene always tends to catch you off guard. No, this isn’t your first party. But you were raised in a world and in a home where drugs and alcohol were never present. 

You don’t mind being around them or watching people participate, but the concept is still rather foreign to you. Even if Harry’s presence in your life is beginning to change that.

Speaking of, you can’t help but search for him as Jessica drags you from room to room. You imagine he’s around somewhere. After all, this is his frat house, and you’ve never known him to miss a party.

But with the football game happening tomorrow night, you wonder if he’ll be out practicing or if he’ll be here with his teammates, pre-gaming.

You catch a glimpse of his red, backwards baseball cap as you’re leaving the kitchen. He’s across the house, clad in a black, graphic t-shirt and skinny jeans, leaning against the wall as he talks to one of his friends.

He’s nodding along to something they’re saying, taking slow sips of whatever’s in his solo cup while lazily looking around.

And that’s when he finds you.

Even with all these people, you feel like the only two in the room. And you catch the way he smiles. A soft, secret smirk meant just for you. And a gleam in his eye as he takes another sip and returns to his conversation.

He’s glad you’re here and honestly, you think you are, too.

“Oh, Zack, there you are!” Jessica suddenly exclaims before she’s yanking you toward one of the guys on Harry’s team. “Zack, this is the friend I was telling you about.”

A bit confused, you and Zack exchange a nod as your roommate begins the excited introductions.

“This is the guy I wanted to set you up with,” she whispers under her breath before straightening up. “So, uh, Zack! You’re single, right?”

Even more surprised, Zack blinks as his attention drifts to you. He hesitates, and for just a moment, you wonder if he recognizes you.

This isn’t the first time you’ve been in this house. And it’s not the first time you’ve met Zack. However, you and Harry have been rather diligent about keeping your visits a secret, even from the other boys that live here.

Still, Zack almost caught you once when you were forced to hide in the shower as he brushed his teeth. And even though he didn’t seem to notice, Harry mentioned that he did see the earrings you accidentally left behind. The same earrings he proceeded to tease Harry about for the next week.

And the same earrings you’re wearing now.

But, if he’s begun to put two and two together, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he shakes his head. “Nah, not really. I’m kind of seeing Annie. I guess.”

You smirk. “You guess?”

“I mean, we’re fucking,” he argues. “But, like…I wouldn’t say we’re together. But she would. I don’t know. But she’d be fucking pissed if I went out with someone else.”

To your surprise, Zack seems to be covering for you. Because you happen to know Annie is actually seeing Derek. She and Zack never got past the drunk-fuck phase, but it seems Jessica doesn’t realize the lie being told. That, or she’s lost interest.

“Oh, boo,” she pouts before turning to you. “Well, I tried. Sorry, babe.”

You laugh. “More than all right. I’m…I’m gonna go use the bathroom and maybe look for some water. I’ll meet you here in a bit?”

“Yes! Text me! Or call me. Or…just yell my name really loud,” she says, already slipping into the next room. “Whenever you wanna go, we will, okay? Seriously.”

“Got it,” you call. And with that, the two of you split. Leaving you to look for the only man you really care to see.

He’s no longer talking to his friend and doesn’t seem to be in the lower part of the house. So, you make your way to the next floor. Shoving past couples making out on the staircase and groups doing blow in the bathroom.

He might be in his room, although that’s perhaps a little too obvious. You still aren’t ready for people to know that the two of you are…well, whatever you two are. And you can’t imagine he is, either. Not considering his reputation and the other girls he’s been with before. 

Compared to them, you’re just…you.

Swallowing your own disappointment, you continue down the hall in search of him when a large hand suddenly wraps around your upper arm and yanks you into a bedroom.

You aren’t surprised that it’s him. You aren’t even surprised that he’s brought you back to his room. You are, however, rather confused by the giddy grin on his face.

“You came,” he whispers before he’s shoving you against the closed door and kissing you hard. “Been waiting all fucking night to see you.”

You’re breathless. You always are when you’re with him, but this…now. His kiss, his touch, his voice. The sultry way he speaks that goes straight to the place between your thighs.

“Missed you,” he says. He sucks on the spot below your ear. “God, I really fucking missed you, angel. You have no idea.”

“You saw me this morning,” you remind him. “And for lunch in your car.”

“S’too long,” he argues. “You don’t know what you do to me, baby.”

You grin. Even if you know he’s merely being cute, you can’t help but believe him. “Yeah, okay.”

“I mean it. Besides, you think I wanna watch Zack fucking hit on you all goddamn night?”

You lean back. “You saw?”

“Course I fucking saw. Could hear that shit-eating grin from outside,” he huffs before he’s kissing you again, as if to prove a point. Either to you or to himself. “But he wouldn’t if you’d just let me take you on a proper date.”

“H…”

“Yeah, I know.” His kisses get softer. “I know, I’m sorry.”

“No, I…I get it,” you sigh against his cheek. “I just…it’s hard—”

He takes your face between his hands and makes you look at him. “I know, angel. M’not pushing, I promise. I’ll do whatever you want me to.” 

You squeeze his wrists and smile. You sometimes find yourself surprised by how willing he is to be seen with you. You aren’t sure why, but you always assumed he’d be ashamed. That he’d be the one to want to hide. To lock you away and keep your rendezvous a secret. 

And maybe you like it this way because you’re afraid. Because you’re worried that once he sees how odd the two of you look together, he won’t want you anymore. That the relentless teasing and comparisons will drive him to end things.

And you’ll be devastated.

Perhaps sensing where your mind has gone, Harry resumes his work on your throat, efficiently distracting you. You happily relinquish your overthinking to him and his intentions, and it feels good. You used to be scared of being touched, of being loved. But it’s becoming easier with him. A routine you wouldn’t trade for the world.

He begins to pull you toward his bed. It’s made for once, which you have to admit impresses you. Harry doesn’t tend to devote his time to things he doesn’t think matter. Like cleaning his space, taking notes, or worrying about his classes. Somehow, he manages to pass every semester, keeping his spot on the football team, while you struggle to keep up even with all the time in the world.

Half the time you suggest studying together, it’s because you’d actually like his help.

“Wait…wait, Har,” you murmur as he sits onto the mattress and begins to pull you in a straddle over his thighs. “Wait, not…not when you’ve been drinking—”

“Haven’t,” he exhales against your mouth. “S’just Sprite. Coach doesn’t let us drink before a game.”

Almost relieved, you lift a brow. “But he doesn’t mind a wild party?”

He smirks. “Technically, we’re not supposed to do that either. But…I kind of live here, so…”

“Ah.” You dip down and press your lips to his softly. “Then I guess you just don’t have a choice, huh?”

“Nope.” He moves his hands to your waist, subtly grinding your body over his until you both groan. “Besides. I’d much rather be here with you than down there with them.”

“Mm. That’s the right answer,” you tease as he laughs and slips his fingers under your dress. 

You know this dance by now. You even enjoy it when Harry’s at the lead. He knows what he’s doing, even if you don’t. And he knows just how to teach you. Show you. Guide you. 

You take a deep breath and let yourself submit. Let his hands roam, his thighs flex. Let his mouth travel down your neck and to the curve of your shoulder. He slips the strap down until he has more room and then he moves for your chest. Hungry kisses meant to devour you.

“My pretty girl,” he whispers, tongue licking a stripe along the top of your breast. “Wore this just to torture me, didn’t you?”

Your lashes flutter. “Thought…thought it would be easier.”

“Easier?” He glances up, smirk devious. “You wanted me to have easy access to your pretty pussy?”

The vulgar language brings a fervent heat right to your face. You glance away out of habit, but he doesn’t let you this time. Instead, he pinches your chin tight between his fingers and forces your attention back.

“Is that right, angel?” he asks again, firm.

You swallow. “…yes.”

“Mm. Good girl,” he mumbles before moving his hand to your tit. Squeezing it gently while wrapping his lips over your nipple. “Or maybe you’re my naughty girl tonight. Yeah? Wearing something so sinful. Just for me.”

You nod quickly as your nails scratch down his scalp. “Just for you.”

“Mhm. Not Zack.”

“No. No, not Zack.”

He simpers at the sound of your breathless whines. Enjoying the way your hips roll against his. The way your naked thighs feel against his clothed ones. “Gonna let me take care of you, baby? Let me have a little taste?”

Your stomach flips. Harry has introduced you to a world of pleasure you never knew possible, but you still can’t deny that it makes you feel vulnerable. The way your body is put on display for him. Accessible to his tongue, his hands, his…

You close your eyes and force a nod. You just won’t think about it. You’ll let him have his taste and then he’ll start. You understand the science behind it. Your body needs to be properly lubricated before he can begin. And it’s not exactly a step you care to skip, even if it does make you nervous.

He grins at your reaction before he’s leaning back onto the bed and dragging you up toward his face, that bright red hat falling off in the process.

He’s mentioned this position before. Apparently, it’s his favorite, but it certainly isn’t one you’re used to. You don’t understand the mechanics. How you’re meant to surrender control but also keep from crushing his pretty face beneath your weight.

“Angel,” he calls, pulling you back. “What did I say last time, hm?”

“I…I know, I just…” You chew on the inside of your cheek. “I don’t want to hurt you—”

“You won’t,” he promises yet again. “You can’t. I know what I’m doing, yeah? Trust me. Just let me do this, I’ve got you.”

And you know that he does. So, surrendering your inhibitions, you let him place you just where he wants before he nods at you to pull your underwear to the side.

You do. Fingers shaking as you drag the damp fabric away and present yourself to his tongue. You want to look away. Want to hide from the growing look of hunger in his eyes, but he’s already sucking on you before you can.

And once he starts…things don’t seem so bad.

His tongue is magic. His lips are divine. Even his hands are wonderful with the way they hold you still. 

You think you could spend a lifetime against his mouth. Live here, die here. Do anything and be anything he wanted so long as he never stopped.

“Doing so good for me, pretty girl,” he says after a moment, and you almost miss it over the faint thumping of music outside his room. “You okay?”

You nod, fingers back between his curls as you brace yourself. “Yes…yes, I’m…I’m all right. Am I…am I too—”

“No,” he says simply. “No, you’re perfect. Don’t move. M’having so much fun.”

And you don’t doubt that he is. His eyes are closed and he’s feasting on you like he’s been starved his whole life. His entire face is between your folds, licking, sucking, nipping. Wet sounds that are somehow louder than the noise outside. 

You can’t help the way you groan. The way you say his name and shake in his hands. It’s too much and you’re still unsure how to handle so much ecstasy.

But he knows. And he keeps you planted on his tongue until you’ve nearly soaked his entire face. And then…he stops. Seconds before you can find that sweet release and you gasp as he pops off and scoots you back.

“What…what did I do?” you pant.

He laughs while he sits up, cupping your cheek in his palm before pulling you forward for a kiss. “Nothing,” he whispers, and the taste of you on his lips makes your insides twist. “I told you, you’re perfect. I just have something else in mind.”

“Oh.” Your fingers twist together. “Do you…do you want me to…?”

He smiles again then shakes his head. “Not this time, pretty girl. You know I don’t always expect that, right? I don’t eat you out just so you’ll suck me off.”

“I…I know.”

“Good. I eat you out because I fucking love it.” Another kiss. “And not just to get you wet.”

You feel your features scrunch, the urge to hide much stronger. “I know.”

“And I don’t want you to forget. I love watching you take me down your throat, but only when and if you want to. Tonight, I thought we could maybe try something we haven’t yet.”

“Oh…”

His eyes settle on yours. “I want you to ride me.”

Your lips part. “You…oh.”

“We’ve talked about that before, yeah?” He sweeps his thumb across your cheek. “About if you think you’d be comfortable?”

“Yeah, we…yeah. I…I don’t mind. I just…I don’t know…”

“I know,” he murmurs. “But I’ll show you, hm? We can just try it and see how you feel. And if you don’t like it, we can do something else.”

It’s a good plan. A solid plan, and even if you’re unsure, you can’t help but feel excited. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeats happily before scooting back toward the headboard. “All right, can you take me out, angel?”

Eagerly, you agree, crawling after him until your fingers find his jeans. Seeing such a massive dick always tends to surprise you, but you find that you feel more confident now than you did before. He’s beautiful, every inch of him. And he seems to love the way you touch him. The way you look at him, admire him.

And that’s your favorite part.

“Good girl,” he coos as you reach inside his boxers to wrap your palm around him. “Not so shy anymore, hm?”

You shake your head, lip between your teeth as you release him from his pants. 

He laughs. “I can see that. Can you give me your hand, pretty girl?”

You oblige and he pulls your palm to his mouth before he’s spitting directly in the center. A large wad that sits snugly in your hand before he drops it back down to his cock and nods at you to continue.

You drag the wet substance up and down his rather impressive length until he’s glistening. He’s already quite hard, but your delicate strokes seem to get him the rest of the way. Until he’s standing straight up and nearly leaking. 

“Good,” he says again, a tad breathless. “So fucking good at that, you know?”

You smile. “Practice makes perfect.”

“Mhm.” He chuckles. “Then can you show me how good you are at putting me in?”

You nod fervently. The academic overachiever in you is always anxious to prove yourself to him. To show that you’ve learned, you’ve improved. That you’re worthy of his time and his body. 

You use one hand to guide him and the other to keep your panties to the side. He, in turn, makes sure to lift your dress high enough that you can both see and the moment his tip makes contact with your throbbing clit, you whimper.

“Shh,” he murmurs. “You’re all right. Go ahead and tap it a couple times, yeah?”

Forcing your pulse to steady, you do. The heavy appendage seems to taunt you as you pat it against your pussy and the sensitive nerves that make your legs shake. But it feels like heaven and even Harry has to take in a labored breath as he watches.

The two of you rarely use condoms these days. You did when you first started, but after getting tested and being assured that you were the only person he was sleeping with, you decided to try just once without.

And you know the risks. Know it’s rather idiotic to tempt fate the way you do. The pill isn’t a guarantee, and you know neither one of you are ready to be parents.

But after feeling him…feeling all of him…you became addicted. Despite your better judgement, you found yourself eager to feel him again. And again. And again. 

And now, well…now you don’t think you can go without.

“There you go,” he sighs. “Just like that. S’it feel good?”

“Mm…mhm.”

“Good. Go on, baby, put me in now.”

With his help, you lift up and guide his large head toward your hole. Slowly pushing it in while dropping yourself down.

“Fuck,” he exhales through a groan. “Shit, just like that. You okay? S’it hurt?”

You shake your head. You don’t have the strength to speak.

“Okay. Keep going.”

You do. A steady pace that seems to torture you both until the whines and cries slip out before you can stop them. 

“Goddamn, angel,” he grits. “Shit, you feel so fucking good. You still all right? Know what to say if you’re not?”

“Ye—yeah.”

“Attagirl. Okay, baby, I want you to lift up now, yeah? Nice and slow.”

Doing your best not to tremble, you raise back up and feel the way his thick cock seems to stretch you open. The way it travels through your body, making you feel empty without it. 

And once you’re near the tip, he pulls you back down, and you start again. 

The speed is tediously languid. It almost hurts and the noises tumble from your lips one after the other without pause.

Your thighs burn. Your core burns. Every inch of you seems to be screaming, yet Harry doesn’t break a sweat.

“Doing so good,” he praises again. He pulls at your jaw until you kiss him. “Know it’s hard, but you look so good riding my cock right now.”

You only mewl. Loud and incoherent. 

He releases your cheek to reach for something on the nightstand beside him. Something you don’t see through your hazed vision until he begins to unwrap it and bring it to your mouth.

His bandana.

It’s his favorite one, too. The white one, with little back details on it. But you aren’t exactly sure what he expects you to do with it now…until he smirks.

“M’gonna put this in your mouth,” he says before resting it on your lips. “Gotta keep you quiet since I didn’t lock the door. Don’t want anyone to hear you and come lookin’, hm?”

Your eyes widen as you gape at him. “Harry—”

“Sorry. S’just too distracted.” He grins. “Open up, pretty girl.”

Rather excitedly, you obey. Giving him just enough room to slip the fabric between your teeth until you can clamp down and he can fasten it in a knot against the back of your head.

“There you go,” he declares when he’s through. “Now you can be as loud as you want, yeah?”

You nod.

“Mm.” He dips down to start kissing at your chest. “Can you keep going, baby? Or do you need me to take over?”

Your lashes flutter.

“I know,” he coos when he sees the fucked-out expression on your face. “S’hard, isn’t it? My angel’s getting tired, huh?”

Another nod, slower.

“Okay,” he chuckles. He grabs onto your hips and straightens up. “Okay, I’ll fuck you.”

Just like that, he resumes the pace you set. Using every muscle in his thighs and abdomen to fuck his cock up into you and leave you a wilting, blubbering mess.

The poor bandana becomes soaked as he pounds into you. Faster and faster while your body shakes and drool pools at the sides of your mouth. 

Your whimpers sound shuddered now. In tune with his fast thrusts and the wet, lewd cacophony of your bodies connecting. Pornographic in nature yet somehow…euphoric. 

He sucks your tit back into his mouth and you clutch onto his scalp. Nails scratching at his neck, shoulders, and chest until you feel your orgasm coming up on you once more. 

And he feels it, too. Features twisting at the way you clench around him. The way your body draws him in, treats him right. He’s obsessed and he’s told you as much. Even with the level of stamina he possesses, he can never seem to last all that long when it comes to you.

“Fucking hell,” he groans before he’s tightening his hold on your waist. “Shit, s’it feel good? Like being on top, angel?”

You nod and press your forehead to his. Even if it’s rather exhausting, you can feel him in places you couldn’t before. Nudging against your g-spot until you see stars and have to physically fight the urge to cum. 

“No, don’t,” he pants, seeming to sense it. “Want you to cum. Right now, baby. Okay? Let me feel you first.”

Even if you wanted to argue, you can’t. The low, graveled instruction goes straight to your cunt and you cum before you can stop yourself. Drenching his cock, his thighs, your thighs. You sway, go limp in his hold. Until you’re slumping against his chest as he fucks you through every second of it.

“There,” he praises, large hand rubbing up and down your back. “God, you’re fucking good at that. Love the way you cum for me. S’fucking heaven.”

You know he’s close. And you know he won’t finish inside you, instead wasting his offering on his stomach or somewhere else.

So, you get an idea. You pull off him as best you can while he hisses and resists the temptation to release inside you before you slip the bandana back out and crawl down his lap.

Then, you take him in your mouth. It only takes two sucks before he’s grabbing at your neck and finishing down your throat. The warm, sticky substance familiar and far too thrilling. 

He cums and he cums until you’ve nearly sucked him dry and his tired body melts into the bed.

He whispers your name and fights to keep his eyes open so he can gaze at you. Then, he tugs on you. “Come here.”

He kisses you. Tongue and teeth clashing in a messy exchange, but he doesn’t mind. He loves it. Moans into your mouth and pulls you against his heart until you can both catch your breath.

You revel in the post-orgasm glow. Body’s abuzz and slightly sweaty from the workout. But you wouldn’t trade this ache in your joints for anything. 

And you realize you wouldn’t trade him, either. 

“You okay?” he murmurs after a moment.

You hum. “Yeah. M’tired.”

“Yeah,” he echoes with a gentle laugh. “It was fun, though, right?”

“Mhm. Very.”

“Think you’ll wanna do it again?”

“Maybe,” you admit. “As long as you do all the work again.”

His laugh is louder this time. “Deal. Or maybe we’ll just have to work out your muscles until you can do it all on your own.”

“Mm…unlikely.”

“But maybe.”

“Maybe not.”

“Doesn’t hurt to try.”

“Might hurt.”

“Yeah. Okay.” He smiles. “Can you stay tonight?”

“I don’t know. Jess might be looking for me.”

“Tell her you’re staying.”

“I can’t.”

“You don’t have to tell her who you’re with.”

“H,” you sigh. “She thinks I’m a virgin prude. If she knows I’m staying, she won’t let it go until she finds out who I stayed with.”

The room falls silent. You feel him sigh. “Yeah, I know.”

You glance up. “I’ll tell her one of these days, I promise. I just…I wanna keep you to myself. Just a little longer.”

His grin splits his face. “Good. Think I might wanna keep you, too.”

He kisses you again. Soft, slow, sensual. Filled with all the words neither of you are brave enough to say out loud. And long enough to leave you breathless.

Until the door opens.

And Zack walks in.

God I love fratrry 😭💞

Then — 1996

Dear Diary,

Today we moved into our new home in Halton. It’s small, quaint, and quiet—very quiet. The kind of place where everyone seems set in their routines, the same patterns repeating every day. I already miss London. Mum says this will be good for us, though. Good to get away from the drama. Good to get away from Dad.

The house isn’t as big as our old one. I have to share a room with Delilah now, but it’s fine—I’ll be off to boarding school by the end of the summer. Mum says I’ll enjoy it since she went to the same school at my age, but I think she’s just trying to make me feel better. Who actually enjoys living at school?

It’s a three-hour drive from Halton, which feels like a world away. I’m nervous, excited, sad, and happy all at once. The feelings are so overwhelming they all blur together into something I can only describe as... heavy. Like my life is a snow globe someone’s just shaken up, glitter falling everywhere. It looks magical at first, but the reality is you’re stuck cleaning it up for weeks, finding it in the oddest places long after.

I miss my dog. I never got to say goodbye.

Dad cried when we left. I’ve never seen him cry before. He told me it wasn’t goodbye, just a "see you later." Mum always says Dad’s a good liar, but I don’t think he was lying this time. Maybe it was the tears—they don’t suit him.

-

Dear Diary,

Today I moved into my dorm at Southend Park School.

Mum was annoyed we had to wake up before seven to pack the car and drive me down, even though this was all her idea. She’s probably just tired—or maybe something else. I have a suspicion she’s met someone. I’m not sure how she moved on from Dad so quickly. Did she ever really love him?

My dorm has six girls, including me. I’ve mostly been talking to Ellis, who’s in the room next door. She’s fourteen, older than the rest of us, but only because her birthday is the 1st of September. Today’s the third, so her advantage is technical, but she likes to remind us.

Being alone here scares me, but it’s nothing new. Delilah always had loads of friends, and Dad was always working. Mum was usually out socializing, too.

Mum cried as we finished unpacking, promising she’d pick me up for half-term or that I could come home anytime. But I don’t want to go home. I hate it there.

Tomorrow is a full day of inductions, and I’m worried about making friends. Southend Park is a mixed school, and boys make me nervous. I’d rather have no friends at all than feel like I have to pretend to be someone I’m not.

I still feel like I’m picking up glitter from months ago. I wonder when it will finally stop.

-

Dear Diary,

I made two friends. You’ll never guess—they’re boys!

Their names are Harry and Dylan. They’re both thirteen, like me, but they feel older somehow. They even live in the same dorm and invited me over this weekend.

We met during lunch in the courtyard. I was sitting alone when Dylan walked up first, chatting easily and cracking jokes. Harry followed behind, much quieter. Dylan has blond hair and a small scar on his eyebrow from climbing trees back in Morston. Harry’s hair is thick and curly—I wanted to touch it but stopped myself because, well, that would’ve been weird.

Harry didn’t say much at first, though I noticed him glancing at me. When I met his gaze, he blushed and looked down at his extra-polished school shoes.

We didn’t talk much again until the end of the day, on the way back to the dorms. That’s when we compared timetables and realized we share four classes, including English Literature. It’s just Harry and me in that one, though.

I never thought I’d be friends with boys, but I like it. It feels different from being friends with girls—less pressure to act outgoing or girly. I hope we stay friends. I like them both a lot.

. . .

Then — 2000

“Hey, Harry,” Y/N called, running across the field toward the headmaster’s office where Harry stood, focused on his Nokia flip phone.

Harry glanced up, his expression softening when he saw her. He tucked the phone into his pocket and waved her over. Despite the end-of-day chaos, both were still dressed in their school uniforms. “Hey, baby.” He greeted her with a quick kiss, pulling her closer and wrapping an arm around her waist. He loved how perfectly she fit against him, as though they were made for each other.

“What’s going on? Aren’t we meeting Dylan to go to Ellis’ dorm?” Y/N asked, frowning slightly as she looked around for their other best friend.

Harry smirked, shaking his head. “We are, but Dylan got caught passing notes to Casey Becker in geometry. He’s stuck with thirty minutes in the headmaster’s office to make amends.”

Y/N chuckled, her laugh warm and familiar. “Again? He’s going to get himself expelled if he’s not careful.” She slid her hands under Harry’s blazer, warming them against his torso.

Harry brushed a strand of hair from her face, letting his thumb linger on her cheekbone. “How was your day?” he murmured, his lips brushing hers as he spoke.

“It was fine,” Y/N replied. “I scored three points in netball, and Tessa Riley gave me daggers in the changing room.” She giggled, leaning into him.

Harry smiled, pride gleaming in his eyes. “That’s m’girl.” He bent down and kissed her forehead gently.

“Oh, please, don’t make me sick,” a familiar voice drawled, breaking the moment.

“Hi, Dylan.” Y/N turned to see him strolling down the stone steps, his blazer slung over his shoulder and a cigarette dangling between his fingers. She leaned back against Harry, crossing her arms.

“Hello, my darling Y/N,” Dylan teased, his tone playful as he lit the cigarette with practiced ease.

“Seriously, Dylan?” Harry said, narrowing his eyes. “Do you really need another detention?”

“Don’t you smoke, Styles?” Dylan shot back, grinning. “Besides, Mary would love to see me again after our chat earlier. She’s got a soft spot for me.” He smirked, wiping his thumb across the corner of his mouth.

Y/N rolled her eyes, stepping away from Harry’s warmth. She was long used to Dylan’s antics—four and a half years of friendship had left little room for surprises.

The three of them had been inseparable since their first days at Southend Park Boarding School. Despite their differences in personality, they were like a family unit, supporting one another through the highs and lows of adolescence.

Dylan, the loudest of the trio, was notorious for his sharp wit and knack for trouble. Teachers despaired over his behavior, but students were drawn to his charm—especially the girls, who fell for his rebellious streak and the ever-present cigarette.

Harry, by contrast, was the golden boy: smart, polite, and beloved by staff. He balanced his role as student ambassador with captaining the football team, a position that made him one of the most popular boys in school. Dylan teasingly called him a “teacher’s pet,” but Harry wore the label without shame.

Y/N was the quietest of the three, rarely seeking the spotlight. She volunteered in the school library every Tuesday and spent her free time with her dorm mates. Still, Harry and Dylan were fiercely protective of her, and she often marveled at how lucky she was to have them.

The trio walked out of the school gates toward the housing blocks, their shadows stretching long in the late afternoon sun. Harry carried Y/N’s backpack on one shoulder, his free hand clasping hers. Dylan trailed behind, typing on his phone with an unlit cigarette between his teeth.

“Ellis doesn’t want you bringing anything to the party this time, Dylan,” Y/N warned, glancing over her shoulder. “You know what happened last time. If you pull that again, you’re getting kicked out of school.”

“My darling Y/N,” Dylan began with exaggerated sincerity, pausing for effect, “only for you.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile.

When they reached her dorm, Y/N kissed Harry on the cheek and took her bag from his shoulder. “I’ll see you both later?” she asked, her eyes bright.

Dylan saluted her without looking up from his phone, while Harry smiled warmly. “I love you,” he said.

“I love you too, Harry,” she replied before disappearing inside.

Harry and Dylan walked in silence toward their dorm. The tension was palpable, Dylan unusually quiet as Harry’s mind churned with unspoken thoughts.

“We’re going to have to tell her at some point,” Dylan murmured, his voice low as the setting sun bathed the path in a golden glow.

Harry’s heart tightened. “No, we don’t.”

“Harry—”

“Shut up, Dylan. Nothing happened.” Harry’s voice was sharp, cutting Dylan off before he could continue.

They stopped, staring at each other, the air between them heavy. Harry’s frustration burned in his eyes, while Dylan’s sadness hung like a weight on his shoulders.

“I love her,” Harry finally said, his voice trembling. “I’ll never love anyone else as much as I love Y/N.”

Without another word, he turned and stormed into their dormitory, leaving Dylan alone on the pavement. Dylan exhaled shakily, the ache in his chest unbearable.

. . .

Then — 1998

Dear Diary,

It’s been a month since my fifteenth birthday, and Harry finally asked me out on a date. It feels like a dream, the kind where everything is so perfect you fear waking up to find it never happened.

To be honest, I think I’m already in love with him. He’s always been so kind to me, much more than Dylan. Harry carries my bag to class when I have netball, and sometimes, during English Literature, I catch him staring at me. There’s something about the way his gaze lingers that makes me feel seen.

In art class, he taught me how to use watercolors for the first time, his thumb brushing against mine as he guided me. Little moments like that remind me how much I care for him—so much that the thought of being without him feels unbearable. Is that dramatic? Probably. But I can’t help it if it’s true.

Even when I’m talking to Ellis during lunch or before bed, my mind wanders back to Harry—his smile, his eyes, the way he laughs at my jokes even when they aren’t funny, and how he hugs me differently from everyone else.

It feels strange to be fifteen and falling so deeply. What do I know about love at this age? How much further can I fall?

I think I’m going to love him forever. I hope he loves me forever too.

-

Dear Diary,

Harry kissed me today. My first kiss—with the boy I love most in the entire world.

I knew it was going to happen. We’d just finished dinner in the dining hall when he asked if I wanted to take a walk in the gardens. Dylan wanted to come along, but Harry shook his head, saying he wanted it to be just the two of us.

I felt a twinge of guilt when I looked back and saw Dylan standing there, his expression heavy as he watched us leave. He kept staring at Harry, even as we walked past the window overlooking the gardens.

Harry brought me to the tulips because he knows they’re my favorite. He said my braid looked pretty today, and that’s when I knew—I truly, completely loved him. It was the worst braid I’ve ever done, but he still thought it was beautiful.

We sat on a swinging bench, listening to birds returning to their nests. When he said my name, it sounded magical, like it had been made for his lips alone. I turned to look at him, and that’s when he leaned in and kissed me.

It felt like a scene from a movie.

No one ever tells you what it’s like to kiss someone for the first time. The way their breath mingles with yours, the world fading away as you close your eyes and step into a place so tender it consumes you. It makes you wonder if you’ve ever been truly loved before.

We only stopped because we heard a rustling in the bushes. We looked around but didn’t find anything, so Harry walked me back to my dorm. He kissed me again outside the door, and I floated through the rest of the night, humming to myself as I got ready for bed.

But when I think back to that moment, I could swear I saw a tuft of blond hair sticking out from behind a bush.

. . .

Now — 2000

Y/N sat cross-legged in front of the mirror on Ellis’ floor, carefully applying mascara as Fiona Apple played softly in the background. Ellis sat nearby, painting her nails a deep red.

“I’m just saying,” Ellis began, waving the brush for emphasis, “you and Harry have been dating for two years, and you haven’t done the deed yet?”

Y/N flushed at the mention of sex, shifting uncomfortably. She hated talking about it, even with Harry. Maybe it was because she didn’t know much about it or because she’d never had a safe space to ask questions, but every time the topic came up—whether in conversation or during truth or dare—she wanted to run for cover.

“We’re waiting for the right time,” Y/N said evenly, her voice robotic as she repeated the well-rehearsed answer.

“The right time?” Ellis scoffed. “I’ve never seen a couple more in love—it’s nauseating.”

Y/N hesitated, her mind drifting to moments when she’d wanted to take things further with Harry. But he always stopped before it went too far. Sometimes it made her feel like she wasn’t enough—pretty enough, desirable enough—but then he’d kiss her softly and remind her how beautiful she was, stroking her cheek as if she were the most precious thing in the world.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “We’ve done... things, but not that.”

“Is Harry religious or something?” Ellis asked, narrowing her eyes.

“No, I don’t think so,” Y/N replied with a frown. “He’s never mentioned it.”

“Maybe he’s waiting until marriage,” Ellis mused.

The thought of marrying Harry made Y/N’s heart swell. She’d dreamed of it ever since their first kiss in the gardens—walking down the aisle in a white dress, Harry waiting for her at the end, tears in his eyes. Maybe they’d both cry.

“I don’t mind waiting,” Y/N said, her voice soft but certain. “I love him enough to wait as long as he needs me to.”

Ellis groaned, grabbing a bottle of vodka from her bedside table. “You can’t say stuff like that when I haven’t had a single drink.” She poured herself a shot and downed it in one go. “Okay, continue.”

Y/N laughed and turned back to her reflection, humming Queen’s Love of My Life as her thoughts drifted back to Harry.

. . .

Then — 1998

Dear Harry,

Today we went to the beach—the three of us. Me, you, and Y/N. I know in most situations it’s you, Y/N, then me, but in these letters, it will always be me and you.

We’d been planning this trip for weeks. It’s a three-hour drive to the coast from school, and Y/N had been complaining about the journey the entire time. I didn’t mind. Is it wrong of me to want to sit next to you on a bus full of people not one of them knowing who we are for three whole hours? Our knees touching for three whole hours? Sand on your feet and your hair salty from the sea, inhaling your scent and wanting your hand to touch my thigh for three whole hours?

When we got there, the morning was overcast, but by the time we hit the sand, the sun broke through the clouds. It was perfect. The light caught your skin, making it glisten, and your eyes shone with that impossible sea-glass green. I wanted to look into them forever, but you were too busy looking at Y/N.

I tried to catch your attention—touching your shoulder as I passed by, reaching for the beach bag at the same time as you, brushing my fingers against yours. But it didn’t matter. You only had eyes for her, and I only had eyes for you.

When you kissed her in the gardens, a part of me died. I had been pining for you for so long, silently hoping you’d see me, but it was always her. I felt stupid, running miles afterward, the wind howling in my ears: You fool, you idiot, how could he ever love you?

I didn’t want to feel this way, Harry. I tried to bury it, to pretend it wasn’t real, but when I met you, everything I’d hidden about myself unraveled.

The day wasn’t without its drama. Y/N, distracted, stepped into the road thinking the approaching van was the bus. You moved so fast, grabbing her and pulling her back before the van could hit her. I watched the terror flash across your face, the way you held her afterward as she cried. You kissed her forehead, comforted her, showed her the kind of love I’d only ever dreamed of.

And I hated her for it.

I feel terrible admitting this because I do love Y/N. I truly do. But most days, I hate her, and only because she has you.

When we finally got to the beach, the three of us ran toward the waves, shedding our clothes as we went, laughing like we were carefree children. For a moment, we were. We left our troubles behind in the sand.

You swung Y/N over your shoulder as you splashed into the water, and I couldn’t help but admire the way your muscles flexed. You were a work of art, Harry, something meant to be admired in a gallery. And I was nothing more than an observer, longing for what I could never have.

Later, Y/N went to get ice cream. Before she left, she asked for your order, and I already knew what you’d say—mint chocolate chip. The way she looked surprised made me feel smug for a second, but that quickly disappeared when she said it was her favorite too.

While she was gone, I felt a cramp in my shoulder. “Let me,” you murmured, and before I could answer, your fingertips ghosted over my shoulder, pressing into the tight muscle.

I couldn’t breathe, Harry. You were so close, your breath warm against my neck. For a split second, I thought if I just turned my head, I could kiss you.

I’ll never forget that moment for as long as I live. Even if you do.

. . .

Now — 2000

Dylan and Harry were in their dorm room, preparing for the party. Harry stood in front of the mirror, anxiously gelling his hair back.

“I think I’m going to do it,” Harry said suddenly, turning to face Dylan. “I’m going to go all the way with Y/N.”

Dylan froze, his heart sinking. He lit a cigarette, trying to appear nonchalant as he perched on the windowsill. “Really? Are you sure that’s a good idea?” His voice betrayed him, tinged with irritation and jealousy.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m just saying, are you sure it’s the right time to sleep with her? After... what happened?”

Harry’s expression darkened. “Nothing happened. It was a mistake.”

“You keep saying that,” Dylan said, standing now, his voice rising. “Like you’re trying to gaslight me into thinking I imagined it. But I’ve imagined kissing you enough times to know what’s real and what’s not.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching. “I was drunk, and you took advantage of me.”

The words hit Dylan like a slap, but he forced himself to stay calm. “Don’t try that with me, Harry. It might work in your petty arguments with Y/N, but it won’t work on me. You’re the one twisting the truth to fit your narrative.”

“I don’t care what you think,” Harry snapped. “I only care about Y/N. And if you can’t handle that, maybe you need to step away—from both of us.”

“Step away?” Dylan said incredulously, his voice breaking. “You want me to walk away from the only two people who’ve ever cared about me? You want me to walk away from you?”

Harry hesitated, guilt flickering across his face. “You know how I feel about Y/N. I love her. I’m in love with her. Even if I felt something for you, it would never compare.”

“You’re lying,” Dylan whispered, his eyes glassy. “If you loved her so much, you wouldn’t have kissed me in the first place.”

“You don’t know anything!” Harry exploded, his voice shaking with fury. “Do you know what would happen if someone found out? What it would do to Y/N? To us? I felt nothing! It was a mistake!”

“Harry—”

“No,” Harry cut him off. “Whatever feelings you have, whatever intentions, you need to get over them.”

“That’s not as easy as you think—”

“You have to.” Harry’s voice was sharp, leaving no room for argument. Dylan stared at him, shattered, as Harry turned and stormed out.

He left Dylan standing there, broken, feeling like Harry had taken his very soul with him.

. . .

Then — 1999

Dear Harry,

We’ve been assigned as partners in media class, and now we have to make a music video. Naturally, you asked Y/N if she’d star in it. You told her she was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen and that she’d be perfect for it. She blushed, of course, and said yes. Then you kissed her—so long and so deeply that I had to look away.

I imagined myself in her place, wondering what it would be like to kiss you in public, to have the world see how much I adored you. If it were allowed, I don’t think I’d ever stop kissing you.

Today, we filmed the music video. You wanted it to feel like a coming-of-age story. I’d wanted something more abstract, but I agreed to your ideas, nodding eagerly at every suggestion, whether it was brilliant or terrible.

We filmed in the gardens—my least favorite place in the entire school. That’s where you kissed Y/N for the first time, and if I could erase that night from my memory, I would in a heartbeat.

The sun was shining as you whispered into Y/N’s ear while I set up the camera. I tried to block out the sound of your laughter, the sight of her hand on your shoulder.

“Are we ready?” I called, my voice louder than I intended. You straightened up immediately.

“Dylan, why don’t you be in the video with me?” Y/N smiled warmly. She had that rare ability to make everyone feel seen, like she was radiating sunshine. It was impossible not to smile back.

“My darling, you know I’m not nearly as perfect as you,” I teased, watching her blush.

I don’t even remember when I started calling her “my darling.” The first time, I remember catching the flash of jealousy in your eyes. I liked that. I liked seeing you react to me, even if it wasn’t in the way I wanted. You’re used to it now, but sometimes, when I say it, I still see a flicker of something in your gaze.

The music video took all day to shoot. Every time Y/N nailed a scene, you rewarded her with a kiss. I worked hard too, Harry. Shouldn’t I have been rewarded in some way?

When Y/N left for her library shift that evening, it was just the two of us. You wanted to capture the soft glow of the sunset, so we stayed behind to get more footage.

“My mother wants me to go into politics,” you said as we sat cross-legged on the grass, the camera between us. “But I’d love to do this—be a director. I’ve always wanted to be an artist of some kind. It’s a silly dream, but I think about it all the time.”

I could imagine it. You had a way of leading people, commanding attention without being arrogant. You cared so deeply—for the art, for the people—that it would probably destroy you someday.

“It’s not silly,” I said. “It’s never silly to dream. My God, Harry, we only live once. Might as well do everything we can to feel something in the little time we have.”

You looked at me then, really looked at me. For the first time, I thought you might be feeling a fraction of what I felt every day. “I’ve never told anyone that before. Not even Y/N knows.”

“It’ll be our secret,” I whispered. And for a moment, I could’ve sworn you glanced at my lips.

Then, just as quickly, you diverted the topic. Grabbing the camera, you aimed it at me lying in the grass. “Looks like Y/N’s not the only model anymore,” you teased.

I tried to act indifferent, but I would’ve stayed there all night if it meant seeing you laugh like that.

It makes me wonder, Harry—do you know how much power you have over your friends? Do you know that you have two people who worship the ground you walk on? How does it feel to be desired? How does it feel to have a choice in who you love?

. . .

Now — 2000

“You’re here!” Y/N beamed, running into Harry’s arms and wrapping her hands around his neck.

“Hey, baby,” he murmured, kissing her temple before setting her down.

The party was already in full swing. Students from across campus had crammed into Ellis’ dorm, the air thick with music, laughter, and the faint smell of alcohol.

“Hi, Dylan,” Y/N greeted, pulling him into a tight hug. “You’re dressed pretty smart. Planning on impressing anyone tonight?”

“Only you, darling,” Dylan replied, forcing a wink and a smirk despite the ache in his chest. Harry’s words from earlier still rang in his ears, but he pushed them aside.

Harry’s eyes darted to the cup in Y/N’s hand. “Have you been drinking?” he asked, his tone light but concerned.

“It’s water,” she whispered with a smile. Harry relaxed. She wasn’t much of a drinker, and he knew that.

“You look so pretty,” he said, marvelling at her dress. It was the one she wore for special occasions—one he had once told her was his favourite. A pang of guilt pricked at his heart as she looked back at him, her doe eyes filled with love.

“Come dance with me!” she said, pulling him toward the living room. “Both of you! My boys!”

Harry and Dylan followed her to the dance floor. The song Love My Way blared through the speakers, and Y/N moved between them, carefree and radiant.

At first, Harry danced with her, his focus entirely on Y/N. But then his gaze shifted to Dylan, who was swaying along with the music. Something unspoken passed between them, an invisible thread pulling them closer.

Harry laughed when Dylan moved towards him and for a moment they had forgotten everything around them. Dylan was just Dylan and Harry was just Harry, two boys who felt something they weren’t allowed to feel in the eyes of everyone else.

Harry was so close, their faces almost touching and for a moment Dylan thought they might kiss. But the blissful moment was broken as Harry stepped away, shaking his head, “N-No.” He whispered, “No, No, No.” He shook his head, his eyes frantic in search of Y/N.

“O-Oh, Harry,” Y/N yelped as he grabbed hold of her hand and lead her out of Ellis’ dorm and over to her own, three doors down from where the party was happening.

“What are you doing? Are you okay?” She cups his face in her hands and he exhales, trying to regain composure. This was the girl he loved, the only girl he could ever love and being in her hands felt like home. Didn’t it?

“Y-Y/N, I-I think I’m ready.” He presses his forehead against hers, kissing her bottom lip. “I’m ready.”

Her lips part in shock. She hadn’t been expecting this tonight and she wasn’t sure where Harry’s sudden desperation was coming from. He kissed down her neck as she tried to speak to him, “H-Harry, a-are you sure?” He nodded, his mouth leaving open mouthed kisses on her shoulder.

“I love you Y/N.” He looked into her eyes and she saw the sincerity behind them but also a hint of something else that she couldn’t quite place.

He started to peel her clothing off, his fingertips gently brushing against her soft skin. She tried to steady her breathing but her chest caved in and out as the oxygen in the room seemed to be escaping as he moved down her body. “Harry,” She whispered and he could hear the desperation in her voice. She reached for his hand and intertwined their fingers together.

Y/N was stripped down to her bra and underwear. This was the most skin she had revealed to anybody but she trusted Harry with everything in her, he was her best friend. He blew warm air over the thin material of her bra and her nipples hardened, an overwhelming sense of desire and lust flooding her insides. It was so new and overwhelming, her hands shaking as she ran her fingers through his hair and tugged on the roots.

“Baby,” He whispered, his hands cupping her thighs as he pressed kisses down her body.

“Harry, wait.” She murmured, his eyes looking up from where he was laying between her legs, “You’re still dressed.” She sat up and tugged on the hem of his sweater.

He laughed softly, as she struggled to pull the sweater over his head. She marvelled at the sound and kissed the tip of his nose. He pulled her onto his lap and she grinded her hips against his, “God look at you.” He whispered. “Don’t leave me Y/N. You can never leave me.”

“I’m never going to.” She said it like it was a promise.

His hands hooked the straps of her bra and he gently pulled them down, her breath hitching as the pad of his thumb brushed against the side of her breast. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him in tightly, his face burying into the crook of her neck as he inhaled her.

This was going to be perfect, she thought, nothing could go wrong.

She grinded her hips against him again, a groan eliciting from his lip and a name escaping past the lips he had kissed her with so many times.

“Dylan.” Y/N froze. Her blood ran cold, and she pulled away as though Harry’s touch burned her.

“What did you say?” She pulled away, suddenly being naked in front of him didn’t feel right, being in a space alone with him didn’t feel right, everything she had ever felt for him before this moment didn’t feel right.

“Y/N,” He reached for her but she slipped away from him, slipped out of his touch, a touch she begged for just moments ago.

Harry’s heart no longer existed, wherever it was it had abandoned him and left him here in this terrible moment to fend for himself. He felt his eyes well up with tears as he watched Y/N try to pick up her discarded clothes. This wasn’t how it was meant to be, she was suppose to be picking up his clothes after a night making love to each other.

“Y-You said his name.” Y/N whimpered, she was panicking and Harry could do nothing but watch.

“Baby I-”

“NO.” She spat, “You don’t get to call me that. Not anymore.”

Harry watched as she turned around and clutched at her head, her knees buckling as she fell to the ground. She sobbed and sobbed, his hear wrenching at the sound of it. He had never heard a sound so painful in his life and he wanted to die in this very moment.

“No, No, No, No.” She sobbed, her shoulders shaking.

“Y/N please just let me explain.” Harry tried, crouching down in front of her and trying to place a hand on her now clothed shoulder.

“NO.” She pushed him away and leaped back, her back hitting the wall.

Harry was broken. He was truly broken. This was something well out of his reach in fixing and nothing he could do or say could make up for the fact that he had hurt the two people he loved and cherished the most in this world, in the span of one night.

“Get out of my room!” She began to scream, “Get out of here!”

A knock at the door shattered the silence.

“Hey, you guys in there?” Dylan’s voice called from the hallway.

Before Harry could respond, Y/N lunged for the door, anger blazing in her eyes.

“Get out of my room!” she screamed, her voice raw with betrayal.

Harry caught her before she reached Dylan, her fists pounding against his chest. “I’m broken,” she whimpered, her strength fading. “You broke me.”

And for the first time, Harry knew what it felt like to be utterly powerless.

. . .

Then — 2000

Dear Diary,

You know those secrets so big they feel like they could swallow you whole? The kind you promise never to tell a soul for as long as you live? At first, they consume you, taking over every thought and breath. But over time, they settle into the corners of your mind, a quiet part of you that only stirs when something triggers it.

Well, today I made one of those secrets.

It was a Tuesday, the day I volunteer in the library after school. There’s something peaceful about wandering the empty halls when no one else is around—a stark contrast to the chaos between periods. Mrs. Ableton asked me to deliver a stack of books to the English Literature cupboard. Our copies of The Catcher in the Rye were practically falling apart, so we’d ordered replacements.

As I walked through the hall, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye near the classroom where Harry and I have English together. Curious, I paused, almost dropping the books in my hands.

Harry was leaning against a desk, and Dylan stood in front of him. At first, I thought nothing of it and smiled, reaching for the door handle to make myself known. But then Dylan stepped closer, touched Harry’s hand, and kissed him.

I froze.

I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. The same lips that had kissed mine were now kissing the lips of my best friend.

I wanted to cry, but I was too shocked to do anything but stand there, watching. A part of me hoped I was trapped in a nightmare—that I’d wake up, call Harry, and laugh about how silly it all was. But when Dylan pulled back, Harry grabbed his arm and kissed him again.

That time, I couldn’t watch.

I backed away, the tears finally falling. My mind raced as I searched for somewhere—anywhere—I could cry louder, scream even, because this wasn’t something I could cry about quietly.

Harry was mine. But he was also Dylan’s.

By the time I went to bed, I’d convinced myself I would confront them. I’d tell them I saw what happened and ask if we could move on, pretend it never happened. But as the hours stretched on, I realized I didn’t want to speak about it. Talking about it would mean reliving it, over and over.

I didn’t want to remember.

I just wanted Harry.

So, this is a secret I’ll take to my grave. I’ll never tell a soul I watched Harry kiss Dylan in a way he never kissed me.

Even if it breaks me.

. . .

Now — 2000

“What happened?” Dylan asked. They were back in his dorm now, Harry pacing the room like a caged animal.

“She knows,” Harry muttered, his fingers pulling at his hair—a habit whenever he was upset. “She knows about us, what we did.”

Dylan collapsed onto the bed, his face pale. “How?”

Harry stopped and turned to him, shame written all over his face. “I said your name.”

Dylan’s shoulders sagged, and he buried his face in his hands. Images of Y/N, broken and sobbing on her bedroom floor, flashed through his mind. She had begged them to fix her, but they were the ones who broke her.

“It’s fine,” Harry rambled, his voice shaking. “I-I’ll give her some time, however long she needs. Then I’ll explain. I’ll explain it was a misunderstanding.”

“Harry,” Dylan said gently, standing to take Harry’s hands in his own. “I don’t think there’s enough time in the world for Y/N to get over this.”

Harry’s breath hitched, and a sob escaped him as he crumpled into Dylan’s arms. Dylan ran his fingers through Harry’s hair, resting his cheek against Harry’s head. “It’s okay, love,” he whispered. “Everything will be alright.”

“I hurt her so bad, Dylan,” Harry cried. “I love her, and I hurt her.”

“She was always going to find out,” Dylan said softly, the truth cutting deeper than any lie.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” Harry whispered.

Dylan sighed. “Why do you always talk about how things are meant to be? You act like your life was mapped out before you left the womb. Was it ‘meant to be’ that the three of us became inseparable? That you fell in love with both of us because you care so deeply? That I fell in love with you because you see art in everything? None of this was ‘meant to be,’ Harry. It just happened. And now we deal with it.”

Harry pulled back, tears streaking his face. “You still love me? Even after I pushed you away?”

Dylan smiled sadly, wiping a tear from Harry’s cheek. “I love you despite everything.”

Harry’s lips ghosted over Dylan’s, and for a moment, it felt like all their pain had been lifted. “Dylan,” Harry whispered, his voice trembling as he said the name again and again, like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“You can say my name as much as you want, love,” Dylan murmured. “I’ll always be here.”

. . .

Three weeks passed and the friends were no longer talking to each other, instead they acted as though they didn’t know each other as they passed each other in the hallway.

Harry had to try and not flinch when he saw Y/N scurry pass him, her eyes red and bloodshot as Ellis comforted her, glaring at Harry as they did. He wanted to speak to her but he was never given the chance to, rightly so considering what he had done to her.

Dylan and Harry, mostly Harry, thought it would best to keep their distance for a while. It killed them both to not be around each other but for the sake of their friendship with Y/N, they shared small moments of brief eye contact and touches throughout the day. Neither of them knew what was to come for the both of them but this limbo was enough for now.

Dylan ate lunch alone and as he did, he listened to the conversations of everyone around him. He wondered what it felt like for them to go about their day feeling like they belong in their own skin and not feel ashamed over who they love. He had never felt so alienated and so out of touch with himself.

He had been given an after school detention for an hour with Mr Henley after calling him sexist in front of the class. No one was around when he left the classroom until he saw a group of girls walking across the field.

At the end of the line was Y/N, wearing her netball uniform.

She must have caught sight of him because the next thing he knew, she was walking up to him. He had to check behind him to see he was seeing correctly.

“Hi Dylan,” She keeps her distance for reasons unknown to him but being around her again made him relax, he missed the friendship he shared right at the very beginning when they were thirteen and picking each other up from class to go to the sweet shop after school.

“Hey Y/N.” He offers her a smile.

“How are you doing?” He didn’t miss the way she gripped her bag like she was trying to stop herself from saying anything she really wanted to.

“I feel like I should be asking you that.” Y/N huffs, “I’ve had better days.” “Y/N-”

“Just tell me this,” She starts, “H-How long?”

Dylan decided he would be as honest and as straight to the point as he could be, it was what she deserved at least.

“Y/N the only thing we did was kiss one time. Harry stopped it because he’s in love with you.”

“And you’re in love with him.”

“Y-Yes.”

Y/N laughs incredulously, “We could never just be three best friends could we? It was always going to be complicated.”

“We could still be best friends Y/N.”

“But it’s not the same now is it?” She bit back and Dylan realised he needed to be careful with what he said. “Is he sad?”

“Terribly. Sometimes I hear him crying in his room at night.”

A silence fell between them which was strange. Y/N and Dylan has always had a brother-sister relationship, Dylan was always one to tease Y/N and make her laugh but right now it seemed all he was doing was making her upset.

“I’m moving schools.” Y/N confessed, “At the end of the term, I’m moving to Bridgewater. Mum’s moving in with her fiancee, and she wants me to be closer.”

“When were you going to tell us?” Dylan was shocked.

“I was given the choice. I could stay here or move to another school but if I stayed I’d have to stay at my dad’s during the holidays and I’m not in the mood to be lectured during my time away from school.”

Dylan didn’t know what to say, he couldn’t fathom the three of them not being together for such a long period of time. “I know what you’re thinking. I know I need to tell him but if we are going to have a shot at being friends again, I need to be away from you both.”

“Y/N,” Dylan shakes his head, “It doesn’t have to be like this,”

“You know I saw you when you kissed each other in the English Literature classroom?” She confessed, Dylan’s lips parting. “He kissed you in a way that he never kissed me. Everytime we kissed afterwards all I could think about was how different it was, how I desperately wanted him to kiss me the way I had seen him kiss you. I used to write in my diary about how I would die if I didn’t have him near me. I thought he would be the end of me but I didn’t realise you would be too.”

“I know he loves you Dylan and... I’m happy for you but I’m not selfless enough to stand beside you both and watch you fall in love when I so desperately love him too.”

“Y/N,” Dylan reaches out for her hand and takes it, “I’m sorry.” “I know Dylan, I know.”

. . .

Now — 2000

Harry’s leg wouldn’t stop jittering as he sat outside the school library on a Tuesday evening. He’d been waiting for this moment for weeks, replaying it over and over in his mind. He had spent countless hours rehearsing his apology to Y/N until it became a permanent loop in his thoughts.

When the library door swung open, he shot up immediately, brushing down his school trousers and running a hand through his hair. Y/N stepped out, holding a bouquet of flowers in one hand and her backpack slung over her shoulder.

She looked better than she had in weeks, and Harry’s heart ached at the sight of her. He would have carried her bag for her if they were still together.

Her expression changed when she saw him, her voice barely above a whisper. “H-Harry.”

“I came,” he said quickly, the words tumbling out. “I-I couldn’t believe it when I got your text. I’d have waited here for hours if you hadn’t shown up.”

Her face softened briefly, but she walked past him. “Follow me,” she said simply.

He trailed behind her as she led him to the gardens—the place where they’d shared their first kiss and filmed the music video for his and Dylan’s project. It was a space filled with memories of the three of them: Y/N doing homework, Dylan reading, and Harry strumming his guitar.

They sat down on the swinging bench, a familiar seat now heavy with unspoken tension. Harry noticed she kept her distance, and though every fiber of his being wanted to pull her close, he knew it wasn’t the right time.

“Who gave you those?” Harry finally asked, nodding at the flowers in her hand. A flicker of hope crossed his face.

“Debbie,” she said, referring to the school librarian. “It’s my last day working at the library.”

“You quit?” Harry frowned, his gaze flicking from the flowers to her face.

Y/N inhaled deeply before speaking. “I’m leaving, Harry.”

The wind seemed to leave him. “N-No,” he stammered, shaking his head. “You—you can’t. You can’t just leave. I won’t let you—”

“Harry,” she interrupted, reaching for his hand and holding it gently in her lap. “It’s what’s best.”

“How can you say that?” he asked, trying to pull his hand away, though her warmth made it impossible. “How can you say it’s what’s best? The three of us—we’re supposed to be together.”

“It’s a little too late for that, don’t you think?” Her eyes glistened with unshed tears as she looked at him. He looked thinner, more tired than she’d ever seen him, but she couldn’t help him—not anymore.

“Y/N, the thing with Dylan...” Harry began, his voice cracking. “I-I never meant for it to happen. We were just alone, I was stressed, and my emotions got the better of me. But I don’t feel the same way about him as I do about you.”

She shook her head softly. “Maybe that’s true, but not in the way you think. Dylan has always been there for you, Harry, in ways I never could. The way you look at him... it’s like he hung the stars in the sky just for you, like he tilted the sun so it would never blind you but still brighten your world.

“Maybe you do love me,” she continued, her voice trembling, “but love isn’t just about taking care of someone. It’s not carrying my backpack because it’s too heavy or doing my homework when I’m too tired after netball. Love is about being vulnerable. It’s about being taken care of, about laughing and crying and feeling like your heart is burning, and nothing can put it out.

“Now tell me, Harry. Did you ever feel that way with me? Were you ever vulnerable with me?”

Harry’s heart cracked. He opened his mouth to respond but couldn’t find the words.

“Please, Y/N,” he whimpered, his voice breaking. “I can’t be without you.”

“You have Dylan,” she said, trying to be the bigger person even though it shattered her inside. “It was never going to be me, Harry. Can you honestly look me in the eye and tell me you don’t have feelings for him?”

Harry looked down at the ground, his silence all the confirmation she needed.

Her heart broke all over again, but she forced herself to stay strong. “Why do you have to go?” he asked, tears streaming down his face.

“Because, Harry,” she said gently, “what good would it do for the three of us if I stayed? You need to find out who you are, and so do I. Before me, it was you and Dylan. Now, it will end that way - with you and Dylan.”

“And what about you?” he asked desperately. “What will you do? Where will you go?”

“I don’t know yet,” she admitted. “But I’m grateful for what I’ve had. You and Dylan will always be a part of me. I hope one day we’ll forget this pain, and everything will be okay again.”

She reached out, brushing his hair back the way she used to. “I love you, Harry. I love you so much, I feel like I could burst.”

“I love you too,” he murmured. For the first time, he meant it in a way that felt true—not as a lover, but as a best friend.

“Be brave,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “And tell him you love him.”

Harry nodded as the tears fell freely, clinging to her like a child who didn’t want to let go.

She was going to love him forever. She now knew he wouldn’t.

. . .

“She’s gone,” Dylan said softly from the doorway of Harry’s bedroom.

Harry sat at his desk, a pen still in his hand though it hovered, unmoving, above the page. “Was she alright?” he murmured.

“She was better than we probably thought,” Dylan admitted, realizing how much they’d underestimated Y/N’s strength. They’d always thought it was their job to protect her, but she’d always been stronger than the two of them combined.

“Right,” Harry muttered, his voice hollow.

Dylan moved to sit on the bed, the springs creaking under his weight. “I was thinking we could have the leftover soup for dinner instead of going to the dining hall.”

“I’m not hungry,” Harry replied—a rare admission from someone who was always hungry.

Dylan frowned. “How long are you going to wallow in this? Can’t you see we’re both trying to do the right thing for your benefit?”

Harry turned to him, anger flashing in his eyes. “And what exactly are you doing?”

“I’ve been keeping my distance,” Dylan snapped. “Acting like we’re strangers when we’re the complete opposite. Do you know how much it kills me to not be near you? To have to hide from myself?”

Harry stood abruptly. “And you think I’m not struggling? You think I haven’t been grappling with everything I feel?”

“Oh, don’t give me that bullshit!” Dylan shouted, standing to meet Harry’s gaze. “You had someone who loved you for two whole years. You have everything, Harry—loving parents, the best grades, popularity. And you act like it’s all been taken from you because I kissed you!”

“Y/N is gone because of us!” Harry yelled back.

“No,” Dylan said fiercely, his voice rising. “She’s gone because of you! Because you’re too afraid to be honest about who you are! Because you care too much about what everyone else thinks. That’s why she’s gone!”

Their faces were inches apart, their anger radiating in the small space between them.

“How dare you? Can’t you see this is difficult for me to accept?” Harry shouted, his voice trembling with anger and frustration.

“What is?” Dylan snapped back, stepping closer. “What is so difficult, Harry? What’s so hard that you have to sit in the dark and ignore the only two people who’ve ever truly cared about you? Huh? What is it? Tell me. TELL ME.”

“I am in love with you!” Harry yelled, the words ripping out of him like they had been clawing to escape for years. “I am a fool, and I am in love with you.”

Dylan froze, stunned. His breath caught in his throat as the weight of Harry’s confession settled over him. The words he had dreamed of hearing for years hung in the air between them, impossible to ignore.

“What?” Dylan managed, his voice barely a whisper.

“I have loved you since the moment I met you,” Harry said, his voice softer now but no less raw. “And it’s been killing me every day since. I think of you—daily, nightly, every moment in between—and it tears me apart. Kissing you was the bravest thing I’ve ever done, and denying it afterward made me a coward. But here I am now, standing in front of you, a man stupidly, hopelessly in love with his best friend.”

Harry’s eyes were red and glassy, the weight of years of unspoken emotion etched into his every feature.

Dylan stared at him, speechless. He had imagined this moment countless times, but now that it was real, the depth of Harry’s vulnerability left him breathless.

“Kiss me,” Dylan whispered, his voice breaking. “Kiss me.”

Harry didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward, cupping Dylan’s face in his hands as though it had been crafted to fit perfectly in his palms. Then he kissed him—fervent and unrestrained, pouring every ounce of his love and longing into that singular moment.

Dylan’s world ignited. A piece of him that had been dormant for years finally came alive. His heart and mind, long at odds, now burned in harmony as Harry’s lips moved against his. He felt consumed, but in the most beautiful way, as if he could lose himself in Harry forever and never once regret it.

“I love you too, Harry,” Dylan whispered when they finally parted, their foreheads resting together.

“I bloody well hope so,” Harry murmured, a small laugh escaping his lips as tears spilled down his cheeks.

. . .

Now

Dear Harry,

I’d like to tell you a story that will more than likely make you happy.

One day, I was sat in a café, only a twenty-minute walk away from Southend Park School, which is closed down now and turned into a factory to fix airplanes. I bought my usual order of a decaf cappuccino and a slice of toffee apple cake. On this particular day, they added more sugar to my cappuccino, so I knew it would be a good day.

Across from me, a woman sat, her dog lying down at her feet as she read The Catcher in the Rye whilst sipping on a fruit tea. I didn’t think much of it, but I found it interesting the way she would read something and then shakily jot something down in the little notebook on the table.

Anyway, I had originally come to the café so I could write about our trip to Brighton. You were still complaining about the sand in your clothes just last night despite the fact that Brighton has no sand.

“It’s alright, love,” I comforted you, helping you put your pyjamas on.

“It bothers me, Dylan.” You responded, coughing into your handkerchief.

We don’t leave our small bungalow very often because you don’t like to leave the dogs and I don’t like change, but this trip to Brighton was one we had been planning for a year or so, so we didn’t really have much choice in the matter.

We spent a lot of time sat on the beach in the evenings whilst we were there, a blanket wrapped around the both of us as we fed the seagulls. I remember you saying you liked the sound of the ocean because it made you feel like we were seventeen again, running into the ocean without a care in the world.

You then proceeded to mention how worried you are about our Y/N, “I hope she’s doing alright, our Y/N.” You said and then went back to talking about a programme you watched the night before.

You had always worried about Y/N in the years after she left, always asking where she was or what she was up to despite the fact we never got in contact with her again. I also wonder whether or not she is okay, and I knew that if I were to see her again, I would thank her for allowing us the space to fall in love.

It was awfully difficult those months after we kissed in your bedroom. We were constantly berated by people we had never spoken to before, and I knew it bothered you for a while, but we overcame it just like we did every other obstacle in our lives... together.

Anyway, as I continued to write about our trip, the door to the café opened again and three middle-aged people walked over to the elderly lady in the corner. “Come on Mum, we’ve got to say goodbye to Dad now,” the man spoke to her, and she swatted him away. Something about that small action gave me a strong sense of déjà vu.

“Give me a moment,” the woman responded, and the three children sat at the table in the chairs around her.

Eventually, they managed to get her standing up. One of them placed her coat around her shoulders, and another handed her her walking stick. When she turned to look at me, I saw a familiar set of eyes looking straight at me.

The three people aiding her walked to the door and held it open for her. As she was about to step out the door, her walking stick fell out of her shaky hands and right at my feet. I quickly picked it up and handed it to her, her face brightening at the sight of me.

“Thank you.” Her voice still sounded the same all that time ago.

"Oh." I released a breath and grabbed my other shoe, stopping once again. "That's not true. You had it on the other day."

"When?" Harry crossed the room to inspect the dresser.

"At the dinner par-"

Harry nodded at me in the mirror, recognizing my acknowledgment. There had been people at that dinner party who knew her. Who knew them as a couple. I'd had to pretend, playing another one of his friends who just happened to be at the party, and not his date. I was a great actress. No one was the wiser. No one knew our secret.

We had to hide, Harry and me. It wasn't easy, and to be honest after three months, it had started to take its toll on me. In the beginning it was merely a physical attraction we shared. We didn't mean for it to happen. No one ever does. Over time it had started to develop into something more, at least on my part, and I had reason to believe he felt the same. However, he belonged to someone else.

I always only referred to her as her. I couldn't bring myself to use the term wife. Occasionally her name rolled off my tongue, tasting of shame and self-disgust. It wasn't that I had any issues with her. As a person, she was fine, lovely even. It was just that she had something I wanted. She had his last name. She had him.

And for that reason alone, I hated her.

I bit my lip as I tied on my other shoe. Harry passed me as we walked around the bed, still searching for his missing ring.

"There it is," he half giggled when he lifted the pillow. I returned the grin he gave me as he slid the ring onto his finger.

"C'mon, love," he said, holding out his hand to me. "Let's go."

We drove to a night club just outside the city, one that a mutual acquaintance, whom knew nothing of our affair, had casually mentioned in conversation. I felt relief in knowing that we wouldn't be recognized, happy to spend a fun-filled evening as a couple in someplace other than my apartment or a hotel room.

Harry held my hand for the entire drive, absent-mindedly rubbing his thumb across my knuckles and rings, occasionally lifting our joined hands to kiss the back of mine. I sat back in my seat, a contented smile on my face as I listened to him humming along to the radio.

I hadn't told him yet, but I was in love with him. I'd decided that day, that morning while I was getting dressed, or maybe brushing my teeth as I thought of his smile, his laugh, his voice...the way we fit together. It was so obvious, I had to laugh at myself. Every piece of him just fit perfectly.

Harry walked around the car to open my door like a gentleman, and again held the door open when we arrived at the entrance of the club. He gently guided me inside with his hand on the small of my back as we walked up to the bar to give our drink orders. We'd only gotten halfway through our first cocktails when a song we both loved began to play. Without a word, Harry set down his glass and pulled me onto the dance floor.

The bass zig-zagged through my veins as we danced, pumping loud and causing the floor to feel like it was made of rubber as we bounced to the beat. I raised my arms above my head like a fan at a concert as I sang along and twirled in a circle at Harry's feet, making him beam his million-watt smile.

With not nearly enough alcohol in my system yet, Harry agreed to sit the next song out and return to the bar for more drinks. This time we grabbed a couple shots, letting the golden liquor loosen any stiff joints and muscles. I watched Harry sway his hips to the next song as I sipped on a glass of water, eager to join him on the dance floor once again.

I giggled at the pure joy he exuded when he placed his hands on my hips and shifted them back and forth to get me to dance. He was obviously having a great time, and that itself made me happy.

We danced a couple more songs, both of us getting hot and sweaty. Then an oldie from the 70s started to play, a more mid-tempo track with a sexy groove. I gave Harry a wink as I began to dance closer to him, my fingers lightly teasing the opening of his shirt, tickling the unfastened buttons.

I loved the way he was looking at me. His eyes sparkled in the dim light, the green darker than usual. He didn't have to say a word. I knew what he was feeling, because I was feeling it too.

I knew I wasn't supposed to. Every warning he'd ever given me replayed in my head as I stood on my tip toes. I didn't care. I needed his lips on mine. I wound my arms around his neck, my chin tilted, awaiting his kiss.

But it didn't happen. Instead, Harry unwrapped my arms from his neck, squeezing my hands before letting them fall between us. His jaw set, he shook his head.

"No, baby," he whispered.

Though his tone was firm, like a parent scolding a child, I knew I detected a bit of regret and sorrow. Or perhaps that was just my own wishful thinking.

"Please."

"We can't. I've told you."

"No one knows us here, Harry."

His brows furrowed, the crinkle above his nose deeper than ever, he shook his head once more and turned toward the bar. I stood in my spot, my feet unable to move. My chest shook as I began to sob internally, careful not to let any tears roll down my face. Finally, I was able to walk, following Harry where he stood at the end of the bar.

"Take me home," I mumbled.

"What?" he turned to me.

"I'd like to leave," I declared, my bottom lip trembling. "Drive me home, please."

"We only got here..." his eyes shifted around the room. "It's early."

"Fine," I argued. "I'll find my own way."

Pushing past him, I made it outside, my heels clicking on the pavement and down the sidewalk. I pulled out my phone to call a cab just as Harry caught up with me.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting a ride," I answered, my fingers tapping anxiously on the screen.

"Don't be like this, love. We've been through this."

"Harry, not one fucking soul in that bar knows you're marr-" I couldn't say the word. It tasted awful on my tongue and made me nauseous. "That I'm not yours."

"Baby..." He stepped closer, but still didn't reach for me. The few inches between us might as well had been a million miles. "You are mine."

"Am I? Because I don't feel like it."

Harry remained silent, the only sound his breath as he exhaled through his nose. I felt the tears form in my eyes again and I blinked, desperate to hold them back.

"You won't even touch me now," I whispered in a shaky voice.

"I...I want to..."

I shook my head, the first lone tear trickling down my cheek. "Just take me home. Please."

Dropping his head, Harry dug his keys out of his pocket. I followed him to the car and climbed inside when he held the door open. The noise rang in my ears when he shut it, like the sound of a pinball dropping down the chute, much like the clanging of a phantom beat in my empty heart.

As he drove, the silence was deafening. I couldn't stop the tears anymore. They came rolling down my face like a waterfall. My chest shook with heavy breaths. I couldn't look at him, so I just stared out the window and watched the headlights and street lamps go by.

"I'm sorry," Harry finally spoke.

I sniffled, still unable to turn my head. "I don't wanna hide anymore," I mumbled through sobs.

I could hear him swallow, hear the sound of his hand running across the steering wheel. He cleared his throat.

"I wanna be able to be seen with you," I continued. "I want to be able to kiss you. Why can't we be like that?"

"We...we just...we can't."

"Why not?" I cried, finally turning to face him. His face was lit by the dashboard light, but his expression was unreadable. "I love y-"

"Shh, baby, don't," he interrupted, reaching over the seat to grab my hand.

"Don't what? I can't help it, Harry! I'm in love with you! I want the world to know. I wanna shout it from the rooftops!"

Harry said nothing else for the rest of the ride home. I just sat in the passenger seat, staring at him, waiting and hoping desperately for him to speak. His hand still held mine as he pulled into the parking lot and stopped the car in front of my apartment. Releasing it slowly, he shifted the car into park and bowed his head.

"It's hopeless, isn't it?" I finally asked.

"It's...it's complicated, baby. You knew that from the beginning."

"You said I'm yours. Why is that complicated?"

"Because, it is," he glared at me.

"Because someone else is yours too. That's never gonna change, is it?"

Harry sighed, answering my question with that one gesture.

"I can't live this way, Harry. I've been hoping..." I shook my head, wiping another stream of tears. "No, I can't. I can't keep waiting. It'll never be enough."

"I'm sorry, baby," he said again. "I just can't give you what you're wanting right now."

"I know."

I leaned forward, placing my hand on his cheek. His eyelids fluttered as my lips met his and he kissed me back. One last kiss. A kiss goodbye. Forever.

Neither of us spoke. Instead, I opened my own car door and walked to my own front door, unlocking it as Harry backed out of the parking space. His taillights shone on my hardwood floor when I turned around and watched him drive away.

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