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silkpagess · 2 months ago

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Every Summertime - Part II

Summary: Fresh off a breakout role, Y/N is cast in the year’s most anticipated romcom. She’s ready for the spotlight—until she finds out her on-screen love interest is Harry Styles, and the lines between fiction and reality start to blur.

Word Count: 6,069

Bear with me please, I'm a slow burn girl through and through, and this part is no exception.

Rehearsals started the following week.

By the time Monday arrived, something in Y/N’s chest had clicked into place—part adrenaline, part disbelief. It wasn’t nerves anymore. It was something quieter. Heavier. Like standing at the edge of something she’d wanted for so long that the wanting had reshaped her. Now she was here, living inside the dream, and it didn’t feel glossy or surreal. It felt real. Tangible. She woke up every morning with the same mix of gratitude and pressure curling beneath her ribs.

The schedule was relentless in a way she oddly welcomed. There was a comfort in the structure—scene work in the mornings, costume fittings tucked between meetings, chemistry reads with supporting cast, location walkthroughs, production meetings, table work. The days blurred together, color-coded and crossed out, each one demanding something more from her. But the work kept her grounded. The character of Ivy was still unfolding in her bones, new layers rising each time she read a scene aloud. And that was the thrill of it. Getting to live inside someone else's skin and slowly, methodically, fill in the soul.

By Wednesday, she already knew the assistant director preferred to run five minutes early, the best iced coffee came from the corner cart outside the lot, and the grip team blasted Bowie when they rigged lights between scenes. She learned names quickly—not just the leads or department heads, but the background artists and set decorators, the woman from sound who clipped the mic to her shirt each morning and always made a bad pun to ease the tension.

People liked her. She could feel it in the little things—extra sides being saved for her, warm glances in between setups, crew members joking with her like she'd been around longer than she had. It wasn’t something she tried to earn. It just happened. She listened. She remembered. She cared. And that, she knew, went a long way.

Harry was a different story.

He wasn’t cold. Far from it. He was friendly in that calm, steady way that made people lean in when he spoke. Kind without being performative. Always polite, always prepared. But he moved through the space like someone who had learned to preserve his energy—still, measured, a little guarded around the edges. He spoke when it mattered. Laughed when something really made him laugh. But he didn’t linger after rehearsals or hang around the snack table just to chat.

And still, something about the way he looked at her when they ran scenes—focused, present, a little more open than he probably meant to be—made her stomach tighten in a way she couldn’t quite name.

The scene that changed everything—subtly, but unmistakably—was on a Tuesday afternoon.

They were working through one of the more emotionally complex beats: Ivy and Theo in a kitchen at night, unresolved tension simmering after an argument that hadn’t been fully voiced. It wasn’t a dramatic scene. There were no raised voices or broken dishes. Just low conversation, missed eye contact, silence heavy enough to press against the ribcage. The kind of scene that demanded restraint.

On the third run, something shifted.

They stood a little closer. Spoke a little softer. Her line faltered—not because she forgot it, but because the moment pulled something from her she hadn’t expected. When she looked up, Harry was watching her. Not Theo. Harry. For a second, the character fell away. No smirk, no charm. Just… awareness.

Elaine didn’t call cut right away. The room stayed quiet. The kind of quiet that made Y/N feel every inch of skin between them. It wasn’t flirtation. Not yet. But it was a flicker. And it stayed with her long after rehearsal ended.

Later, when she was slipping off her heels in the hallway, balancing against the wall to fix a twisted strap, she heard someone approach behind her.

“Coffee?” Harry’s voice, low and casual.

She turned, caught off guard—not because he was there, but because he was asking.

“Now?”

He nodded, one hand already tucking his script into his bag. “Unless you’ve got somewhere better to be.”

She didn’t. And even if she had, she would’ve changed plans.

They walked in easy silence to a café a few blocks from set, tucked into a corner with rain-streaked windows and muted brass fixtures. It was just after golden hour, and the light inside was soft, forgiving. The barista barely looked up. In L.A., you could be famous and invisible at the same time.

She ordered a flat white with oat milk. Harry raised his eyebrows, amused.

“Oat girl?”

She smirked. “I’m a ‘dairy ruins my life’ girl.”

He laughed—really laughed this time—and the sound was warmer than she expected. A little rough around the edges, like it surprised even him.

They took a table by the window. For a long stretch, they didn’t talk. Just sipped their drinks, watching people pass outside, the jazz playing faintly through a tinny overhead speaker.

Eventually, she asked, “Did you always want to act?”

He stirred his coffee, slow and thoughtful. “No. Not really. I think I just… needed something quieter. Something that didn’t come with a stadium.”

She tilted her head. “And this is quieter?”

He smiled. “Compared to touring? Yeah.”

She took that in. Let it sit.

“I get it,” she said. “I didn’t grow up around this either. I think acting was the first thing that made sense. It didn’t ask me to be anyone I wasn’t. Just… someone real. Even if she was fictional.”

He glanced at her, eyes soft. “You act like it matters to you.”

“It does.”

He nodded, almost like he already knew that.

The moment between them wasn’t charged. It wasn’t heavy with anything unsaid. It was just… honest. Comfortable in its simplicity. But something about it stayed with her. Lodged in the quiet places she didn’t always check.

When they left the café, she noticed he walked a little slower than he had on the way there. And when they said goodbye, there was no hug. No awkward linger. Just a glance, a quiet smile, and a parting that didn’t feel final.

Not even close.

The next morning, she was a little slower getting out of bed.

Not tired—at least not in the way her body usually felt after long rehearsal days. But her thoughts moved differently, heavier somehow. Not anxious. Not exactly. Just… present. Like she was replaying something on a loop without meaning to.

The coffee with Harry hadn’t been anything dramatic. There was no spark across the table, no flirty banter or blushing glances. But still, it lingered.

The ease of it. The way he listened. The way he didn’t fill the silence just to prove something.

She got ready in her usual rhythm—coffee, script review, half-listened podcasts in the background. Her flat white had gone cold by the time she remembered to sip it. She pulled on a soft gray button-down and loose cream trousers, comfortable enough for blocking but clean-lined enough to make her feel a little put together.

When she got to the studio, the day had already begun to move.

A few crew members were wheeling light stands across the stage. The wardrobe team was setting out the day’s pieces on labeled hangers. Elaine stood near the monitor with her brow furrowed, already scribbling adjustments on her shooting schedule.

And then there was Harry.

He stood with a coffee cup balanced loosely in one hand, his phone in the other, thumb scrolling slowly. His posture was relaxed, like he’d been there for a while, half-reading, half-thinking. He looked up just as she arrived, and something in his face softened—the smallest shift, like he’d been waiting for her without even realizing it.

“Morning,” he said, offering her a nod that felt more familiar than it had twenty-four hours ago.

She gave him a soft smile. “Morning.”

And then he did something new.

He held out his coffee cup toward her, one brow raised. “Better than yesterday. Want a sip?”

She blinked. Not because of the offer—she’d shared drinks with scene partners before—but because of the quiet comfort in the gesture. Casual. Assumed. Like they’d skipped a few steps.

She took the cup, tasted it.

“Bold,” she said, handing it back. “But kind of amazing.”

“Brazilian roast,” he replied, pleased. “Almost too good to drink during a scene where we yell at each other.”

She laughed, letting herself ease into it.

That day’s rehearsal was built around one of the sharper scenes—a beach argument written in crisp, fast-paced dialogue. Ivy and Theo, two months into a fake relationship, forced to navigate real emotions neither of them had prepared for. The tension wasn’t romantic yet. Not exactly. But it was messy, real, full of the kind of biting sarcasm that hid something softer underneath.

Y/N was ready for it.

What she wasn’t ready for was how easily their dynamic had started to stretch beyond the page.

Harry didn’t play the scene for sympathy, even when Theo was being difficult. He let himself be prickly. Defensive. And when she pushed back—when Ivy raised her voice, dropped the veneer and let herself feel—he didn’t flinch. He held it. Reacted in real time. Never overdid it.

They hit their marks. Then missed them on purpose. Tried it again from different angles. At one point, Elaine called cut, but neither of them moved right away. They just stood there, breath catching up to breath, tension still humming in the air like heat after thunder.

Afterward, while the crew rearranged lights for the next scene, Harry walked by and bumped her shoulder lightly with his.

“You’re mean when you want to be.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I was being Ivy.”

“Exactly,” he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

She watched him walk off toward the sound department, his script tucked under his arm, a hand running absently through his hair.

And something about it made her pause.

It wasn’t that she had a crush on him. At least, not yet. But there was something unfolding between them—a quiet language that only existed between scene takes and coffee runs and glances across the lot.

It wasn’t flirtation.

It was familiarity.

And that, more than anything else, felt dangerous in the best possible way.

They broke for lunch a little before noon, the studio buzzing with that specific kind of organized chaos that happened when everyone was running on caffeine and five hours of sleep. Someone in production had ordered a mix of Thai food and overpriced salad bowls. The room smelled like lemongrass and sesame oil.

Y/N found a quiet corner near the windows, cross-legged on a bench, picking at her tofu curry and reviewing the scene they were shooting next—a smaller, more internal moment. Ivy sitting on a front porch, talking about her mom. A monologue, really. Not big or dramatic. Just… real. One of those scenes that could fall flat if she didn’t find the emotional undercurrent and let it settle in the way Ivy would.

“Mind if I sit?”

She looked up.

Harry stood in front of her with a half-eaten spring roll in one hand and a green smoothie in the other, slightly out of breath like he’d just jogged from the other side of the lot.

“Sure,” she said, nudging her script aside to give him space.

He sat down with a quiet exhale, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, gaze scanning the courtyard beyond the glass. For a few moments, neither of them spoke. It wasn’t uncomfortable—just quiet. Lately, that seemed to be the easiest part of being around him. They didn’t need to talk all the time.

“I forgot how cold it gets in there,” he said finally, nodding toward the soundstage.

“Always,” she agreed. “I keep a hoodie in my bag like I’m eighty.”

“I do socks,” he said, glancing down at his sneakers. “Change into thick ones between takes.”

She gave him a sideways look. “You change your socks in the middle of the day?”

He shrugged. “You gotta protect the assets.”

She let out a laugh, surprised and amused. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Probably,” he said, grinning now. “But I’ve never had a blister.”

They ate quietly for another minute, the sounds of people laughing and low conversation drifting from the crew tables across the room. Someone had brought a Bluetooth speaker and was playing something acoustic and a little sad, but in a cozy way. It made the moment feel softer, like something out of a behind-the-scenes featurette.

Then Harry spoke again, more quietly this time.

“You’re really good, by the way. Like... scary good.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “At what?”

“At all of it,” he said. “At Ivy. At knowing exactly where the beat is in the scene before anyone else finds it. You make it look like you’re just… thinking, and it ends up landing harder than the lines.”

She sat back slightly, unsure what to say. Compliments made her nervous. Not because she didn’t believe in her work—but because she did. And that belief was delicate, hard-won, and always felt like it needed protecting.

“Thank you,” she said, finally. “That means a lot.”

He didn’t press. Just gave a small nod and took another bite of his spring roll.

“Do you like watching yourself?” he asked, after a pause.

She made a face. “Absolutely not.”

“Same,” he said. “Hate it. Always feel like I’m pretending.”

“You’re not,” she said, without thinking.

He looked over at her. “Neither are you.”

Their eyes held for a second longer than usual.

Then someone across the room called for reset, and the moment folded quietly back into the noise.

The next scene moved fast. A one-on-one moment outside the house set—Theo handing Ivy an old camera, saying nothing about it, but clearly hoping she’d understand the gesture. It was one of those lines that wasn’t a line at all. Just movement. A handoff. Eye contact. A thousand unspoken things that had to register with only breath and a glance.

They rehearsed it three times.

And each time, Harry’s hand brushed hers a little differently—first by accident, then on purpose, then like he’d forgotten they were acting.

Y/N didn’t flinch. Didn’t break.

But when the scene wrapped, and the director called cut with a satisfied sigh, she didn’t move right away. She stayed in Ivy for one breath longer than she needed to, heart beating in her throat.

Harry didn’t say anything either.

But later, when they passed each other in the hallway—her hands full of wardrobe changes, him with a headset slung around his neck—he smiled at her, just barely.

And she smiled back.

The space between them wasn’t charged yet.

But it was becoming something.

And she wasn’t sure she could ignore it much longer.

The next few days moved in that strange time-bending way only sets could create—every moment scheduled down to the second, yet still full of long pockets of waiting, adjusting, repeating. Y/N had started to keep a highlighter tucked behind her ear like a carpenter’s pencil, marking new scene changes and edits in real time. There was a constant hum of conversation around her—wardrobe tweaks, lighting tests, department radios going off in soft bursts of static.

But underneath all of it, there was Harry.

And not in a distracting, all-consuming way. Not yet.

Just in the way he was always there.

In the quiet glances during blocking. In the small, thoughtful comments after a difficult scene. In the way he started showing up earlier than he used to, often with a second coffee in hand—never asking if she wanted one, just quietly placing it beside her script and acting like it had always been there.

By the fourth day, Elaine asked if the two of them could meet off-set to run some of the more emotionally layered scenes in a quieter space—just the two of them and a stage manager to time the beats and take notes.

“Nothing formal,” Elaine said. “Just want you both to live in it a little before we get to coverage next week.”

Y/N didn’t hesitate.

They met at one of the smaller rehearsal rooms—windowless, warm, and echoey in that very specific way that made every breath feel louder. Someone had dragged two chairs into the center of the room. A bottle of water and a single yellow legal pad sat on the floor. The only light came from the half-dimmed fluorescents overhead, casting everything in a soft, hazy glow.

Harry was already there when she arrived, hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows, pacing the length of the space with his script in hand. He looked up when she entered and gave her a soft, tired smile.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” she replied, dropping her bag onto the floor.

For a few minutes, they just sat across from each other, flipping through their lines, warming up their voices quietly, letting the room settle around them. It wasn’t awkward. If anything, it felt like exhaling.

They started with the porch scene again—the one where Ivy, unsure of what she wants, confesses she doesn’t know how to be alone without preparing for the next goodbye.

Y/N delivered the monologue slowly, carefully, her voice nearly breaking on the final few lines. When she looked up, Harry didn’t jump into his response. He didn’t move at all. He just looked at her—really looked—eyes soft, mouth pressed into something almost concerned. He stayed in it even after the stage manager whispered, “Cut.”

“Sorry,” he said, blinking out of it. “You hit something new there.”

She shrugged, a little breathless. “It felt different.”

“It was,” he said. “It felt like you were telling me. Not him.”

There was a pause.

“You okay with that?” she asked.

His gaze held hers. “Yeah. I think I am.”

They moved into the next scene—closer, quieter—and the proximity changed things. Not dramatically. Just… enough. Their knees brushed under the table without meaning to. When he reached for her hand, like the stage direction instructed, his touch lingered longer than it had the last time. And when she pulled away—on cue—he didn’t flinch. But his breath caught just slightly, and she felt it in her fingertips for minutes afterward.

They didn’t talk much after rehearsal. Just packed up, exchanged a quiet “See you tomorrow,” and went their separate ways.

But she knew he felt it too.

The next night, the entire cast was invited to a casual dinner by one of the producers—a mix of actors, assistants, department heads, and a few familiar faces from the studio. It wasn’t fancy. No press. Just long tables at a dimly lit Italian restaurant tucked in the Valley, with endless plates of pasta and bottles of wine passed around like currency.

Y/N arrived with Mara—who was visiting for the weekend and had been banned from asking too many questions about Harry before they even reached the front door.

“Just let me vibe,” Y/N had told her, tugging her jacket tighter. “Don’t be weird.”

“I make no promises,” Mara had muttered, already plotting from the passenger seat.

Inside, the atmosphere was warm and easy. People laughed too loudly, traded stories from past shoots, slid plates across the table without asking. Y/N found herself in the middle of the room, sandwiched between a line producer and someone from the art department, a glass of Chianti in hand and a laugh stuck in her throat.

Then she felt a shift. A presence.

She glanced up just in time to see Harry walking in, his hair still damp from a shower, a navy sweater hanging loose around his frame. He looked more casual than she was used to seeing him—even more relaxed than during rehearsals.

His eyes caught hers almost instantly.

She didn’t smile.

Not at first.

But he did.

A small one. A private one. Like a secret only they were in on.

He made his way through the room, pausing to greet a few people, leaning in to shake hands and clap shoulders. And when he finally got to her side of the table, he didn’t hesitate. He dropped into the empty seat beside her like it had always been his.

“Evening,” he said softly.

“Nice of you to join us,” she teased.

“Fashionably late.”

Their knees brushed again—this time not by accident. Neither of them moved.

Mara watched the exchange from a few seats down, eyebrows raised, sipping her wine slowly like she was preparing a full report for later.

They talked all night. Not just to each other—but in that way where everyone else was there, but the current kept tugging them back to the same place. Same conversation. Same glances. Same spark that still wasn’t quite flame.

When dessert came around, someone made a joke about their onscreen chemistry. Something about how “if the fake dating doesn’t become real by week six, I’ll be shocked.” It earned a few laughs. A toast.

Harry didn’t react. Not visibly.

But he did glance at her then—not with embarrassment or discomfort, but with something quieter. A flicker of recognition. Like he’d heard the joke, filed it away, and decided not to play into it.

Y/N didn’t look at him right away. She kept her eyes on the rim of her wine glass, swirling what was left as if it had something interesting to tell her. But she felt the heat rise to her cheeks. Not because of the comment. Not even because of the idea. But because a small part of her, the one she usually kept locked behind discipline and boundary lines, didn’t find it entirely absurd.

When the plates were cleared and the table had started to thin out—people slipping into coats, leaning into long hugs, promising to text tomorrow—Y/N stood to help the server collect the empty espresso cups. She wasn’t trying to be helpful, necessarily. She just needed to move.

She was stacking saucers when she heard his voice behind her.

“Do you want a ride?”

She turned.

Harry stood beside her now, jacket draped over one arm, his other hand tucked into his front pocket. His expression was easy. Not suggestive. Not loaded. Just… genuine. The way someone asks when they want to keep the night going a little longer.

“I drove,” she said. “Mara’s staying with me.”

He nodded. “Right.”

A pause.

Then: “Next time, maybe.”

She gave him a look. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

He smiled, soft and unreadable. “Just... predicting the future.”

It was a stupid line. One that should’ve made her roll her eyes. But instead, she felt it sink somewhere low and quiet in her chest. A warmth that had nothing to do with the wine.

Mara sidled up a moment later, a twinkle in her eye and her phone already in hand. “We leaving?”

“Yeah,” Y/N said quickly, suddenly aware of how close Harry was standing. “Yeah, let’s go.”

“Night,” he said to both of them, but his eyes were still on her.

“Goodnight,” she replied, matching his tone.

As they walked to the car, Mara didn’t say anything right away. She just shot her a look. The kind of look that said: I’m waiting until we’re buckled in before I grill you.

Y/N slid into the driver’s seat, exhaled once, and turned the key.

Mara didn’t last thirty seconds.

“So…?”

“So what?”

“Oh my god,” Mara groaned. “You two are doing that thing.”

“What thing.”

“That thing where everything is technically innocent but if I lit a match in the space between you, the entire restaurant would’ve gone up in flames.”

Y/N laughed. Too loud. Too defensive. “We’re just working together.”

“Sure. And I just drink wine for the antioxidants.”

Y/N didn’t answer. Mostly because she didn’t know what to say.

Because the truth was: they hadn’t done anything.

But there was something about the way he’d looked at her tonight.

Like he saw something he hadn’t meant to.

Like he wasn’t trying to hide that he’d seen it.

And maybe—just maybe—she’d let him.

It was Friday.

A rare, cloudless afternoon on set, warm enough that half the crew had migrated outside for lunch, taking over the stone steps and narrow picnic tables near the production trailers. Someone had brought out speakers and queued up a playlist of mellow soul tracks—Aretha, Otis, a little Leon Bridges—just loud enough to hum beneath the conversation.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the low retaining wall at the edge of the lot, her lunch box open beside her and sunglasses perched high in her hair. She picked at a fruit salad with her fingers, laughing at something a makeup artist had said, sun hitting her bare arms like a second skin. She hadn’t put on much makeup that morning. She didn’t need to. There was something about the light that made her glow without trying.

Harry spotted her from across the lot.

He had just finished a run of line notes with the dialect coach, a pencil still behind his ear and the sleeves of his shirt pushed up haphazardly. He could’ve gone back to his trailer, but his feet moved before he could think. It wasn’t even conscious anymore—this quiet orbit he kept around her.

“Hey,” he said, stepping into her line of sight and blocking the sun for just a second.

Y/N looked up, hand shielding her eyes, and grinned. “You again.”

He smirked. “You sound thrilled.”

“I am, actually. You’ve saved me from hearing another horror story about hot rollers and scalp burns.”

The makeup artist threw a grape at her, missed, and excused herself with a laugh and a “You’re on your own now.”

Harry didn’t sit right away. Instead, he slid a worn canvas bag off his shoulder and crouched to unzip it. From it, he pulled out a boxy, retro-looking analog camera—black, with a cracked leather strap and scuffed metal edges.

Y/N raised a brow. “That thing’s alive?”

“Barely,” he said, holding it up. “She’s from the ‘80s. Found her in a shop in Notting Hill ten years ago. Still works.”

She leaned in, curious. “You shoot film?”

“Sometimes. It slows things down.”

He adjusted the lens, pointed the camera lazily toward her, then paused.

“May I?”

She blinked. “May you what?”

“Take your picture.”

She narrowed her eyes, trying not to smile. “Why?”

He shrugged. “Because you look really fucking pretty right now, and I don’t want to forget it.”

The breath caught in her throat before she could stop it. And the way he said it—it wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t a line. It was honest. Disarming in the simplest way.

She held up her fruit cup like a toast. “You’re lucky I’m eating grapes and not something tragic like tuna salad.”

“I’d photograph you with tuna salad,” he said, already lifting the camera to his eye. “Still pretty.”

She rolled her eyes, but she didn’t move.

The shutter clicked.

Then again.

“Smile,” he said gently.

“I am smiling.”

“No,” he said, stepping a little closer. “Not the polite one. The real one.”

She stared at him.

He didn’t lower the camera.

She let out a short laugh—half embarrassed, half caught—and there it was. The real smile. The one that crept up her face without permission, the kind that crinkled the corners of her eyes and made her nose scrunch just slightly.

Click.

“There it is,” he murmured, lowering the camera.

She shook her head. “You’re dangerous.”

He sat beside her finally, the camera resting on his thigh.

“Nah,” he said, reaching for one of her grapes without asking. “I’m just observant.”

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, knees brushing again, her foot swinging lazily against the stone ledge.

“Are you gonna let me see it?” she asked, nodding toward the camera.

“When I develop it,” he said. “If you’re nice to me.”

She gave him a look. “You’re holding my grapes hostage and bribing me with film?”

He nodded, pleased. “That’s right.”

She leaned closer, shoulder brushing his. “You know, if you wanted a picture of me, you could’ve just asked for a selfie like a normal person.”

He looked at her then, really looked, and his voice dropped—quieter, more serious now.

“I didn’t want a selfie. I wanted… you. Like this. Just how you are.”

It took her a second to breathe after that.

A second too long.

She looked away, focusing on a crew member passing by, pretending not to feel the flush creeping up her neck.

And Harry—being Harry—didn’t push it. He didn’t say more. Just sat there beside her, camera in his lap, shoulder to shoulder, not moving away.

Letting the moment exist without naming it.

Which, in its own quiet way, said everything.

After a minute, Y/N cleared her throat, her voice softer now.

“So… do you just carry that thing around hoping the lighting will be cinematic enough for a good line?”

He grinned, eyes still ahead. “Only on Fridays.”

She nudged him lightly with her shoulder. “No, seriously. Is this, like, your thing? You take pictures of everyone on set and tell them they’re glowing?”

He turned to her, lips quirking. “No. You’re the first.”

Her smile faltered—just a bit. She held his gaze longer than she meant to. “Why?”

His answer came without hesitation. “Because you don’t perform when you’re not acting.”

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

“I mean,” he said, voice even, “you’re not selling anything when you talk to people. You’re just… you. No filter. No PR smile. You don’t change depending on who’s around.”

She tried to laugh it off, but the sound caught in her throat.

“Is that a compliment or a very soft read?”

He leaned back on his palms, eyes flicking up to the sky like he was weighing the question. “Bit of both, maybe. But mostly a compliment.”

She looked down at her hands, picking at the corner of the fruit container. “I didn’t think you were paying that much attention.”

“See, that’s the thing,” he said. “You’re used to people looking at you. But not really seeing you.”

The air stilled between them.

It wasn’t a line. Not even close. And that made it worse. Or better. Or both.

She shook her head, smiling in spite of herself. “You’re gonna make me insufferable if you keep talking like that.”

Harry smirked. “Can’t imagine you’re very sufferable to begin with.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Did you just call me sufferable?”

“I said not very sufferable. That’s different. Nuanced.”

She laughed then, full and easy, and leaned her shoulder against his just for a second.

They were quiet for a few beats after that. Not because the conversation had died, but because neither of them felt the need to fill the space.

Finally, she said, “So… what happens to the photo?”

“The one I just took?”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” he said, fiddling with the dial on the camera, “I’ll take the roll to my place this weekend. I’ve got a little darkroom setup at home.”

“Of course you do,” she murmured, smirking.

“Hey,” he said, nudging her knee with his. “It’s a hobby.”

“Do you always take pictures of the people you act with?”

“No. Just the ones I’m curious about.”

She didn’t answer that. She couldn’t.

He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his phone, and held it between them.

“I’ll text you when it’s developed. Unless you’re morally opposed to giving me your number.”

She tried to play it cool, even though her pulse had definitely quickened.

“Hmm. I don’t know,” she said, pretending to consider. “Feels risky.”

“Yeah?” he said, tapping his thumb against the screen. “How risky?”

“Well… you could be a secret terrible texter. Like all emojis and no punctuation.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You think I’m an emoji guy?”

She tilted her head. “You do have pretty enthusiastic energy.”

Harry made a show of looking offended. “I’ll have you know I’m very chill over text.”

“Oh, okay. So you send periods and everything?”

“Absolutely. I’m basically Hemingway.”

She laughed again—couldn’t help it—and took the phone from his hand, typing her number quickly before handing it back.

He didn’t look at the screen right away. Just pocketed it casually, like it wasn’t a big deal.

But it was.

It was the kind of exchange that meant something.

Not for press. Not for schedules. Not for coordination.

Just because.

And for the rest of that lunch break, even as other cast members joined them and conversation turned loud and scattered again, she felt the tension of that moment still clinging to her skin like heat.

The camera sat between them, untouched.

But she knew, without a doubt, that it wasn’t the last photo he’d take of her.

Not even close.

Saturday night, 11:42 p.m.

Y/N was curled sideways on her couch, hair piled messily on top of her head, half a glass of red wine resting on the coffee table. Her script lay open in front of her, pages marked with notes, but her focus had drifted an hour ago. The city outside was quiet in that late-weekend way, the kind of quiet that made her feel both calm and restless.

Her phone buzzed once on the cushion beside her.

HARRY

You bring it out of me. But also… I kind of am always this smooth.

She laughed softly, cheeks warm, biting her lip to keep herself from grinning too hard.

Y/N

Okay, Hemingway.

HARRY

You remembered.

Y/N

I remember everything. Don’t let it go to your head.

There was a pause. Long enough that she thought maybe the conversation had ended. She leaned back on the couch, ready to put her phone down.

Then:

HARRY

I meant it, by the way. About the picture. About how you are. You make people feel safe being real. That’s rare.

She blinked.

Suddenly wide awake.

She started typing. Stopped. Typed again.

Y/N

You’re gonna make me write something weird in my journal tonight.

HARRY

Good. You’ll have to read it to me sometime.

She didn’t respond right away.

Not because she didn’t know what to say.

But because her stomach was doing something ridiculous and fluttery, and her heart felt like it was stretching toward something she hadn’t realized she wanted.

Monday morning — back on set

The week started slower than usual—early call time, script revisions still printing, a few crew members dragging from a Sunday night wrap party.

Y/N was sitting in the makeup chair, sipping her coffee when she saw Harry walk in.

He was wearing sunglasses, a beanie, and a stupidly soft navy hoodie she had seen him in three times now. Comfortable. Familiar. Like he wasn’t trying to be anything for anyone.

He didn’t say anything at first—just walked by her station and slid something onto the counter.

A small envelope.

She waited until he disappeared into wardrobe before opening it.

Inside—two printed photographs. Both from the same film roll. The first, the one he’d texted her. The second—her from a different angle, mid-laugh, head tipped back slightly, wind pulling at her hair.

On the back, in neat handwriting:

You were right. Friday light really is cinematic.-H

She folded it gently and tucked it into the back pocket of her script binder, where she knew she’d find it every day.

But she wasn’t the only one noticing things now.

As the day wore on, the undercurrent between them—the small smiles, the shared glances, the way he brought her coffee again and didn’t even pretend it was for anyone else—started to draw quiet attention.

Elaine, sharp-eyed as ever, said nothing. But she gave Y/N one of those long, knowing looks over her glasses during a blocking adjustment. The kind that said: whatever this is, keep it from bleeding into the shot.

And still, the tension built.

During a run-through of a mid-script scene—Theo and Ivy dancing slowly at a small town party, tipsy and tired but beginning to crack open—Y/N found herself too aware of him.

Of how close he stood. Of how warm his hand was against her back. Of the way his thumb brushed over hers when no one else could see.

It wasn’t acting.

Not completely.

And in that moment, she didn’t know if it scared her… or thrilled her.

Probably both.

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x fluff #harry styles x imagine #harry x y/n #harry edward styles #Actor!Harry #actress!y/n x harry styles #actress!reader

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silkpagess · 2 months ago

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I just read ‘out of office, into you’ and I genuinely think it was one of the best fics I’ve ever read, hands down!!!! The way you write is genuinely phenomenal it had me so so hooked omg! LOVED every word. Definitely going to be one I come back to a hundred more times to come xxxx

Thank you so much!!! Receiving these kind messages means so much to me, thank you for taking the time of your day to read my story ��

#ask #coworker!harry #anon ask

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silkpagess · 2 months ago

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Every Summertime - Part I

Part II

Content Warning: none :)

Word Count: 4,311

This is a 5 part story that I've started writing last year and finally had the courage to post lol, I hope you guys like it 🤍

The kitchen smelled faintly of orange peel and clean linen. Y/N stood barefoot by the sink, towel-drying her favorite mug—the one with a tiny chip on the handle that she always used anyway—when her phone rang.

She nearly didn’t answer. It was past noon, and she’d promised herself a day off: no emails, no self-tapes, no endless doom-scroll through industry chatter. But then she saw the caller ID: Miriam Klein – Agent.

She grabbed it immediately.

“Hey,” she said, balancing the mug on the drying rack. “What’s up?”

“I hope you’re sitting,” Miriam said, too calm in that way she only got when something big was about to land.

“Not yet,” Y/N replied, already walking to the kitchen table.

“Okay. Here’s the deal. You’re being asked to read for Every Summertime.”

Y/N sat down hard. Her heart did the exact thing it always did when something she’d dared to want actually started to happen.

“You’re serious?”

“I’m very serious,” Miriam said. “It’s happening. Big studio, full greenlight, same producers from Before the Fall. Sadie Bloom’s doing the script.”

Y/N blinked. “As in Sadie Bloom, the Sadie Bloom?”

“Yes. She adapted the novel herself. It’s been buzzing for months. Everyone’s been asking who’s playing Ivy. They’ve done weeks of auditions already, but apparently they’ve been holding off on final callbacks because the director wanted to take a look at a few new names. You’re one of them.”

Y/N leaned forward, elbows on the table. She’d read the book a year ago, cover to cover in two days, sobbing over the last few chapters and immediately texting Mara to do the same. It was that kind of story—summer and heartbreak, family and longing, slow-burn romance and two people who find each other just as their lives are unraveling in opposite directions.

She had loved Ivy. Had quietly imagined playing her, though she never said it out loud. The role was delicate. Not easy. The kind of part that asked for both lightness and real emotional weight. She hadn’t seen a female lead written like that in a long time.

“What’s the catch?” she asked, finally.

“No catch,” Miriam said. “Just that the room is tight. They’re only seeing three people, total. You’re one of them.”

Y/N’s chest felt tight in the best possible way.

Then Miriam added, as an afterthought, “Oh, and Harry Styles is already attached. He auditioned a few weeks ago and got cast as Theo.”

She blinked again. “Wait—he auditioned?”

“Yep. Just like everyone else. He read three times. Apparently, he worked his ass off for it.”

“Oh wow,” Y/N said. “I mean, I figured it’d be someone big, but I didn’t think…”

“I know,” Miriam said, “but I don’t want that to throw you. You’ve got just as much shot at this. They asked you. That means something.”

Y/N nodded, even though Miriam couldn’t see her. “Okay. Okay, yeah. Send me everything.”

She spent the next two hours reading the sides, walking through the scenes quietly in her living room, letting the language settle into her skin. Ivy was just as rich and warm on the page as she was in the book—witty and careful and emotionally bruised but still hopeful. She understood her immediately. Not just as a character, but as a person.

By the time Mara and Gia showed up at her apartment uninvited—with iced matchas and a chaotic playlist of "songs you can fake-date to"—Y/N had already color-coded the script, flagged three emotional beats she wanted to dig deeper into, and made a Pinterest mood board for Ivy’s wardrobe.

“You’re disgusting,” Mara said, watching her set up a ring light for practice. “You just got the call and you’re already in prep mode.”

“You don’t understand,” Y/N said, breathless, holding the script to her chest. “It’s Every Summertime. It’s Ivy. And they asked for me. They didn’t even make me chase it.”

Gia threw herself on the couch. “Wait, and Harry Styles is Theo? Like, officially?”

“Yes. But that’s not the point.”

“That is absolutely the point,” Gia muttered.

Mara leaned forward. “Do you think he’s going to remember your name? Or like… do that thing where he knows way too much about your performance in something you did three years ago?”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling.

“I don’t care if he remembers me,” she said, and she meant it. “I just want to walk into that room and be Ivy. That’s the only thing I care about.”

And she meant it. This wasn’t about him. It was about her. And if there was even a small chance that this role—the one everyone in the industry was quietly circling—could be hers, she was going to show up ready.

No matter who else was in the room.

The studio was quiet in that specific, clinical way only casting buildings managed to be—sterile, over-air-conditioned, and filled with soft voices and the occasional sound of someone clearing their throat in a hallway.

Y/N arrived fifteen minutes early.

She always did, not because she wanted to impress anyone, but because she hated walking into a room while her heart was still racing. She liked having a moment to breathe, to ground herself, to flip through her pages one last time and pretend that this was all normal—that she wasn’t sitting in a casting office about to read for the role every young actress in the industry was dreaming about.

She kept her headphones in while she signed in at the front desk, though no music was playing. Sometimes she liked the illusion of noise, the space it gave her from being approached or spoken to. Her hair was pulled back in a low bun, clean and simple. She wore a soft cream knit top tucked into well-tailored navy trousers—comfortable, but confident. She hadn’t overthought the outfit. She’d learned the hard way not to try and look like the character. The work had to speak louder than the styling.

She sat down in the holding area, a sleek gray couch pushed against a glass wall. There were no other actresses waiting outside. That meant they were being seen one by one. Intimate. Focused. Possibly recorded.

Her heart thudded softly against her ribs.

She reread the scene again, even though she didn’t need to. The one where Ivy and Theo were walking through a parking lot at night after an argument they didn’t totally finish. It was quiet and tentative and messy—full of unfinished thoughts and sideways glances, two people trying not to say the thing they were thinking. The kind of dialogue that lived in pauses, in breath, in what wasn’t said.

She loved it.

“Y/N?” a woman called gently, peeking her head out from a side door.

She stood quickly, smoothing her pants as she walked.

The room was bright and white and warmer than she expected. A camera on a tripod faced the taped floor marks, and a few people sat behind a folding table covered in notebooks, iced coffees, and half-eaten snacks. The director—Elaine Kim, a sharp, perceptive woman Y/N had read about in interviews—looked up from her notes and smiled.

“Hi, Y/N,” she said, warm but professional. “Thanks for being here.”

“Thanks for having me,” she replied, stepping into the light and placing her water bottle gently on the ground beside the mark.

And then she saw him.

Harry Styles sat on the folding chair just behind Elaine. He was relaxed in that effortlessly casual way some people managed to be—wearing dark jeans, a light blue sweater, sleeves pushed to his forearms, his hair a little messy like he hadn’t tried to fix it before walking in. He was holding a copy of the sides in one hand, a pen tucked behind his ear.

He looked up when she walked in.

And smiled.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t flirty. It was quiet. Just… acknowledgment. Recognition. Maybe even a little curiosity.

She gave a small nod back—professional, polite, but not overly familiar.

Elaine gestured to the center mark. “So this is the parking lot scene. Let’s start from the top and just run through it once. No pressure. We’ll play with it after.”

Y/N nodded and shifted into place.

Harry stood, moving to his own mark opposite her, flipping his page to the correct scene. Up close, he looked exactly like you’d expect him to—but also not. Less glossy. More present. There was something focused in his expression. Something serious.

They locked eyes for the first line.

And something clicked.

It wasn’t fireworks or electricity—not yet—but it was ease. He listened, which was rare in reads like this. He responded, didn’t just deliver lines. He watched her mouth when she spoke. He took a second before replying. His body language changed with hers. And when she shifted her tone halfway through a sentence, he adjusted like he’d already lived in this character for months.

When the scene ended, there was a beat of silence. Not awkward. Just thoughtful.

Elaine leaned back. “That was great,” she said. “We’re gonna try a version where you lean into the frustration a little more, Y/N—like Ivy’s holding in a thousand things she doesn’t want to say. Can you try that?”

“Absolutely,” Y/N replied, already feeling her body recalibrate.

Harry stayed quiet, letting her take the lead.

They read again. Then again. They tried new beats, changed pacing, added a half-second pause in the middle of a breath and watched the tension stretch out like taffy between them.

It was the most fun she’d had in weeks.

When they wrapped, Elaine stood and clapped her hands once. “That’s great, guys. Thank you so much.”

Harry turned to her and gave a small, genuine nod.

“You were really good,” he said simply, in a soft voice that made her want to double-check if she’d imagined it.

“Thanks,” she replied. “You too.”

They exchanged one more look. Just a moment of eye contact. No lingering. No flirtation. Just… mutual awareness. Two people who understood what this scene could be. Who knew that if they ended up doing this together, it would work.

It wasn’t chemistry in the cliché way.

It was trust.

And that, she knew, mattered more than anything else.

The moment she stepped outside the studio building, the sun hit her straight in the face. She hadn’t realized how long she’d been inside until the daylight made her squint.

She didn’t rush home right away.

Instead, she walked three blocks up and sat on a quiet bench tucked next to a tiny bakery she used to visit when she was still auditioning for short films and background roles. It felt like a good place to land for a second. Familiar. Neutral.

She took out her phone and opened the Notes app—not to write anything in particular, just to look busy, to give her hands something to do while her body caught up with what had just happened.

The read had gone well. She knew that. Not in the arrogant, self-congratulatory way. But in the honest, I-was-present-and-I-did-the-work way. She had hit the beats she wanted. Had felt the tension she built in the back of her throat as Ivy. Had watched Harry adjust and lean into the shifts in energy, the kind of give-and-take that felt real.

She hadn’t felt that kind of scene partner chemistry in a long time. Not the fake “oh my god we just clicked” type people always said in interviews, but the real kind—the kind that made you breathe differently when the camera was rolling.

Still, callbacks were a strange kind of limbo. You left everything in the room and walked out with your hands empty, unsure if what you gave was the version they wanted.

Her phone buzzed with a message from Mara.

MARA:

Did it happen?? Did you cry? Did he cry?

She smiled but didn’t reply yet.

She wasn’t ready to open the door to speculation and “what ifs.” Not yet. Not when her heart was still beating in callback rhythm, not regular rhythm.

Instead, she ordered an iced tea, sat with her thoughts, and let herself do the hardest part of the job: wait.

Two days passed. Then four.

By the fifth, she had convinced herself she didn’t get it.

It was ridiculous—how the brain worked. She could feel confident one minute, and then in the next, be absolutely sure she’d imagined the connection, that the casting team had probably already offered it to someone else. Someone with a bigger name. A better following. A longer résumé.

She went about her days normally—pilates, meal prep, overdue errands—but there was a thin string of tension running through everything she did. An invisible thread tied to her phone, which she kept just slightly too close. Just in case.

Mara and Gia didn’t help.

GIA:

I keep checking Deadline for a casting announcement like I work there. Do you think you’d know before they publish?

MARA:

Should I casually follow the director on Instagram or is that too obvious?

Y/N replied only with a gif of someone staring out a rainy window.

She wasn’t trying to be dramatic. She just didn’t want to break the spell.

The call came on a Friday afternoon.

She was folding a blanket over the back of the couch when her phone rang—and this time, unlike before, her stomach dropped the second she saw Miriam’s name. Her breath caught in her chest.

She answered slowly.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Miriam said, a smile already in her voice. “You ready?”

Y/N didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

“You got it.”

It took a full second for the words to land.

“What?”

“You. Got. It. Ivy Carter is yours.”

Y/N stood still in her living room, one hand still holding the corner of the blanket.

“You’re serious?” she whispered, barely able to say it.

“I’m serious. They just called. Elaine said—and I quote—‘She is Ivy.’ You nailed it, Y/N. It’s yours.”

She sat down, knees folding underneath her like they couldn’t hold her up anymore.

A full breath left her chest. A real one. The kind that only comes when something you’ve wanted quietly, patiently, for longer than you let yourself admit… actually becomes real.

“Oh my god,” she said softly, tears springing to her eyes before she could stop them. “Oh my god.”

“I’m so proud of you,” Miriam said. “Start wrapping your head around it. You leave for pre-production in two weeks.”

Y/N laughed through the tears. “You’re really just gonna say that like it’s nothing.”

“I’m saying it like it’s everything.”

She hung up and sat for a long moment, letting her body catch up to the news. Letting the weight of it settle gently, instead of crashing.

She didn’t need to scream. Or jump. Or call everyone she knew.

She just needed to sit there, quietly, hand over her heart, and smile like she hadn’t in a long time.

Because she had done it.

Not because someone asked for her. Not because of luck. Not because she was “someone’s pick.”

Because she earned it.

She didn’t text them. She could’ve—God knows they’d been obsessively waiting for an update—but this felt bigger than a three-line message or a gif. This deserved real faces. Real reactions. Real yelling.

So she told them to come over.

No context. Just “Please come by tonight, I made dinner. And wear something cute.” Which, in their language, was code for something is up and we’re not taking it lightly.

By seven o’clock, her tiny apartment smelled like garlic and lemon and the fresh rosemary she’d tucked into the sauce just because she could. She wasn’t a show-off cook, but she liked the rhythm of it. Stirring, chopping, laying the table—things that made her feel grounded when everything else was floating.

She’d even lit candles. Mara was going to be suspicious the second she walked in.

When the buzzer went off, her stomach jumped. Nerves, again. Not the kind from auditions, but the kind you get when something good has happened and you finally get to say it out loud.

She opened the door before they even knocked.

Mara walked in first, hair piled up in a claw clip, carrying a bag of chips and a bottle of prosecco. Gia followed, dramatically overdressed in a vintage floral maxi dress with a belt that jingled when she walked.

“Okay,” Mara said, eyes scanning the apartment. “What is this vibe?”

“Why are there candles?” Gia added, narrowing her eyes. “Are we mourning something? Are we casting a spell?”

Y/N grinned. “Sit down.”

Mara raised an eyebrow but dropped onto the couch without another word. Gia flopped down beside her, kicking off her boots and reaching for the chips before the bag was even open.

Y/N took a deep breath.

Then she grabbed the script off the counter, walked over, and dropped it gently on the coffee table in front of them. No words. Just the bold-font title staring back at them:

Every Summertime

FINAL SHOOTING DRAFT

CONFIDENTIAL

There was a pause.

Mara leaned forward slowly. “No. Way.”

Gia blinked. “You got it?”

Y/N nodded, and just like that, the room exploded.

Mara let out a shriek so loud she startled herself. Gia screamed into one of Y/N’s throw pillows. Someone knocked over the chips. Y/N just stood there, laughing and trying not to cry again while her two best friends lost their collective minds.

“YOU’RE IVY?!” Mara yelled, grabbing her by the shoulders.

“You’re fake-dating Harry Styles in a movie based on that book?” Gia yelled right behind her. “Do you understand what you’ve done to me emotionally?”

“I can’t believe it,” Y/N said, the words still tasting new. “They called this afternoon. It’s mine.”

Mara paced a circle around the living room like she needed to walk off the adrenaline. “I’m so proud I think I’m going to vomit. This is not a joke. I might actually cry.”

Gia was already pouring prosecco into mismatched glasses. “To Ivy Carter! To our girl! To the woman who is going to be impossible to sit next to in a movie theater because I will be whispering ‘that’s my best friend’ the whole time.”

Y/N finally sat down between them, letting their joy fold over her like a blanket. Her cheeks hurt from smiling. Her stomach still fluttered every time she pictured that moment on the phone—You got it.

“Did he say anything to you?” Mara asked suddenly, already fishing for gossip.

“About me getting the part?”

“No, about like… your aura or whatever. Your essence. Did he cry when he looked into your eyes?”

Y/N laughed. “We just read the scene. Nothing dramatic. He was focused.”

Gia sipped her drink. “So you’re telling me he wasn’t completely in love with you already?”

“I’m telling you he was doing his job. And so was I.”

“Boring,” Mara muttered. “But fine. We’ll allow it. For now.”

Y/N rested her head on Gia’s shoulder, letting the room go quiet for a moment. She watched the candle flicker on the coffee table. The script sat between them, the pages fanned slightly from being flipped through too many times already.

This was real.

No more waiting. No more wondering. She was Ivy. She was going to spend the summer fake-dating a man half the world was obsessed with while bringing to life a character she’d secretly been carrying in her chest for months.

And she got to share that moment—with them.

“Thank you,” she said, suddenly serious. “For making this feel… big. It’s easy to pretend it’s not. To try and act like it’s just another job. But it’s not. It means something.”

Gia reached out and gently clinked her glass against hers.

“We know it means something,” she said. “We’ve always known.”

The building didn’t look like much from the outside—just another converted studio space in the middle of a quiet block in West Hollywood. The kind of place you’d walk past without thinking twice unless you were part of it. Inside, though, it was buzzing. Quietly. Like a hum under the surface.

Y/N was greeted by a production assistant with a headset and an iced coffee in one hand, who led her down a hallway lined with framed posters from past films and into a bright, high-ceilinged room that smelled faintly like paper, Sharpie ink, and someone’s very expensive cologne.

The long table was already half-filled when she walked in.

Labeled name cards sat in front of every chair. A stack of fresh scripts lay at each place setting. Crew members milled around the edges—producers, assistants, someone from hair and makeup who gave Y/N a small, polite wave as she walked past.

It was her first table read for a major studio project. And even though she had already been cast—contracts signed, emails exchanged, fittings scheduled—it didn’t quite feel real until now.

She spotted her name about halfway down on the left side. Y/N Y/L/N — Ivy Carter. Seeing it printed, so simply, gave her a little jolt in the chest. She ran her hand over the card before sitting down.

She glanced to her right—and there he was.

Harry Styles, sitting just one seat away, wearing a soft gray hoodie and black trousers, flipping through the top pages of the script like he hadn’t already read it a dozen times. His hair was slightly damp, like he’d just showered. He looked relaxed but alert—attentive in that calm, still way he had in the callback room.

He looked over when she sat and gave her a warm smile.

“Morning,” he said.

“Hey,” she replied. “Nice to see you again.”

“You too. Congratulations, by the way.”

She blinked, a little caught off guard. “For what?”

“For getting the part,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I heard they saw a lot of people. Said you were the easiest decision they made.”

It was such a quiet, sincere compliment that it took her a second to respond.

“Thanks,” she said, smiling back. “That means a lot.”

Before she could say more, the room began to settle. Elaine, the director, took her spot at the head of the table and greeted everyone, her voice calm and no-nonsense, but not cold.

“Thanks for being here,” she said. “This is going to be a long day, but a good one. We’ll read straight through, pause halfway for a break, and then meet the department heads after. But for now, let’s just live in the story.”

A few people clapped quietly, and then the rustling of scripts filled the air as everyone turned to page one.

The table read began.

The first scene was a quick one—an establishing moment in Ivy’s flower shop, full of overlapping dialogue and neighborhood energy. Y/N found her rhythm quickly, her voice soft at first but steady. It was strange, hearing the lines spoken aloud by real people instead of looping them over and over in her head. They lived differently in the air.

Then came the first scene with Theo.

It was early in the script—scene eight—a chaotic rental pickup gone wrong. Ivy arriving to find out the place she thought she’d have to herself for the summer had been double-booked by a tired, borderline-annoyed journalist who couldn’t believe she still arranged flowers for a living.

Y/N delivered her first line.

Harry replied in character, voice a little lower, a little dryer than his usual one. It was subtle. American, but not distractingly so. Wry, but not smug. He nailed the tone. The sarcasm. The guarded frustration. He even underplayed the joke in a way that made it land harder.

Their back-and-forth built naturally. A little sharper than in the callback room. Quicker. Like two people who had known each other long enough to know exactly how to get under the other’s skin.

By page twenty-four, someone at the far end of the table laughed out loud during a bickering scene.

By page thirty, they were all leaning in a little closer.

They broke for coffee halfway through.

Y/N stood in the corner of the room, quietly sipping a too-hot green tea and listening to the murmur of conversations happening around her—crew members catching up, producers on quick phone calls, someone from casting laughing softly near the door. She felt out of place for exactly forty seconds before Harry walked over.

“How’s it feeling so far?” he asked, nodding toward the table.

“Honestly?” she said. “Like I’m still dreaming it a little.”

He smiled at that. “I know what you mean.”

There was a pause.

“You’re really good,” he said. “You’ve got this way of landing emotion without forcing it. It makes the scenes feel… like real moments. Not written ones.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Was that feedback or a compliment?”

He shrugged. “Both, I think.”

She laughed, and he smiled wider.

The second half of the read went even smoother. Their final scene of the day—the one where Ivy and Theo slow dance under string lights in the middle of an accidental town party—ended with a pause so soft, no one moved for a second afterward. Not even Elaine.

When she finally looked up from her script, the director just gave her a small, meaningful nod.

The whole room felt different after that.

She didn’t say anything on the way out. Didn’t want to break the stillness. But as she stepped into the hallway, script tucked under her arm and nerves finally quieted, Harry caught up with her and said simply:

“See you on set.”

And she believed it. Not just that she’d see him—but that this story, this world, this version of herself she was stepping into… it was real now.

And it was only just beginning.

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x fluff #harry styles x imagine #harry x y/n #Actress!Y/N #Actor!Harry #Actress!Y/N x Harry Styles #Harry Edward Styles

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silkpagess · 2 months ago

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Out of Office, into you

Summary: Y/N lands her dream job and definitely does not plan on falling for Harry Styles — her charming, too-handsome coworker with rolled-up sleeves and a knack for ruining her concentration. What starts as harmless flirtation over office coffee runs, late-night texts, and passive-aggressive Google Docs turns into romance and a very unexpected ending. She was just trying to survive her probation period. Now she’s wearing his sweater.

Content Warning: Light smut scene.

Word Count: 11,308

If Y/N had a pound for every time someone told her how “lucky” she was to land a job at Maven & Moore, she could’ve retired before even walking through the front doors.

Instead, she stood in the middle of their marble-tiled lobby—portfolio tucked under one arm, nerves simmering beneath a very carefully chosen cream blazer—reminding herself she belonged here.

The agency was sleek and modern, buzzing with creative chaos: voices bouncing off glass walls, interns speed-walking with coffee trays, and the faint smell of eucalyptus diffuser oil that was trying (and failing) to mask the scent of collective burnout.

She was five minutes early, but she liked to be early. People noticed that kind of thing. Especially in a place like this.

A receptionist with blunt bangs and effortless cool smiled at her. “Y/N Y/L/N?”

“That’s me,” she replied, bright and breezy.

“HR will grab you in a sec. In the meantime, here’s your welcome kit—badge, laptop, schedule… and a company pen no one ever uses.”

Y/N laughed softly, slipping the folder under her arm. She didn’t care about the pen. She wanted her desk. Her first meeting. Her first opportunity to prove that she wasn’t just another hire—she was the hire.

And that’s when she noticed him.

Harry Styles.

She’d heard about him in whispers during her interview rounds—strategist turned creative lead, impossible to hate, stupidly charming. But no one had mentioned he was hot.

Of course, she’d never admit that aloud.

Short brown curls, neatly trimmed. White T-shirt under a dark overshirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show forearms that looked too good for someone who probably spent most of his day typing. He was deep in conversation with someone, hands moving as he spoke, but he glanced over just long enough to meet her eyes—and smile.

It was subtle. Polite.

But curious.

“Hey,” said a soft voice behind her. HR had arrived. “Ready to see where the magic happens?”

Y/N gave one last glance at Harry and followed the woman toward the elevator.

⸻

The seventh floor was less sleek than the lobby and more chaotic—in a good way. Desks arranged in near-symmetrical clusters, walls pinned with half-finished campaigns and color palettes, the occasional potted plant trying to stay alive under industrial lighting.

They weaved past clusters of people already in meetings or arguing over font sizes.

“Your team lead is Harry,” HR said, motioning toward a desk near the windows. “You’ll be working closely with him. And—”

“I know who he is,” Y/N said, a little too quickly.

The woman smiled like she knew something Y/N didn’t. “He’s… sharp. But collaborative. And you’ve got quite the resume—everyone’s excited to see what you’ll do here.”

No pressure.

⸻

Y/N tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as the HR rep left her with a cheery “Good luck!” and disappeared into the chaos. For a moment, she just stood there, blinking at her new desk.

It was… perfect. Sunlight pooled across the light wood surface, a sleek monitor already set up beside a few branded notebooks and—why not—a tiny succulent in a too-small pot. She sat down gingerly, unsure if she was allowed to, and traced the rim of her coffee cup just to keep her hands busy.

“Morning.”

Her stomach did a dumb little flip. She looked up—and there he was.

“Hi,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t come out weirdly high. “I’m Y/N.”

“I know,” he smiled. “I read your portfolio last week. You’re good.”

Oh. She tried not to beam. Tried even harder not to let that weird, fluttery warmth crawl up her neck.

“Thanks,” she replied. “I mean… thank you. I’m excited to be here.”

“You’ll fit in just fine.” Then he nodded toward his desk—adjacent to hers, naturally. “We’re seatmates, by the way. If I’m typing too loud or swearing at my inbox, just throw something.”

“Got it. Stapler or pen?”

He grinned. “Surprise me.”

⸻

The first week passed in a blur of logins, introductions, and cautiously making sense of company Slack channels with names like #meme-dump and #fontfights. But through all the buzz and buzzwords, Harry was there. Not hovering—never that—but orbiting close enough to feel like a safety net. An annoyingly good-looking, absurdly competent safety net.

He helped her navigate the folder system during her second morning, leaning over her shoulder with a half-eaten banana in one hand and pointing at her screen. She was hyper-aware of his cologne—clean, sharp, and vaguely citrusy—and the way his laugh rumbled low when he said, “Okay, no, ignore everything that says ‘Final_v3_Revised_REAL_FINAL’—those are all lies.”

By the end of the first week, they had a rhythm.

Harry was focused and fast—too fast sometimes, tossing out ideas that made her brain spin just to keep up. But he never made her feel behind. If anything, he seemed to enjoy her questions, even when she doubted herself. He’d tilt his head, lips tugging at the corner in that half-smile she was starting to recognize as his version of you’ve got this, and say, “Okay, walk me through what you’re thinking.”

He actually listened.

She learned his habits quickly. Mornings meant iced coffee—black, no sugar. He always stretched before meetings, standing up and doing a lazy twist at the waist that made his shirt ride up just enough to be distracting. His desk was somehow always clean, save for a few random objects that rotated weekly: a stress ball shaped like a brain, a tiny pink disco ball, once even a framed photo of a goose in sunglasses.

“Is that… your goose?” she asked.

“It’s aspirational,” he deadpanned. “His name’s Todd.”

The second week was when the teasing began.

Soft at first—little quips, exaggerated sighs when she disagreed with a design choice, mock horror when she said she’d never seen The Godfather. He’d roll his eyes dramatically and say, “You’re lucky you’re clever,” or “That’s borderline offensive, Y/N.”

One Thursday, she brought in homemade banana bread. He took a bite, closed his eyes, and moaned just loudly enough to make the nearby intern snort with laughter.

“Jesus,” she muttered, cheeks flaming.

“I’m expressing gratitude,” he said, mouth still full. “This is an emotional experience.”

The rest of the team adored him, of course. But there was something different about the way he was with her. It was subtle—no lines crossed—but it was there.

He saved her a seat during team huddles, even when others were scrambling. He remembered how she took her tea. He walked her out on late nights, hands in his pockets and easy smiles that lingered when they said goodbye at the corner.

There were moments.

Moments when their eyes held for just a second too long. When his fingers brushed hers while passing a printout. When she’d catch him watching her across the room with something unreadable in his gaze—like he was trying to solve her, piece by piece.

By the third week, her coworkers had started noticing.

“You and Harry,” Sarah from the art department said casually over lunch, stabbing a fork into her kale. “There’s a bit of a… vibe, huh?”

Y/N choked on her water. “What? No. No vibe. We just work well together.”

“Mmhmm.” Sarah raised an eyebrow. “Right. That’s what they always say.”

Y/N tried to brush it off, but her mind replayed the way Harry had leaned over her earlier that morning, hand braced on the back of her chair, murmuring about a slide change while her pulse decided to drum in her ears.

It didn’t help that they texted now. Mostly work stuff. Memes. Occasionally a “You see this shit?” followed by a screenshot of some client’s over-the-top email.

Okay, sometimes a good morning or don’t forget your umbrella—looks like rain.

She told herself it didn’t mean anything. That she was imagining things. That this wasn’t that kind of story.

But then came week four.

A Friday afternoon. Almost five. The office thinning out. She was finishing up a brief when Harry appeared beside her, chewing on a pen cap like he didn’t know how distracting that was.

“Wanna help me choose a playlist for the client dinner next week?” he asked. “They’re young, rich, and impossible to please.”

“Dangerous combination,” she said, standing to stretch.

He tilted his head. “You’re not doing anything, are you?”

“I’m working.”

“You’re scrolling through fonts.”

“Which is important.”

“Which is pointless. Come on.”

So they spent the next twenty minutes arguing over songs—her trying to convince him Phoebe Bridgers was dinner-friendly, him making a case for Sade. He queued up a slow R&B track, and as the music filled their corner of the office, something thickened in the air.

It was quiet. Just the two of them, dusk falling outside the windows.

And then he looked at her. Really looked at her. Not with a smirk. Not in that teasing way.

Something softer. Warmer.

“I like working with you,” he said.

Her breath hitched.

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

He smiled. That real one—the one that crinkled at the corners.

If she hadn’t said what she said the following week… maybe things would’ve gone differently.

But she did. And everything changed.

⸻

It happened on a Tuesday.

Tuesdays were typically uneventful—somewhere between “still recovering from Monday” and “not yet caffeinated enough to look forward to Friday.” The kind of day you just endured. But this one, unfortunately, stood out.

Y/N had arrived ten minutes late, thanks to a torrential downpour and a very dramatic umbrella collapse in the middle of Lexington Avenue. Her shoes were soaked. Her hair was in that annoying state between damp and frizzy. She trudged into the office with the grace of a drowned squirrel.

Harry, of course, was already there. Dry. Perfect. Typing away like a storm hadn’t just swallowed half the city.

She dropped her bag, muttering under her breath. “You’d think someone who’s always five minutes early would at least pretend to be human on rainy days.”

He glanced over, smiled, and said, “You made it. That’s all that matters.”

She groaned. “How do you always look this pulled together? It’s very ‘main character in a bookshop who also solves crimes on the side.’”

Harry tilted his head, the grin tugging at his lips. “You think I solve crimes?”

“You’d have a trench coat. And a mysterious past.”

He smirked. “Don’t forget a tragic ex.”

“Oh, definitely,” she replied, already laughing.

The morning carried on as usual—meetings, edits, half-eaten breakfast bars. Their team had a major pitch scheduled for the afternoon, so nerves were high, but so was the energy. Harry, as the lead, carried the meeting effortlessly. He always did. Smooth, confident, completely in control of the room without being arrogant about it. Even the clients seemed charmed—leaning in, laughing, nodding too enthusiastically.

Y/N watched from beside him, impressed, as always. Maybe even a little too impressed.

⸻

Later that afternoon, the creative team gathered in the lounge for a quick regroup. Someone had brought muffins, there were soft drinks sweating on the table, and Harry—fresh from a meeting—was leaned back in a chair, sleeves rolled, the top buttons of his shirt undone.

Everyone was a little punch-drunk from the long hours. Conversation bounced around, people cracking jokes, poking fun at themselves.

Someone said, “You two are basically the dream team now. Give it a few more weeks and we’ll all be obsolete.”

Harry smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure the robots treat you kindly.”

Y/N, flushed from the compliment and still riding a weird high from the day, laughed and said, a little too loudly, a little too easily:

“Please. People listen to you because you’ve got that voice that makes everything sound like it matters. I could say the same exact thing and no one would even blink—you say it and suddenly it’s strategy.”

She meant it playfully.

But as soon as it was out there—hanging in the middle of the room—she felt it.

The shift.

A few people laughed. A few looked down at their phones. But Harry’s face didn’t change right away. He smiled—sort of. But not the way he normally did.

There was something about the way he blinked once, slow and deliberate, before saying, “Wow. Thanks for that.”

He didn’t sound angry. But he didn’t sound amused, either.

She opened her mouth to respond, to explain, to soften it—but he was already standing, brushing muffin crumbs off his trousers.

“I’ve got a call,” he muttered, to no one in particular, and left the room.

⸻

The fallout was subtle.

Not immediate. Not dramatic.

But she felt it the next day.

He still greeted her. Still responded to questions. Still made notes in the shared doc they were editing. But it was all… different.

He didn’t nudge her coffee mug toward her like he used to. Didn’t ask what she was listening to when she wore headphones. Didn’t drop sarcastic commentary during team meetings just to make her laugh.

Everything was suddenly crisp. Clean. Professional.

It was like the light had dimmed between them.

She spent the rest of the week overanalyzing. Replaying the moment. Rewriting her words in her head until they no longer sounded like a jab.

It had been a compliment, in a way—she’d meant that he was compelling, that people gravitated toward him, that she noticed. But it had come out like an accusation. Like she was reducing his skill to tone and charisma instead of craft.

And Harry, for all his confidence, didn’t take kindly to being dismissed—even unintentionally.

⸻

By Friday, she’d all but given up on trying to fix it at work. Harry wasn’t cold, exactly—but the warmth was gone. The inside jokes, the easy rhythm, the small moments where he used to look at her like she was actually seen? Gone.

So naturally, she did what anyone does when they’re spiraling: She called her two best friends and asked them to meet her at a bar.

They picked their usual place. Ava was already there when Y/N arrived, sipping something neon out of a glass shaped like a lightbulb.

“I got you the second-least sugary drink on the menu,” Ava said, holding up a glass. “The least sugary one looked like cough syrup.”

Y/N took the drink and slumped into the seat. “I said something stupid.”

“That’s kind of your thing, though,” Ava said brightly. “Be more specific.”

Before Y/N could respond, Clara slid into the booth like a woman on a mission. She was already peeling off her scarf and dumping her massive tote onto the floor.

“Sorry, sorry—I got cornered by that guy from my gym who thinks we have a connection because we both own water bottles. What’s happening? Who’s dumb? Is it you?”

“It’s me,” Y/N said, taking a long sip. “And it’s bad.”

“Ohhh, good,” Clara said, cracking her knuckles. “Tell me everything.”

Y/N hesitated, then groaned. “I kind of… made a joke about Harry. In front of the team. Like, during a casual moment after a meeting.”

Clara raised a brow. “Define joke.”

“I said people only listen to him because of his voice.”

Ava blinked. “Like… his actual voice?”

“Yeah. Like, his vocal cords. The way he talks.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Oh, babe,” Clara said gently. “That’s a tiny bit brutal.”

“I know! I meant it in a compliment-y way! Like, ‘your voice is compelling, you're charismatic’—but it came out like I was saying he doesn't have to actually know anything because he sounds hot while talking.”

Ava winced. “That’s rough. Accurate… but rough.”

“It was a joke!” Y/N protested. “You know the kind of joke you make when you're tired and riding an adrenaline crash and your mouth decides to go rogue before your brain catches up?”

“Oh, like the time Clara told her cousin she had a ‘very confident nose’ at her wedding?” Ava offered.

Clara lifted her glass. “It was objectively bold.”

Y/N let her head fall onto the sticky table. “He looked at me like I kicked his childhood dog. And now he’s just… normal. Like painfully polite. It’s like I got demoted to coworker.”

“Well, you are coworkers,” Ava pointed out.

“Yeah, but I was, like, coworker-plus,” she mumbled into the wood. “There was banter. There was eye contact. He brought me coffee once and remembered I don’t like the syrupy stuff.”

“Damn,” Clara said, biting a fry. “That’s practically intimacy.”

“So now what?” Ava asked. “Are you gonna apologize or just emotionally decompose in front of him until retirement?”

Y/N groaned. “I don’t know. I keep thinking about how close we were to something. I could feel it. And now it’s like I slammed a door I didn’t mean to.”

Clara studied her for a moment. “Do you like him?”

Y/N paused. “I like working with him.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

She sighed. “I don’t not like him.”

Ava leaned forward, eyes lighting up. “Okay, so here’s what you do: you ask him out.”

“I cannot ask him out.”

“Why not?” Clara demanded.

“Because we work together! And I’ve already embarrassed myself!”

“Perfect,” Clara said. “Start from the bottom. Nowhere to go but up.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” she said, dipping a fry in ketchup.

Y/N stared at them both. “And if he says no?”

Ava shrugged. “Then he says no. It’s not a Greek tragedy. It’s just a guy.”

Clara leaned back in the booth and looked at her like she was tired of being gentle. “Y/N, come on. You’ve been tap-dancing around your feelings for a month. You clearly like him. And he liked you too—until you made him feel like he was some shiny toy with a good voice and nothing else.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Y/N muttered.

“No one ever does,” Clara said. “That’s why it sucks.”

They were quiet for a second, the music from the bar pulsing low around them. Someone at the next table was aggressively describing a break-up in full detail.

Then Ava leaned in, her tone softer this time. “Okay, listen. You made a dumb comment. It happens. You’re not a monster. You’re not doomed. But if you keep sitting in this guilt spiral like it’s a beanbag chair you refuse to get out of, you’re gonna waste something that could’ve actually been good.”

“I don’t even know what it was,” Y/N whispered. “I just knew it felt… different.”

“Then tell him that,” Clara said, matter-of-fact. “Tell him you said something dumb. Tell him it came out wrong. Tell him he matters to you—even if it’s just as a friend, or whatever the hell this is. But don’t just let it fade away because you’re scared of looking messy.”

“I hate looking messy,” Y/N said, frowning.

“I know,” Ava said. “You love the illusion of control. It’s very chic.”

“But—”

“Y/N,” Clara cut in. “No more ‘but.’ Just text him. Don’t plan a speech. Don’t write a script in your Notes app. Just be a human woman who said something weird and wants to make it right.”

Y/N slumped deeper into the booth and sighed dramatically. “God, I hate when you’re both right.”

“Drink up” Ava said, pushing the glass toward her. “And text him before you overthink it so hard your thumbs fall off.”

—

Back in her apartment, the night felt too quiet in that way city nights sometimes do — muffled cars passing outside, the low hum of a neighbor’s TV bleeding through the wall. Y/N stood in the doorway for a second, coat half on, bag sliding off her shoulder, feeling like her body had arrived home before her mind did.

She dropped everything on the floor. Didn’t bother turning on more than one lamp.

Her makeup was smudged, but she didn’t check. Her hair smelled like fried food from the bar, and her socks were damp at the heel. It had started to drizzle halfway through her walk home — of course it had.

She changed into her oldest sweatshirt — the oversized gray one that said “Property of No One” across the front — and sank onto the couch like her bones weighed more than usual.

Her phone was already in her hand. She didn’t remember picking it up.

She stared at Harry’s name.

For a while, she didn’t type anything. She just let the screen glow against her face while her thumb hovered, frozen, like maybe he’d magically know she was thinking about him. Or regretting every sentence she’d said to him all week.

Then, finally, she typed:

hey. i think i owe you a proper apology.

She paused. Watched the cursor blink. That didn’t feel like enough.

i didn’t mean what i said the other day to come out like that.it sounded flippant but it wasn’t. you’re actually…

She stopped. Groaned.

Deleted the whole thing.

Rewrote it:

hey. i’ve been thinking about what i said the other day. and i hate that it might’ve come off the wrong way. i know i made it sound like you get by on charm, but i hope you know i’ve never thought that.

That felt better. Maybe.

Then she deleted half of it again. Too long. Too heavy. Too much.

She let her phone fall to her chest and stared at the ceiling. There was a crack up there she kept meaning to patch. Or maybe it was just a shadow. Either way, she didn’t move.

Eventually, she sat back up and typed:

hey. i feel like i owe you a drink or an actual apology that isn’t in front of ten coworkers. if you’re around next week… maybe we could fix that.

She read it over three times.

Then hit send.

There was no dramatic sigh. No tossing the phone like it burned her. Just a long, slow exhale as she set it down on the coffee table and pulled her knees up to her chest.. She just sat there, heart heavy and fingers twitching, hoping he still saw her the way he used to.

Hoping it wasn’t too late.

—

Y/N woke up before her alarm.

She blinked at the ceiling for a few seconds, not quite ready to face the day but too alert to keep pretending to be asleep. Her mouth tasted like the drink from the night before and her back ached slightly from falling asleep on the couch again, curled into the same throw blanket she always used.

She reached for her phone out of habit, thumbing through the usual—news notifications, a calendar reminder she’d ignore, an unread email from a store she didn’t remember subscribing to.

And then, at the top of her messages:

Harry Styles 1:43 AM

Her thumb paused. She tapped it.

you don’t owe me anything but yeah I’d like that

A second message followed:

next week’s wide open. name a day.

She read it twice. Then again.

No dramatics. No “let’s talk” or “what you said hurt.” Just… neutral. Still, it didn’t feel cold. It felt like he was giving her the option to move things forward without making it a thing.

It was more than she expected. It was… actually kind of perfect.

She sat up, rubbing her eye with the heel of her palm, and muttered, “Okay.”

The apartment was too quiet, so she turned on the kettle and stood barefoot on the cold kitchen tiles, scrolling through potential bars nearby. Not anywhere too fancy—that would look like she was trying too hard. Not the dive near work either. She’d run into someone from the office, and the whole point was not to make this a watercooler topic.

She made toast, added too much butter, and leaned her hip against the counter while typing her reply.

how do you feel about tuesday? somewhere low-key. i promise to behave this time.

She stared at the last line for a second. It felt light enough. Honest, but not clingy.

She hit send.

Then she took a bite of her toast, still slightly warm, and set her phone down on the counter without waiting for the little “read” checkmark.

She’d figure out the details later.

But Tuesday? That was something.

—

The weekend came and went, but Harry never really left her mind.

She kept it together. Ran errands. Cleaned her apartment like she was trying to wipe her brain clean, too. Pretended to be annoyed when Clara asked for updates every six hours, and avoided Ava’s “so have you planned your outfit yet” texts entirely.

She didn’t spiral. But she did think about him. Often. And especially when she didn’t want to.

By Monday morning, she’d half convinced herself it was fine. Normal. Just drinks. Just Harry. Nothing to freak out about.

Then she saw him.

—

She was walking toward the kitchen with her mug in hand—already mentally preparing herself for the weak office coffee—when she saw him rounding the corner.

He was wearing one of those outfits that somehow looked unintentional and perfect at the same time: navy trousers, a white t-shirt under a dark cardigan, and a lanyard he never actually needed but wore anyway. Hair slightly messier than usual, eyes sharp but calm.

They locked eyes for a second.

And then he smiled. A real one. Not the tight, clipped one from last week. Not forced, not tense.

Just… easy.

“Morning,” he said, stepping aside so she could pass.

“Morning,” she replied, matching his tone—cool, casual. No big deal.

He held the kitchen door open for her and followed her in. She was painfully aware of the two feet of space between them. Of how normal this was. And how not-normal it felt, knowing tomorrow night they’d be sitting in a bar alone and trying to be honest again.

“How was your weekend?” he asked, pouring himself a coffee.

She shrugged lightly. “Quiet. Tried to do laundry. Failed.”

Harry chuckled. “Strong effort, though.”

“What about you?”

“Visited my mum,” he said, stirring his coffee. “She made me take home leftovers like I hadn’t eaten in three weeks.”

Y/N smiled, distracted for a second by the image of him sitting in a kitchen somewhere warm, fending off Tupperware with a half-hearted protest.

“Big week?” she asked.

He looked at her then—really looked—and said, “Not until tomorrow.”

Her breath caught for just a split second. But she held steady.

“Right,” she said, soft. “Tomorrow.”

He didn’t say anything else. Just gave her the smallest nod, like he was confirming they were still good. Still on the same page.

And then he left the room. It made her stomach flip a little. Not in a bad way. Just in the okay-so-this-is-really-happening kind of way.

—

The next day, she found herself in front of her closet at 5:40 p.m., half-dressed and whispering curses under her breath. Nothing looked right. Everything felt too try-hard or not enough. She wasn’t trying to impress him, but she didn’t want to look like she’d come straight from work either.

Eventually, she landed on a black knit top, a leather jacket, and the jeans that actually fit her the way she liked. Comfortable. Sharp enough to feel put together, soft enough to feel like herself.

She didn’t overthink it.

Well—she did. But she still left the apartment on time.

—

Tuesday, 7:06 p.m.

Y/N got there first.

She always did, mostly because it gave her control. Over the setting, the nerves, the awkward hello. She chose a small table in the back near the window—far enough from the bar to hear each other, close enough to the door that she didn’t have to pretend she was doing something else while she waited.

Her phone stayed face-down on the table. Her drink—gin and tonic, no frills—sat half-finished when he walked in.

She looked up and felt that little jolt. The one that had started happening more often lately.

Harry had on a dark sweater, black coat draped over one arm, and that same kind of quiet confidence he wore so naturally, like he wasn’t trying at all. His hair looked freshly pushed back, a little messy at the ends, and the gold chain at his neck caught the warm bar lighting just enough to be annoying.

He spotted her immediately.

“Hey,” he said, smiling as he slid into the seat across from her.

“Hey.” She mirrored the smile, unsure what to do with her hands, so she adjusted her sleeves unnecessarily. “You found it okay?”

“Did a loop around the block like an idiot first, but yeah.”

There was a beat of quiet while he looked over the menu. She studied his face briefly while he wasn’t looking—he looked a little tired, but relaxed. Comfortable.

A server came by and he ordered a whisky neat. Simple.

“So,” he said once they were alone again, resting his forearms on the table. “No work talk, right?”

“Right. Fully banned.”

“Can I at least ask how your day was?”

She grinned. “Only if you want a very detailed play-by-play about me arguing with a printer.”

“Tempting.”

Conversation started slow—small things. What she was reading lately. A movie he watched twice in one weekend out of boredom. It wasn’t tense, but there was still a strange politeness between them. Like neither of them knew how far they could lean in just yet.

Eventually, she took a sip of her drink and leaned back, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“Okay,” she said. “Let me just get this part out of the way.”

Harry tilted his head. “The part where you apologize?”

She made a face. “Yeah.”

He nodded slowly. “Go on then.”

She smiled despite herself. “I really am sorry for what I said last week. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean it the way it came out.”

“I know you didn’t,” he said, not looking away.

“It was a dumb thing to say.”

“You’ve said worse.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “Have I?”

He shrugged, his mouth twitching. “You once called me ‘a walking Pinterest board for rich introverts.’”

She burst out laughing. “That was objectively accurate.”

“Still hurtful,” he said, mock serious.

“I thought you liked being called mysterious.”

“I like being called brilliant,” he replied, grinning now. “Or at the very least, devastatingly handsome.”

“Oh my god,” she laughed, shaking her head. “There it is.”

“There what is?”

“That thing you do. Where you say something cocky but somehow get away with it because your delivery is so smooth.”

“Is it working now?”

She tried not to smile. Failed. “A little.”

Harry leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand. “That’s good. Because I was actually kind of nervous about tonight.”

“You were?” she asked, surprised.

“Yeah,” he said simply. “Didn’t know if this would be weird. Or if you’d show up just to cross it off your list of regrets.”

She paused. “I thought you might not show.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“I don’t know. You were… different last week.”

“You made a weird comment. I sulked about it. Then you texted me, and I realized I’d rather have one awkward drink with you than spend another week pretending like I don’t miss our conversations.”

Her heart skipped. Just once, but enough to notice.

“Oh,” she said softly. “Well. I missed them too.”

He smiled again—softer this time. “Good. Let’s not mess it up again.”

“No promises.”

He lifted his glass. “To a fresh start?”

She clinked hers against his. “To pretending we’re not both weird about feelings.”

He laughed into his drink.

And just like that, the tension finally cracked—melted under the ease they used to have, the banter slipping back into place like it had just been waiting for one of them to say the right thing.

—

The change didn’t happen all at once.

There was no grand declaration, no dramatic pause in the hallway while someone said I think I like you. It was slower than that—quieter. But it was real. And Y/N felt it.

Especially at work.

The morning after their not-date date, Harry walked into the office with two coffees in hand—hers already made exactly how she liked it—and dropped it on her desk without a word. Just a smirk. She looked up at him, slightly suspicious.

“Is this a peace offering or a bribe?”

He leaned against her desk, took a sip of his own coffee. “Neither. Just wanted to give you something that wouldn’t get me in trouble with HR.”

She laughed, cheeks warming. “Well. Thank you. I’ll only report you if it’s decaf.”

That became the pattern.

Little things. A muffin on her chair. A sticky note doodle left on his monitor. Her pulling his headphones off without warning, only to find him already smiling like he knew she was going to.

At meetings, he sat next to her every time. Sometimes too close. Once, she caught his foot nudging hers under the conference table. She glared at him. He winked.

They weren’t trying to hide it exactly. But they weren’t announcing anything either. Mostly because they didn’t know what this was. Not yet. But it felt like something.

And outside the office? That was changing too.

They texted now. All the time.

It started with casual stuff—TikToks, screenshots of unhinged client emails, memes with captions like you this morning in the kitchen. But then it shifted.

Late night: HARRY: still awake? Y/N: debating if eating cereal at 1am makes me a genius or a gremlin HARRY: i vote genius Y/N: you would. you love chaos disguised as charm. HARRY: that feels like a compliment Y/N: ...it wasn’t HARRY: still taking it

And then there were the lunches.

The first one was spontaneous—she’d had a horrible morning, and Harry had caught her glaring at her screen like it had personally betrayed her. Without a word, he grabbed her coat and said, “Come on. We’re getting real food.”

Now it was routine.

Sometimes they went to the café two blocks down where the barista knew their names. Other days, they grabbed takeout and ate it on a bench outside, their knees bumping lightly as they unwrapped sandwiches and talked about everything except work.

He asked questions—real ones. Not just polite filler. Stuff like what kind of kid were you?, what scares you the most but also secretly thrills you?, have you ever been in love?She dodged that last one.

But she asked things back. She wanted to know the small stuff. What his sister was like. Why he always smelled like cedar and oranges. How he got into this industry at all.

And now, they had another date planned.

Set for Friday.

Not just drinks. Dinner this time. Somewhere cozy, tucked away in the West Village, with low lights and too many candles.

He’d picked it. Told her it was “low-pressure.” Then followed it up with: but i might wear a proper shirt, just in case you bring up my tragic introvert wardrobe again.

She was nervous. But not in a bad way. In a something’s unfolding and I don’t want to mess it up kind of way.

At the office on Thursday afternoon, she caught him looking at her from across the room during a meeting. Not intense. Not dramatic. Just... there. Quietly steady.

And when the meeting ended and people began to file out, he stayed behind.

Walked up to her. Close enough to make her heart tick a little faster.

“Tomorrow,” he said, low and easy.

She raised a brow. “Still on?”

He tilted his head, smiling. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

—

The place he picked was small, tucked into a quiet West Village block, glowing with warm light through the windows and smelling faintly of rosemary and wine. It felt relaxed, cozy. The kind of restaurant that didn’t need to be loud to be cool.

Y/N spotted him at a corner table near the back, nursing a drink and scrolling his phone. He looked comfortable there, legs stretched a little too far under the table, one hand resting on the rim of his glass.

He looked up before she could say anything. His smile appeared instantly—soft, a little crooked, and warm enough to make her stomach flip.

“Hey,” he said, standing as she reached the table. “You made it.”

“You sound surprised.”

He shrugged. “I was half-convinced you’d flake just to maintain the mystery.”

“I’m not that unpredictable,” she said, sliding into the seat across from him.

“Mm. Jury’s out.”

There was a moment where his eyes lingered—not in a heavy way, but in a way that made it very obvious he noticed what she was wearing. The corner of his mouth twitched, but he didn’t say anything.

The waiter came and went. He let her choose the wine, teasing her about pretending to read the menu like she wasn’t going to pick based on the vibe of the label.

Conversation flowed easily—Harry had a way of keeping things light without letting them turn shallow. He asked about her week. She asked if he’d ever gotten around to fixing the broken drawer in his kitchen he’d been complaining about. He hadn’t.

But somewhere between the second glass of wine and the plate of shared pasta, something shifted.

He leaned in a little closer when she spoke. Not dramatically—just enough to make it feel like her words were meant only for him. When she reached across the table to grab the salt, he didn’t pull his hand away right away when their fingers brushed.

And once—just once—he let his hand rest on the side of the table, close enough that her knee grazed it.

If he noticed, he didn’t say anything.

If she moved her leg slightly closer… well, he didn’t move his hand either.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he said after a beat.

She looked up at him, surprised. “Am I?”

“A little. Thought maybe you were nervous.”

She smiled into her glass. “Why would I be nervous?”

He shrugged, mouth curving. “Because I’m very charming and slightly annoying. That combination tends to throw people off.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re more subtle than that.”

“I can be,” he said, tone a little lower now. “Sometimes.”

The air went still for a second, like the moment hovered somewhere between teasing and something else. But then the waiter returned with the check, and Harry leaned back again, letting the tension settle without pushing it.

When they left the restaurant, it was still early enough that the city wasn’t completely quiet. The streets were lit up, but calm. She walked beside him, hands in her pockets.

He didn’t grab her hand. He didn’t pull her close.

But his shoulder bumped hers once, gently. Then again, intentionally.

“Thanks for coming tonight,” he said after a while, voice quiet now.

“You’re welcome.”

They stopped at the corner, waiting for the light to change. He turned slightly toward her, looking at her fully now. His eyes were soft, but direct.

“I like this,” he said. “You and me, like this.”

Y/N felt something warm creep up her neck, but she didn’t look away. “I like it too.”

They stood there for a second too long.

Then he smiled again—smaller this time—and nodded toward the direction of the subway. “Can I walk you to the station?”

“You’re not trying to get me to come home with you?”

He raised an eyebrow. “What kind of man do you take me for?”

“The kind who flirts with his coworker for a month and finally asks her out?”

“I’ll have you know,” he said, gently bumping her arm with his, “I was professionally respectful for a solid three weeks.”

“Impressive,” she teased.

“I thought so.”

And as they kept walking, their arms brushed again. Neither of them moved.

—

Group Chat: “Chaos Committee 💅🔥🍷”

Clara: Sooo How’d it go last night?

Ava: Yeah don’t make us guess We were very respectfully trying not to text you during the entire dinner window 🙃

Y/N: Appreciate the restraint Also: it was nice Really nice, actually

Clara: Ugh You’re being vague You like him

Y/N: I do. I’m trying not to be annoying about it But yeah

Ava: Okay but give us something What was the vibe? Better than the first one?

Y/N: Yeah Way less awkward He was calm, funny, kind of... quiet but not in a bad way And he looked really good Wore that green shirt again

Clara: Oh. The shirt. The rolled sleeves shirt

Y/N: Yup Forearms out Rings on And the waiter definitely thought we were already together

Ava: As they should

Y/N: He was kind of extra warm last night Little touches here and there Like when I reached for my glass and his hand brushed mine Or how our knees kept bumping under the table and he didn’t move

Clara: So the tension was doing push-ups under the table Got it

Y/N: Basically He said “I like this. You and me, like this” Then immediately acted like he hadn’t just said something that made my brain stop functioning

Ava: That man is running a very calculated long game Respect

Clara: So… what happened after dinner?

Y/N: He walked me to the train Talked the whole way Lightly roasted my Spotify taste Then gave me this soft smile and told me to text when I got home

Clara: ...that’s it?

Y/N: Yup No kiss No lingering hand on the small of my back Just a really warm goodbye and the sense that he’s waiting for something

Ava: Waiting for you to make the next move maybe?

Y/N: I don’t know He’s so good at walking right up to the line and stopping Like he wants me to notice it but doesn’t want to cross it without me saying yes

Clara: Honestly I hate how respectful that is

Y/N: I know It’s actually making me lose my mind

Ava: Okay but you’re into it

Y/N: ...I’m very into it

Clara: So what now?

Y/N: I see him Monday And I’m pretending like it’s just another normal day And not like I’ve been thinking about his hand brushing my knee for 12 straight hours

Ava: Good plan That always works out great for people

Y/N: Shut up

—

Monday – Office, 10:42 a.m.

Work was work.

Emails. Edits. Slack notifications that piled up faster than she could read them. But Y/N couldn’t focus for more than fifteen minutes at a time without remembering the way Harry had looked at her Friday night. Or how he hadn’t kissed her. Or how she kind of loved that he hadn’t.

She was scrolling through a doc when she sensed him before she saw him—there was always something in the air when he walked by her desk, like her body clock recalibrated itself.

“Morning,” he said casually, appearing next to her chair with a cup of coffee and that effortlessly smug smile.

“Is this for me?” she asked, accepting it anyway.

“I figured you needed it,” he said, then leaned down slightly to whisper, “You were frowning at your screen like it owed you money.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling already. “Thanks.”

He didn’t leave right away. Just hovered at the edge of her desk for a few seconds, eyes scanning her face like he was trying to read something there.

“You want to eat together later?” he asked.

“Sure” she said “Meet you at the elevator later?”

“Sounds like a plan”.

—

Monday – Lunch Break

“Are you gonna judge me if I order two things off the specials menu?” Y/N asked, squinting at the little chalkboard propped up at the edge of their table.

Harry leaned back in his chair, half-smiling. “I’d only judge if you didn’t. What kind of monster comes to a place that smells like heaven and doesn’t over-order?”

She grinned, setting the menu down. “Alright, good. Just wanted to make sure we’re both mentally prepared for me to have a post-lunch food coma at my desk.”

“Can’t wait to watch you pretend to be productive while slowly falling asleep mid-email,” he said, stretching his legs out under the table until they accidentally brushed hers.

Neither of them moved.

They were tucked into a small two-person table by the window of the Italian place Harry had suggested—a quiet spot with sun spilling through the glass and just enough hum from other tables to feel private. The food smelled ridiculous. Garlic, butter, rosemary…

When the waiter left with their orders, Harry glanced at her across the table. “You always get that serious when you read menus?”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s a high-stakes decision. This is lunch. I have to live with it for the rest of the afternoon.”

“That’s true. It does define your mood for at least three hours.”

“Exactly.”

“I respect that.”

She sipped her water and watched him tilt his head slightly, like he was studying her. “What?” she asked.

He smiled. “Nothing. I just like seeing you outside the office.”

She blinked. “We text constantly.”

“Yeah, but that’s different. In person you make these little faces when you’re thinking—like right now, you’re trying not to smile.”

She covered her mouth with her hand, failing miserably to hide it. “I hate that you notice stuff like that.”

“I’m very observant.”

“You’re very smug.”

He raised his glass to her. “Also true.”

The food arrived a few minutes later—her pasta, his risotto—and they both took their first bites at the same time. Harry made a soft sound, not dramatic, just satisfied.

“Okay, that’s a throwback,” he said, sitting back a little.

“What is?”

He gestured toward his plate. “Risotto. My mum used to make it almost exactly like this. Creamy, garlicky, winey. I haven’t had it like this in years.”

Y/N raised her brows. “What happened, did she stop loving you?”

Harry smiled. “No. I just haven’t had anyone make it since I moved out. It's not exactly the kind of dish people whip up on a whim.”

“I do.”

“You make risotto?”

“Mushroom risotto. With wine. Sometimes thyme, if I’m feeling fancy.”

He stared at her, amused. “That’s dangerously specific.”

She shrugged. “It’s one of my go-to ‘I swear I’m a real adult’ meals. Feels impressive but it’s mostly just stirring and committing to the bit.”

Harry looked at her, eyes narrowed slightly like he was considering something. Then he said, slowly, “So when are you making it for me?”

Y/N blinked once. Twice. Then gave a small smirk. “Wow. Not even a subtle lead-in. You just jumped right to the invite.”

“Gotta keep up with you somehow,” he said, smiling easily now. “I’m not above being fed.”

She paused, then: “Friday?”

His expression softened, surprised but not caught off guard. “Yeah. I’d really like that.”

Y/N raised her brows as she twirled a bite of pasta. “No allergies? No weird food trauma I should know about before I commit to this dinner plan?”

Harry laughed, sitting back in his chair. “None. I eat everything. Except olives.”

She gasped. “What? Olives are elite.”

“They taste like brine and betrayal.”

“I’m still putting them in the salad,” she said. “You’ll deal.”

He pointed his fork at her. “You say that now, but you’re gonna be weirdly invested in whether I like it or not. I can already tell.”

She rolled her eyes, smiling. “I just don’t want to waste my good cooking on someone with broken taste buds.”

“Then you’ll have to find out if it’s worth the risk,” he said, voice low but playful, like there was a dare tucked into the words.

Her eyes held his for a beat too long. She looked away first—barely.

They both went back to eating, but the quiet between them wasn’t awkward. It was charged in that new way. Comfortable, but close to something else. Their legs brushed again under the table. Neither of them moved.

He went quiet for a beat, watching her as she gathered the last of her pasta onto her fork.

“I’m excited for Friday,” he said, almost offhand, but his eyes were too steady for it to be casual.

She looked up. “Who said it was a date?”

Harry smirked, didn’t miss a beat. “Me. I did. Mentally. While you were talking about thyme like it’s a love language.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard—and laughed. “Wow.”

“I stand by it,” he added, casually wiping his hand on a napkin. “You invite me over, cook for me, maybe pour me a glass of wine… that’s textbook date behavior. Page one.”

She tried to keep a straight face but failed miserably. “What if I burn it?”

“Then we order takeout,” he said, standing, grabbing both their receipts. “And it’s still a date. Just one with a fun plot twist.”

Y/N rolled her eyes as she followed him toward the door. “You’re annoyingly sure of yourself.”

Harry glanced back at her, holding the door open. “No,” he said, voice low but smiling. “I’m just sure about you.”

She froze for half a second. Then stepped past him, heat blooming in her chest and creeping up her neck.

He walked beside her all the way back to the office, hands in his pockets, like he hadn’t just said something that would replay in her head for the next four days straight.

They stepped into the elevator together. Just the two of them.

It was quiet inside—soft hum of motion, the faintest trace of cologne in the air. Y/N stood beside him, arms folded, eyes on the glowing numbers overhead like she hadn’t just invited him over for a dinner she now absolutely could not mess up.

Harry, on the other hand, was perfectly relaxed. Leaned casually against the wall, side-glancing at her with a look she pretended not to notice.

“Friday,” he said softly, not looking away.

“Seven,” she replied.

“I’ll bring the wine.”

“Good,” she said. “That’s your only job.”

He tilted his head. “And yours?”

She raised a brow. “Cooking. Obviously.”

He smirked, slow. “No. I mean your real job.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes slightly. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s my ‘real’ job?”

Harry let the pause stretch just enough to feel it. Then said, low and playful, “Try not to make me fall for you over risotto.”

Her stomach dipped. Hard.

She opened her mouth—maybe to reply, maybe to deflect—but the elevator dinged before she could say a word.

He stepped out first, like he hadn’t just dropped that and walked away.

And she followed, entirely aware she was already failing at that job.

—

7:03 p.m.

Y/N wasn’t nervous.

That’s what she told herself as she adjusted the straps of her top for the third time, checked the risotto on the stove for the fifth, and glanced at her phone for no real reason at all.

She wasn’t nervous. She was… anticipatory. Which was worse.

The apartment smelled like sautéed garlic, wine, and rosemary. Her playlist was low, something warm and rhythmic playing in the background. She’d cleaned. Lit two candles—not too many. She was wearing jeans and a simple black tank top that looked casual from far away but a little dangerous up close.

At exactly 7:06, there was a knock.

She wiped her palms on her thighs, walked to the door, and opened it—

—and forgot how to speak for a second.

Harry stood in the hallway, wine bottle in hand, coat open over a navy button-down that was just fitted enough to hint at the lines underneath. Sleeves rolled once, casually. Hair pushed back. Rings on. Slight scruff on his jaw like he hadn’t bothered shaving for the occasion, and it somehow made him look better.

“Hey,” he said, smile already tugging at his mouth. His voice low and smooth and a little too warm.

Y/N opened the door wider, trying to look unaffected. “You’re late.”

“By three minutes,” he said, stepping in. “You gonna punish me for it?”

She turned to walk back to the kitchen before he could see her smile. “Don’t tempt me.”

Harry’s eyes followed her. “Already am.”

She ignored that. Barely. “Wine goes on the counter. Glasses are in the cabinet to your left.”

He slipped off his coat and hung it on the back of a chair, the motion unhurried. His sleeves shifted higher, showing the veins along his forearms, and it was ridiculous how aware she was of every single movement he made. Like her whole body had decided to tune into just him.

He found the glasses without asking, poured two, and brought hers over like he’d done it a hundred times.

“Smells incredible,” he said, glancing at the pot on the stove. “Didn’t realize this would be a full sensory experience.”

She took the glass from him, their fingers brushing. “Didn’t realize you’d show up looking like you belong in a perfume ad.”

He tilted his head. “Is that a compliment or a threat?”

“A little of both.”

He leaned against the counter, swirling his wine lazily. “You’re already nervous.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. I can tell.”

She sipped her wine. “You’re very confident for someone about to eat food I made unsupervised.”

“Oh, I’m terrified,” he said, smile curling slowly. “But I’m also a risk-taker.”

“Really?” she asked, stepping just a little closer. “What kind of risks are we talking?”

Harry’s gaze dropped, briefly, to her mouth. “Ones that involve very pretty women in tank tops inviting me over and pretending it’s all casual.”

Y/N’s heart stuttered.

But she covered it with a dry, “You’re awfully chatty for someone who’s supposed to be quietly impressed.”

“I haven’t even tasted it yet,” he murmured, leaning in like he might say something else.

But he didn’t. He just reached around her—close enough to brush his chest against her shoulder—and stirred the risotto with one of the wooden spoons she’d left on the counter.

She didn’t move.

“You’re doing it right,” he said, still low, still close. “Good technique.”

“I’ve had practice.”

“I can tell.”

There was a pause. Just long enough to feel the space between them shrink.

Then he looked at her, and his voice dipped just slightly, deliberate now:

“You know this is a date, right?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is it?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. It is. And you’re doing dangerously well.”

Her throat went dry.

The spoon was still in his hand. The risotto still simmering. But everything between them had gone still—warm, weighted, suspended between polite flirtation and whatever the hell this was becoming.

“I haven’t even served it yet,” she said quietly.

Harry’s eyes didn’t leave hers. “Doesn’t matter. You’ve already got me.”

Y/N held his gaze for a second too long, heat blooming low in her stomach. But she didn’t let it tip yet. She reached out and gently took the spoon from his hand, turning her focus back to the risotto.

“You’re lucky I like feeding people,” she said, stirring.

“Lucky’s one word for it.”

“You’re also distracting.”

“Also one word for it.”

He sat at the kitchen table while she plated the food, watching her with that unshakable calm, fingers tapping against the stem of his wine glass. When she finally set a bowl in front of him, he looked up and said, very simply:

“Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me until you’ve tried it.”

He took one bite, then another—no dramatic noises this time, just that slow nod of approval, the kind that made her chest tighten.

“I hate how good this is,” he said through a smile. “Now I can’t even fake critique you.”

“You weren’t going to anyway.”

“I was, just to keep you humble.”

She grinned, settling across from him, and they ate in a rhythm that felt natural. Familiar. They didn’t fill every silence. They didn’t rush the conversation. He asked how she got into cooking. She asked what kind of kid he was at school. He told her he was quiet. Kind of nerdy. Read more than he talked.

“But you’re so…” she paused, waving her fork at him, “you now.”

Harry smiled. “Still kind of nerdy. Just taller.”

They finished eating slowly, in no real rush. Conversation drifted, low and lazy. Harry told a story about getting lost on the Tube as a teenager and ending up an hour outside of London. She admitted she once cried in a grocery store because she couldn't find the right brand of olive oil.

When the food was gone and only half the wine left, Y/N stood with a stretch and started clearing plates.

“You cooked,” Harry said, getting up beside her. “Let me clean.”

“You can help,” she said, stacking dishes. “But don’t think you’re getting full dish duty just because I made risotto.”

“Worth a try,” he murmured, brushing against her as he took the plates to the sink.

The touch lingered—his hand grazing her hip on the way past. Not overt. Not rushed. But purposeful.

She handed him a glass, and their fingers met again. This time neither of them looked away.

“You’re quiet,” she said, filling the silence with something safe.

Harry tilted his head slightly. “I’m trying not to say something reckless.”

Her heart fluttered. “Like what?”

“Like how long I’ve been thinking about this. About you.” He turned slightly, drying a plate without breaking eye contact. “Since the first time I saw you that day in the office. You walked in like you belonged there. That little nervous smile. I was done for.”

She didn’t move, just held his gaze. “That’s not reckless.”

“It is if I tell you I wanted to kiss you before I knew your last name.”

Y/N blinked slowly.

Then she set the towel down, stepped closer, and looked up at him.

“You’re really going for it tonight.”

Harry’s smile was slow and sure. “Trying to make up for lost time.”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she kissed him.

Soft at first, but immediate. Like they’d both been holding it back all night and finally decided to stop pretending. His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek, while his other arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her flush against him.

She sighed against his mouth as his tongue brushed hers—slow and unhurried but thorough, like he meant every second of it. Her hands slid up his chest, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt.

When they finally pulled apart, just slightly, she caught her breath and whispered, “We should take this to the bedroom.”

He blinked, lips parted, eyes dark.

“Yeah?” he said, low and rough now.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

He didn’t ask twice. He just followed.

And the second they stepped into her room, everything changed.

—

The door clicked shut behind him, and the quiet deepened. The only light came from the hallway and the faint glow of the city through her windows. Harry stood there for a second, eyes on her like she’d just undone something in him.

Then he crossed the room and kissed her again—deeper now, slower, like they finally had permission to feel everything.

She let her hands roam, slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, fingertips skimming over warm skin and firm muscle. He hissed softly through his teeth when she tugged the shirt over his head, dropping it somewhere behind them.

“God, you’re…” she breathed, letting her gaze fall over him, eyes hungry and soft all at once.

“Say it,” he murmured, thumb brushing her lower lip.

“You know exactly what I was going to say.”

He smirked. “I like hearing it anyway.”

She kissed down his neck, tongue brushing the curve where his shoulder met his collarbone, and smiled when she felt him shiver under her mouth.

He didn’t just touch her—he held her, his hands sliding over her back, her sides, her hips, like he couldn’t decide where he wanted her most. His fingers dipped under her waistband, pausing, waiting for her nod before easing her jeans down slowly.

Once she stepped out of them, she stood there in nothing but her tank top and underwear, heart pounding.

Harry looked at her like she was already undoing him.

“You’re dangerous,” he said.

She tilted her head. “Why?”

“Because I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, stepping closer, brushing his mouth over her jaw, “and now that I have it, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

“Then don’t,” she whispered.

He lifted her gently—just enough to lay her back on the bed—and followed, crawling over her with slow purpose. Her tank top came off next, tossed somewhere beside them, and when he looked down at her, he stilled.

His hands traced her bare skin like it was something delicate. Not hesitating—just taking his time.

“Still with me?” he asked, voice rough and low.

She nodded, eyes locked on his. “I’m not going anywhere.”

That was all he needed.

He kissed her again, mouth moving over hers with quiet intensity, hips pressing against hers as his hand slid between her thighs, not rushed, just there, warm and solid and deliberate.

Every touch was a question, and every breath she gave him was an answer.

By the time he eased her back into the pillows, lips brushing her throat, her shoulder, her chest, she wasn’t sure where she ended and he began. His name slipped out of her in a whisper, soft and urgent, as his mouth trailed lower—lips against her skin, tongue slow and teasing, every movement sending sparks through her like aftershocks.

He moved with patience. With purpose. With a kind of reverence she hadn’t expected, but felt all the way down to her ribs.

And when he finally pulled her into his arms afterward—bodies warm, tangled, skin still humming—he didn’t say anything right away.

Just ran his fingers up and down her spine, slow and steady, anchoring them both in the quiet.

Then, almost too softly to hear:

“I’m really not going to be able to stop thinking about you now.”

Y/N smiled into his chest.

“Good,” she whispered. “That makes two of us.”

—

The first thing Y/N noticed was warmth.

Not sunlight, not sound—just heat, steady and solid behind her, an arm draped heavy across her waist and breath moving slowly against the back of her neck.

She blinked her eyes open. Her bedroom was quiet, soft light filtering through the curtains. Everything smelled like skin and her lavender laundry soap and something distinctly him.

She shifted slightly and felt him move behind her—just the barest reaction, like his body didn’t want to lose the contact.

Then came the voice, low and sleep-rough.

“Morning.”

She smiled before turning. “Morning.”

Harry was already watching her, eyes soft, hair a total mess, the faintest smirk on his lips like he couldn’t believe this was real. He brushed a hand over her shoulder gently, fingers trailing up to her jaw like he needed to confirm she was still there.

“Didn’t dream that, did I?” he asked, voice still scratchy.

She shook her head. “You were definitely here. There was risotto. There was wine. There was…”

“A lot of things,” he offered, still grinning.

Her cheeks warmed, but she didn’t look away. “You stayed.”

“Yeah,” he said simply. “Wasn’t planning on leaving.”

They lay there for a moment, quiet again. His thumb moved lazily over her hip under the covers. She could feel the way his legs tangled with hers, warm skin brushing everywhere.

She wanted to ask what this meant. If they were different now. If they were going to try to pretend it hadn’t happened at work on Monday morning—but then he leaned in and kissed her forehead, soft and slow, and said:

“You know I’m not going to pretend this didn’t happen, right?”

Her eyes met his.

“I don’t want to pretend either,” she said.

That was it.

Not a relationship talk. Not labels. Just honesty.

Just this.

“Good,” he whispered, voice still sleep-warm. “Because I was already planning breakfast.”

She laughed. “You’re confident.”

He rolled onto his back dramatically. “I just gave the performance of my life and made sure you didn’t burn the risotto. Let me have my moment.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And charming.”

She leaned over him and kissed him again. It was slow, languid. The kind of kiss that didn’t go anywhere, but still promised everything.

Her hand slipped into his hair, and his arm curled back around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest again.

—

They stayed in bed longer than planned.

The risotto dishes were still in the sink. Her hair was a mess. His shirt was missing. They didn’t care.

Harry made coffee while Y/N stood barefoot in the kitchen, wearing one of his sweaters—something he must’ve tossed into his overnight bag, though she couldn’t remember when. It hung loose on her frame, sleeves too long, fabric soft from wear.

“You can’t just look like that and expect me to focus on pouring,” he muttered as he handed her a mug.

She took it without breaking eye contact. “I like how quickly you folded.”

He sipped his coffee with a lazy smirk. “Folded the moment I walked in your door last night.”

They ate toast over the sink. Talked about absolutely nothing. She told him her neighbor leaves passive-aggressive sticky notes in the laundry room. He told her he once accidentally wore mismatched shoes to a client meeting and no one noticed—still one of his proudest office wins.

And then, too soon, it was time for him to go.

He stood by the door, keys in one hand, the other still lingering at her hip like he hadn’t decided whether to pull her back in or let her breathe.

“I’ll see you Monday,” he said, voice low, unreadable.

She nodded. “We’ll pretend to be normal.”

He leaned down and kissed her once—soft, careful, like he didn’t want to wake whatever spell they’d slipped into.

But before he pulled away, he whispered, “Just so you know, I’m already thinking about the next time.”

Y/N smiled, her chest tight in that restless, breathless way that meant she already was too.

He left.

The apartment was quieter now. Still warm, still full of him, but quieter.

—

After he left, the apartment was quiet.

Y/N wandered back to the kitchen, barefoot, still wearing his sweater. She poured herself a second cup of coffee even though it had already gone cold. Leaned against the counter, staring at nothing in particular.

There was a dish towel still hanging crooked off the oven handle. A candle burned too low on the windowsill. A wine glass tipped slightly in the sink.

All signs that last night had really happened.

Her neck was still warm where he’d kissed it. Her body ached in that good, quiet way. And every now and then, her mind would flash to the way he’d looked at her—right before, during, after. Like he knew something she didn’t.

She took a sip of coffee and smiled to herself.

It was funny.

She didn’t think this was how it would go. When she started the job, when she’d met him this wasn’t in the plan.

She didn’t think it would turn into late-night texts. Or pasta. Or him, standing barefoot in her kitchen like he belonged there.

She especially didn’t think it would turn into this quiet kind of happiness. This soft, steady warmth that hadn’t faded even after the door clicked shut behind him.

She shook her head to herself, grinning.

“I really didn’t see that coming,” she murmured into her mug.

But somehow, that made it better.

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x imagine #harry styles fanfiction #harry x y/n #coworker!harry #harry styles fan fic #harry styles x fluff #harry styles x smut #harry smut #harry edward styles #one direction #1d #fanfic

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silkpagess · 2 months ago

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Silk Pages's Masterlist

Started:05/12/2025

Last updated: 05/20/2025

The Whispering Shadows:

Harry is a skeptic, grounded in logic and consumed by an investigation that defies explanation. When he crosses paths with Y/N, a sharp, enigmatic medium drawn into the same mystery, he's forced to confront what he can't understand. Though he doesn't trust easily, her presence is impossible to ignore. As the case deepens and their connection intensifies, Harry begins to question everything he thought he believed, including her.

Una notte en roma:

Y/N’s just trying to enjoy her time in Rome—wine, karaoke, and maybe a little chaos. She definitely doesn’t expect to cross paths with Harry Styles at a random bar. He’s low-key, charming, and way too handsome for her peace of mind. What starts as one flirty, unexpected night turns into something neither of them saw coming. It’s messy, magnetic, and totally unforgettable—because when in Rome… right?

Out of Office, into you:

Y/N lands her dream job and definitely does not plan on falling for Harry Styles — her charming, too-handsome coworker with rolled-up sleeves and a knack for ruining her concentration. What starts as harmless flirtation over office coffee runs, late-night texts, and passive-aggressive Google Docs turns into romance and a very unexpected ending. She was just trying to survive her probation period. Now she’s wearing his sweater.

Every Summertime: Part II

#harry styles #harry styles x fluff #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x smut #harry styles fic #harry styles oneshot #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb

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silkpagess · 2 months ago

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The Whispering Shadows - Part I

Summary: Harry is a skeptic, grounded in logic and consumed by an investigation that defies explanation. When he crosses paths with Y/N, a sharp, enigmatic medium drawn into the same mystery, he's forced to confront what he can't understand. Though he doesn't trust easily, her presence is impossible to ignore. As the case deepens and their connection intensifies, Harry begins to question everything he thought he believed, including her.

Content Warning: This story isn't for everyone. Harry is a detective inspector who's trying to solve a series of murder cases, some parts will contain graphic scenes. Please move on if you don't enjoy this sort of content.

Word count: 3K

Winchester, England – October 28th, 2:36 AM

The forest had teeth. That’s what Elsie Wright thought as her boots cracked through a web of brittle twigs, and a heavy fog licked her skin like something alive. Trees loomed on either side of her, crooked and black, huddled like old men whispering secrets too ugly for daylight.

She hadn’t meant to stray this far. The pub had closed early. Her mates were already tucked into Ubers or boyfriends’ cars. But she needed the walk. Needed to clear her head. And the forest path, usually calm, almost romantic in the fall, had always been her shortcut home.

Tonight, though, it felt… wrong.

The wind didn’t move the way it should’ve. It whistled through the bare branches like a scream with nowhere to go. The kind of scream you keep inside when your skin is burning, your mouth is full of blood, and you know no one’s coming to help.

Elsie’s breath hitched. She glanced behind her.

Empty.

She picked up her pace.

The stories were just that, stories. The Hollow Wood wasn’t cursed, despite what the kids at St. Catherine’s whispered during sleepovers. No witches lived here, no ghosts. No one was hunting.

Still.

She heard it.

First, it was just a whisper. Soft. Like the rustle of leaves. But it grew. Became a rhythm. Footsteps. Wet ones. Slapping the mud too hard. Too close.

Elsie froze. “Hello?”

Nothing.

She tried again, louder. “Oi, you’re not funny—cut that shit out!”

Then she saw it.

A shape. No more than twenty feet away. Wrong somehow. Tall, thin, wrapped in shadow. Motionless. Watching.

Elsie’s scream caught in her throat. Her knees locked, useless. It stepped forward.

One step.

Then another.

Her body finally obeyed. She ran. Tripping over roots, dodging branches, lungs burning as she tore down the path. The thing behind her didn’t run—it stalked. Silent. Confident.

As if it already knew how this would end.

She broke through the trees. There—up the hill—were the village lights. She would be safe.

But the ground beneath her feet gave out.

She fell hard, tumbling into a narrow ravine slick with rot and leaves. Something cracked in her shoulder. Pain blinded her. She couldn’t scream. Only whimper.

And then, from the top of the ravine, it looked down.

It had no face. Only a gaping, pulsating blackness where a face should be. Like it was made of smoke and grief and something much older than hate.

Elsie choked as the figure descended. Not rushed—no, it took its time. As if savoring her fear.

When it reached her, she finally screamed.

It didn’t matter. By the time the villagers found her body at dawn, her mouth was still wide open. Her eyes too. But they saw nothing now.

Just empty sockets filled with salt and dirt.

⸻

Chapter One – The Arrival

Scotland Yard, London – November 1st, 9:02 AM

Detective Chief Inspector Harry Styles leaned over the crime scene photos like a man confronting a riddle that insulted his intelligence.

Three bodies.

Three monsters, if the files were to be believed. Convicted sex offenders. Known abusers. Dead—each in separate parts of Winchester, within weeks of each other.

Torn apart. Faces obliterated. Organs removed with surgical precision. No prints. No footprints. No witnesses. And, most chillingly, no signs of struggle.

As if they had simply… accepted it.

He thumbed through the autopsy reports, frowning. The coroner’s notes were oddly poetic. Unprofessional. Phrases like “as if gripped by something not of this world” and “expression locked in divine terror.”

Harry exhaled sharply and tossed the paper aside. “Bloody hell.”

His superior, Superintendent Lewis, stood by the door, arms crossed. “I know that look.”

Harry ran a hand through his curls and leaned back in his chair. “I’m not in the mood for village fairy tales. Let the locals handle it. It’s probably just some deranged vigilante.”

Lewis shook his head. “No. You’re going.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“Winchester’s force is spooked. They requested help. You’re the only one I trust not to run off screaming into the moors.”

“I don’t do ghost stories.”

Lewis handed him a manila folder with a single photograph inside. A woman.

She stood in front of an ancient stone cottage, half-hidden by vines and shadows. Her eyes—dark, sharp—seemed to burn through the photo itself. There was something unsettling about her stillness, like she knew you were looking.

Harry frowned. “Who’s she?”

“Y/N L/N, she’s a local medium. Claims to have spoken with the dead since she was a child. Helps with disappearances, unsolved cases. People believe in her.”

He snorted. “And we believe in the tooth fairy now, do we?”

Lewis didn’t smile. “One of the victims—first one—had scribbled her name on the wall in his own blood before he died. Only word. Y/N.”

Harry went still.

“I want you on a train to Hampshire in two hours. Stay as long as you need. Solve it.”

Harry stood, jaw tight. “Fine. But let me be clear: I’m not entertaining séances or crystal balls.”

Lewis’s voice dropped. “Good. Because if she’s behind this—we need to know how a woman who’s never left her cottage in years might be killing men with no trace. And if she isn’t…”

He let that hang.

Harry nodded once and left.

But even as he descended the Yard’s old marble staircase, her eyes followed him from that photo. Unblinking.

Watching.

⸻

The morning fog clung to the rooftops like a veil of breathless mourning. Winchester felt even quieter today, as if the air itself had gone still in fear of being heard. Rain pattered gently on the cobblestones, a persistent, murmuring drizzle that had no intention of stopping.

Harry Styles pulled his wool coat tighter around him and checked the brass watch nestled at his wrist. Nearly 10 a.m. His sleep had been thin—choked with shadows and the sound of distant screams that might’ve only existed in his mind. He was used to the weight of murder. It followed him through cases like a scent that refused to wash off. But this town… this town felt different.

He took another drag of his cigarette and stared at the address scrawled on the now damp envelope he held in his gloved hand. The ink had started to run, like blood through cotton, but the name was still visible:

Y/N L/N

No. 3 Holloway Lane

Winchester, Hampshire

He had stared at those lines a dozen times since yesterday. Now, trudging through the morning fog, Harry’s boots tapped along the wet stones. It wasn’t fear that crept into his gut—it was wariness. He had built a reputation on logic and skepticism. Facts, timelines, fingerprints, forensics. And now he was about to knock on the door of a woman who spoke to ghosts?

Still, the murders kept happening. There were no signs of forced entry. No murder weapons left behind. No witnesses. Just bodies—slashed, broken, always left somewhere symbolic. Always the guilty: rapists, murderers, predators whose crimes had somehow slipped through the cracks of justice. Harry had looked at each file himself. There was no doubt—they deserved prison. But someone, or something, had decided that prison wasn’t punishment enough.

A whisper of wind curled between buildings like an unseen hand brushing his coat. He didn’t flinch. But his hand lingered near the inside of his jacket, where his sidearm rested.

Just in case.

As he approached Holloway Lane, the houses began to change. The brick turned darker. Ivy crept up stone walls like black veins. The air felt colder—sharper somehow, as if the fog here wasn’t just moisture but something else. A presence. Watching. Waiting.

No. 3 sat at the far end, shrouded behind an iron gate so old it had rusted into a grim, mottled red. The house was narrow, tall, with steep windows that reflected no light. Curtains were drawn, and the garden was overgrown with creeping rosemary and shadowy rosebushes that looked almost feral.

Harry paused at the gate.

His pulse didn’t quicken, but he became aware of its beat. Steady. Solid. Human.

He wasn’t afraid. Not really.

He pushed the gate open. It gave a mournful creak, the sound loud in the hush of the lane. Gravel crunched beneath his shoes as he made his way up the winding path, the overgrown garden seeming to shift around him like slow-breathing lungs. He noticed symbols etched into the wood of the doorframe—tiny ones, subtle, curling in strange loops.

Warding sigils?

He scoffed under his breath.

Still, something cold prickled the back of his neck.

He knocked once. Firm. Professional.

Then twice more.

Silence.

Harry leaned in, listening. Was that movement beyond the door? A breath? Or was it the house itself, settling like some living thing, bones creaking and sighing?

He raised his hand to knock again—but the door opened before he touched it.

Just a crack.

The hallway beyond was dim, but warm amber light flickered from deeper within, as if the home had been expecting him.

He cleared his throat. “Ms. L/N?” he called in, voice crisp, practiced. “Detective Inspector Harry Styles. Scotland Yard.”

No answer.

He hesitated. Every instinct told him to turn around and wait for a warrant. But something else tugged at him—something that made no logical sense.

Curiosity.

He pushed the door gently. It opened fully on silent hinges. The scent inside struck him first. Not unpleasant—but strange. Incense, perhaps. Sage. And something sweeter—lavender maybe, almost like perfume and candle wax melted into velvet.

The foyer was lined with dark wood panels and aged tapestries. A crystal chandelier hung above, its light dimmed by layers of age and dust. Shadows flickered along the corridor, cast by candles placed on iron sconces. The effect was gothic. Regal. And oddly intimate.

He took one cautious step inside.

“Ms. L/N,” he repeated.

This time, a voice answered—low and feminine, smooth as silk, and carrying an echo that made the fine hairs on his arms lift.

“You’re early, Inspector.”

Harry froze, instantly alert. The voice came from the far end of the hall, but he saw no one yet.

“I wasn’t expecting you for another hour,” the voice continued.

He stepped forward slowly, eyes scanning. “I don’t like wasting time.”

“Neither do I,” the voice said—and then, she stepped out of the shadows.

She moved like water—quiet, fluid, and utterly calm. Y/N L/N was not what he expected. No crystal balls. No wild hair or outlandish robes. She wore a long black dress, simple but elegant, with sleeves of lace and a silver pendant resting against her collarbone.

Her eyes, however, were what held him.

Dark. Deep. Unreadable. Eyes that had seen too much—or perhaps not enough of the right things. She looked at him not like a stranger, but like someone who’d already read his soul.

Harry found his voice again. “Ms. L/N.”

“You may call me Y/N.” She turned and began walking back into the house, her bare feet silent against the floor. “Come. You want to ask me about the killings.”

He followed, jaw set. “How did you know that?”

“I know many things,” she replied softly. “Especially when death is involved.”

They entered a drawing room filled with old books, dried herbs hanging from hooks, and a fireplace that burned with crackling warmth. The contrast to the chill outside was startling. Everything smelled ancient and secretive.

Harry stood stiffly, refusing to sit.

“I’m here because these murders are not normal,” he said. “They’re targeted. Ritualistic. But the people they’ve killed… they all had something in common.”

She nodded, slow and deliberate. “Yes. They were all evil.”

“That’s not for a killer to decide.”

She met his gaze with a flicker of something like sorrow—or contempt. “Then who does decide? The system? The one that let them roam free?”

Harry didn’t answer.

She studied him for a moment longer, then said, “You don’t believe in me.”

“No.”

“Good. That makes it easier.”

He frowned. “Easier for what?”

“For you to see the truth when it comes for you,” she said, turning her back to him as she reached for something on the mantelpiece.

“And what truth is that?”

She paused.

Then she whispered, “That the dead don’t rest in Winchester. And neither will you.”

Y/N’s words lingered in the room like smoke:

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Is that a threat, Ms. L/N?”

She didn’t turn around. Instead, she delicately picked up a matchbox from the mantel and struck a single flame to a long, black beeswax candle already waiting in an antique holder. The flame caught, dancing wildly before settling into a steady burn.

“No,” she said with an airy lilt, finally facing him again. “That’s a prophecy.”

Harry’s jaw clenched—but not from fear. Something about her presence was unnerving in a way no murderer or crime scene ever had been. She had the confidence of someone who didn’t need to prove herself. And that unnerved him more than any talk of spirits or prophecies.

She strolled past him then, the hem of her dress whispering against the wooden floor.

“You’re not like the others they’ve sent,” she mused, peering out the window, arms crossed loosely. “Usually they send the desperate ones. The old ones. Men who’ve already broken a little, who want to believe. You’re new. Shiny. Still pretending the world makes sense.”

“I don’t pretend,” Harry said quietly.

Y/N looked over her shoulder with a sharp smile. “Oh, darling—you pretend constantly. You wear your cynicism like armor. I bet you even polish it every morning. Tell me, does it ever weigh you down?”

Her words struck a nerve he didn’t expect.

She moved again—closer now, pausing only a few feet away. The candlelight caught the silver of her pendant, casting glints onto her throat. Harry tried not to look.

“You said the dead don’t rest,” he said, regaining control of his voice. “What do you mean by that?”

Y/N tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly as if deciding how much he could handle. “They’re angry. The victims. Not the ones found dead—no. The real victims. The ones those people hurt. The ones who didn’t get justice. They stir the veil. They scream.”

“Ghosts?” he said, voice flat.

She smiled again. “Isn’t it more comforting to believe they’re just ghosts?”

Harry said nothing.

He didn’t believe in ghosts.

But he believed in patterns. And there was something too perfectly orchestrated about these killings. The way each victim had been publicly accused, legally acquitted—or had their charges dropped altogether. The kind of men who smirked outside courthouses, untouched. Until now.

Until someone—or something—started touching them.

“I need your help,” he said at last, the words like dry stones in his throat.

Y/N arched a brow. “You don’t want my help. You want permission to continue believing what you already think is true.”

“I want to stop people from dying,” he replied.

She studied him for a long, charged moment, then turned away, gathering something from the small writing desk by the fire.

“You came here for facts. Evidence,” she said, her voice lilting. “I deal in truths. They’re not always the same.”

She handed him a photograph—old, printed on faded Polaroid film. A woman. Pale. Terrified. Standing behind a window with her hands pressed to the glass. Harry frowned, flipping it over. No name. No date.

“What is this?” he asked.

Y/N stared into the fire. “The first. Years ago. She came to me for help. She’d been assaulted. Brutalized. The man walked free. I tried to warn her—vengeance changes people. That grief like hers, if left to rot, could draw… other things.”

Harry looked back down at the photo. The woman’s eyes were wide with terror—not at someone in front of her, but at something behind her. A darkness.

“What happened to her?”

Y/N said nothing for a while. Then, softly: “She died. But not before something else answered her pain.”

A silence fell.

The only sound was the soft crackle of the fire.

“Do you know who’s doing this?” Harry asked. “These murders?”

Y/N turned toward him then, fully, her eyes darker now.

“I know what’s doing it,” she said. “And if I tell you, you’ll wish I hadn’t.”

Harry swallowed, and for the first time in a long time, the detective felt the chill of real dread—not the kind that came from danger, but the kind that came from truth.

She took a step closer. “You’re not ready. Not yet. But you will be. When it finds you.”

He held her gaze, and she didn’t look away. A crackle of something unspoken passed between them—tension, curiosity, something else.

It unnerved him. But also—somewhere deeper—intrigued him.

She was maddening. Not at all the demure medium he had expected. But beneath the velvet sarcasm and strange grace, there was something sharp. A woman who had seen horror and didn’t blink. Who held secrets like blades hidden in her bodice.

And damn it—he needed her.

“Tell me what to do,” he said quietly.

She studied him a moment longer. Then her voice, soft but steady: “Come back tonight. Midnight.”

He frowned. “Midnight?”

“The veil’s thinner then. If you want to know what’s happening to your killers, you’ll need to see it. With your own eyes.”

She reached for a small bell jar on the mantel and uncovered it. Inside was a dried sprig of hemlock, brittle and dark. She plucked it gently and handed it to him.

“Take this. Keep it in your pocket.”

“What is it?”

“A precaution.”

Harry looked at it warily but took it. “Against what?”

Her voice dropped low, almost like a prayer.“Against being seen.”

#harry styles #harry styles x fluff #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fan fiction #harry edward styles #detective!harry #harry styles x suspense #harry styles x thriller

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