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joelsrose · 7 months ago

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Good Neighbours: Chapter 1

NEW SERIES!!! i know yall are still waiting for the next chapter of guns and roses its still in the worksss

no warnings, slow burn - reader is 24, joel is in his mid 40s

The apartment was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that presses heavy against your chest. The space that had once been your sanctuary now feels cold and lifeless, stripped of everything that made it yours.

Boxes are stacked against the walls, their edges frayed from too much tape and too little care. The bare floors creak under your steps, each sound echoing like a reminder of how empty this place has become. Your eyes linger on the window by the fire escape, the view of the city you used to love now feeling distant, like it belongs to someone else entirely.

Chicago had been your dream. The bustling streets, the never-ending noise, the late nights at cramped bars with friends, and the early mornings at the publishing house, fueled by coffee and ambition. It was everything you’d wanted—until it wasn’t.

Your life here didn’t fall apart all at once; it unraveled slowly, piece by piece. The first crack was the breakup, a betrayal that still feels like a sucker punch every time you think about it. Three years with someone who looked you in the eye and lied. Someone who had the audacity to cheat on you with your ex-best friend.

That revelation shattered something deep inside you, leaving a hollow ache you couldn’t quite fill. You cried for weeks, the kind of crying that leaves your chest raw and your pillow soaked, until eventually, even your tears gave up. When that ended, it took more than just your relationship—it took the version of yourself who believed in happy endings.

Then came the job. Or rather, the lack of it. Months of feeling distracted and unsteady after the breakup led to a mistake on a project too big to recover from. You were let go with a sympathetic smile and a box of your things, the kind of professional pity that only makes the sting worse. With no savings to fall back on and no one to catch you, you were forced to face the one option you had left: starting over. Somewhere far away from all of this.

That’s how you ended up on the phone with Uncle Ray, the one steady, no-nonsense presence in your life. When he offered you a place to stay in Texas, you hesitated at first—what did you know about small towns, about fixing cars and country music and people who knew your name before you even introduced yourself?

But you didn’t have much of a choice. A fresh start sounded like the only thing that might save you from drowning in everything you’d lost.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You stood outside the airport, feeling entirely out of place as sweat clung to your skin. You hadn’t expected it to be this hot, the kind of heat that seemed to cling to you, making the air feel heavier.

Tugging at the hem of your shirt, you scrolled through your phone mindlessly, the notifications blurring together as you tried to distract yourself from the awkwardness of waiting. Then, you heard it—a low rumble that grew louder with every second, the unmistakable sound of a truck’s engine.

Looking up, you spotted it, an old Ford pickup that had seen better days but still rumbled along with purpose. Uncle Ray was behind the wheel, his grin wide as he pulled up to the curb. He climbed out, his arms open as he approached you.

"Hey, kiddo," he greeted warmly, pulling you into a hug that smelled faintly of motor oil and aftershave. He felt solid, familiar, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to relax into it.

"Hey," you returned, your voice softer than you intended.

"You ready to head home?" he asked, leaning back to give you an appraising look.

Home. The word felt foreign, strange on your tongue, but you nodded anyway, forcing a small smile. "Yeah, I’m ready."

The truck’s interior was worn and weathered, the seats cracked in places—a surprising sight considering Uncle Ray was a mechanic. Yet, it carried a charm all its own, a lived-in feel that spoke of countless miles and stories etched into every scuff and tear. As you settled in, pressing your back against the sun-warmed vinyl, Uncle Ray climbed in beside you, his fingers deftly adjusting the stubborn air conditioner until it rattled to life with a sigh.

The scenery outside was nothing like Chicago. Gone were the towering buildings and chaotic traffic, replaced by open stretches of land that seemed to go on forever. Fields of green, the occasional barn, and roads that seemed to shimmer under the weight of the heat. The town came into view slowly, a scattering of small businesses, a diner with a flickering neon sign, and houses spaced far enough apart to feel lonely.

You thought about the last time you’d seen Uncle Ray. Years ago, he’d taken you fishing on one of his rare visits up north. He’d been the same then—chill, a little chubby, always ready with a story that had you laughing until your stomach hurt.

"You holding up okay?" he asked, his eyes darting to you briefly as the truck slowed to take a turn.

"Yeah," you lied, your voice barely above a whisper.

When you finally reached his neighborhood, you leaned forward, taking it all in. The houses were modest but well-kept, each with a wide porch and a patch of green that looked as though it had been freshly mowed. Kids played on the sidewalks, their laughter echoing in the warm air. It was the kind of neighborhood where people probably knew everyone’s name and said hello every morning.

Uncle Ray pulled into the driveway of a double-story house with faded blue shutters and a swing on the front porch. The lawn was dotted with a few wildflowers.

"Here we are," Uncle Ray announced, cutting the engine. "Home sweet home."

You stepped out of the truck, the scent of freshly cut grass and something sweet—maybe honeysuckle—filling the air.

As you reached for the first overstuffed suitcase, your gaze drifted to the houses next door. Neatly trimmed lawns, colorful flowers in hanging baskets, and wide porches with rocking chairs. It was idyllic, picturesque even—a world away from Chicago's cramped apartments and noisy streets.

Your new neighbors.

It was strange being back in suburbia, where people probably waved over fences and borrowed sugar like a scene straight out of an old movie. In Chicago, you hardly saw the people next to you.

Sure, you’d hear them: the clattering of keys as they stumbled in after a late night, the thud of their running shoes as they left for an early workout. But no one lingered for niceties or exchanged cheerful "good mornings" like they probably did here.

You were lost in your thoughts, trying to reconcile this new reality, when you heard a low chuckle from the front of the truck. Uncle Ray was leaning against the hood, talking animatedly to someone.

His laughter carried easily in the warm, sticky air, a sound you’d always found comforting. Curious, you craned your neck, trying to catch a glimpse of who he was talking to.

That’s when you saw him.

He stood tall, broad shoulders casting a shadow that stretched over the gravel driveway. His hands rested on his hips in a way that made him look like he owned the space around him, completely at ease. He wore a plain t-shirt, faded from too many washes, stretched just enough to hint at the strength beneath.

His jeans hung low on his hips, worn at the knees, and scuffed boots completed the look. He wasn’t trying—God, he wasn’t even trying—but the way he carried himself made it hard to look away.

He had to be in his mid-40s, the faintest streaks of silver catching in his dark hair, but that only made him more handsome. Ruggedly so, in a way that felt deeply unfair.

"There she is," Uncle Ray called, catching you staring. He waved you forward, his grin wide. "C’mere, kiddo. Meet our neighbor."

Reluctantly, you abandoned your luggage and crossed the driveway. Every step felt heavier under Joel’s gaze—or Mr. Miller, as Uncle Ray had introduced him—but when you got closer, you noticed his eyes. Warm, earthy brown and piercing all at once, like he could see straight through you.

"This is my niece," Uncle Ray said, clapping a hand on your shoulder. "She’s staying with me for a little while. And this here," he motioned toward the man, "is Mr. Miller. Lives right next door."

"Nice to meet you, darlin’," Joel said, his voice low and smooth, with a Southern drawl that seemed to settle into your bones.

Oh, right. The pet names. Sweetheart, honey, darlin’—you’d heard them at least fifteen times since your plane landed, each one dripping with charm. But coming from him, as his hand reached out to envelop yours in a firm, calloused grip, it felt different. Better. You liked it more than you cared to admit.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Miller," you replied, your voice softer than you intended. His hand was rough and large, making yours feel almost laughably small.

He shook his head, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. "Call me Joel, please. Mr. Miller makes me feel like I oughta be signing up for a retirement home."

You couldn’t help it; you laughed. A genuine laugh that bubbled out before you could stop it. He smiled at that, a small, almost imperceptible curve of his lips, but it was there. You noticed.

Uncle Ray, ever the social one, leaned in conspiratorially, a sly grin on his face. "Hey, Joel, how’s Sarah? She’s what—23 now? Same age as this one," he added, nudging you lightly with his elbow, as if you were part of some inside joke you hadn’t been let in on.

"I'm 24," you said, the words slipping out before you could stop yourself. For some reason, you thought it might make you sound more mature in front of the very much older man standing before you. Immediately, you regretted it—like he needed to know or cared about the one-year gap.

"Same difference," Uncle Ray said with a wave of his hand, completely unbothered.

But Joel raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement passing through his dark eyes.

"She’s good," Joel said, "Working over at the diner, keeping herself busy."

You must have furrowed your brows because Joel caught it immediately. "Sarah’s my daughter," he said, clarifying before you had to ask.

"Oh," you said, feeling a little silly.

Of course, he had a family. He probably had a wife, too. Your gaze drifted toward his house, half-expecting to see her step outside—a vision of blonde hair and a warm, effortless smile. The kind of woman who bakes cookies from scratch, smells like vanilla and sunshine, and waves cheerfully to the neighbors. Maybe there was even a golden retriever named Benji, lounging inside on the couch, completing the perfect picture.

"I’d love to meet her," you offered, trying to mask the pang of disappointment you didn’t fully understand. "I don’t really know anyone here yet."

Plus, my ex-best friend kinda betrayed me by sleeping with my boyfriend, so I could really use some new friends, you thought bitterly, the memory flaring for a moment before you shoved it back down.

"Course, she'd love that" Joel replied easily, his tone warm. "Y’all are coming over tomorrow for the barbecue, right?"

"Course," Uncle Ray said, already moving toward the house as his phone buzzed loudly in his pocket. "Wouldn’t miss it. Joel makes the best ribs in town," he called over his shoulder with a quick smile.

Then his expression shifted as he glanced at the screen. "Sorry, it’s work—I gotta take this," he muttered, answering the call with a distracted wave before disappearing inside.

And just like that, it was just you and Joel.

You stood there, awkward and unsure, while he seemed entirely at ease, hands still resting on his hips. He had a way about him—calm, confident, charismatic.

"You need help with your bags?" he asked, tilting his head toward the suitcases you’d abandoned.

"Oh," you blinked, realizing you’d completely forgotten about them. "No, I should be fine."

Joel’s gaze shifted to the two enormous suitcases that were clearly over the weight limit, and he raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was holding back a laugh. "You sure about that?"

Before you could protest, he was already moving, lifting one suitcase with ease and hoisting it into his arms like it weighed nothing. You couldn’t help but notice the way his bicep flexed, the fabric of his t-shirt pulling taut as he carried the weight effortlessly. It was distracting, the kind of subtle strength that you knew he wasn’t showing off—it was just there, in every deliberate movement.

"You pack bricks in here or somethin’?" he asked, his tone light and teasing, as he glanced back over his shoulder. That faint smirk tugged at his lips, like he’d caught you in the act of staring, though he didn’t say it outright.

Your cheeks burned instantly. "No, I just—uh, I guess I overpacked," you stammered, trying and failing to sound unaffected.

He chuckled, low and warm, shaking his head as he grabbed the second suitcase, hefting it just as effortlessly as the first. "Just teasin' darlin" he said simply, his voice steady, but something about the way he said it—calm and self-assured—left your stomach fluttering.

This was going to be a problem.

Your cheeks burned, and you hoped the heat of the day would mask the blush creeping across your face. "Thanks," you mumbled, biting back a smile.

He carried the second suitcase up the porch and set it down with a satisfied nod. "There. Easy enough." He turned back to you, his gaze holding yours for a second longer than necessary.

"Well," he said, his voice low and steady, "Welcome to Texas." Your name rolled off his tongue in that unmistakable drawl, each syllable slow and deliberate, like he was tasting it.

It settled in the air between you, making your knees feel just a little weaker, your chest tightening in a way that you refused to acknowledge.

You swore he gave you a once-over before he strode back toward his house, his boots crunching against the gravel. Just before he reached his door, he glanced over his shoulder and tipped his head.

"See you tomorrow," he said, and then he was gone, leaving you standing there with your heart doing something entirely inconvenient in your chest.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

After dinner—a greasy but satisfying burger and fries from the local diner—you finally settled into your room. It was modest, with a bed tucked into the corner and walls painted a soft beige. A worn wooden dresser sat against one wall, and the faint scent of lavender lingered in the air from a small sachet tucked into the bedside drawer. It wasn’t much, but it was cozy enough.

What caught your attention, though, was the window. It faced the backyard, and as you peered out, you realized it looked straight into Joel’s. The same backyard you’d be standing in tomorrow night for the barbecue.

The space was neat, with a patio table and chairs under a faded umbrella, a small grill parked in the corner, and string lights dangling above. You could imagine it already—laughter, the smoky scent of ribs, and Joel moving easily through it all, a beer in hand and that rugged smile.

Shaking off the thought, you flopped back onto the bed, the mattress letting out a soft creak under your weight. With your phone in your hand you unlocked the screen and hesitated for a moment. Your fingers opened Instagram hovering over the search bar before typing: J-o-e-l M-i-l-l-e-r.

You weren’t a stalker—you told yourself that twice as you pressed search. You just wanted to know more about him. Maybe seeing his wife, his family, would yank your head out of the ridiculous fantasies that had started creeping in since the moment he’d carried your suitcase like it weighed nothing.

Nothing.

The results came up empty, just a scattering of people who were very obviously not the Joel Miller you were looking for. You sighed, biting your lip, and switched apps.

Facebook. He was older—he probably wasn’t on Instagram anyway.

Jackpot. There it was—a profile with a photo that looked like it had been taken years ago. Joel stood with a much younger girl, who you assumed was Sarah, all teeth and curly hair, her arms flung around his neck as he smiled faintly at the camera. You couldn’t help but smile at the sight. It was sweet—simple. A glimpse of him you hadn’t expected.

You scrolled further, the glow of the screen lighting up your face in the dim room. There were more photos: Joel and Sarah on vacation by a lake, Joel in construction gear with a hard hat tucked under one arm, Joel standing next to what looked like an old truck, his hand resting on Sarah’s shoulder as she beamed up at him.

But there was no wife. No wedding photos, no anniversary posts, nothing to suggest she existed. Huh, you thought to yourself, your brow furrowing slightly.

You locked your phone and tossed it onto the bed beside you, staring up at the ceiling. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. Maybe he was just private, or maybe…

You tried to push the thought from your mind, but it lingered, the possibilities swirling in your head far longer than you wanted to admit.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

"You ready, kid?" Uncle Ray’s voice boomed from downstairs.

"Yeah, just one sec!" you called back, turning to the mirror one last time. You smoothed your hands over the fabric of the white halter dress you’d chosen, the hem brushing mid-thigh. It was simple, breezy—perfect for the Texas heat—but there was a part of you that wanted to look good. Not over the top, but enough to feel confident. Enough to catch someone’s attention.

As you descended the stairs, Uncle Ray was balancing a platter of meat and a case of beers, muttering something about forgetting the tongs.

"I’ll take these," you offered, grabbing the beers from him before he could protest.

"Thanks, kid," he said with a grateful smile.

The short walk to Joel’s house felt longer than it should have, anticipation bubbling under your skin. You weren’t sure why you were nervous. Maybe it was the thought of finally seeing inside Joel’s house, the place he lived.

Maybe even meeting his wife. If he has one, a voice in your head whispered, though you tried to ignore it.

Uncle Ray knocked on the door, the sound heavy against the wood. Moments later, Joel’s unmistakable voice called, "Comin’!"

When the door opened, your breath caught in your throat.

If it was possible for him to look even better than yesterday, somehow, he managed it. His hair was slightly tousled, damp at the edges, and there was a sheen of sweat glistening on his tanned skin—no doubt from working outside at the barbecue. He wore a faded gray t-shirt that clung just enough to hint at the strength beneath and a pair of jeans.

Your gaze lingered a second too long, and as if sensing it, his eyes flicked to yours, a small smirk tugging at his lips. You swallowed subconsciously, the motion betraying you. He noticed.

"Ray," Joel greeted warmly, clapping your uncle on the back. "Just through there to the kitchen," he said, nodding toward the hallway for the meat Uncle Ray was carrying.

"Got it," your uncle replied, brushing past him and leaving you standing awkwardly in the doorway, the beers still in your hands.

Why did you feel so out of place? Why were you so... flustered?

"Hey, sweetheart," Joel said, his voice dropping into that low, his arm leaning against the doorframe, his familiar drawl sending warmth cascading through you. He motioned to the beers in your arms. "These for me?"

It took you a second to process what he meant. "The beers?" you asked, dumbly, earning a quiet chuckle from him.

"Yeah," he said, amused, his lips curving into a faint grin. "The beers."

"Oh. Yeah," you said quickly, feeling heat rise to your cheeks.

"Here, I’ll take ’em off your hands," he offered, stepping closer. As his fingers brushed yours, a spark zipped through you, quick and unbidden. You glanced up, catching his eyes just as they shifted—flickering down for the briefest moment.

That’s when you realized where he was looking. You followed his gaze instinctively, and your heart stuttered. The condensation from the beers had soaked into your dress, dampening the fabric over your chest. You could see the faint outline of your pink lace bra through the thin material.

Joel murmured something under his breath, so quiet you couldn’t make it out. His jaw tightened as his gaze snapped back to your face, his expression carefully neutral.

Your cheeks burned, your entire body flushing a deep crimson. But Joel—ever the gentleman—pretended not to notice. His eyes didn’t stray, not once. Instead, he made steady eye contact, his tone smooth and unaffected as he said, "Hey, come on in. You can meet Sarah. I’ll introduce you two."

He stepped back, holding the door open wider for you to enter. His voice remained calm, his movements composed, but there was a tension in his posture, a stiffness that hadn’t been there before.

You ducked your head, mumbling a quiet "thanks" as you stepped inside, the air-conditioned coolness of his house brushing against your overheated skin.

Joel’s voice followed you, steady but quieter now. "She’s out back helpin’ with the food. You’ll like her."

You nodded, trying to focus on anything other than the fact that Joel Miller had just seen far more of you than you’d intended—and that the way he handled it, with his quiet restraint and piercing eyes, somehow made it even worse. Or maybe better. You weren’t sure anymore.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ Sarah was incredible—her energy was infectious, the way her eyes lit up when she spoke made you feel like you’d known her for years. She had Joel's kind eyes and smile. Conversation flowed easily, laughter punctuating every other sentence as you sat in the shade of the patio, the warm buzz of music and mingling voices filling the air.

"So, you moved from Chicago?" Sarah asked, taking a sip of her beer, her head tilted curiously. You nodded, but before you could answer, she grinned. "What gives? I’d do anything to get out of Texas, but I think my dad would have a heart attack if I tried."

You laughed softly at her playful tone, but inside, your heart clenched, the real reason for your move bubbling to the surface. The betrayal of the two people you had trusted most in the world—your boyfriend and your best friend—still stung like an open wound. For a moment, you thought about answering with one of the rehearsed lies you’d been telling people since it happened. Something casual, vague, easy.

But there was something in Sarah’s eyes—kindness that felt so effortless, so genuine—that made you hesitate. She wasn’t prying; she just seemed... safe. Your lip caught between your teeth as you glanced down, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

"Well, uh, my boyfriend cheated on me," you said quietly, the weight of it easing slightly as you said it aloud. Sarah’s eyes widened, but before she could respond, you added, "With my best friend."

Her gasp was immediate, her beer nearly slipping from her hand as she leaned forward. "Oh my God. Are you serious? What fucking assholes!" she said, her voice sharp with indignation.

You managed a small, sad smile. "Yeah. So, uh, here I am, trying to figure out what to do with my life. Honestly, I don’t have a clue."

Sarah’s expression softened, and without hesitation, she reached over to rub your shoulder, her touch warm and comforting. "Hey," she said firmly, "they’re both idiots for doing anything that got you out of their lives. I’ve known you for, like, an hour, and I can already tell how stupid that was."

Her words hit you harder than you expected, a warmth spreading in your chest as the corners of your mouth lifted into a genuine smile. "You’re too sweet," you murmured, your voice soft but sincere.

"I’m serious," she insisted, her eyes narrowing slightly as if daring you to argue. "If they couldn’t see what they had, that’s on them, not you."

For the first time in a while, you felt something shift—just a little—a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, you were in the right place to start over. "Thanks, Sarah," you said, meaning every word.

"Anytime," she said, raising her beer with a grin. "And hey, if you need someone to curse them out over the phone, just say the word. I’m really good at it."

You laughed, a sound that felt lighter than it had in months. "I’ll keep that in mind."

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You sat by yourself now, nursing a drink as you watched the scene unfold around you. Sarah had disappeared into the kitchen to help with something, leaving you to take in the warm buzz of conversation and laughter that filled the air.

People were scattered in groups, mingling, sharing stories, and you couldn’t help but smile at how… nice it all felt. Like being part of a community, even if only for a little while.

It hadn’t gone unnoticed by you—the absence of a partner in Joel’s life. No photos, no affectionate glances exchanged with a woman across the yard, no lady hanging off his arm.

You’d been looking, admittedly more than you should have. And you’d noticed another thing, too: his left hand. Bare. No wedding ring, no tell-tale tan line suggesting one had been there recently.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed movement, and when you glanced up, Joel was walking toward you, his figure outlined by the afternoon sun. One hand lifted to shield his eyes from the glare as he stopped in front of you, his expression as unreadable as ever.

"Hey," he said, his voice low but carrying easily over the noise around you.

"Hey," you replied, sitting up a little straighter.

"You havin’ fun?" he asked, his tone casual but his gaze steady, like he genuinely wanted to know.

"Yeah," you said, nodding. "Sarah’s the best. She’s been really great."

His lips twitched into a grin, one of those subtle ones that made you feel like you’d earned it. "I figured you two would hit it off."

There was a brief pause, a flicker of something in his eyes as he seemed to consider his next words. Finally, he nodded toward the grill. "Hey, you, uh… wanna help me out with the grill?"

"Oh," you said, caught off guard but smiling nonetheless. "Yeah, sure." You stood quickly, brushing your hands on your dress. "I don’t know how much help I’ll be, though."

"That’s alright," he said, already turning to walk back to the grill, his voice carrying a hint of teasing warmth. "I’ll teach ya."

You followed him, the scent of charcoal and smoked meat growing stronger as you approached. When you reached the grill, Joel handed you a pair of tongs, his fingers brushing yours briefly as he did.

"Alright," he said, stepping beside you, his shoulder close enough to brush yours if either of you moved even a little. "First rule: don’t flip ’em too much. Just let ’em sit there for a bit. You flip too early, you lose all the good stuff."

You nodded, gripping the tongs tightly. "Got it. No premature flipping."

He chuckled at that, low and warm. "Exactly." He reached over, his hand lightly covering yours to guide the tongs. "Here, like this. Just slide it under real careful, and then—" He helped you flip one of the ribs, his movements steady, deliberate, his voice low in your ear.

"See? Easy," he said, stepping back but not too far, his hand lingering on the edge of the grill.

"Sure, when you’re helping," you replied with a small laugh, turning to glance up at him.

"You’ll get the hang of it," he said, his eyes meeting yours for just a beat longer than necessary before he looked back at the grill. "Soon enough, you’ll be the one teachin’ me."

You laughed softly, shaking your head. "I don’t think I’ll ever reach your level of grill mastery."

"Mastery, huh?" he teased, his grin widening slightly. "You’re just sayin’ that ’cause you’re tryin’ to get on my good side."

"Didn’t realize you had a bad side," you said before you could stop yourself, the words slipping out light and teasing.

Your heart skipped a beat as you realized how they sounded.

This was so not you—flirting? With Joel? .You immediately regretted it, your stomach twisting as you replayed the words in your head. You made it weird, you thought, biting the inside of your cheek. He probably thinks you’re a freak.

Joel’s eyes flicked back to yours, his grin softening into something quieter, almost contemplative. Then, as his gaze lingered, something shifted—something darker, deeper that wasn’t there before. His eyes traveled, not overtly, but enough to make you feel the heat of his attention, before they settled back on yours, steady and unreadable.

"Guess you’ll have to wait and see," he murmured, his voice low and rough, the kind of tone that felt like it carried a secret meant only for you. It was so quiet, so deliberate, that if the laughter and hum of conversation around you had been any louder, you might have missed it entirely.

Your breath caught for a moment, a flicker of uncertainty threading through your thoughts. Was he—? No, he couldn’t be. Could he? The weight of his gaze, the subtle shift in his demeanor, it all felt different now. Like the casual, teasing banter had taken a step into something else—something charged.

You blinked, trying to shake the thought as your heart gave a traitorous thump against your ribs. Joel’s expression shifted back to something lighter, the corner of his mouth tugging into a small, almost amused smile, as if he knew exactly what you were thinking.

Before you could say anything—ask, deflect, do something—Sarah’s voice called from the patio, pulling both of your gazes away. And just like that, the moment dissolved, leaving you standing there, wondering if you’d imagined the whole thing.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The rest of the evening unfolded like a whirlwind. Sarah had pulled you into the fold of her hometown friends, introducing you to a group of easygoing, lively people who made you feel like you’d known them for years.

They shared stories of growing up in the small town, teasing one another in a way only lifelong friends could, and you found yourself laughing more than you had in weeks. It was lovely, and for a while, you let yourself forget everything that had driven you here.

You hadn’t seen Joel. Not since your brief moment at the grill. Uncle Ray had left earlier, muttering something about an emergency at the shop—a customer with car trouble that couldn’t wait until morning. He’d pressed the extra house key into your hand before he left, telling you to stay as long as you liked.

But now it was late, and most of the guests had filtered out. The once-lively backyard was quieter, the string lights casting soft, golden halos over the empty tables and half-finished drinks. You hugged Sarah goodbye at the door, a plate of leftovers in your hand that she’d practically begged you to take.

"Seriously, come over anytime," she said, squeezing you tightly. "It was so nice meeting you."

"You too," you replied, genuinely meaning it as you hugged her back.

As you pulled away, you glanced around one last time, hoping to spot Joel, but he was nowhere to be seen. You shifted the plate in your hand and opened the door, stepping out into the cooler night air. The distant chirp of crickets filled the quiet, and you felt the weight of the day settling into your shoulders.

"Leavin’ without sayin’ goodbye?" a familiar voice drawled, stopping you mid-step.

You turned sharply, startled, to see Joel leaning casually against the doorway, arms crossed and his gaze fixed on you. His shirt sleeves were rolled up slightly, and his hair was mussed like he’d run a hand through it more than once. The soft glow of the porch light caught the sharp line of his jaw as he tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

"What, I work you too hard?" he teased, his voice low and laced with that easy humor that made your stomach flutter.

You let out a surprised laugh, adjusting the plate in your hand. "I didn’t know where you went," you said, feeling suddenly self-conscious under the weight of his gaze.

"Had to clean up a bit," he replied, straightening from the doorframe. "Didn’t think you’d sneak out on me, though."

"I wasn’t sneaking," you countered, smiling despite yourself.

Joel’s smirk widened slightly, his eyes catching yours in a way that made your pulse skip. "Good," he said simply, stepping closer until he was just a little too near, the space between you shrinking in a way that felt intentional. He glanced at the plate in your hand. "Sarah guilt you into takin’ that?"

"Of course," you said with a small laugh. "I didn’t stand a chance."

He chuckled softly, the sound low and warm, before his gaze flicked back to yours. For a moment, neither of you moved, the quiet night wrapping around you like a cocoon. His expression softened, the teasing edge fading just slightly as he said, "Glad you came, though."

The way he said it—low, steady, and deliberate—made something in your chest tighten. You nodded, your voice quieter now. "Me too."

You turned toward the driveway, ready to head home, when Joel cleared his throat behind you. "I’ll, uh, walk you home," he said, his voice calm but steady enough to make you stop in your tracks.

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Joel, it’s like three steps," you pointed out, gesturing toward your house practically next door.

"I know," he replied, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. "But here in Texas, us gentlemen protect our ladies."

Our ladies. The words hung in the air, heavier than they should have been, and you felt a sudden warmth rush to your cheeks. You knew he didn’t mean it like that—not like you were his—but still the idea made your stomach flip all the same.

"Okay," you murmured, the word barely audible as you started walking, Joel falling into step beside you.

You both walked slowly, the kind of unhurried pace that almost felt like stalling. Joel’s hands were stuffed deep into his pockets, his gaze flicking around the quiet neighborhood before landing back on you.

"So," he said, his voice easy but laced with curiosity, "how long you here for?"

You sighed softly, your fingers brushing the plate of leftovers Sarah had given you as you considered your answer. "I don’t know," you admitted, glancing at him briefly. "I’m here until I figure my shit out, pretty much."

Joel nodded, his expression thoughtful. The light from your porch illuminated the edges of his profile as he turned toward your house, his next words slipping out low and steady. "Well," he said, "let’s hope that takes a while, then."

Your breath hitched, his words landing like a soft knock against your chest. He said it so easily, so casually, but something about the way his voice dipped made it impossible to ignore. You felt the blush creeping up your neck, and for a moment, you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him.

Joel stopped just short of following you up, rocking back slightly on his heels. He looked at you then, really looked at you, and the warmth in his gaze sent your heart into a full sprint.

"Good night," he said, his voice softer now, before turning on his heels. He walked away slowly, his hands still in his pockets, and you couldn’t help but watch him until he disappeared into the shadows of his own porch.

You stood there for a moment, breathless and still, your mind replaying his words on a loop. The weight of them lingered, warm and undeniable, leaving you leaning against your door long after the night had fully settled around you.

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@pedritospunk @ickearmn

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jezebelblues · 7 months ago

Text

live on tour (interlinked) | h.s | 1

pt 1, pt 2 (complete)

summary: we don’t talk about it, it’s something we don’t do—cause once you go without it, nothing else will do.

cw: smut18+ in pt 2, weed, alcohol, angst, sort of a slowburn idk, fem!reader, hs1rry

word count: approx 21.5k gulp

| idk how to feel ab this!!! stay with me now. + tumblr forced me to put this into two parts. [wink, nudge: the lyrics always mean something] i'm posting pt 2 right after this. smut is in 2nd part if that's only ur cup of tea

masterlist

June, 2017

It was Mitch who vouched for her.

Harry had trusted him implicitly since the first meeting. His effortless cool, his way of speaking only when necessary, and the way his guitar sounded like it could split the sky—all of it made him essential to Harry’s debut. If Mitch said someone was good, Harry would believe it.

But good wasn’t the issue.

“S’not about talent,” Harry had said one night in rehearsals, after the original second guitarist dropped out. “I just need t’feel like we fit, you know?”

Mitch had nodded, taking that as permission to make the call.

Her name was YN.

He’d heard the name before. Her reputation in the industry wasn’t loud but sharp—a razor’s edge that hinted at precision and professionalism. A prodigy of sorts, she’d landed her big break with Pink Floyd’s operatic revival of The Wall, the youngest lead guitarist in the show’s history. Since then, she’d moved from project to project, touring, sitting in on sessions, lending her guitar to artists who wanted her distinct, cutting sound.

Harry had always assumed she was someone you called when you needed the best, but not someone you kept around.

He wasn’t sure why that thought stuck in his head when Mitch mentioned her name.

He fumbled with the hem of his white t-shirt and stood at the back of the dim rehearsal space, watching Mitch set up. The low hum of amps warming up filled the room. Mitch’s quiet focus steadied Harry’s nerves—until the door opened.

She walked in with her guitar strapped across her back. She wasn’t early, but she wasn’t late either. The kind of timing that said she knew she was good but wasn’t going to make a show of it.

“Hey.” Mitch greeted her with a slight nod. He’d already taken his place behind the mixing board, leaving Harry to do the introductions.

YN turned her head toward Harry. Her eyes flickered over him briefly, as if appraising him, and then landed back on Mitch. “This the audition?”

Harry frowned. “Not an audition. A rehearsal.”

She raised an eyebrow, but her expression didn’t waver. “Right. Rehearsal.”

There was no handshake, no nervousness, no wide-eyed awe that he was used to when people first met him. She treated him like someone she was there to work with, not someone she wanted to impress.

Mitch gestured to a stand near the tall brunette. “You can set up there.”

She walked past them both without another word, unzipping her guitar case and pulling out a battered Stratocaster, crème and pine green. Harry noticed her hands immediately—nimble fingers with calluses thick enough to catch the light.

“Let’s get on with it then,” she grinned, plugging in.

He leaned toward Mitch, speaking low enough that she couldn’t hear. “Bit cocky, isn’t she?”

Mitch smirked but didn’t reply.

The first run-through was solid. She played with precision, hitting every note cleanly, and her technical skills were undeniable. But something about it felt cold, distant. Harry tried to catch her eye while they were playing, but she was hyper-focused on her guitar, her face blank.

When they finished the first song, he put his hands on his hips. “Alright,” he paused, louder than necessary. “That’s…fine. Let’s take it from the top.”

YN looked at Mitch. “Fine?”

Harry cut in before he could respond. “Yeah, fine. It’s technically good, but there’s no feeling in it. This isn’t session work. We’re putting on a live show. People need t’feel something when you play.”

She stared at him for a moment, then set her guitar down on its stand. “And what exactly do you want me to feel? We’re playing your songs.”

The tension in the room spiked. Mitch glanced between the two of them, looking ready to intervene.

He crossed his arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” she started, brushing her hair back from her face, “that if you want something specific, maybe tell me what you’re looking for instead of just saying it’s not good enough.”

Her words hung in the air.

Mitch cleared his throat. “Why don’t we try the next track?”

She picked up her guitar without waiting for Harry’s input. Her fingers brushed the strings in a quick, angry strum as she tested the tuning. Harry stared at her, his jaw tight.

She didn’t flinch under his gaze.

It went on like that for the next hour.

Every time YN played, he found something to critique. Her tone, her phrasing, her timing—it didn’t matter that Mitch disagreed and kept insisting she was perfect for the role. Harry refused to back down, nitpicking every detail.

By the time they reached the final song, the air in the room was thick with unspoken animosity. YN played the opening riff of kiwi with more aggression than necessary, her fingers sliding over the frets like she wanted to punish the guitar.

When they finished, she shifted her weight and unplugged her amp. “Are we done?” she asked, slinging her guitar back over her shoulder.

Harry opened his mouth, ready with another critique, but Mitch cut him off. “Yeah. We’re done f'today.”

She nodded, her expression unreadable. She didn’t look at Harry again as she walked toward the door.

When it closed behind her, Harry let out a frustrated sigh. “She’s not right for this.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

“I’m positive,” He snapped. “She’s not a team player. She doesn’t fit.”

He leaned back against the mixing board, crossing his arms, hair falling behind his shoulders. “You ever think that maybe you’re the one who doesn’t fit?”

Harry glared at him. “What’s that supposed t’mean?”

“It means,” he said slowly, “that she’s a better guitarist than you’re giving her credit for. And maybe you don’t like her because she’s not trying to kiss your ass.”

He scoffed. “That’s ridiculous.”

Mitch shrugged. “If you want to replace her, go ahead. But good luck finding someone else who can keep up with me…or you.”

Outside the rehearsal space, YN stood by her car, lighting a cigarette. She didn’t smoke often, only with a drink or if she was tense.

She exhaled a plume of smoke into the warm evening air, her jaw clenched. She wasn’t angry exactly, but there was something about Harry Styles that got under her skin.

It wasn’t his fame or his music—that was fine. She’d worked with big names before. It was the way he carried himself, like he expected the world to bend around him.

He wasn’t used to people pushing back, and YN had no intention of making it easy for him.

If he wanted her to feel something when she played, she’d give him exactly that.

Even if it meant setting the whole stage on fire.

The rehearsal space smelled faintly of stale coffee and amps that had been running too long. The walls were lined with soundproofing panels, their faded gray color doing little to brighten the room. YN arrived early this time—not out of eagerness, but because she didn’t want to give Harry anything else to criticize.

Her guitar case thumped onto the ground before she adjusted the ring on her pinky—not dainty, but not loud. Her mother’s birth flower ingrained along the gold surface, a piece of her she could carry since her death in 2014. She could hear Mitch in the back, tuning his Gibson, and the faint shuffle of Harry’s sneakers as he moved across the space, adjusting mic stands and scribbling notes.

She was effortlessly pretty, the kind of beauty that crept up on you when you weren’t paying attention. Her lips held a natural pout, and her hair framed her face in a way that looked casual but impossibly deliberate, like it had conspired with the universe to fall just right. Her outfit was understated, perfect for rehearsal—straight-leg blue denim that sat just right on her hips, an off-white baby tee with cherry bomb splashed in bold red across the center, and a pair of scuffed white club c reeboks that had seen more than their fair share of years since 2015.

Around her wrist was a faded friendship bracelet, its once-bright threads dulled by time but no less significant. Jude, her best friend since high school, had tied it there the night they graduated, their laughter mingling with the hum of summer cicadas. She’d never taken it off, not once, even as life swept them into different journeys.

When YN told Jude over vodka cranberries that she’d landed a gig playing guitar for Harry Styles—yes, that Harry Styles—Jude nearly fell off her barstool. She’d been the kind of One Direction fan who made custom shirts for concerts and cried during little things. YN still remembered the way her voice shook with disbelief as she grabbed her by the shoulders and said, “You’re telling me you’re gonna play for Harry fucking Styles?” It had taken two rounds of shots to calm her down, though her enthusiasm had lingered for weeks. It was the kind of reaction that reminded YN how surreal this opportunity really was.

She promised she’d get her a front row ticket the first night in New York.

She took her time setting up, deliberately slow. If Harry wanted to play mind games, she could too.

“Morning,” Mitch greeted, glancing up from his guitar.

“Hey,” she replied, flashing a quick smile. Mitch was the only person in the room she felt remotely comfortable around.

Harry’s voice cut through the room, sharper than it needed to be. “You’re early today.”

YN didn’t bother looking at him. “Thought I’d save you the trouble of complaining.”

The sound of Mitch’s guitar string snapping filled the silence that followed. He muttered something under his breath and bent to grab a spare string from his bag.

He walked over, his footsteps deliberate. “It’s not complaining. It’s feedback.”

“Uh-huh,” YN’s lips twitched, focusing on adjusting her amp. She crouched to test the levels, purposely ignoring him.

Harry crouched too, just enough to catch her eye. He smelt like cedar and pine. “You have something t’say?”

Her hands paused on the dials. “Nope.”

“Good.”

She stood abruptly, the motion forcing Harry to lean back. Her expression didn’t change, but her grip on her guitar tightened.

The rehearsal started the same way the last one ended: tense.

YN matched Harry’s intensity with her playing, her fingers precise but hard, striking each note with the kind of force that could shatter glass. She didn’t look at him once, even when he stopped the song halfway through to give her another round of vague critiques.

“Can you make it less…clinical?” he asked, his hands gesturing vaguely in the air.

“Clinical?” she repeated, her voice flat.

“Yeah, like…put some soul into it. Like it means something to you.”

Her lips twitched into the faintest smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes. “I wasn’t aware Sign of the Times was a soul song.”

She didn’t mean that, not really. It was a song of his that she enjoyed, she liked the 70’s elements he took, the way his voice sounded with the instruments in the back—but he was getting under her skin, he deserved the same.

Mitch coughed to hide his laugh.

Harry’s jaw clenched. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

The tension in the room was palpable now, a live wire crackling between them. Mitch stood off to the side, quietly restringing his guitar, pretending not to notice.

Harry took a deep breath, his tone softening. “Look, I just need it t’feel real. Like you’re part of it, not just playing over it.”

She stared at him for a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Alright.”

She picked up her guitar again and launched into the song before anyone could say another word. This time, her playing wasn’t just technically perfect—it was angry. The notes tore through the air, raw and sharp, as if she were trying to prove a point with every riff.

He watched her, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He couldn’t deny it sounded good—better than good—but there was something about her attitude that made him want to push back harder.

By the time they reached the last song of the set, the air in the room was thick with frustration.

Mitch played the opening riff, his fingers gliding effortlessly over the strings, and YN followed with her part. Her playing was looser now, more natural, but the tension in her shoulders hadn’t eased.

When they finished, Harry didn’t say anything right away. He stood there, staring at her, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Well?” she asked, her voice clipped.

“S’fine,” he said, his tone careful.

“Fine?”

“You’re improving,” he clarified, though the words felt begrudging.

She laughed under her breath, shaking her head. “Good to know I’m living up to your impossible standards.”

Harry bristled. “It’s not impossible to ask for some effort.”

“Effort?” Her voice rose slightly. “I’ve been putting in effort since I walked through that door, but all you’ve done is nitpick every single thing I do.”

“Because I know what this show needs!”

“No, you know what you need,” she shot back. “This isn’t about the music—it’s about your ego.”

The words hit like a slap. Mitch’s guitar strap slipped from his shoulder as he froze, watching the scene unfold.

Harry’s expression darkened. “If my ego were the problem, you wouldn’t be here.”

The room went silent.

YN’s gaze didn’t waver. “Right. Well, maybe you should’ve thought about that before you dragged me into this.”

She slung her guitar over her shoulder and walked toward the door, her sneakers squeaking against the floor.

“Where are you going?” Harry called after her.

She paused, her hand on the doorknob. “Taking a break. Unless you have a problem with that too.”

Before he could respond, the door swung shut behind her.

Mitch set his guitar down and looked at Harry, his expression unreadable. “You’re really bad at this, you know that?” he said finally.

Harry glared at him. “At what?”

“Not making her hate you.”

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. “She doesn’t hate me.”

Mitch raised an eyebrow. “And the sky isn’t blue.”

He didn’t reply. He sat down on the edge of the stage, his shoulders slumping slightly. He wasn’t used to being challenged like this, and it was throwing him off balance.

Mitch leaned against the amp, watching him. “You know, you don’t have to like her. You just have to work with her.”

“I know.”

“Then stop pushing her so hard. She’s already good enough for this tour—you’re the one who needs to let go a bit.”

He didn’t say anything, but the knot in his chest tightened. He wasn’t sure if it was frustration or something else entirely.

Outside, YN leaned against the wall, her cigarette glowing faintly in the dim light. She exhaled slowly, her breath visible in the cool evening air.

She wasn’t sure what was worse—working with Harry or wanting to prove him wrong so badly it made her chest ache.

She took another drag and let the thought dissolve in the smoke.

September third

The studio was quiet now, the hum of amps and chatter of the band long gone. The others had left half an hour ago, leaving YN to pack up her gear in peace. She moved deliberately, her hands steady despite the exhaustion settling deep in her bones.

The rehearsal had been grueling. Harry had pushed harder than ever, his sharp critiques grating on her nerves until every strum of her guitar felt like a defiance. She wasn’t sure if he noticed—or cared—but by the end of the session, she’d felt like she was one wrong note away from throwing her guitar through a wall.

Now, alone with the quiet, she could finally breathe.

Until she wasn’t alone.

The sound of footsteps echoed behind her, and YN stiffened, glancing over her shoulder to see Harry stepping back into the room. He had swapped his stage shoes for sneakers, the cuffs of his trousers rolled slightly at the ankles. His sweater was slung over one shoulder, and the faint sheen of sweat on his neck suggested he hadn’t been gone long.

“Forgot m’notebook,” he said, his voice casual as his eyes scanned the room.

“Lucky me,” she muttered, turning back to her guitar.

He didn’t reply, but she could feel his presence as he crossed the space, moving toward the table where his things were scattered.

YN focused on wrapping her cable, each loop tight and precise. She wasn’t in the mood for small talk, not after the day they’d had.

But Harry didn’t leave.

The silence stretched, heavy and charged, as he lingered near the table. YN’s movements slowed, her frustration bubbling to the surface.

“Something you need?” she asked, not bothering to mask the edge in her voice.

When he didn’t answer right away, she turned to face him, her hands still clutching the coiled cable.

Harry was watching her, his notebook forgotten on the table. His eyes were sharp, unreadable, and the weight of his gaze made her stomach twist uncomfortably.

“You were pushing today,” he said finally, his tone measured.

She blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

“During rehearsal,” he clarified, crossing his arms. “You weren’t playing like y’normally do.”

“Maybe I was just tired.” She countered, though the words felt like a lie even as she said them.

“You weren’t tired,” he said softly.

Her jaw tightened. “What do you want, Harry? If you’re here to critique me again, save it. I’ve heard enough for one day.”

His brow furrowed, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he stepped closer, his movements deliberate but unthreatening. “I wasn’t trying t’pick on you,” he breathed, his voice quieter now. “If that’s how it felt, I’m sorry.”

YN stared at him, her mind struggling to reconcile the words with the man who’d spent months nitpicking every note she played.

“Why do you care?” she asked, the question slipping out before she could stop it.

He hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line as he looked at her. “Because I need this to work.”

His words landed heavily between them, and for a moment, the room felt too small.

“You act like it’s just me,” she said finally, her voice quieter but still tinged with frustration. “Like I’m the only thing keeping it from working.”

“I don’t think that,” he said quickly, his eyes locking onto hers. “You’re good—better than good. That’s not the problem.”

“Then what is?”

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s me.”

YN froze, her breath catching at the raw honesty in his voice. She hadn’t expected that—not from him.

The silence between them grew heavier, the tension coiling tighter with every passing second.

Harry’s gaze dropped briefly, like he was searching for the right words. When he looked back up, there was something different in his expression, something softer but no less intense.

“You frustrate me,” he said finally, the words low but certain.

YN’s throat went dry. “Right back at you.”

He took another step closer, and this time, she didn’t move away. Her heart pounded as she looked up at him, her chest tightening under the weight of his stare.

Neither of them spoke, the silence crackling with unspoken words.

She didn’t know who leaned in first—maybe it was him, or maybe it was her—but suddenly the space between them was almost nonexistent. She could feel the warmth of his breath, see the faint flicker of hesitation in his eyes as he lingered just close enough to touch.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, and her fingers curled into the coiled cable in her hand, desperate for something to hold onto.

“Harry,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure if it was a warning or an invitation.

The sound of his name seemed to pull him back, his eyes searching hers for a fleeting moment before he stepped away.

“I should go.”

He grabbed his notebook and left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.

YN stood there, her heart still racing, the ghost of his presence lingering in the air.

Whatever had just happened—whatever had almost happened—she wasn’t sure what to do with it.

September nineteenth

San Francisco was humming.

The Masonic sat perched atop Nob Hill like a jewel overlooking the city, its art deco façade catching the early morning light. By dawn, the line of fans already snaked around the block, blankets and camp chairs scattered across the sidewalk. A faint fog clung to the streets, giving the historic building an ethereal quality as the first rays of sunlight broke through.

It was opening night of Harry’s solo tour, and the air outside the venue was electric.

Groups of fans huddled close, wrapped in scarves and oversized sweatshirts, their conversations a steady hum of anticipation. Some clutched homemade signs or albums, while others leaned against the building, scrolling through their phones to pass the hours.

Inside the venue, it was chaos.

The crew had been there since 6 am, unloading crates of equipment, running cables like veins along the stage. Monitors were stacked, adjusted, then adjusted again. Lights were tested until they bathed the empty floor in saturated pinks and golds. A countdown clock blinked red backstage, a digital reminder that time was slipping through the cracks, too fast and too slow all at once.

By 10 am, the band was in full rehearsal mode, locked in a cycle of repetition and frustration. YN perched on a stool near the edge of the stage, her guitar resting against her thighs, the strap digging into her shoulder. Mitch was on her left, his head bent over his guitar, fingers moving like smoke over the frets. The two of them had been working together for months now, tight and efficient, a partnership forged in long hours and shared cigarettes.

Harry stood center stage, mic in hand, dressed like he hadn’t quite decided if he wanted to be a rock star or a poet today. He wore a loose black blouse unbuttoned to his sternum, tucked into tailored trousers that hung just right. His boots clacked against the floor as he paced, his movements restless, his voice sharp as glass when he spoke.

“Stop, stop,” he sighed, waving his free hand. “It’s off. That transition’s not right.”

She bit down on her tongue. It wasn’t off. She knew it wasn’t off. But Harry had a way of finding faults where there weren’t any, like he needed to pick at something just to prove he could.

Mitch glanced at her, a subtle flick of his eyes that said, Don’t.

She ignored him.

“It’s not the transition,” she jutted her chin, her voice cutting through the murmur of techs and assistants scurrying around the stage. “The timing’s fine. It’s your entrance that’s late.”

He turned to her slowly, the mic dangling from his fingers like a threat. “Oh, is it?” he asked, his tone light, almost amused, but his jaw was tight. “You sure about that?”

YN met his gaze, unflinching. “Positive.”

For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of an amp in the background. Harry didn’t say anything, just tipped his head slightly, his lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile. Then he turned back to the band. “Alright,” he paused, his voice smooth again, commanding. “Run it from the top.”

Mitch exhaled, a quiet sound that YN barely caught. She didn’t look at him. Instead, she adjusted the strap on her guitar and settled her fingers on the fretboard, ready for another round of the same song they’d played fifteen times already.

By noon, the tension was palpable.

Lunch was a quick affair, eaten standing in the dim backstage area while techs rushed past with tangled cords and boxes of equipment. She leaned against a speaker case, picking at a dry sandwich, her guitar propped up against her leg. Across the room, Harry was surrounded by his usual orbit of stylists and assistants, his laugh ringing out every now and then, low and easy. He looked completely unbothered, like he wasn’t the reason half the band was on edge.

Mitch sat down next to her, his plate balanced precariously on his knee.

“You’ve got to let it go,” he said quietly, not looking up from his food.

“Let what go?” She asked, feigning innocence.

He gave her a flat look. “You and Harry. The little pissing contest you’ve got going on.”

“There’s no contest,” she shrugged, taking a bite of her sandwich. “I already won.”

Mitch snorted, but he didn’t argue.

By 5 pm, the soundcheck was over, and the venue was nearly ready. The stage lights cast long, dramatic shadows across the room, making everything feel larger than life. Outside, the crowd had grown to hundreds, their voices rising in bursts of cheers every time someone peeked out from behind the curtains.

Backstage, the dressing rooms were a flurry of last-minute preparations. Harry was in his dressing room, a blur of motion as his stylist fussed over his outfit. A floral suit hung on a rack nearby, catching the light like a disco ball.

In her own space, YN was tightening a loose screw on her guitar, her fingers moving with practiced ease. Her nerves were starting to hum, a low undercurrent she couldn’t quite shake. This was her first tour—her first real tour in a set band, a member, belonging—and it felt like walking a tightrope with no safety net.

A knock on the door pulled her out of her thoughts.

“Come in,” she called, not looking up.

The door creaked open, and Harry stepped inside, his presence filling the small room like a gust of wind.

YN froze for half a second before returning to her task.“What do you want?” she asked, not bothering to hide the edge in her voice.

Harry leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “Just checking in,” he said, his tone deceptively casual. “You ready for tonight?”

She glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “Are you?”

His lips twitched, like he was fighting a smile. “Always.”

For a moment, they just stared at each other, the air between them crackling with unspoken tension. Then Harry pushed off the doorframe and straightened, his eyes lingering on her for a beat longer than necessary.

“See you out there,” he mumbled, and then he was gone, leaving the room feeling smaller and heavier than before.

By eight, the doors had opened, and the crowd was pouring in, filling the venue with a rush of energy that seemed to seep into the walls. Backstage, the band was gathered in a tight circle, their instruments tuned, their game faces on.

Harry stood at the center, his suit catching the light, his presence commanding as he gave a short pep talk. YN stood slightly to the side, her fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against her thigh. She barely listened to his words, too focused on the sound of the crowd beyond the curtains, their cheers swelling like a tidal wave.

When the house lights dimmed, the noise was deafening.

As the band took their places on stage, the roar of the audience hit her like a physical force. The spotlight burned bright, blinding her for a moment as she adjusted to the sheer magnitude of it all.

Harry stepped forward, his silhouette outlined in pinks and gold as he grabbed the mic stand. The crowd went feral, their screams rising to a fever pitch as he flashed that grin, the one that could disarm even the sharpest tongue.

He didn’t speak, he didn’t need to—the crowd did that for him.

YN’s fingers hovered over the strings of her guitar, her pulse thrumming in time with the cheers.

And then the music began.

It was loud and raw and electric, the kind of sound that sank its teeth into you and didn’t let go. The stage pulsed with life, the crowd moving like a single, writhing entity, their hands reaching for something intangible.

Harry owned the stage, his presence magnetic, his voice weaving through the room like a spell. YN played like she had something to prove, her fingers dancing over the strings with precision and fire. For all their clashes, for all the sharp words and narrowed eyes, when they played together, it was seamless.

Perfect, even.

And maybe that was the problem.

The stage felt alive. No, not alive. Hungry. Like it had been waiting for this moment, this crowd, and it wouldn’t be satisfied until every single body in the Masonic was consumed by the music.

YN’s sneakers scuffed against the stage floor as she adjusted her stance, fingers flying over the strings of her guitar. The heat of the lights was a constant pressure on her skin, beads of sweat forming at her temples and sliding down the back of her neck. But she didn’t care. Not about the lights, or the heat, or the way her thighs ached from standing so long.

She was falling in love—with the music, with the electricity in the air, with the way the crowd moved like a living organism, surging and crashing like waves in sync with every beat of the drums.

The screams had been deafening from the start, a tsunami of sound that swelled every time Harry leaned into the mic, his voice wrapping around the room and pulling it taut. He worked the crowd like a master, every glance, every laugh, every sway of his hips sending the audience into hysterics.

She wasn’t immune.

She hated to admit it, but she felt it too—that gravitational pull, that magnetic charisma that seemed to pour out of him effortlessly. She caught herself watching him when she shouldn’t, her eyes flicking to the way his shoulders moved under the sharp lines of his pretty suit, the easy way he gripped the mic stand like it was an extension of his body.

And every so often, he’d glance at her.

Not a passing look. A moment.

It would last half a beat longer than it should, his eyes catching hers under the wash of the stage lights. She couldn’t tell if he was teasing her, challenging her, or something else entirely. But it was enough to make her fingers stumble once, the wrong note ringing out for a split second before she recovered.

If Harry noticed, he didn’t show it.

The setlist was relentless. The kind of music that made you feel like your heart was going to explode, like you couldn’t keep up and didn’t want to. The kind of music that made YN forget she was supposed to hate the guy running the show.

“Alright,” Harry said into the mic, his voice lower now, intimate, like he was sharing a secret with each and every person in the crowd. “I want to slow it down for a bit. Let’s make this next one special, yeah?”

The audience erupted, their cheers shaking the walls.

She let herself glance up, just once, and there he was.

Harry stood center stage, his eyes sweeping over the crowd like he could memorize every face. And then his gaze found hers. It pinned her, held her still even as her hands moved over the strings with practiced ease. He didn’t smile this time, didn’t smirk or tease. His expression was soft, unreadable, like he was trying to figure her out and didn’t quite know how.

YN looked away first, focusing on her guitar, on the warmth of the strings under her fingers. But she felt his eyes linger, even as he turned back to the crowd, his voice slipping into the melody.

The audience swayed, their voices blending with his, turning the room into one collective heartbeat. She could feel it under her skin, in her chest, this pulsing connection between the stage and the people who filled the seats. She couldn’t explain it, but it made her chest ache, a hollow kind of ache that was somehow beautiful.

She wasn’t just falling in love with the crowd—she was falling in love with the way they loved him. The way their energy fed into his, creating this endless loop of give and take. It was magnetic, intoxicating, and she hated how much she wanted to be part of it.

As the show reached its climax, the band hit the frenetic rhythm of kiwi. The crowd lost their minds, screaming and jumping in unison as the pounding bassline and frantic guitars drove the song forward like a freight train.

Harry was in his element now, prowling the stage like a lion in a cage, his energy sharp and electric. He threw himself into the song with reckless abandon, his voice raw, his body moving like it was possessed by the music.

She felt it too, her fingers sliding over the strings with an intensity she didn’t know she was capable of. She played like she wanted to leave a mark, like she wanted the crowd to feel every note down to their bones.

Harry spun toward her at one point, his eyes catching hers as he sang.

All over me it’s like I paid for it, like I paid for it—I’m gonna pay for this

The line wasn’t even hers, maybe thrown toward her, sure, but the way he locked eyes with her as he belted it made her throat tighten. There was something feral about the way he looked at her, something that sent a jolt of adrenaline straight to her chest.

She didn’t look away this time.

By the time the last note of the encore faded into the ether, the crowd was still screaming, still begging for more. Harry stood at the edge of the stage, his hands pressed together in a gesture of thanks, his smile wide and genuine.

YN hung back, her guitar still slung over her shoulder, her chest heaving from the exertion of the last few songs. She watched him bask in the adoration of the crowd, the way they screamed his name like a prayer.

And for the first time, she felt it too.

That pull. That strange, inexplicable magnetism that made it impossible to look away.

The final notes of the encore still buzzed in her ears as she followed the band offstage, the roar of the crowd trailing behind them like an echo that refused to fade. Her body ached in places she didn’t know could ache—her fingers stiff from hours of playing, her calves burning from the constant movement—but the adrenaline still surged, making her feel weightless and untouchable.

She had done it. They had done it.

The opening night had gone off like a firework, every moment exploding brighter and louder than the last. From the first chord to the final bow, it had been electric. And for once, she didn’t feel like just another cog in the machine. On that stage, with the lights scorching her skin and the crowd’s energy feeding her soul, she felt like a part of something massive. Something alive.

And Harry—despite everything—had been a part of that.

They’d had moments up there, brief but undeniable, where their music seemed to sync in ways their personalities couldn’t. He’d looked at her like she was the only other person in the room, and she’d felt it, that spark. That rare kind of connection that made everything else fade into static.

She thought maybe he’d felt it too.

Backstage was a flurry of chaos, but it was the kind of chaos that came with relief. Crew members slapped high-fives, a few whooped into the cavernous space, and Mitch grinned at her as they stowed their gear.

“That was something, huh?” he said, leaning back against the wall, his guitar case resting at his feet.

“Yeah,” she said, breathless. “It really was.”

Her eyes darted toward Harry, who was standing in the middle of it all, his floral suit catching the dim light of the hallway. He was talking to a few crew members, his laugh echoing down the corridor, easy and loud.

YN lingered on the edge of the group, still cradling her guitar, waiting for him to glance her way. Say something. Anything.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he clapped Mitch on the shoulder as he passed by, murmured something low and warm to the bassist, then disappeared down the hallway, flanked by his manager and stylist.

Her stomach sank.

Seriously?

The after-party was just as loud as the show, a whirlwind of congratulatory cheers and glasses clinking in a private room at some sleek hotel downtown. The crew was there, the band, a few industry types YN didn’t recognize but figured she should. She was used to this kind of thing—small, exclusive, the kind of celebration that was more about appearances than fun—but tonight it felt different.

She stuck close to Mitch for most of it, nursing a vodka sour and letting the buzz of conversation wash over her.

“Relax,” Mitch said at one point, leaning against the bar beside her. “You look like you’re still waiting for the second set to start.”

“I’m good.” She mumbled a little too quickly.

His brow arched, but he didn’t press.

Across the room, Harry was the center of attention, as always. He moved through the crowd like he belonged there, laughing and chatting like he hadn’t just poured himself out on stage for hours. She couldn’t help but watch him, the way people gravitated toward him, how he seemed to light up every corner of the room he stepped into.

But he didn’t look at her. Not once.

She tried not to let it bother her, but it did.

After everything on stage, after every glance, every unspoken connection, it felt like he was intentionally keeping his distance. Like he’d flipped some invisible switch, cutting her off before she could even figure out what had changed.

By the time the party wound down, YN had had enough. She slipped out quietly, her guitar case slung over her shoulder, and headed for the lobby. The cool night air hit her like a slap when she stepped outside, the noise of the party muffled behind the heavy glass doors.

She stood there for a moment, letting the city’s chaos replace the strange hollowness that had settled in her chest.

She didn’t know why she’d expected something different from him. He was Harry Styles, after all—the man who could command a room with a smirk, who probably had a million other things on his mind besides her.

But still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted tonight.

Maybe it was the crowd, or the way the music had felt like it was tying them together in ways they didn’t quite understand. Maybe it was the way he’d looked at her, like she was part of it, part of him.

Or maybe she was imagining it all.

She sighed, adjusting her grip on the guitar case as she started down the empty street toward her hotel.

Behind her, the sound of the door opening and closing made her stop.

But when she turned, it wasn’t him.

It was just some random guest stepping out for a smoke, their lighter flaring briefly in the dark.

She shook her head and kept walking.

The morning after opening night started with a headache.

The alarm went off at five, its shrill tone slicing through the still-dark San Francisco hotel room. YN groaned as she rolled over and slapped it off, her limbs heavy with the weight of too little sleep and too much tension. Her body ached from the show—her fingers stiff, her shoulders sore—but the adrenaline still hadn’t completely worn off.

She dressed in silence, pulling on denim shorts and an oversized hoodie, her hair shoved under a worn baseball cap. By the time she dragged her case and bookbag downstairs, the lobby was already filled with half-awake crew members milling around with to-go coffees and luggage carts. The band gathered near the hotel entrance, everyone moving slow, bleary-eyed.

Everyone but Harry.

He stood near the glass doors, sunglasses perched on his nose even though it was still too early for sunlight. His outfit—effortlessly tailored black slacks and black tee, paired with boots that clacked against the marble floor—looked like it belonged in a photoshoot, not a cramped tour bus ride down the coast. His hair was artfully disheveled, like it had been tousled by the same wind that carried his confidence.

YN hated that he didn’t look tired. He looked perfect, unbothered, untouchable.

And, true to form, he didn’t acknowledge her.

Not directly, anyway.

“Morning, Mitch,” Harry nodded, his voice smooth and low as he greeted the guitarist with a clap on the shoulder. He grinned at Sarah and made some easy joke that had her laughing quietly, her coffee held close to her chest.

She stood off to the side, shifting her weight between her feet, watching the scene unfold like an outsider looking through a frosted window.

She thought about last night. About how he’d looked at her on stage like the world had narrowed to just the two of them. About how he hadn’t spoken a single word to her after.

She didn’t understand it. She didn’t understand him.

“Let’s get moving,” their tour manager barked, clapping his hands. “Bus leaves in five.”

YN grabbed her things and followed the group outside, the cool morning air biting at her cheeks as they made their way toward the waiting bus.

The ride to Los Angeles was tense in the worst kind of way.

She had claimed a window seat near the middle of the bus, her headphones cranked up to drown out the low hum of conversation around her. She stared out at the Pacific Coast Highway, the ocean stretching endlessly to the right, the cliffs jagged and wild to the left. It should’ve been peaceful, beautiful even, but she couldn’t focus on anything but the gnawing irritation in her chest.

Harry was sitting three rows ahead, leaned back in his seat with one arm slung lazily over the headrest. He was talking to Sarah again, his voice low enough that YN couldn’t hear the words, but the sound of it still grated on her nerves.

She wasn’t sure why she cared so much. She didn’t want to care.

If he wanted to ignore her, fine. She could ignore him right back.

By the time they reached LA, the tension had evolved into a quiet kind of war.

At the Greek Theater, the crew unloaded equipment, their movements brisk and practiced as they prepared for soundcheck. The sun blazed down on the open-air amphitheater, turning the white seats into a blinding sea of light.

YN was on edge, her patience wearing thinner with every passing hour. He still hadn’t spoken to her, not even in passing. He was polite, distant, the way he’d been before opening night. Like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t spent the night before throwing glances her way that felt like they could peel her apart.

When he handed out notes during rehearsal, she barely looked at him, keeping her responses clipped and indifferent.

“Got it,” she muttered after one of his suggestions, her tone flat as she adjusted her guitar strap.

Harry blinked at her, his lips twitching into something that might have been surprise. “Good,” he said after a beat, turning his attention to Mitch without another word.

By the time the soundcheck wrapped, She was biting the inside of her cheek so hard it felt raw.

Later, while the rest of the band lingered backstage before the show, YN found herself leaning against the rail of the amphitheater, staring out at the empty seats. The sun had started to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in deep purples and oranges.

She didn’t hear him approach.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

The voice startled her, and she turned to find Harry standing a few feet away, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers.

“Yeah.” She breathed, her voice guarded. She didn’t move closer.

He didn’t say anything else, just stood there, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The silence between them stretched, heavy and awkward.

“Something you need?” she asked finally, her tone sharper than she intended.

Harry’s head tilted slightly, his sunglasses reflecting the fading light.

“Just checking in.”

It felt like a lie.

“I’m good, Harry” She mumbled, turning back toward the stage.

He didn’t respond, and when she glanced over her shoulder a few moments later, he was already walking away.

Her fingers tightened around the rail, her chest heavy with frustration she couldn’t quite name.

She hated this.

Hated the way he could make her feel so small, so seen, then turn around and act like she didn’t exist.

It was like trying to hold onto water. The harder she gripped, the faster it slipped through her fingers.

Harry stood at the edge of the stage, soaking it all in. He bowed low, his sequined shirt catching the light, a grin breaking across his face. To the crowd, he was untouchable—a god in Gucci.

She followed Mitch and Sarah offstage, her steps quick and mechanical. She could feel Harry trailing behind them, his presence heavy even when she couldn’t see him.

Backstage was chaos, as it always was after a show, but it didn’t faze YN. She moved through the crowd of crew members and assistants like a ghost, ignoring the chatter, the congratulatory smiles.

Her heart was still racing, the adrenaline from the performance twisting into something darker, something restless.

“You good?”

Mitch’s voice cut through the haze. He was leaning against the wall, his guitar case already packed, his expression calm but curious.

“Yeah.”

Lie.

Harry entered the dressing room a few minutes later, his presence shifting the energy in the space instantly.

He was laughing at something Sarah had said, his voice loud and warm, but the sound grated against YN’s nerves. She kept her back to him, pretending to be busy adjusting a loose string on her guitar.

She felt him glance her way—she could feel it—but she didn’t turn around.

Two could play this game.

And so, the bus ride back to the hotel was unbearable.

YN had claimed a seat near the back, her headphones on, her gaze fixed on the passing city lights outside the window. She could see Harry a few rows ahead, his arm draped casually over the back of his seat as he chatted with the others.

He hadn’t spoken to her all night, and now, sitting there in his own bubble of easy conversation and laughter, it was like she didn’t exist.

Her frustration simmered, bubbling just below the surface.

She replayed the show in her head, each pointed glance, each lyric he’d aimed at her like an arrow. It felt like he was trying to send a message, but she couldn’t decipher it.

Was he angry with her? Was this some kind of punishment? Or was he just playing a game she didn’t know the rules to?

She clenched her jaw and turned up the volume on her music, drowning out the sound of his voice.

By the time they reached the hotel, her nerves were shot.

She practically stormed off the bus, her guitar case banging against her thigh as she made her way to the elevators.

The band and crew trailed behind her, their voices a low hum of exhaustion and contentment. Harry was in the middle of the group, laughing softly at something Mitch had said.

YN pressed the elevator button harder than she needed to, willing it to come faster. She didn’t know if she was more angry or confused. Maybe both.

The elevator doors slid open, and she stepped inside, leaning against the wall and closing her eyes as the others piled in.

She felt him before she saw him.

Harry stepped in last, taking a spot in the corner opposite her. He didn’t look at her, didn’t say a word, but his presence filled the small space like smoke, curling around her, suffocating.

The silence stretched as the elevator ascended, the soft ding of each passing floor the only sound.

When the doors opened on her floor, YN didn’t wait for anyone to move. She pushed past them, her guitar case bumping against Harry’s shin as she stepped out.

“Careful.” He muttered under his breath, the word low but deliberate.

YN froze, her grip tightening on the case. She turned back, her jaw tight, her voice barely above a whisper “You were in the way.”

Harry’s eyes flicked up to meet hers, and for a moment, the tension between them was almost unbearable.

But then he smiled. That infuriating, lopsided grin that always seemed to carry a thousand meanings “Goodnight, YN.” he breathed, his tone maddeningly calm.

And just like that, the elevator doors closed, taking him with it.

She stood there in the empty hallway, her chest heaving, her hands trembling against the strap of her guitar case.

She hated him.

And she hated that she didn’t.

Nashville hit like a fever dream.

The kind of heat that stuck to your skin and turned the air thick, every breath tasting like concrete and sweat. YN stepped off the plane and into the chaos of arrivals, her carry-on slung over one shoulder and her nerves buzzing like a live wire. The overhead announcements droned on, blending with the chatter of passengers and the whir of suitcase wheels.

Behind her, the band followed, each of them bleary-eyed but quiet, the exhaustion of constant travel settling into their bones. They’d left Los Angeles behind with barely enough time to breathe, and now they were here. Another city. Another show.

Harry was in the middle of it all, of course.

He strode through the airport like he owned it, dressed in a casual white t-shirt and plaid trousers, his sunglasses pushed up into his messy hair. His carry-on was slung lazily over his shoulder, the strap resting on a ringed hand, and he moved with the kind of effortless ease that YN had learned to despise.

She hated how calm he looked. How composed. Like he hadn’t spent the last two days pulling the same infuriating routine—ignoring her during rehearsals, barely acknowledging her existence outside of the necessary, and throwing her those strange, pointed glances on stage.

She adjusted the strap of her own bag and turned away from him, focusing on the bustling terminal as they followed the signs toward baggage claim.

By the time they made it outside, the air was heavy with humidity, the sun dipping low on the horizon and casting long shadows across the tarmac. Their bus waited near the curb, sleek and black, the driver already loading their checked equipment and luggage into the belly of the vehicle.

YN stepped aside to let Mitch and Sarah board first, leaning against the side of the bus and tugging her baseball cap lower over her eyes. She was tired. Bone-tired. And the thought of spending another night in close quarters with Harry’s infuriating silence made her chest feel tight.

“YN.”

His voice came from behind her, low and steady, and it made her stomach flip in a way she refused to acknowledge.

She turned to find Harry standing a few feet away, his bag slung carelessly over his shoulder. He wasn’t wearing his sunglasses now, and his green eyes caught the soft light of evening, sharp and clear.

“Yeah?” she sighed, her tone flat.

Harry blinked at her, like he hadn’t expected her to answer. “I, uh…” He hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “You left this.”

He held out a small notebook, the worn leather cover instantly recognizable. YN’s stomach twisted. She didn’t even realize she’d forgotten it.

“Thanks.” She mumbled, reaching for it. Their fingers brushed, and the contact sent a shiver down her spine. She snatched the notebook quickly, shoving it into her bag.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Harry shifted his weight, his gaze flicking past her to the bus, like he was trying to find an escape route.

“Long flight,” he said finally, the words almost awkward.

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re making small talk now?”

His mouth twitched—something between a smirk and a grimace. “Just trying t’be polite.” His voice was low, almost teasing.

She didn’t know why that annoyed her so much. “Well, don’t strain yourself,” she shot back, her words sharper than she intended.

Harry’s expression shifted, the teasing edge dropping away. For a moment, he looked at her like he wanted to say something, something important, but then he just shook his head.

“Right.” he said softly. “Good t’know where we stand.”

Before she could respond, he turned and climbed onto the bus, leaving her standing there in the heavy Nashville air, her pulse thundering in her ears.

She clenched her jaw, gripping the strap of her bag so tight it hurt.

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

With a frustrated sigh, she followed him onto the bus, determined to avoid him for the rest of the night.

The hotel lobby was as tired as YN felt—dimly lit, decorated in muted earth tones that looked like they hadn’t been updated since the 90s. A long line of leather couches stretched across one side, mostly empty now that the band and crew had already checked in and trudged upstairs to collapse into their rooms.

She stood at the reception desk, trying to ignore the looming presence of Harry a few feet behind her as she slid her ID across the polished counter.

She croaked out her first and last name, her voice tight with exhaustion. “Should be a reservation under that.”

The receptionist, a young woman with tired eyes and a forced smile, tapped at her keyboard. For a moment, YN let herself hope this would go smoothly.

“Ah…” the woman began, her smile faltering as she looked up at her apologetically. “It seems there’s been an error in the system.”

Her stomach sank. “What kind of error?”

“It looks like…” The receptionist squinted at her screen, then back at YN. “Your booking and Mr. Styles’ booking were combined. There’s only one room reserved for both of you.”

She blinked, certain she must have misheard. “What?”

“One room,” the woman repeated, her voice overly kind, like she was delivering bad news to a child.

A low sound from behind her drew YN’s attention, and she turned to see Harry standing there, his lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smirk.

“Of course,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

YN turned back to the receptionist, her pulse spiking with frustration. “Okay, well, can you fix it? Book me another room?”

The woman winced. “I’m so sorry, but we’re completely booked out. Between your show and a large business conference in town, there’s nothing available.”

“Nothing?”

The receptionist shook her head. “Nothing.”

YN stared at her for a long moment, hoping that if she stood there long enough, a solution would magically present itself. When it didn’t, she let out a slow breath, trying to keep her voice calm. “Okay, then I’ll sleep on the tour bus,” she said finally, her tone clipped.

“I wouldn’t recommend that,” the receptionist replied, her voice filled with polite concern. “It’s not very safe overnight, and the temperatures are supposed to drop quite a bit.”

YN’s jaw clenched. She didn’t care about the temperature. She cared about not being stuck in a hotel room with Harry Styles for an entire night.

“You can take the bed,” Harry said suddenly, his voice low and casual.

She whipped around to look at him, her exhaustion briefly replaced by irritation. “Excuse me?”

“You can take the bed,” he repeated, his hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers. He didn’t look tired like she did; if anything, he looked almost amused. “I’ll take the couch. Problem solved.”

His eyebrows lifted, but he didn’t continue the way she half-expected him to. He acknowledged her silence with a shrug. “Suit yourself.”

YN turned back to the receptionist, her last shred of hope dying as the woman gave her a small, helpless smile.

“I really am sorry,” the receptionist said.

“Yeah,” She muttered, grabbing her room key off the counter. “Me too.”

The elevator ride to their shared room was suffocating.

She stood with her arms crossed, leaning against the back wall, her eyes fixed on the digital floor numbers ticking upward. He stood on the opposite side, his hands still in his pockets, his gaze fixed somewhere over her shoulder.

She could feel the tension between them, thick and heavy, like it had been building all day.

When the elevator dinged and the doors slid open, she practically bolted into the hallway, her shoes squeaking slightly against the polished floor as she found their room and slid the keycard into the lock.

The room was small but clean, decorated in the same neutral tones as the lobby. There was one queen-sized bed, a narrow couch by the window, and a small desk tucked into the corner.

YN set her bag down near the door, letting out a long breath. This was going to be a long night.

Harry stepped in behind her, the door clicking shut softly as he took in the room. “Well,” he said after a beat, his voice laced with dry humor. “Cozy.”

YN shot him a glare over her shoulder. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t do anything,” he replied, raising his hands in mock innocence.

She rolled her eyes, grabbing her carry-on and unzipping it with more force than necessary. She pulled out her pajamas and stalked toward the bathroom, muttering under her breath.

“You’re welcome to take the bed!” Harry called after her.

She didn’t reply, only slamming the bathroom door behind her.

Inside, she leaned against the sink, gripping the edge tightly as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was a mess under her hat, her face flushed with irritation and exhaustion.

This was the last thing she needed.

She splashed cold water on her face, changed into her pajamas, and forced herself to take a deep breath before stepping back out into the room.

Harry was already sprawled out on the couch, his long legs dangling off one end, one arm draped lazily over his eyes. He looked too comfortable, like he wasn’t even remotely fazed by the situation.

“Goodnight, YN.” he smiled, his voice soft and teasing, muffled by his arm.

She didn’t bother replying, instead climbing into the bed and yanked the blanket up to her chin. She rolled onto her side, facing the wall, her back to him.

But even as she lay there in the dark, her body exhausted and her mind racing, she couldn’t ignore the steady sound of his breathing filling the room.

And somehow, that made sleep feel even further away.

The night dragged on like a bad song on repeat.

YN tossed and turned, the sheets tangling around her legs no matter how many times she tried to straighten them. The bed itself wasn’t the problem—it was soft enough, even if the pillows were too firm. The issue was the room. Or rather, the person in the room.

Harry’s breathing was steady and slow, almost annoyingly calm, like he had drifted off with zero trouble. The faint rustle of the blanket he’d pulled off the back of the couch only made it worse. She hated knowing he was just a few feet away, as oblivious and infuriating in sleep as he was awake.

Every time she closed her eyes, she could feel the weight of him in the room, like his presence was something tangible pressing against her skin. She could picture him sprawled out on the narrow couch, too long for it, his hair a wild mess against the pillow. He had to be uncomfortable, but of course, he made even that look effortless.

She clenched her teeth and turned over again, dragging the blanket over her head.

She must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing she knew, pale sunlight was streaming through the thin hotel curtains, casting faint patterns on the wall. The sound of movement drew her attention, and she rolled onto her back, blinking against the light.

Harry was already up.

He stood near the desk, pulling a fresh shirt over his head, the muscles in his back shifting under smooth skin. His hair stuck up in every direction, and there was a faint red line on his cheek, probably from the couch pillow.

YN groaned softly, her voice gravelly from sleep, and sat up.

He turned at the sound, his eyes catching hers for a split second before he gave her a lopsided smile. “Morning,” he rasped, voice low and rough.

She ignored the strange flutter in her chest and instead rubbed at her face, her palms digging into her eyes. “What time is it?”

“Just past seven,” Harry replied, glancing at his watch.

“Why are you up so early?” she asked, her voice still heavy with sleep.

“Couldn’t stay on that couch any longer,” he said with a shrug, running a hand through his hair. “Figured I’d let you sleep.”

She raised an eyebrow, more suspicious than grateful. “How thoughtful of you.”

Harry smirked, leaning against the desk. “I’m full of surprises.”

YN swung her legs over the side of the bed, the cool floor against her bare feet waking her up a little more. She glanced at the couch, the blanket crumpled in a heap at one end, and felt the tiniest pang of guilt. He might be irritating, but even she had to admit that couch looked like hell.

“Did you even sleep?” she asked, her voice softer now.

“Enough,” he said, brushing it off with a shrug. “You?”

She hesitated. She wanted to lie, to tell him she’d slept like a rock just to avoid giving him the satisfaction. But she was too tired to keep up the pretense. “Barely,” she muttered, running a hand through her hair.

Harry didn’t say anything, but his smirk softened into something else, something almost understanding. “We’ve got a couple hours before soundcheck,” he said after a beat, pushing off the desk. “I’ll grab coffee if y’want.”

She blinked at him, caught off guard by the offer.

“You’re being weirdly nice this morning,” she drawled, narrowing her eyes.

Harry grinned, all teeth. “Don’t get used to it.”

Before she could respond, he slipped out the door, leaving her sitting there in the quiet room, her heart beating just a little faster than it should have been.

When Harry returned twenty minutes later, carrying two steaming cups of coffee and a bag of pastries from the shop across the street, YN couldn’t bring herself to be annoyed.

But she didn’t thank him either.

She wasn’t sure why, but the tension between them felt different in the light of day. Lighter. Less suffocating. Still there, sure, but not as sharp.

She sipped her coffee in silence, watching as Harry lounged on the edge of the bed, scrolling lazily through his phone.

By ten that morning, they were at the Ryman.

The iconic auditorium was a cathedral of music, its wooden pews and high ceilings steeped in history. YN had played a lot of venues over the years, but this one felt different. Sacred, almost.

The crew was already bustling around the stage, running cables and testing equipment as the band took their places for a quick run-through. She strapped on her guitar and adjusted the amp settings, the familiarity of the process grounding her.

“Alright,” the stage manager called, his voice echoing in the empty hall. “Let’s run it from Carolina. Just a quick one, then you’re free for the day.”

Harry stepped up to the mic, giving a thumbs-up to the techs at the soundboard. His voice rang out clear and confident, slipping into the song like it was second nature.

YN played her part without thinking, her fingers moving easily over the strings. But she couldn’t help noticing the way Harry was watching her again.

It wasn’t as obvious as before—just the occasional glance, fleeting but deliberate, like he was checking her reaction to something she couldn’t quite place.

Her stomach twisted. She didn’t know if it was frustration or something else entirely.

They wrapped up soundcheck in record time, the stage manager dismissing them with a wave of his clipboard.

“Alright, folks. Enjoy your free day. Don’t get into too much trouble.”

The band dispersed quickly, everyone eager to make the most of the rare downtime. Sarah and Mitch mentioned something about finding a good barbecue spot, and within minutes, YN found herself standing outside the Ryman, squinting in the bright Tennessee sun.

She was about to head back toward the hotel when Harry’s voice stopped her.

“Hey, Hendrix.”

She turned to see him leaning against the tour bus, his sunglasses perched on his nose. She hummed in response, holding her hand above her eyes to shield the sun.

He grinned, his voice light and teasing. “You’re not gonna spend the whole day in the room, are you?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” he said with a shrug, pushing off the bus. “Just thought you might want to come along.”

“Come along where?”

He slipped his hands into his pockets, tilting his head in that infuriatingly casual way he had. “I was thinking about exploring. But if you’d rather sulk in the hotel…”

She glared at him, her irritation mixing with reluctant curiosity. “I’m not sulking,” she muttered.

“Prove it.” His grin widened.

She sighed, weighing her options. She could spend the rest of the day alone, aimlessly wandering the city, or… she could let Harry drag her into whatever chaos he had planned.

Against her better judgment, she took a step closer.

“Fine.” she grumbled. “But if you annoy me, I’m leaving.”

Harry laughed, a warm sound that somehow made her chest feel lighter. “Deal.”

As they made their way through the streets of Nashville, YN couldn’t help but notice how easy it was to fall into step with him.

They wandered through the heart of downtown, the air thick with the sound of live music spilling out of honky-tonk bars and the faint smell of fried food. He seemed relaxed, his usual sharp edges dulled by the easy rhythm of the day.

They ducked into a record store, where Harry spent an obscene amount of time flipping through vinyls, offering commentary on the cover art of each one.

“Look at this,” he said, holding up a copy of Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours. He grinned at her, and for once, it felt less like a challenge and more like… something else.

YN raised an eyebrow as she glanced at the album he held up, the iconic cover staring back at her. “What about it?” she asked, folding her arms and leaning against the edge of the nearest display.

Harry’s grin shifted, softer now, almost boyish. “It’s a masterpiece. Don’t tell me you’ve never given it a proper listen.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a small smirk. “Of course I’ve listened to it. Who hasn’t? Don’t go acting like you’ve discovered fire.”

“Ah, but have you really listened to it?” He stepped closer, tilting his head as he studied her expression like it might hold the answer. “Like, lying on the floor, headphones on, letting it ruin your entire mood?”

“That sounds unnecessarily dramatic.”

“Dramatic? YN, this album is a rite of passage. The Chain? That bassline alone deserves its own religion.”

She couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her, a quick, genuine sound that caught her off guard as much as it did him. “You’re ridiculous,” she muttered, shaking her head.

He looked pleased with himself, his grin stretching wider. “I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

“Take it however you want,” she shot back, moving past him to inspect a crate of blues records. Her fingers skimmed over the edges of the albums, her pulse oddly steady in the low hum of his company.

Harry hovered near, occasionally picking up a record and commenting on it. “You’re quiet,” he noted after a few minutes, his tone lighter than she’d expected.

“Just... looking,” she replied, hoping the words sounded casual enough.

“Looking for anything in particular?”

“No.” The lie came easily.

He didn’t press, and for once, she appreciated his silence. It gave her room to breathe, to figure out why the usual tension between them felt... different today. Lighter, maybe. Or maybe she was just imagining things.

After a moment, he spoke again, his voice quieter this time. “I like this, you know.”

She glanced up, caught off guard by the uncharacteristic sincerity in his tone. “Like what?”

“This.” He gestured between them, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “Hanging out. You’re tolerable when y’not glaring at me.”

She blinked, unsure whether to laugh or scowl. “That’s your idea of a compliment?”

“Take it or leave it,” he said, his smirk returning but not fully masking the warmth behind it.

She rolled her eyes again but didn’t look away, and for a brief moment, the air between them shifted. The faint tension that always seemed to linger was still there, but it wasn’t sharp or heavy. It was something else entirely.

As the afternoon wore on, the tension that had been brewing between them seemed to fade, replaced by something quieter.

They grabbed lunch at a hole-in-the-wall diner Harry insisted on, where they shared a plate of fries and argued over whether ketchup or mayo was the superior dipping sauce.

“Ketchup,” YN said, dipping another fry.

Harry shook his head, mock disappointment written all over his face. “I expected better from you.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of her.

By the time they made their way back to the hotel, the sun was sinking low, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. She felt lighter, like the weight of the past few days had lifted, if only for a little while.

As they reached the elevator, Harry glanced at her, his expression softer than she’d ever seen it.

“Thanks for coming along,” his voice was quiet but sincere.

She hesitated, surprised by the sudden vulnerability in his tone. “Yeah, well… it was better than sulking.”

He smiled.

The hotel room was quiet, the kind of stillness that settled into your bones and made you feel the weight of the day. After their spontaneous exploration of Nashville, she had parted ways with Harry in the hallway. He mentioned something about meeting up with Mitch, tossing her a casual, “See you later,” before disappearing down the corridor.

YN had nodded but hadn’t said much else. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or annoyed that he was leaving for the night.

After a long shower, she tugged on an oversized band tee—some faded thing she’d thrifted years ago—and a pair of soft cotton shorts. Her damp hair clung to her shoulders as she padded barefoot around the room, her phone in one hand as she scrolled through texts from her family.

Dad: Don’t forget to drink water. You sound so busy. Call us when you have time.

Younger sibling: lol saw a vid of harry styles crowd at your show. how’s that going???

She smiled faintly at the last one, shaking her head as she typed a quick response.

It wasn’t until she’d tossed her phone onto the bedside table that she remembered the little stash she’d hidden away.

She opened her suitcase, digging past neatly folded shirts and random cables until her fingers brushed against an emptied bag-balm tin, where she hid a pre-roll. She grinned to herself, pulling it out along with the battered cherry red lighter she always kept with it.

YN grabbed her guitar and wandered to the deep window sill, settling into it like a cat in the sun. She pushed the window all the way up, the night air warm against her skin as it rushed into the room. Nashville stretched out before her, the faint glow of the city lights mixing with the distant hum of passing cars.

She tucked the joint between her lips, the flame of the lighter flickering as she lit the tip. She took a slow drag, letting the smoke curl through her lungs and settle into her chest before she exhaled out into the open air.

The buzz hit quickly, a soft warmth unfurling in her limbs. She leaned back against the window frame, her guitar resting comfortably on her lap as she started to strum.

The notes came easily, her fingers gliding over the strings as she played whatever came to mind. A soft, haunting melody took shape. She kept her voice low, just above a whisper, the lyrics spilling from her lips like they were meant for the quiet night.

Spent my days with a woman unkind, smoked my stuff and drank all my wine

The joint hung from her lips as she sang, her voice airy and unpolished, but easy.

Made up my mind to make a new start, going to California with an aching in my heart

She was so lost in the song, the feel of the strings beneath her fingers, that she didn’t hear the door open.

Harry stepped inside, the door clicking shut softly behind him. He paused, his eyes catching on the scene in front of him—the open window, YN perched on the sill with her guitar, the smoke from the joint curling lazily in the dim light.

She didn’t notice him at first, too wrapped up in the song. Her voice was soft and raw, carrying just enough emotion to make the lyrics hit harder than they should have.

Seems that the wrath of the gods got a punch in the nose and it’s starting to flow—think i might be sinking.

Harry stayed where he was, leaning against the wall near the door, arms crossed as he listened. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t announce himself right away. Maybe it was the way she seemed so unguarded, so lost in her own little world. It felt wrong to interrupt.

Her fingers lingered on the last note of the song, letting it fade softly into the warm night air. She leaned her head back against the window frame, the faint hum of the guitar strings still vibrating against her skin.

The room was quiet now, the only sound the distant buzz of traffic outside. She thought she was alone—until a flicker of movement caught her eye.

Her head snapped up to see Harry stepping closer, his strides slow and deliberate. He didn’t say anything, didn’t smirk or crack one of his usual jokes. He just moved, quiet and assured, until he stopped by the desk next to the window.

He sank into the chair with a soft creak, still close enough that YN could feel the heat of his presence.

Her heart stuttered, but she didn’t acknowledge him outright. Not yet.

Instead, she glanced at him briefly, her eyes meeting his for a fraction of a second before returning to the guitar in her lap. Her fingers idly plucked at the strings, pulling out a soft, wandering melody—not another song, just sound to fill the silence.

Harry stayed quiet, leaning back in the chair as his gaze followed the slow, practiced movements of her hands.

When she paused, fingers hovering over the frets, the faint smell of smoke still curling in the air, Harry’s attention shifted.

Without a word, he reached for the joint resting between her fingers near the neck of the guitar. His movements were smooth, casual, like he’d done it a hundred times before.

YN didn’t stop him, but her lips parted slightly in surprise, her pulse quickening as his hand brushed against hers.

He brought it to his lips, the faint ember at the tip flaring as he inhaled. The smoke curled lazily between them, filling the small space with a warmth that felt heavier than the fading summer air outside.

She watched him, her fingers still resting lightly on the strings, the unfinished melody hanging between them.

He exhaled slowly, his gaze flicking back to hers as the smoke dissipated into the room. For a moment, neither of them said anything.

The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable—it was something else. Something charged, like the tension from the last few days had found a new way to manifest itself.

YN finally broke the silence, her voice low and rough. “Didn’t realize you smoked.”

Harry’s lips curved into a faint smile, the kind that didn’t give anything away. “Didn’t realize you played Zeppelin.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, her lips twitching as she fought the urge to smile back.

“Don’t stop playing,” he murmured, leaning back in the chair and tipping his head toward the window.

YN hesitated for a moment, her gaze lingering on him before she shifted the guitar back into place.

She didn’t play for him. Not really. But as the quiet notes filled the room again, she couldn’t help but notice how close he was, how the faint smell of smoke and something distinctly Harry seemed to blur the edges of everything else.

The melody was unmistakable, a classic she knew by heart. Slow, deliberate, and wordless, the tune drifted into the still night air. She tilted slightly, fingers brushing over the strings with a lightness that made it feel effortless.

Harry stayed in the chair by the desk, close enough that she could feel the weight of his presence but far enough that he seemed content to linger in the space between them.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t interrupt.

His eyes flickered between her and the view outside, where the skyline blinked faintly in the distance. He seemed lost in thought, the faint haze of smoke from the joint twisting lazily around him.

The rhythm of her playing was slow, hypnotic, like it had seeped straight from her fingertips into the quiet air. She didn’t look at him directly, but she could feel his attention, even when it wasn’t on her.

When the joint burned low between his fingers, Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he turned toward her. He lifted it to her lips, careful not to disrupt her playing, his movements casual but precise.

YN paused for just a fraction of a second, caught off guard by the gesture, but she let it happen. Her lips closed around it, inhaling deeply as her fingers continued their soft rhythm across the strings.

He stayed there for a moment, watching her before leaning back in the chair and taking the joint back between his own lips.

The smoke lingered between them, faint and warm, curling like an unspoken connection.

The song continued—soft, wistful, and unhurried. Her focus shifted to the melody, letting it guide her as Harry flicked his gaze between her hands, her face, and the view beyond the window.

Every so often, he’d lean forward again, passing the joint to her silently, his movements slow and patient. It felt strangely intimate, the quiet exchange, the way their hands brushed in the dim light.

Neither of them spoke, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy, yes, but not with tension. It felt… deliberate.

When YN finally let the last note of the song fade into the air, her hands stilled on the guitar.

He didn’t say anything right away. He leaned back in the chair, the joint burning low between his fingers as his gaze lingered on her for just a moment too long.

“You should do that more often,” he said softly, his voice rough around the edges.

She raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into the faintest smirk. “Play Floyd?”

“Play anything,” he replied, taking one last drag before stubbing the joint out on the edge of the ashtray she’d left by the window. “Or keep me guessing.”

YN shifted the guitar off her lap, leaning it gently against the window sill. She crossed her arms, the soft night air brushing against her bare legs as she glanced at Harry. “It’s my job to play for you, Harry.”

His head tipped slightly, his green eyes narrowing as he considered her. “That why y’were playing now?”

She scoffed, leaning her shoulder against the window frame. “No. But it’s why I’m here, isn’t it? To play what you want to hear. To make your shows sound good.”

Harry didn’t react immediately. He stayed leaned back in the chair, the now-extinguished joint resting in the ashtray beside him. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, almost lazy.

“You think that’s all you’re here for?”

“That’s what it feels like sometimes,” she muttered, her words laced with the kind of honesty she didn’t usually let herself share. “You’ve got everything planned, Harry. The look, the sound, the crowd. You don’t need me.”

His lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. “If I didn’t need you, you wouldn’t be here.”

YN frowned, tilting her head. “Is that supposed to make me feel better? Like I’m just another piece of the machine?”

Harry leaned forward then, his elbows resting on his knees as he met her gaze. The air between them felt heavier now, his next words slow and pointed. “You’re not just a piece. And you know it.”

For a moment, she didn’t know how to respond. She hated the way her pulse quickened under his stare, the way his voice—low and rough—seemed to wrap around her like smoke.

She turned her head slightly, looking out at the view instead of him. “You don’t act like it,” she mumbled.

He let out a low laugh, though there was no humor in it. “And how do I act, YN? Enlighten me.”

She hesitated, then turned back to face him, her arms still crossed over her chest. “You act like I’m just… there. Like you can turn me on and off when it suits you. Like I don’t matter unless I’m standing on stage next to you.”

His jaw tightened, his gaze never wavering from hers. “That’s not true.”

It was.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

The silence that followed felt like it stretched forever. The only sound was the faint hum of traffic outside and the soft creak of the chair as Harry shifted his weight.

“You think I don’t notice you?” he said finally, his voice quieter now but no less intense.

She blinked, caught off guard by the question. “What?”

Harry stood then, closing the distance between them in just a stride. He stopped just shy of the window, leaning one hand against the frame as he looked at her.

“You think I don’t notice you,” he repeated, his voice steady, almost accusing. “Every time you play, every time you step on that stage. Every time you look at me like you’re trying to figure out if I’m about to push you away again.”

YN swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. “You don’t notice anything,” she said, though the words came out weaker than she intended.

His gaze dropped to her lips for the briefest moment before snapping back to her eyes. “I notice everything,” he countered softly.

Her breath hitched, and she hated the way it made her feel like she was on uneven ground. “Then why do you act like this? Why do you make it so hard?”

“Because y’make it hard,” he shot back, his voice low but sharp. “You shut me out before I even get the chance to try.”

YN laughed then, a hollow, bitter sound. “You’ve never tried, Harry.”

“And you’ve never let me.” he said, the words falling between them like a challenge.

The weight of his stare was suffocating, and for a moment, YN didn’t know what to say. She could feel the tension crackling between them, thicker now, more volatile.

“Bullshit.” She turned back to the window, her voice softer when she spoke again. “This is pointless.”

Harry didn’t move, his hand still resting on the window frame as his eyes lingered on her.

“Maybe,” he said quietly. “But it doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

YN closed her eyes, letting his words hang in the air as the night wrapped around them. Neither of them said anything else, but the silence spoke louder than anything they could’ve said.

The morning came earlier than YN wanted it to. She’d barely slept, the weight of the night before hanging over her like a low fog.

The room was quiet when she woke, the faint hum of the air conditioning filling the stillness. Harry’s side of the room was empty, the crumpled blanket on the sofa the only sign he’d stayed at all.

YN sat up slowly, rubbing the heel of her hand against her eyes as the memory of their conversation came rushing back. She didn’t know if she regretted it—what they’d said, what they hadn’t said—but she knew it had left her chest feeling heavier than it had in weeks.

She glanced at the clock. They had a longer rehearsal today, prepping for the Ryman show tomorrow. If she didn’t hurry, she’d risk being late.

With a groan, she threw off the covers and got ready, pulling on a worn pair of jeans and a t-shirt before stuffing her guitar into its case and heading out the door.

The venue was already buzzing with activity when she arrived. The crew was setting up the stage, the hum of amps and feedback filling the auditorium as the band trickled in one by one. Mitch and Sarah were already there, chatting quietly by the drum kit, while Harry stood near the mic stand, flipping through a setlist with their tour manager.

YN felt his presence before she saw him, the memory of his words from the night before still fresh in her mind.

Maybe. But it doesn’t mean it’s not real.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to push the thought aside as she made her way to her usual spot on the stage.

“Morning,” Mitch gave her a small smile.

“Morning,” she replied, setting her guitar case down and pulling out the instrument.

Harry didn’t say anything as she arrived, but she could feel his gaze flicker toward her for a brief moment before he turned his attention back to the stage manager.

Rehearsal started slow.

The band worked their way through the setlist, adjusting transitions, tightening harmonies, and fine-tuning every detail until the songs sounded like they could fill the Ryman’s historic walls without effort.

YN tried to focus, but it was harder than usual. Harry’s voice was everywhere—smooth and commanding, sharp and playful, depending on the song. His presence filled the room, making it impossible to ignore him no matter how much she tried.

But he didn’t speak to her directly. Not once.

It was infuriating, the way he could act like nothing had happened. Like they hadn’t spent the night before saying things that neither of them had the courage to finish.

The longer the rehearsal went, the more it started to gnaw at her. By the time they reached Ever Since New York, her patience was wearing thin.

“Hold on,” Harry said, waving a hand as the band finished the first chorus. He turned to Mitch. “That transition’s still too rushed. Can we stretch it out a little more?”

Mitch nodded, already adjusting his guitar.

She sighed quietly, her fingers hovering over the frets as she tried not to let her irritation show.

“Something wrong?” He asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the space like a blade.

Her head snapped up, her eyes narrowing at him. “No.”

“Sure about that?” he asked, his tone light but his gaze sharp.

She stared at him for a moment, her chest tightening with frustration. “Just play the song, Harry.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Alright. Again.”

By the time rehearsal wrapped, YN was drained. Her fingers ached from hours of playing, and her chest felt heavy with the weight of unspoken words.

As the crew began packing up, she slung her guitar over her shoulder and made her way toward the back of the stage, desperate for a moment alone.

But before she could disappear, Harry’s voice stopped her.

“Hey! YN.”

Her grip on her guitar strap tightened as she turned to face him, the tension between them sharp enough to cut. He was standing near the edge of the stage, his expression carefully unreadable, though his shoulders were tense. “What?” she asked, her voice curt, already bracing herself.

He hesitated, just for a moment, then tilted his head slightly, his gaze flicking over her like he was trying to figure out how to start. “About last night.”

Her jaw tightened. She hadn’t wanted to think about last night—how raw it had felt, how vulnerable she’d let herself be for even a second. She’d been trying to shove it to the back of her mind all day. “What about it?” she said flatly, her tone leaving no room for softness.

Harry’s lips pressed into a thin line, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower, quieter, but it still held an edge. “You meant what y’said, didn’t you?”

She blinked at him, caught off guard. “What are you talking about?”

“You think I don’t notice you,” he mumbled, his words more a statement than a question.

Her stomach churned, but she forced herself to keep her expression steady. “I don’t know why you care.”

“Because I do,” he shot back, his voice sharpening, though he still kept it low enough that no one else could hear. “And don’t act like you don’t, either.”

Her chest tightened at the accusation, but she refused to let it show. “You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” she said coldly, crossing her arms.

His jaw ticked, and he took a small step closer. “You think this is easy? Working with you? Being around you?”

She scoffed, the sound bitter in her throat. “Right. Because you’re so perfect to deal with, Harry.”

His eyes narrowed, the frustration clear now. “You act like I don’t care, but you’re the one who’s been pushing me out since the start.”

Her breath caught, and for a second, she wasn’t sure if it was anger or something else flaring in her chest. “Because you make it impossible,” she snapped, a whisper. “You walk around like the world revolves around you, and you expect everyone to just fall in line.”

“I don’t expect anything from you, YN,” he said, his voice sharp, almost defensive. “Except maybe to stop pretending like none of this matters t’you.”

Her heart thudded against her ribs, the words cutting deeper than she wanted to admit. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Harry paused, his voice quieter now but no less intense, “you’ve made it pretty damn clear you’d rather be anywhere else than here—with me, with this band. So don’t act like I’m the one who doesn’t give a shit.”

YN stared at him, her chest heaving, her hands trembling at her sides. She wanted to throw something at him, wanted to shout, but the anger in her throat felt too tangled with something else—something raw and uncertain.

Before she could think of a response, Harry shook his head, his lips curling into a bitter half-smile. “Forget it,” he muttered, turning on his heel.

He stalked off the stage without looking back, his steps echoing in the empty auditorium.

YN stayed frozen where she was, her pulse pounding in her ears as his words replayed over and over again in her mind.

She hated that he was wrong.

And she hated even more that he wasn’t entirely right.

The 25th came fast, bringing with it the weight of a sold-out show at the Ryman Auditorium. YN felt it the moment she woke up—the low hum of tension in her chest, the kind that came from knowing she was about to step onto one of the most iconic stages in music history.

She moved through the day on autopilot, her interactions with the crew and band kept short and polite. She didn’t have it in her to do more, not after yesterday’s rehearsal, not after the argument with Harry that still lingered like a bruise.

By the time the sun dipped low over Nashville, casting long shadows across the city, the energy backstage was crackling with anticipation.

The band gathered in the wings as the crew finished final checks. She adjusted the strap of her guitar, her fingers tightening and loosening around the neck in a rhythm she didn’t realize she was keeping.

Harry stood a few feet away, his presence as inescapable as ever. He was wearing a dark, tailored suit with just enough sparkle to catch the light, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. His hair was tousled in that perfectly imperfect way that she hated to admit suited him.

He hadn’t spoken to her since yesterday. Not directly. And she hadn’t gone out of her way to fix that.

“Alright, everyone ready?” the stage manager called, clipboard in hand.

The band nodded, one by one. Harry turned to them, his usual grin firmly in place, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes when his gaze landed on YN.

“All good?” he asked, his tone light but pointed, like he was challenging her.

She held his stare, refusing to let him see the nerves twisting in her chest. “Good.”

Harry’s smirk softened, but he didn’t push it. “Let’s do this, then,” he said, turning back toward the stage as the house lights dimmed.

The roar of the crowd was deafening, a wall of sound that hit YN square in the chest as they stepped onto the stage.

The show opened strong, the band locking into the rhythm like clockwork. The crowd was electric, their cheers and screams filling every corner of the Ryman as Harry worked the stage, his voice weaving effortlessly through the music.

She focused on her playing, her fingers moving over the strings with practiced precision. She kept her eyes on the crowd, on Mitch, on the neck of her guitar—anywhere but Harry.

But it didn’t matter. She could feel him, his presence pulling at her like a tide no matter how hard she tried to resist.

It was during Woman that the tension finally cracked.

The song had always been a crowd favorite, its sultry rhythm and teasing lyrics sending the audience into a frenzy. Tonight was no different.

Harry prowled the stage, the mic in one hand, his free hand gesturing to the crowd as they screamed the words back to him.

And then, without warning, his gaze found hers.

—I told you but I know you’d never listen.

YN’s fingers faltered for the briefest moment, the wrong note slipping out before she corrected herself.

He smirked, slow and all-knowing, because he did. He knew what he was doing.

He sang the chorus, his voice low and taunting as he turned to her fully, his body angled toward her now.

The crowd screamed, but they didn’t notice the way his eyes stayed locked on hers, sharp and unrelenting.

Her chest tightened, but she refused to look away. Instead, she matched his intensity with her playing, her fingers flying over the strings like she could drown him out with sheer force.

The song ended in a crescendo, the applause erupting like thunder. Harry grinned at the crowd, blowing kisses into the sea of adoring faces, but when he turned back to the band, his smirk softened into something more subtle.

YN ignored him, focusing instead on retuning her guitar for the next song. But her hands were trembling slightly, and she hated herself for it.

The rest of the show passed in a blur of music and adrenaline.

By the time they reached the encore, she felt both exhausted and wired, her body caught in that strange limbo that came after hours on stage.

She risked a glance at Harry, and for a moment, she thought she saw something in his expression that mirrored her own—a kind of quiet exhaustion, tinged with something unspoken.

But then he turned back to the crowd, his charm cranked up to full volume as he thanked them, his voice ringing out like a promise. “Goodnight, Nashville,” he said, his grin wide and infectious. “You’ve been incredible.”

The applause was deafening, the crowd chanting his name as the band took their final bow.

Backstage crew members moved in every direction, packing up equipment and shouting over the noise. The band had scattered, Mitch and Sarah disappearing into their dressing rooms while Harry lingered by the door, chatting with a few industry types who’d come to the show.

YN slipped past the commotion, her guitar case slung over her shoulder as she made her way to the dressing room she was sharing with Mitch.

But before she could reach the door, Harry’s voice stopped her.

She froze, her grip tightening on the strap of her guitar. She turned slowly, her expression carefully neutral.

Harry was leaning against the wall, his shirt damp with sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead. He looked tired but satisfied, his usual post-show glow dimmed by something quieter.

“Good show tonight,” he said, his tone casual but his eyes sharper than his words.

YN raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a faint smirk. “You don’t have to tell me that.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, his smirk returning. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Yeah,” she said, turning back toward her dressing room. “Look in the mirror, Harry.” She didn’t wait for his response, didn’t look back as she pushed open the door and let it close behind her.

September 26th, Chicago Theatre

Chicago was cold, a brisk wind biting at the edges of everything, but the theater itself felt electric. The second show on this leg of the tour, and the crowd roared louder than even the Nashville audience had. YN had expected it—Chicago fans had a reputation—but it still sent a jolt through her chest every time the applause hit.

She’d kept her head down all day, avoiding Harry as much as possible after the tension-filled Ryman show. He hadn’t gone out of his way to talk to her either, which suited her just fine. The dynamic between them was still strained, but now it felt heavier, sharper, like a spring wound too tight.

On stage that night, they were professional, seamless even. The music flowed like second nature, and the crowd ate up every word Harry sang, every note the band played.

But Harry’s energy was different.

He stalked the stage like he had something to prove, his voice sharper, his movements purposeful. Every so often, his gaze would flicker toward her, his eyes dark under the stage lights, and her fingers would stumble, just for a second.

She hated that he could still affect her like that. Hated that her pulse quickened every time he looked at her like he was daring her to break.

When the show ended, she slipped out of the backstage chaos as quickly as she could, retreating to her dressing room before Harry could find her.

But she couldn’t escape the feeling that their fight wasn’t just simmering—it was boiling over, and it was only a matter of time before it all spilled out.

September 27th, New York City Music Hall

New York felt different, brighter somehow. The Music Hall was massive, its gold interiors glinting under the lights, the kind of place that made you feel like you were a part of something monumental just by standing inside it.

YN was buzzing, but not because of the show. Tonight, she’d finally made good on her promise to get her best friend in with VIP tickets.

Jude had shown up grinning from ear to ear, dragging along another friend, Sage, a boy she knew from a few mutual connections but hadn’t spent much time with. She didn’t mind—Sage was friendly, good-looking in that casual, effortless way, and Jude seemed thrilled to be there.

The show was flawless, a whirlwind of sound and energy that left the crowd screaming for more by the end of the encore. YN felt good, better than she had in days. Maybe it was Jude’s energy, or the thrill of being home in New York, or the fact that she’d managed to avoid Harry’s smirking glances on stage.

The energy backstage was lighter than usual, the post-show adrenaline mingling with the warmth of a half-empty box of beers someone had dragged in from a gas station. YN sat on a crate near the corner of the room, Jude and Sage perched close by, the three of them surrounded by the casual hum of conversation. Mitch was strumming idly on an unplugged guitar, Sarah was laughing with one of the techs, and the crew milled around, taking turns grabbing beers and tossing them to each other.

Harry sprawled in the cheap folding chair like it was a throne. His legs stretched out, boots crossed, beer bottle swaying loose between his fingers. He wore the smug indifference of someone who knew exactly how good he looked, from the sweat-mussed hair to the open collar of his shirt. A rock god slumming it in a room full of mortals.

Jude, of course, was eating it up, no matter how hard she tried not to. Her eyes kept drifting back, quick flickers like a moth circling a flame. YN could see the effort it took for her friend to focus on Sage, laughing a little too hard at his jokes, leaning just a bit too close. But the second Harry glanced their way, Jude’s attention snapped to him like a compass needle finding north.

“This is VIP treatment?” Sage asked, flashing one of his trademark grins. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his bottle raised like a toast.

Jude latched onto the question, grateful for the distraction. “Welcome to the glamorous life of rock and roll,” she quipped, sweeping a hand around the dingy green room. Half-eaten takeout boxes, a broken amp shoved in the corner, and a stack of mismatched chairs that looked like they’d collapse if you breathed wrong.

“I’m not complaining,” Sage said, his smile lingering, his tone dipping lower. “Not if it means I get to see you.”

The words hung in the air just a second too long.

YN felt the heat crawl up her neck before she even realized it. She took a long sip of her beer, keeping her face neutral, trying to ignore the heavy stare boring into the side of her head. She didn’t have to look to know Harry was watching. She could feel it.

“Careful,” Harry drawled, finally breaking the silence. His voice was low, lazy, but there was an edge to it. “Say something like that, and you might get her hopes up.”

Sage blinked, caught off guard, then let out a short laugh, brushing it off. “I think she can handle it.”

“Oh, sure,” Harry said, leaning back further in his chair. He swirled the beer bottle idly, staring into the amber liquid like it held secrets. “Just don’t trip over yourself trying too hard. You’d hate to embarrass yourself in front of the talent.”

Jude stiffened beside YN. Sage’s easy smile faltered, but he recovered fast, glancing at YN with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Speaking of talent, you were incredible out there,” he said, his voice softer, directed at her now. “That solo in Woman? Gave me chills.”

YN opened her mouth to respond, but Harry beat her to it.

“Yeah, chills,” he echoed, not looking up from his bottle. “Or was it the AC in the venue finally kicking in? Hard t’tell.”

Sage chuckled, but it was tight. Forced. “I meant it,” he said, still talking to YN. “You’ve got something special. You know that, right?”

Harry made a sound low in his throat, almost a laugh. Not quite. “Special,” he repeated, like he was tasting the word and finding it bitter. “Special enough t’get you a free beer and a backstage pass. Quite the honor.”

Sage turned to him now, his posture shifting, more squared. “That’s not what I meant.”

Harry’s eyes finally lifted, locking onto Sage with a lazy sort of intensity. “No?”

The word hung there, sharp and cold, daring Sage to keep going.

YN set her bottle down harder than she meant to, the dull thunk slicing through the thick air. “Harry.”

“What?” he said, the picture of innocence, except for the smirk curling at the edge of his mouth.

Her jaw tightened. “Can I talk to you outside?”

Harry raised his eyebrows, playing dumb. “Outside?”

“Mm-hm.” She hummed sharply, pushing herself to her feet. “Now.”

He took his time standing, unfolding himself from the chair with the kind of slow, deliberate movements that made every second stretch out like taffy. His boots scraped against the floor as he stood, towering over her but pretending not to notice. “You sure y’don’t want to hash this out here? We’ve got an audience and everything. Could be fun.”

“Outside,” she repeated through gritted teeth.

Harry chuckled, low and infuriating. “Alright,” he breathed, gesturing toward the door like he was humoring her. “Lead the way.”

As she brushed past him, she caught a glimpse of Jude, wide-eyed and silent, clutching her bottle like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. Sage sat back, his jaw tight, his smile long gone.

Behind her, Harry followed, his footsteps slow and heavy, like he wanted her to know he wasn’t in any hurry. And as they stepped out into the cold, stale air of the hallway, she could still hear his laugh echoing softly, more to himself than anyone else.

That laugh made her want to scream.

The alley behind the Music Hall was quiet, the distant hum of city traffic echoing off the brick walls. The air was cool, a sharp contrast to the stuffy warmth of the backstage room. “What the hell was that?” she asked, spinning around to face him.

He took a slow sip of his beer, his eyes steady on hers. “What was what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” she snapped, her arms crossing over her chest. “All the comments. The interruptions. What’s your problem?”

Harry leaned against the wall, his head tilting slightly as he studied her. “No problem,” he said lightly. “Just thought I’d keep the conversation interesting.”

“Interesting?” she repeated, her voice rising. “You were being a dick, Harry.”

His smile faded slightly, his gaze narrowing. “Maybe I don’t like watching some guy who barely knows you act like he’s been waiting his whole life to kiss your ass.”

YN blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness of his words. “Are you serious?”

“You heard me,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, but no less intense.

She stared at him, her chest tightening with a mix of frustration and something she didn’t want to name. “Why do you even care?”

He pushed off the wall, stepping closer until there was barely a foot of space between them. His eyes locked on hers, unflinching. “I dunno.”

Her breath hitched, her pulse hammering against her ribs. “That’s not an answer.”

“S’the only one you’re getting.”

For a long moment, neither of them moved, the tension between them thick and crackling like static electricity.

She finally broke the silence, her voice quieter now but no less sharp. “You don’t get to pull this shit, Harry. Not after everything.”

He looked at her for a moment longer, something unreadable flashing in his eyes. Then he took a step back, his smile returning, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Got it,” he said simply, turning toward the door.

She watched him go, her fists clenched at her sides, her heart pounding with anger—and something else she didn’t want to name.

She stayed in the alley long after Harry disappeared back inside. Her chest felt tight, her breathing uneven as she tried to process the exchange.

The words echoed in her mind, a sharp contrast to the smirk he’d worn when he walked away. She hated how he could get under her skin so easily, how his presence seemed to shift the air around her, how her anger at him never felt simple.

She leaned back against the cool brick wall, tilting her head up toward the night sky. The distant hum of traffic was a low comfort, a reminder of how big the world was outside of the theater, outside of him.

You don’t get to pull this shit, Harry.

But he had, and he would again. That much she was sure of.

Harry didn’t stay backstage for long. When he stepped back into the room, the energy was lighter without her there. Jude and Sage had moved on to laughing about something Mitch was saying, their voices rising over the clinking of bottles. Harry slipped past them with a nod, setting his empty beer bottle on the edge of a table.

“I’m heading out,” he said, his voice easy, casual, as if the last few minutes hadn’t happened.

Mitch looked up, raising an eyebrow. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Harry grumbled, running a hand through his hair. “Just tired. Think I’ll head back to the hotel.”

No one questioned him further. Harry had a way of ending conversations before they started, and tonight was no different.

YN finally pushed herself off the wall, shaking off the lingering tension as best she could. The night air had cooled her temper slightly, though the weight of her frustration still hung in her chest.

When she stepped back inside, the room felt just as loud as before, though the dynamic had shifted.

Jude waved her over immediately, her grin as bright as ever. “Hey! You okay?”

“Fine.”YN said, her voice clipped. She didn’t want to talk about what happened. Not now, not ever. “Where’s Harry?”

“Left a few minutes ago,” Mitch shrugged, strumming a lazy chord on the guitar he’d picked back up. “Said he was tired.”

YN’s stomach twisted, though she couldn’t pinpoint why.

“Good,” she muttered, grabbing a fresh beer from the nearly empty box. She twisted off the cap and took a long sip, letting the bitter taste settle her nerves.

Sage caught her eye, his grin still intact. “You alright?” he asked, leaning closer.

“I’m fine,” she said sharply, the edge in her voice enough to make him hold up his hands in surrender.

Jude gave her a look—something between concern and curiosity—but didn’t press further.

She leaned against the table, tuning out the chatter as the night dragged on. But no matter how hard she tried to focus on anything else, the memory of Harry’s words—and the look in his eyes when he said them—refused to leave her alone.

The night dissolved into a blur of laughter, music, and the bitter taste of cheap beer. YN had let herself go too far, her usual restraint eroded by the buzz in her veins and the way Sage kept leaning closer, his voice soft and insistent in her ear. She didn’t even remember how the drinks had piled up so quickly, only that by the time Mitch and Sarah coaxed her into leaving, the room was spinning, and her legs felt unsteady beneath her.

Her friends had already left, a whirlwind of hugs and goodbyes as they promised to text when they made it back to campus. She barely remembered waving them off. Her focus had narrowed to just putting one foot in front of the other, the alcohol turning everything fuzzy around the edges.

Mitch had one of her arms draped over his shoulder, Sarah steadying her other side as they guided her into the hotel.

“You’ve got to start drinking water at some point,” Mitch said, his tone amused but laced with concern.

“Water’s overrated,” YN mumbled, her voice slurred but determined.

Sarah snorted. “Tell that to your liver.”

They maneuvered her into the elevator, Sarah punching the button for their floor. The quiet hum of the ride did little to settle the nausea building in YN’s stomach.

“Alright, this is us,” Mitch said when the doors opened on their floor. He adjusted his grip on her arm, but she shook her head, pulling away clumsily.

“No, no, I’ve got it,” she insisted, stumbling forward and catching herself on the elevator wall.

“You sure?”

“Totally,” YN smiled, swaying slightly as she gave them a thumbs-up.

Mitch exchanged a look with Sarah, then sighed. “Okay, but if you fall over in the hallway, we’re not coming back down.”

“Love you guys,” She gave lopsided grin, blowing a haphazard kiss in their direction.

The walk to her room felt impossibly long. Her footsteps were uneven, and she clutched the wall for balance, the plush carpet doing little to steady her spinning head.

When she finally reached her door, she fumbled with the keycard, her hands clumsy and uncooperative. After several failed attempts, she groaned, leaning her forehead against the door in frustration.

But then her gaze shifted, and she realized something.

This wasn’t her room.

The gold numbers on the door were too low—she was on the wrong floor.

Harry’s room.

Her thoughts moved sluggishly, like she was trying to wade through molasses, but one thing became clear—she didn’t want to go back and figure it out. Not tonight.

Her fist hovered over the door for a moment, hesitation flickering in the back of her mind. She could just go back to the elevator, figure out her room, and collapse in her own bed.

But the alcohol dulled her better judgment, and she knocked before she could stop herself.

The door opened after a beat, and there he was.

Harry stood in the doorway, barefoot, loose sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His hair was messy, like he’d been lying down, and his eyes flicked over her with a mix of confusion and concern.

“YN?” His voice was low and rough with sleep.

“Hi.” She smiled, the word slurred and uneven.

He glanced down the hallway, then back at her. “You’re drunk.”

She hummed, nodding her head and leaning heavily against the doorframe.

Harry’s lips twitched, but he didn’t smile. “What are you doing here?”

“Dunno,” she pouted, blinking up at him. “I was trying to find my room, but…” She trailed off, waving a hand vaguely.

He sighed, stepping back and holding the door open wider. “Come in before someone calls security.”

The room was dim, lit only by a single lamp near the bed. She stumbled inside, kicking off her shoes and collapsing onto the armchair by the window.

Harry shut the door, leaning against it for a moment as he watched her.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Fantastic,” she mumbled, closing her eyes as the room spun around her.

“You do this often?” he asked dryly. “Stumbling drunk into the wrong room?”

“Not wrong,” she muttered, wagging a finger at him as she half-heartedly reached for the bottle of water on the table next to her. “I knew where I was going.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Sure you did.”

She squinted at him, her lips twitching like she was trying to suppress a laugh. “You’re awfully judgy for a guy wearing sweatpants with wine stains on them.”

Harry glanced down, frowning faintly at the faint red blotch near his knee. It could have been wine, those were old—not that’d he’d remember. But for arguments sake, “s’not wine.”

“Oh, I see,” She smirking as she leaned back in the chair. “Fancy rock star can’t even handle his grape juice.”

“That’s rich,” he shot back, his tone calm but pointed. “Coming from someone who can’t even find her own room.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but her expression softened into something quieter as the room fell silent. The edges of her bravado dulled under the weight of the alcohol and exhaustion, and she ran a hand through her hair as her voice dropped.

“Why were you so mean to me?”

Harry stilled, the teasing edge slipping from his face.

“When?” he asked, though his tone made it clear he knew exactly what she was talking about.

“From the start,” she frowned, her words slurred but steady enough to cut. “You act like you don’t give a shit about me one minute, and then you—” She broke off, gesturing vaguely. “And then you pull this I notice everything bullshit.”

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he uncrossed his arms and moved toward her slowly, his footsteps soft against the carpet.

“You should drink that,” he breathed, gesturing to the water bottle still sitting untouched on the table.

YN blinked at him, her frustration flaring again. “Don’t change the subject, Harry.”

“I’m not,” he said evenly, crouching down in front of her. His eyes met hers, steady but guarded, and he grabbed the water bottle, holding it out. “Drink.”

She stared at him for a long moment, her chest tight. “You’re annoying,” she muttered, taking the bottle from his hand.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, his tone soft but laced with the faintest hint of amusement.

She took a few sips, grimacing as the cool liquid hit her empty stomach. Her head swam, the alcohol making her limbs heavy and uncooperative.

Harry stood, watching her carefully. “Come on.” He whispered after a moment, holding out his hand.

She frowned, looking at it suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

“Helping you into bed,” he said simply, his voice calm as he wriggled his fingers.

“I’m fine here.”

“You’re not sleeping in a chair, YN.” He sighed, his tone firmer now. “Come on.”

With a groan, she let him pull her to her feet, though her legs buckled almost immediately.

He caught her around the waist, shaking his head. “I’m fine.” He mocked breathily, a faint smile tugging on his lips, but he stifled it.

He guided her to the bed, steadying her as she sat down heavily on the edge. She looked up at him, her expression softer now, the alcohol dulling the sharpness of her frustration.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Harry leaned down ever so slightly, brushing her hair behind her shoulders, thumbing away some of the mascara that smudged her cheeks. “Get some sleep, YN.”

“You’re deflecting,” she pouted, though her voice was fading, her head already sinking toward the pillow.

Harry shifted, pulling the blanket over her as she curled onto her side.

“Goodnight.” His voice was low and unreadable.

Silence.

He frowned, taking a step back. “I’m sorry.” He whispered, although he knew she didn’t hear him.

The tour bus hummed steadily as it sped toward Boston, the headlights slicing through the dark. It was well past midnight, and the world outside the window was nothing but a blur of shadows and the occasional glimmer of a passing car.

Everyone else was tucked away in their bunks, lulled to sleep by the gentle sway of the bus. The only sounds were the low murmur of the engine and the soft, absentminded strumming of an acoustic guitar.

YN sat curled up in the corner by the window, Mitch’s guitar resting on her lap. Her fingers moved lightly over the strings, coaxing out a quiet, meandering tune—nothing specific, just something to keep her hands busy. She stared out at the dark highway, the faint glow of her reflection in the glass blending with the streaks of passing lights.

Across the room, Harry sat at the small table, his laptop open in front of him. His shorts were bright pink, shirt faded and worn, hair messy and falling into his eyes. His fingers tapped softly on the keys, the blue glow of the screen reflecting off his rings.

For a while, neither of them said anything. The silence wasn’t tense exactly, but it wasn’t comfortable either. It felt like it had been stretched thin, like something fragile that might break if either of them pressed too hard.

She plucked a few more strings, then let the sound fade, her gaze flicking briefly toward Harry. “You don’t sleep, do you?” she asked, her voice soft but not without its usual bite.

He didn’t look up, his fingers still moving across the keyboard. “Not much.” he replied evenly.

“What are you even working on?” she murmured, shifting slightly in her seat to get a better view.

“Emails,” he breathed, glancing at her briefly before turning back to the screen. “Tour stuff.”

YN smiled faintly, her fingers returning to the guitar. “Rock star by day, admin assistant by night?”

Harry’s lips twitched, but he didn’t smile. “Someone’s gotta do it.”

She let out a low hum, her fingers drifting into a soft riff, the notes barely audible over the hum of the bus.

“Is that Mitch’s?” Harry asked after a moment, nodding toward the guitar.

“Yeah.” She brushed her thumb lightly over the strings. “He left it out earlier. Figured he wouldn’t mind.”

He leaned back in his chair, pushing the laptop back slightly. “He doesn’t. Just doesn’t usually let anyone play it.”

YN raised an eyebrow, glancing at him. “You saying I’m special?”

He huffed a quiet laugh, finally meeting her gaze. “Hardly.”

She rolled her eyes, her lips curving into a small, reluctant smile. “You’re such an ass.”

“Look in a mirror.” He smiled, echoing her words from days before, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table.

For a while, the silence returned, but it felt slightly less brittle this time. YN continued strumming, the quiet notes blending with the steady rhythm of the bus.

“You’re good.” Harry said eventually, his voice softer now.

YN looked at him, surprised by the unexpected compliment. “Don’t sound so shocked.”

He let out a breathy laugh through his nose, leaning back again. “Just noticing, petal.”

Her chest tightened at the word, but she quickly shoved the feeling aside, focusing on the guitar.

“You’re not so bad yourself.” She shrugged, her tone casual but laced with a challenge.

Harry tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “That a compliment?”

“Don’t let it go to your head. It’s big enough.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, and for a brief moment, the tension between them eased.

But then her fingers stilled on the strings, her gaze drifting back to the window. The reflection of the two of them in the glass felt surreal, like something out of a dream she wasn’t sure she wanted to wake from.

“Why were you up last night?” she asked suddenly, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

Harry’s smirk faded, his expression shifting into something more guarded. “Didn’t feel like sleeping,”

“That’s not what I meant,” she countered, turning to face him fully. “You didn’t have to let me in. Could’ve just shut the door and gone back to bed.”

Harry didn’t respond right away. His gaze flickered to her hands, still resting lightly on the guitar, before meeting her eyes again. “Didn’t seem like you wanted to be alone.”

YN’s throat tightened, and she looked away, her fingers brushing over the strings again. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

“I know.” he said simply.

The quiet between them stretched, heavy and filled with things neither of them seemed willing to say.

YN strummed a few more notes, her movements slower now, more deliberate. She didn’t look at him, but she could feel his eyes on her, steady and unrelenting.

“Go to bed, Harry,” she sighed eventually, her voice soft but firm.

“Not tired, YN.” There was no edge to the words.

She sighed, leaning her head back against the window as her fingers stilled on the guitar. “You will be tomorrow.”

“Guess I’ll take my chances.”

She glanced at him, her chest tightening at the faint smile playing on his lips. She wanted to say something, wanted to break the strange tension hanging between them, but the words caught in her throat.

So she said nothing, letting the silence settle again as the bus rumbled on through the night.

September 30th, Boston

The air backstage at the Wang Theatre was thick with anticipation. YN sat in the corner of the green room, tuning her guitar for the third time in as many minutes. The hum of the crew preparing for the night buzzed through the walls, but her focus was pinned to the task in her hands. She needed something to do, anything to keep her from replaying the last few nights over and over in her head.

She tightened a string a little too hard, the sharp twang making her wince.

“You alright over there?” Mitch asked, glancing up from where he was adjusting his pedalboard.

“Fine,” she muttered, not looking up.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Harry glance her way, his expression unreadable. She forced herself to keep her focus on the guitar.

By the time the lights dimmed and the crowd erupted into cheers, YN was itching to get the show over with. The theatre was packed, the historic venue alive with energy, but it did nothing to ease the knot in her stomach.

The first few songs went smoothly enough, the band locking into their usual rhythm. Harry prowled the stage like he owned it—because he did—and the crowd hung on his every move.

But by the time they hit woman, things began to unravel.

It started small. A glance. A smirk.

Harry turned toward her as he sang, his voice dipping into the lyric like he was saying it directly to her.

The crowd screamed, oblivious to the sharp edge in his gaze. YN’s fingers faltered on the strings for a fraction of a second before she caught herself.

Her eyes snapped to his, narrowing, but he didn’t look away. Instead, his smirk deepened, daring her to react.

She refused to give him the satisfaction, pouring her frustration into her playing as the song built to its climax.

After the final note, the applause was deafening, the crowd on their feet as Harry grinned and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He turned to the audience, shouting his thanks into the mic, but YN didn’t hear a word.

She slipped offstage the second the lights dimmed, her guitar slung over her shoulder as she headed toward the green room. Her chest was tight, her pulse racing, and she needed a minute to cool down before she said something she’d regret.

But she didn’t get far.

“YN!”

Harry’s voice cut through the noise backstage, and she stopped dead in her tracks, her hands tightening on her guitar strap.

She turned slowly, her jaw clenched as she met his gaze.

Harry jogged the last few steps to catch up with her, his sequined jacket glittering under the faint overhead lights. “What the hell was that?”

She blinked at him, caught off guard. “What are you talking about?”

“On stage,” he said, gesturing vaguely behind him. “You were off.”

“I wasn’t off,” she shot back, her frustration bubbling to the surface.

“You missed a note in woman,” his voice was low and firm. “I heard it.”

YN’s jaw tightened, and she took a step closer, her voice dropping to match his. “Maybe if you stopped staring me down like a lunatic during every damn song, I wouldn’t miss anything.”

Harry’s lips twitched, but there was no humor in his expression. “You think that’s why?”

“Don’t start with me, Harry,” she warned, her hands gripping the strap of her guitar so tightly her knuckles turned white.

He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “You’re the one starting something, YN. You’ve been looking for a fight all night.”

“Oh, I’m looking for a fight?” she snapped, her voice rising slightly. “That’s rich coming from the guy who can’t seem to decide whether he wants to piss me off or…”

She stopped herself just in time, the words catching in her throat.

Harry tilted his head, his gaze flicking over her face as a faint smirk curled at the corner of his mouth. “Or what?”

YN glared at him, her chest heaving as she struggled to keep her composure. “Forget it.” She spat, turning on her heel and heading for the green room.

Harry didn’t follow, but she could feel his eyes on her back, heavy and unrelenting, as she disappeared down the hallway.

Back in the green room, she slumped into a chair, her guitar resting against the wall beside her. She closed her eyes, letting out a slow breath as the adrenaline from the stage finally began to fade.

She didn’t know what pissed her off more—Harry’s constant needling, or the fact that he was right.

She’d been off tonight.

But only because of him.

The tour bus rumbled down the highway, the lights of Boston fading far behind them as the road stretched dark and endless ahead. The show at the Wang was barely two hours in the past, but it already felt like a weight YN couldn’t shake.

She sat in her bunk with the curtain pulled tightly shut, her knees tucked up to her chest and her notebook balanced precariously against them. Her pen hovered over the blank page, unmoving. She had opened it in an attempt to write something—anything—to push the tension out of her head, but her mind refused to cooperate.

Instead, it replayed the night in an endless loop: Harry’s sharp words backstage, the way his smirk twisted into something darker, the challenge in his eyes daring her to finish what she hadn’t meant to say.

Her chest tightened at the memory. She’d spent the rest of the night avoiding him—on stage, backstage, and now on the bus.

The thin curtain separating her from the rest of the bus didn’t do much to block out the low hum of conversation from the main area. Harry’s voice rose and fell in rhythm with Sarah’s and Mitch’s, casual and unbothered. He laughed at something Mitch said, the sound low and easy, and it made YN’s stomach twist.

How is he so unaffected?

Hours later, the bus quieted as everyone began retreating to their bunks. The lights dimmed, and the gentle sway of the vehicle as it sped down the highway turned the space into a cradle of silence.

Everyone except YN and Harry seemed to have no trouble falling asleep.

She could feel his presence even though they weren’t in the same part of the bus. He was out there, probably stretched out in one of the seats, scrolling on his phone or reading something. She hated that she knew his habits, hated that she’d memorized the way he fidgeted when he was restless, or the sound of his quiet sigh when he gave up on trying to distract himself.

She hated, most of all, that she cared.

She finally slid out of her bunk, her bare feet silent against the soft carpet as she padded toward the kitchenette. The small fridge buzzed faintly as she pulled it open, grabbing a bottle of water and leaning against the counter.

She tried to focus on the cold press of the bottle against her palm, the faint vibration of the road beneath her feet—anything but the sound of movement behind her.

Harry stepped into the kitchenette without looking at her. He opened one of the cabinets, pulling out a box of tea bags and tossing one onto the counter before reaching for the electric kettle.

YN didn’t say a word. She twisted the cap off her water and took a long sip, staring at the far wall as if it held the answer to whatever storm was brewing in her chest.

Harry didn’t seem to mind the silence. He filled the kettle, set it on the counter, and leaned back against the opposite side of the small space, his arms crossing over his chest.

The room felt smaller now, the air heavier.

YN turned to leave, but his voice stopped her.

“You’re quiet tonight.”

She froze, her back still to him.

“Not a bad thing,” he added casually. “Just different.”

Her grip on the water bottle tightened, her jaw clenching as she turned her head slightly. “Maybe I just don’t feel like talking.”

Harry let out a soft hum, not quite a laugh. “How long will that last?”

Her chest tightened as she walked away, slipping back into her bunk and yanking the curtain shut behind her. She sat in the dark, the sound of the kettle clicking off faint in the distance.

She hadn’t seen his face, but she knew he’d been smirking. She could feel it in the way his words lingered, curling around her thoughts like smoke.

And despite herself, she hated that it still mattered.

October 1st, Washington, D.C.

DAR Hall was completely sold out, shoulder to shoulder, elbow into ribs.

Clips from the show in Boston, among other shows, started to surface online with whispers and reposts. It was only a matter of time, the crowd wasn’t stupid—the tension between the two was obvious, it was just a matter of deciphering if it was real or not.

The consensus seemed to be split down the middle—they hated each other’s guts, or they were fucking behind closed doors.

YN wasn’t sure if Harry saw it, but she sure did. Her younger brother had texted her about it first, a series of spam texts at three in the morning asking for every detail.

She left him on read.

And now, here they stood in DC, before a sea of fans that seemed like they saw right through them, when YN herself didn’t even know what there was to see.

Luckily, and unfortunately, there were only a few signs that seemed to be about YN and Harry, no one on stage acknowledged them.

It was a sort of silent agreement that YN would stick to her one guitar during the entirety of the tour. But, when Mitch went to switch out for the acoustic, Harry had stopped him.

He pulled his ear piece out slightly, whispering something to the guitarist before stalking towards YN on the wings of the stage. With the ear piece out, he could hear how insanely loud the crowd was—he couldn’t help but send shocked smiles in their direction.

YN furrowed her eyebrows, her palm lying flat over the strings of the guitar as she pulled on her own ear piece. “What’s going on?”

He stood near her, his breath peppermint and flat sprite. “Switch out, you’re doing track seven.”

She narrowed her eyes, leaning her head in further.

Track seven on the setlist, meet me in the hallway. “What do you mean? You or Mitch play that.”

He smiled, bunny teeth and dimples. “Now you are.” He nodded toward her, shoving the ear piece back in and ambling back toward the mic that stood center stage.

She wasn’t nervous, more caught off guard. She knew how to play it, it was just being asked to play it. She pulled the strap from over her shoulders, walking back toward the rest of the band and setting the instrument in its place.

Mitch would approach with an easy smile, settling the acoustic strap over her frame while Harry continued to talk to the crowd. He adjusted it to her body, looking over the frets to make sure they were tuned for the song—they were. “You know it?”

She rested her fingers on the neck, nodding with a distant smile. “Back of my hand.” She breathed, earning a small nod from the other guitarist.

Her eyes squinted in the bright lights as she moved toward Harry, his smile still bright—as if nothing had been happening between them at all. He said something into the mic, his voice a buzz in the background to YN—all that made sense was the second glance he sent her, the look to start.

The fans simmered down, but not silent. She let out a breath, eyes scanning over the crowd then back to Harry. Her pick moved over the chords seamlessly, as if she played it this way for years.

His hands gripped the mic stand as he echoed out the first lines, his rings glinting in the golden light. His eyebrows would furrow, his lips would part—he was just music.

He was an asshole to her, he knew it. He hated it, and she hated how he was completely under her skin, threaded into her veins.

As they approached the chorus, they looked toward each other, a fleeting sideways glance. He nodded his head down, shifting slightly to the side to make room for her.

His voice boomed over hers, deeper and more emotional, but they mixed in harmony. Her voice was soft underneath his, lighter, only a backing vocal for the chorus.

The crowd erupted, and some sense settled over YN’s shoulders, the lyrics eerily familiar to them, to their situation.

Her tummy twisted, yet she played the cords harder, falling into the melody, his words, the reverberation of the crowd.

—Cause once you go without it, nothing else will do.

Nothing else will do.

#harry styles #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles x reader #harry edward styles #harry styles concept #harry styles au #harry styles angst #harry styles smut #hs1

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bratzkoo · 3 months ago

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blueprint of us | minghao

Author: bratzkoo Pairing: rich af! minghao x architect! reader Genre: fluff Rating: PG-15 Word count: 14k~ Warnings/note: enemies to lovers minghao kinda that i've been thinking about for weeks! i need this.

summary: you really thought minghao is just your usual old money prioritizing getting richer over the environment, not with his background and whatever he does, well, until you didn’t.

taglist (hit me up if you wanna be added): -

requests are close, but you can just say hi! | masterlist

Y/N straightened her blazer, mentally rehearsing counter-arguments to every possible criticism as she strode into the Seoul Metropolitan Government conference room. At twenty-eight, she'd earned her reputation as one of the city's most uncompromising sustainable architects through sheer determination and technical brilliance. The Hangang Riverfront Revitalization Project was exactly the kind of high-profile commission her firm needed—and she wasn't about to let anyone derail her vision of creating the most environmentally innovative public space in Asia.

She scanned the room, noting the familiar faces of committee members and developers, before her gaze locked onto an unfamiliar figure. Xu Minghao of XM Development stood near the windows, examining the site maps with intense focus. She'd never met him personally, but his reputation preceded him—artistic, enigmatic, and ruthlessly effective at getting his designs approved. His buildings were architectural marvels that graced magazine covers and won international awards while consuming unconscionable amounts of energy with their glass facades and dramatic lighting.

As if sensing her scrutiny, Minghao looked up. Their eyes met across the room in a moment of instant recognition—not of each other personally, but of what each represented. A subtle tension charged the air between them.

Joshua Hong, the city's cultural development officer, approached with his characteristic diplomatic smile. "Y/N! I see you've noticed Minghao. Let me introduce you properly before presentations begin."

She followed Joshua, maintaining perfect professional composure as they approached Minghao, who straightened to his full height, his expression coolly appraising.

"Xu Minghao, this is Y/N, principal architect at Green Path Architecture. Y/N, Minghao is the creative director at XM Development."

"Your Dongdaemun Plaza extension was featured in Architectural Review last month," Y/N said, extending her hand. It wasn't a compliment—merely an acknowledgment of fact—but she could acknowledge quality work even from the opposition.

Minghao's handshake was firm, his gaze direct. "And your critique of it in Sustainable Design Quarterly was quite... thorough." There was a hint of something in his voice—not quite anger, more like curiosity.

Y/N didn't flinch. "I stand by every word."

"I would expect nothing less." A ghost of a smile touched his lips, surprising her. "It was one of the more intelligent critiques I've read. Most critics don't understand the structural constraints we were working with."

Before Y/N could respond to this unexpected comment, they were called to take their seats.

Throughout her presentation, Y/N was acutely aware of Minghao's attention. Unlike other developers who checked phones or whispered to colleagues during technical explanations, he observed with complete focus, occasionally making notes. His scrutiny was unnerving—she found herself emphasizing certain points more forcefully, as if in direct challenge to his design philosophy.

When Minghao presented his concept, Y/N reluctantly found herself impressed by his eloquence and vision. Where her presentation had been data-driven and practical, his was almost poetic—speaking of architecture as cultural storytelling, of spaces that evolved with seasonal light, of connections between traditional Korean design principles and contemporary human needs.

"A truly sustainable space," he concluded, his voice quiet but carrying through the silent room, "must sustain not just environmental metrics, but the human soul. It must create memories, inspire creativity, and connect people to something larger than themselves."

It was beautiful rhetoric that conveniently sidestepped concrete sustainability commitments, Y/N thought critically. Yet she couldn't deny the power of his vision or the masterful renderings that accompanied it.

When the committee's decision came, delivered by Joshua, it landed like a thunderbolt.

"Both proposals contain essential elements the committee feels are necessary for this project's success. Rather than choosing between them, we're asking Y/N and Minghao to collaborate on a unified design—combining Green Path's environmental innovation with XM's cultural and aesthetic vision."

Y/N's expression remained professionally neutral while her mind raced through implications. A collaboration? With him? Their approaches weren't just different—they were fundamentally opposed.

Across the room, she saw Minghao's composed mask slip momentarily, revealing a flash of the same dismay she felt. Their eyes met again, mutual wariness transformed into shared predicament.

After the meeting adjourned, Minghao approached her with measured steps. "It seems we have a situation," he said, his voice low.

"That's one way of putting it," Y/N replied evenly. "I have serious concerns about reconciling our approaches."

"As do I," he admitted, surprising her with his candor. "But the commission is significant. Perhaps we can establish ground rules to make this... functional."

They agreed to meet the following day at a neutral location to establish their working parameters, both clearly determined to protect their core principles while finding some way to fulfill the committee's requirements.

The café they chose was halfway between their respective offices—a small, quiet place with good lighting and minimal distractions. Y/N arrived ten minutes early, selecting a corner table and arranging her materials precisely. Minghao arrived exactly on time, dressed in simple black that somehow looked both casual and impeccable.

"I reviewed your full proposal last night," he said without preamble as he took the seat across from her. "Your technical solutions are innovative, but they fail to consider the aesthetic impact."

Y/N set down her coffee cup with deliberate care. "And I reviewed yours. Your spatial concepts are impressive but environmentally irresponsible. Your projected energy consumption is triple what it should be for a public project of this scale."

"Those calculations don't account for the passive cooling systems integrated into the design."

"Even with those systems, the glass expanses you've proposed create unnecessary thermal management challenges."

They continued this technical sparring for nearly an hour, each demonstrating a surprisingly thorough understanding of the other's specialty. Y/N had expected Minghao to dismiss environmental concerns entirely but found instead that he comprehended them well—he simply prioritized differently. Similarly, Minghao seemed taken aback by her knowledge of architectural theory and cultural references.

"You've studied Korean traditional architecture," he noted when she referenced historical precedents for natural ventilation.

"You sound surprised."

"Most sustainability specialists I've worked with focus exclusively on contemporary technology."

"That would be shortsighted," Y/N replied. "Traditional builders solved climate challenges without modern energy sources. There's much to learn from them."

A thoughtful expression crossed Minghao's face. "On that, at least, we agree."

This small point of alignment felt like a minor breakthrough. They tentatively established a working schedule and division of responsibilities, each carefully guarding their core elements while identifying areas where compromise might be possible.

As they gathered their materials to leave, Minghao hesitated. "I should clarify something. I'm not opposed to sustainability. I simply believe it must include cultural and aesthetic sustainability alongside environmental concerns."

Y/N studied him, trying to determine if this was merely diplomatic posturing. "And I'm not opposed to beauty. I just believe it shouldn't come at the expense of future generations."

Minghao nodded once, accepting this. "Then perhaps this collaboration isn't impossible after all."

"I didn't say that," Y/N countered with hint of a challenging smile. "I said it wasn't entirely impossible."

Something flickered in Minghao's eyes—surprise, followed by what might have been respect. "Until tomorrow, then."

Their working relationship developed into a pattern of intense intellectual debate punctuated by rare moments of unexpected alignment. They established a temporary studio in a small gallery space Joshua arranged for them—neutral territory that became the battleground for their competing visions.

Each morning began civilly enough, reviewing progress and outlining objectives. By afternoon, they were invariably locked in philosophical combat over fundamental aspects of the design. Y/N found these debates simultaneously frustrating and stimulating—Minghao challenged her assumptions with perspectives she'd never considered, forcing her to articulate her values with greater precision.

"You speak of environmental responsibility as if it exists in isolation from human experience," Minghao argued during a particularly heated discussion. "But people protect what they love. Create a space they don't connect with emotionally, and it will be neglected or demolished within a generation, regardless of its ecological merits."

"And you speak of human experience as if it can be separated from environmental context," Y/N fired back. "The most beautiful space becomes meaningless if the air is unbreathable or the temperature unbearable. Ask the residents of coastal cities losing ground to rising sea levels how much they're enjoying the 'human experience' of architectural masterpieces that contributed to climate change."

Mingyu, Minghao's assistant, had learned to make himself scarce during these exchanges, quietly leaving coffee and returning hours later when the conceptual storm had passed.

What surprised Y/N most was not Minghao's stubborn defense of his vision—she'd expected that—but his work ethic. He matched her legendary stamina hour for hour, sometimes staying past midnight to perfect details or research technical questions that arose during their debates. One evening, she returned from a quick dinner break to find him surrounded by books on wetland ecosystems, cross-referencing her water management proposals against ecological studies.

"I wanted to understand the biological implications better," he explained simply, not looking up.

Another night, Minghao found Y/N studying the historical design references in his original concept. When he raised an eyebrow in question, she merely said, "If I'm going to argue against aspects of your design, I should at least understand its cultural context properly."

These moments of mutual professional respect existed alongside their fundamental disagreements, creating a complex working relationship neither had anticipated.

Three weeks into their collaboration, they reached an impasse over the central plaza. Y/N's design prioritized permeable surfaces and rainwater capture, while Minghao's emphasized traditional patterns and ceremonial pathways. Neither would yield, their respective heels dug in after days of circular arguments.

"This isn't productive," Minghao finally said, running a hand through his hair in a rare display of frustration. "We're approaching this from incompatible premises."

"Then we need to change the premises," Y/N replied, surprising herself with the suggestion. "We're still thinking of our designs as separate entities being forced together, not as a new integrated concept."

Minghao looked at her thoughtfully. "What are you suggesting?"

"Let's visit the site. Together. Not to argue our positions, but to observe. Maybe there's something we're both missing."

The next morning dawned clear and cool as they met at the riverfront. By unspoken agreement, they walked in silence, observing how light played across the water, how people naturally gathered in certain spaces, how the existing landscape created patterns of movement.

An hour passed before either spoke. They had stopped at a particular bend in the river, watching an elderly man feeding birds while a group of students sketched nearby.

"There's a rhythm to how people use this space," Minghao said quietly. "Different but harmonious patterns overlapping."

Y/N nodded. "And natural cycles intersecting with human ones. The tide, the seasonal plants, the daily movement of sun and shadow."

They spent the entire day at the site, gradually beginning to exchange observations, then ideas, their usual combative dynamic softened by the physical reality of the place itself. As sunset painted the river gold, Y/N found herself sketching alongside Minghao on a park bench, their shoulders occasionally brushing as they worked.

"What if," Minghao said suddenly, looking up from his drawing, "the water management systems became visible features that change with the seasons? Not hidden infrastructure, but celebrated elements that tell an environmental story while creating evolving beauty."

Y/N stared at him, momentarily speechless at how perfectly this bridged their divided approaches. "That... could actually work." She quickly sketched an adaptation of her technical systems that incorporated his aesthetic principles. "The filtration gardens could become these sculptural elements that transform with rainfall patterns."

"Yes," Minghao leaned closer to see her drawing, his usual reserve giving way to genuine enthusiasm. "And these ceremonial pathways I proposed—they could be constructed with your permeable materials, creating traditional patterns that also serve ecological functions."

They worked with growing excitement, building on each other's ideas in a creative flow unlike anything their previous combative approach had produced. When darkness finally forced them to pack up their materials, both were reluctant to break the productive spell.

Walking back toward the subway station, Y/N glanced at Minghao's profile, softened in the evening light.

"I still think you're wrong about the glass pavilions," she said, but there was no edge to her voice now.

"And I still think your maintenance projections are unrealistic," he replied with the ghost of a smile.

"But today was... not entirely unproductive."

"A diplomatic assessment," Minghao agreed. After a pause, he added more seriously, "You're not what I expected, Y/N."

"Oh? And what did you expect?"

"Someone less willing to consider alternative perspectives. Less... formidable in defending her vision."

Y/N raised an eyebrow. "I could say the same about you. I expected a developer focused exclusively on aesthetics and profit, not someone who would spend hours researching ecosystem impacts."

They parted at the station with a new sense of possibility, though neither would admit how significantly their perception of the other had shifted. Y/N found herself thinking about Minghao's unexpected depth as she rode home—his quiet intensity, his surprising knowledge across disciplines, the rare moments when his composed exterior gave way to genuine passion for architecture.

It was professionally inconvenient, she decided, to discover that your philosophical opponent was actually worthy of respect. Even more inconvenient to realize you were beginning to look forward to the intellectual challenge he presented each day. Most inconvenient of all was catching herself wondering what else might lie beneath his carefully controlled surface—and why that possibility intrigued her more than she cared to admit.

The breakthrough at the riverfront changed something fundamental in Y/N and Minghao's working relationship. Though they still disagreed—often vehemently—about specific elements, a grudging respect had formed between them. Their temporary studio space gradually transformed, walls covered with evolving sketches that showed a slow but unmistakable merging of their distinct approaches.

Y/N arrived early one morning, a week after their site visit, to find Minghao already there. He sat with his back to the door, so absorbed in his work that he hadn't heard her enter. She paused, taking the rare opportunity to observe him unguarded. His movements were precise as he sketched, occasionally pausing to reference her technical specifications before continuing. The morning light caught the edges of his profile, and Y/N was struck by the intensity of his focus—the same quality she prided in herself.

"You've adapted the rainwater system," she said, finally announcing her presence.

Minghao turned, not startled but transitioning smoothly from solitary concentration to acknowledgment of her arrival. "I had some thoughts about integrating it more fully with the traditional elements."

Y/N set down her materials and moved closer to examine his work. The technical system she'd designed remained intact in its function but had been transformed visually into something that echoed historical Korean water features while remaining distinctly contemporary.

"This actually improves the water flow," she admitted, studying the modifications. "The aesthetic changes create a more efficient path for heavy rainfall."

"Form following function," Minghao said with the slight upturn of lips that passed for his smile. "Or perhaps function following form. Does it matter which comes first if the result serves both?"

Y/N gave him a measured look. "It matters in the process. But I'll concede the outcome is... promising."

They settled into work, the morning passing in focused collaboration punctuated by their usual debates—though the tone had shifted from combative to challenging, each pushing the other toward more refined solutions.

Around noon, the studio door opened to reveal Seungkwan from Y/N's firm, carrying several bags of takeout.

"Lunch delivery!" he announced with characteristic enthusiasm. "Y/N, the office is buzzing about your collaboration. Everyone's wondering if you've strangled the famous Xu Minghao yet or if he's converted you to the dark side of luxury development." He stopped abruptly, seeming to realize Minghao was present. "Oh! I mean—that is—good afternoon, Mr. Xu!"

Y/N suppressed a smile at Seungkwan's flustered backpedaling. "Minghao, this is Seungkwan from my PR department."

"We've met briefly," Minghao said with a gracious nod. "At the initial presentation."

"Right! Yes! I was very impressed with your cultural integration concepts," Seungkwan babbled, setting down the food and backing toward the door. "I'll just leave this here and let you both get back to your... creative tension. Or harmony! Whatever you're creating!"

After Seungkwan's hasty departure, Y/N shook her head. "Sorry about that. He's brilliant at public relations but subtle isn't in his vocabulary."

"He cares about you," Minghao observed, arranging the food containers. "Your firm seems more like a family than a corporation."

"We're small but dedicated. Everyone believes in what we're doing." Y/N accepted the container he handed her. "What about XM? From what I've read, it's quite hierarchical."

Something flickered across Minghao's face—so brief Y/N almost missed it. "Traditional corporate structure, yes. Efficiency has its advantages."

"But?"

Minghao looked up, surprised by her perception. "What makes you think there's a 'but'?"

"Your expression. Just for a second."

He considered her for a moment before responding. "The traditional structure has advantages for executing projects efficiently. It has... limitations for innovation. Particularly regarding sustainability initiatives."

This was the most personal insight he'd offered about his professional situation. Y/N sensed something significant beneath his measured words.

"You're advocating for change within XM?"

"Let's say I have a longer-term vision that doesn't always align with quarterly profit expectations." Minghao's tone made it clear he considered this topic closed.

They ate in silence for a few minutes before returning to safer territory—the technical challenges of their current design integration. But Y/N filed away this glimpse beneath Minghao's professional exterior, another piece in the increasingly complex puzzle he presented.

Later that week, Y/N sat in her apartment surrounded by crumpled sketches, trying desperately to focus on refining the public garden layout for their project. Instead, she found herself repeatedly drawing Minghao's profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the thoughtful tilt of his head when considering a design problem.

"This isn't happening," she muttered, furiously erasing the latest inadvertent portrait. "This is Stockholm syndrome. Professional delirium. Sleep deprivation psychosis."

She crumpled the paper and tossed it toward the trash can, missing by a good foot. The floor was already littered with similar failures—evidence of her complete inability to focus without her thoughts drifting to a certain frustratingly elegant architect with stupidly perfect cheekbones and infuriatingly thoughtful design insights.

When her phone rang, Y/N nearly leapt for it, grateful for any distraction. Seeing Seungkwan's name on the screen was an added relief—at least it wasn't Minghao calling about work, which would mean having to sound professional while in the midst of this embarrassing crisis.

"Please tell me you're free for dinner," Seungkwan said without preamble. "We're all at the usual place, and Woozi is three beers in, talking about writing a concept album about sustainable architecture. You need to witness this."

Y/N stared at her disaster of an apartment—takeout containers from three consecutive nights of working late with Minghao, sketches everywhere, and a half-empty bottle of wine that wasn't helping her current crisis at all.

"I'll be there in thirty," she replied, grateful for the escape.

The hole-in-the-wall restaurant was already lively when Y/N arrived, sliding into a booth next to Jeonghan and across from Seungkwan and Woozi.

"The workaholic emerges!" Seungkwan announced dramatically. "How's life with the enemy?"

"He's not the enemy," Y/N answered automatically, then froze at her own defensive tone.

Three pairs of eyes locked onto her with laser focus.

"Well, well, well," Jeonghan drawled, sliding the soju bottle towards her. "That's new."

"What?" Y/N poured herself a generous shot. "He's a collaborator now. Professionally. On the project. That's all."

"Right," Woozi nodded sagely. "Totally professional. Which is why you just drew hearts around his name on that napkin."

Y/N looked down in horror, only to find a blank napkin. When she looked up, Woozi was smirking.

"Your face right now is all the confirmation we needed," he said.

"I hate all of you," Y/N groaned, burying her face in her hands. "It's not—I don't—UGH."

"Oh my god, she actually likes him," Seungkwan stage-whispered, eyes wide with delight. "Our Y/N has fallen for Corporate Architecture Ken!"

"I have NOT fallen for him," Y/N hissed, looking around to make sure no one from the industry was nearby. "I just... don't completely despise working with him anymore. He has... occasional good ideas."

"Occasional good ideas," Jeonghan repeated flatly. "Is that what we're calling it when you haven't stopped talking about 'Minghao's innovative approach to spatial harmony' for three weeks?"

"Or when you defended his honor to that sustainability consultant who called his previous projects 'ecological disasters'?" Woozi added.

"Or when you started wearing your nice blazers to the collaborative studio instead of your usual 'comfort over corporate' outfits?" Seungkwan chimed in.

Y/N looked between them, betrayal written across her face. "I just wanted to project professionalism!"

"Since when have you cared about looking professional?" Jeonghan laughed. "Your entire brand is 'too busy saving the planet to care about dress codes.'"

Y/N downed her soju in one shot, the harsh reality hitting harder than the alcohol. "This is a disaster. If—and I mean IF—I were developing... unprofessional feelings, which I'm NOT admitting to... it would be career suicide. Personal suicide. A complete betrayal of everything I stand for."

"Dramatic much?" Woozi raised an eyebrow.

"He works for XM Development!" Y/N whispered furiously. "They literally built that resort that destroyed an entire coral reef ecosystem! I protested outside their headquarters! I wrote a scathing industry article about their CEO!"

"Who happens to be his uncle," Seungkwan pointed out unhelpfully. "Awkward future family dinners."

Y/N dropped her head onto the table with a thunk. "This isn't happening. I refuse. I absolutely refuse to be attracted to Xu Minghao. He probably irons his socks. He definitely owns more black turtlenecks than Steve Jobs ever did. His idea of sustainable materials is 'slightly less endangered tropical hardwood.' This is a cosmic joke."

"But he's so pretty," Seungkwan sighed dreamily. "Those cheekbones could cut glass."

"And he did publicly challenge his board about sustainability initiatives," Jeonghan reminded her. "That article was everywhere in the industry. He put his reputation on the line."

"Not helping," Y/N mumbled into the table.

"Look," Woozi said, suddenly serious. "You've spent your entire career fighting against developers who don't care about environmental impact. Now you've found one who might actually be an ally—who gets your vision enough to fight for it within his own corporate structure. What's the real problem?"

Y/N lifted her head, expression pained. "The problem is I wanted to hate him. I was prepared to hate him. Hating him was simple and comfortable and fit my worldview perfectly. But now..." She gestured helplessly.

"Now you like him," Seungkwan finished for her. "Like, LIKE him like him."

"And I hate that I like him," Y/N groaned. "It's so inconvenient. So cliché. So... ugh."

"The heart wants what the heart wants," Jeonghan said with philosophical air.

"Well, my heart needs to shut up and get back to focusing on sustainable architecture instead of Minghao's stupid perfect hands and the way he tilts his head when he's really considering an idea and how he remembers exactly how I like my coffee and—" Y/N cut herself off, horrified.

The table erupted in delighted chaos.

"This is the greatest day of my life," Seungkwan declared, wiping away a fake tear. "Our ice queen has melted for the prince of luxury development."

"I'm leaving," Y/N announced, grabbing her bag. "I'm moving to a remote island where there are no architects, no colleagues, and definitely no irritatingly perceptive friends."

As she stood to leave, Woozi called after her: "Just remember to invite us to the wedding! I've already started composing your processional!"

The wadded-up napkin Y/N threw hit him squarely between the eyes.

Meanwhile, across the city, Minghao sat perfectly still in his apartment's minimalist living room, staring at the scale model he'd been working on for the past three hours. It was meant to be a section of their riverfront design. Somehow, he'd unconsciously incorporated elements that were distinctly Y/N's—the curved rainwater channels, the integrated vegetation patterns, the community-focused gathering spaces.

"This is unacceptable," he murmured to himself, setting down his tools with deliberate precision.

He'd spent years cultivating perfect control—over his designs, his career trajectory, his emotions. Three weeks working with Y/N had somehow dismantled that control with terrifying efficiency.

His phone rang. Jun.

"Please tell me you're not still working," his friend said when Minghao answered. "It's Friday night. We're at Mingyu's place. Even Wonwoo left the office."

"I'm not working," Minghao replied, staring at the evidence that he'd been thinking about Y/N rather than actual work. "Just... reviewing some concepts."

"All work and no play makes Minghao a dull boy," Jun sing-songed. "Come over. Mingyu made his famous hotpot, and Vernon brought that weird board game where you have to build fictional cities."

The prospect of architecture-themed entertainment was the last thing Minghao needed right now, but the alternative was sitting alone in his apartment, fighting the unprofessional urge to text Y/N about a design idea that had occurred to him in the shower.

"Fine," he conceded. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."

Mingyu's apartment was chaos compared to Minghao's serene space—warm, cluttered, and currently filled with his closest friends sprawled across various furniture. The delicious scent of hotpot filled the air, and someone had put on a jazz playlist that mingled with conversations and laughter.

"He emerges from his creative cave!" Jun announced as Minghao entered. "We were taking bets on whether you'd actually show up or send another 'something came up' text."

"I'm not that antisocial," Minghao protested mildly, accepting the drink Mingyu handed him.

"No, you're just that obsessed with perfection," Wonwoo corrected from his position on the couch, not looking up from his book. "How's the collaboration going with the eco-warrior princess?"

Minghao nearly choked on his drink. "Her name is Y/N, and the project is progressing adequately."

"Adequately?" Jun repeated with a grin. "That's not what Mingyu said after he dropped off those materials yesterday. What was it again, Mingyu? Something about 'intense creative energy' and 'finishing each other's sentences'?"

Mingyu had the decency to look apologetic as he stirred the hotpot. "I just mentioned that you two seemed to be working well together. Better than expected, considering how you used to talk about her environmental manifestos."

"We've found professional common ground," Minghao said carefully, taking a seat at the dining table. "Her technical knowledge is impressive, and she's more open to aesthetic considerations than I initially assumed."

"Wow, from Minghao, that's practically a declaration of love," Vernon commented, looking up from where he was setting up the board game.

"It's professional respect," Minghao clarified firmly.

"Is that why you've saved every industry article she's ever written?" Wonwoo asked, finally closing his book. "For professional respect?"

Minghao shot him a betrayed look. "Those are research materials. Know your opponent's perspective."

"And is that why you specially ordered her favorite tea for the studio? And stayed up all night researching wetland ecosystems to understand her water management system better? And hand-crafted that traditional pavilion model that took you three days?" Jun pressed, clearly enjoying himself.

"Those were... professional courtesies," Minghao insisted, feeling uncomfortably warm. "The project benefits from a harmonious working relationship."

"Harmonious," Mingyu repeated with a knowing smile. "Interesting word choice."

"You guys are reading too much into this," Minghao said, helping himself to food in an attempt to end the conversation. "We're collaborating on a project with strict deadlines. That's all."

The room fell silent for a moment before Jun spoke again, his tone gentler. "You know, it wouldn't be the end of the world if you did like her."

"She represents everything I'm supposed to be working against," Minghao said quietly. "She's idealistic to the point of impracticality, stubborn about her principles, and has publicly criticized XM's projects multiple times."

"And yet..." Vernon prompted.

"And yet," Minghao admitted reluctantly, "she's brilliant. Her technical innovations are genuinely revolutionary. She sees connections in systems that most designers miss. And she cares about the impact of her work in a way that's..." he searched for the right word, "...admirable."

"Just admirable?" Wonwoo asked, eyebrow raised.

Minghao set down his chopsticks, suddenly finding it difficult to maintain his usual composure. "Fine. You want the truth? I can't stop thinking about her. I find myself sketching elements I know she'll appreciate into designs she'll never even see. I've started questioning corporate policies I've accepted for years because her arguments make compelling sense. I wake up thinking about our debates and go to sleep solving design problems we discussed."

He ran a hand through his hair in a rare display of frustration. "It's completely inappropriate, utterly unprofessional, and would horrify my uncle and the entire board if they knew. She probably still thinks I'm a corporate sellout despite everything, and the project will end in three weeks, after which we'll go back to being professional adversaries. So yes, maybe I do find her more than just professionally admirable, but it doesn't matter because nothing could ever come of it."

The room was silent for a long moment.

"Wow," Mingyu finally said. "That's the most words I've heard you speak consecutively in... possibly ever."

"She must be really special," Vernon added thoughtfully.

"This is a disaster," Minghao sighed, his perfect posture finally slumping. "Of all the architects in Seoul, why did it have to be her? The one person guaranteed to find my family's business morally reprehensible? The one designer who would consider my aesthetic priorities superficial? The most stubborn, principled, frustratingly intelligent woman I've ever met?"

"The heart is mysterious," Jun said, patting his shoulder sympathetically. "And apparently has terrible timing."

"The heart has nothing to do with this," Minghao insisted. "This is temporary insanity brought on by extended proximity and creative intensity."

"Right," Wonwoo nodded sagely. "That explains why you've started dressing even more impeccably than usual for your studio sessions. And why you've been turning down family dinner invitations to work late with her. And why you risked your position at XM to champion sustainability initiatives that align with her values."

Minghao stared at him. "How do you know all that?"

"I pay attention," Wonwoo shrugged. "And Mingyu talks a lot."

"Traitor," Minghao muttered, glancing at Mingyu, who was suddenly very interested in the hotpot.

The following day, Y/N arrived at the studio determined to maintain strict professional boundaries. She'd spent half the night lecturing herself about the absolute insanity of developing feelings for Xu Minghao, of all people. She had a plan: minimal personal conversation, focused work discussion, and absolutely no noticing of his perfect cheekbones or elegant hands or the way his eyes lit up when discussing traditional Korean architecture.

Her resolve lasted approximately three minutes.

Minghao was already there, arranging a collection of material samples on their work table. He looked up when she entered, and something in his expression seemed different—a flicker of self-consciousness that mirrored her own.

"Good morning," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "I brought coffee." He gestured to a cup on her side of the table. "Black with one sugar."

The fact that he remembered exactly how she took her coffee was not helping her resolution at all.

"Thank you," she managed, setting down her bag and picking up the cup to give her hands something to do. "I was thinking about the central plaza transition areas overnight. I have some ideas for improving the flow."

Minghao nodded, seemingly grateful for the immediate focus on work. "I was considering the same issue. The current design creates a bottleneck during peak usage times."

They fell into their usual pattern of collaborative problem-solving, but something had shifted in the atmosphere. Y/N found herself hyperaware of every accidental brush of hands when they reached for the same reference material, every moment their eyes met when making a point, every instance of inadvertent synchronization when they both had the same idea simultaneously.

Judging by Minghao's slightly stiffer-than-usual posture and occasional hesitations before physical proximity, he might be experiencing similar awareness. The thought was both terrifying and oddly exhilarating.

By afternoon, the awkwardness had somewhat dissipated as they became absorbed in a particularly challenging aspect of the water feature design. Their usual dynamic reasserted itself—Y/N focusing on technical efficiency, Minghao on experiential quality, both pushing the other toward a more integrated solution.

"If we adjust the flow pattern here," Y/N suggested, leaning over the model they'd constructed, "we can increase capture capacity while creating more interesting visual movement."

Minghao considered this, head tilted in the exact way that Y/N had embarrassingly confessed to finding attractive just the night before. She forced herself to focus on the model instead of his profile.

"That could work," he agreed, reaching for a pencil to sketch the modification. Their fingers brushed briefly, causing both to withdraw a fraction too quickly.

"Sorry," they said simultaneously, then looked at each other in surprise.

A moment of silence stretched between them, charged with something neither was prepared to acknowledge.

"We should take a break," Minghao finally said, straightening up. "We've been working for hours."

Y/N nodded, grateful for the suggestion. "Good idea. I need some air."

They stepped outside into the late afternoon sun, walking silently to a small park across from their studio building. Finding a bench, they sat with a careful distance between them, watching office workers hurry past on their way home.

"The project is progressing well," Minghao observed after a while. "Better than I expected when we were first assigned to collaborate."

"Agreed," Y/N said. "It's become something neither of us would have created independently."

"That's the value of diverse perspectives," Minghao replied. "When integrated thoughtfully rather than forced together superficially."

Something about his phrasing made Y/N wonder if he was talking about more than just their architectural collaboration. Before she could analyze this further, her phone chimed with a news alert.

"Oh," she said, reading the notification. "There's an article about you. About XM's sustainability initiative."

Minghao tensed visibly. "Already? The board meeting was just yesterday."

"You didn't know this was being published?" Y/N asked, scanning the article. "'XM Development Creative Director Challenges Board on Sustainability Direction.'"

"No," Minghao replied, his usual composure slipping. "Someone leaked it. This complicates things."

"In what way?"

He hesitated, then seemed to make a decision. "My uncle—the chairman—is deeply traditional in his business approach. He believes our brand is built on luxury and exclusivity, not environmental considerations. I've been trying to shift the corporate direction gradually, presenting sustainability as market advantage rather than moral imperative. A public leak makes it appear I'm forcing his hand through media pressure."

"Are you?" Y/N asked directly.

"No," Minghao said, meeting her eyes. "I would prefer to change the company from within, through demonstrating that sustainable design can be both beautiful and profitable. Our project is meant to be evidence of that possibility."

Y/N studied him, seeing the complexity of his position more clearly than before. "You're navigating a difficult path between family expectations and your own values."

"As we all must in different ways," he replied quietly. After a pause, he added, "Working with you has... clarified certain priorities for me."

The admission hung in the air between them, neither quite ready to explore its full implications. Instead, they watched the sun begin its descent, casting long shadows across the park.

"We should get back to work," Y/N finally said, standing. "The committee presentation is in two weeks."

Minghao nodded, following her lead. As they walked back toward the studio, he asked unexpectedly, "Would you join me for dinner tomorrow evening? There's a restaurant I think you might appreciate—they source all ingredients locally and power their kitchen entirely with renewable energy."

Y/N nearly stumbled in surprise. "That sounds suspiciously like something I would approve of," she said, attempting to keep her tone light despite her suddenly racing pulse.

"I do occasionally pay attention to your preferences," Minghao replied, a rare hint of humor in his voice.

"Then yes," Y/N agreed, telling herself this was still professional courtesy, nothing more. "I'd like that."

As they returned to work, Y/N tried not to think about Seungkwan's inevitable reaction when he heard she was having dinner with Minghao, or how much time she would likely spend tonight overthinking what to wear, or how the prospect of spending an evening with Minghao outside their work environment filled her with both anticipation and alarm.

This was fine. Perfectly normal. Just two collaborating professionals having a business dinner. The fact that her heart raced slightly at the thought was irrelevant and absolutely not worth examining.

Across the table, Minghao appeared to have regained his usual composed focus, though Y/N thought she detected a new tension in his movements, a heightened awareness that mirrored her own. If he was experiencing even a fraction of the confusing emotions currently churning through her, he was hiding it far better than she was.

Y/N forced her attention back to their design, trying to ignore how thoroughly Xu Minghao had disrupted her carefully ordered world—personally and professionally. The most infuriating part wasn't that she was attracted to him despite their differences.

It was that she was attracted to him because of them.

Y/N stood in front of her closet, surrounded by discarded outfits, feeling ridiculous. It was just dinner. A professional dinner with a colleague. The fact that she'd tried on seven different combinations was completely unrelated to the fact that said colleague was Xu Minghao.

"This is pathetic," she told her reflection as she adjusted a simple black dress. "Too formal." She changed into jeans and a nice blouse. "Too casual." A tailored pantsuit followed. "Too business meeting."

After thirty more minutes of wardrobe crisis, she settled on a dress that balanced professional and elegant—something she might wear to an industry event rather than a date. Because this was definitely not a date. Minghao had simply suggested they discuss their project in a different setting. The fact that he'd chosen a sustainability-focused restaurant was merely... thoughtful professional courtesy.

Her phone buzzed with a text from

Seungkwan: "WHAT ARE YOU WEARING??? Send pics!!! I need to approve!!!"

Y/N groaned. She'd made the tactical error of mentioning her dinner with Minghao during a work call, and Seungkwan had practically hyperventilated with excitement. She ignored the text, knowing any response would only encourage him.

Seconds later, her phone rang.

"You can't ignore me on this historic occasion," Seungkwan declared when she answered. "Our Y/N, sustainability warrior princess, dining with the prince of luxury development! The office has a betting pool on whether you'll come back engaged or covered in wine after throwing it in his face."

"It's a professional dinner," Y/N insisted, checking her watch. "And I'm going to be late if I don't leave now."

"Just tell me one thing," Seungkwan said, his tone suddenly serious. "Are you going to give this a chance? Whatever 'this' is between you two?"

The unexpected question caught Y/N off guard. "I... don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do," Seungkwan replied gently. "I've known you for years, Y/N. I've seen you passionate about projects, about environmental causes, about fighting corporate developers. I've never seen you like this about a person."

Y/N sat on the edge of her bed, suddenly unable to maintain her denial. "It's complicated, Seungkwan. Even if there were... feelings... which I'm not saying there are... there are so many reasons it couldn't work."

"Name one that doesn't involve your stubborn pride or preconceived notions."

She opened her mouth to list the many practical obstacles, then closed it again, realizing how many of her objections had gradually eroded over the weeks of working with Minghao.

"Just be open to possibility," Seungkwan suggested. "That's all I'm saying. And text me immediately if anything romantic happens!"

"Goodbye, Seungkwan," Y/N said firmly, ending the call. But his words lingered as she gathered her things and headed out.

The restaurant was intimate but not overtly romantic—a renovated traditional building with contemporary sustainable elements seamlessly integrated throughout. When Y/N arrived, Minghao was already there, dressed in his usual impeccable style but with subtle differences that suggested he'd put thought into his appearance beyond his normal care.

"This place is beautiful," Y/N said as they were seated at a corner table with a view of a small courtyard garden. "I haven't been here before."

"It opened recently," Minghao replied. "The owner is an old friend who shares your commitment to sustainability. The building itself is carbon-neutral, and all ingredients are sourced within fifty kilometers."

Y/N raised an eyebrow. "You really did your research."

A flicker of something crossed Minghao's face—was that actually nervousness? "I wanted to choose somewhere you'd appreciate."

The thoughtfulness of this gesture was not helping Y/N maintain her professional distance at all.

After ordering, an awkward silence fell between them—so different from their usual passionate debates or focused work discussions. It was as if removing the shield of their project had left them both uncomfortably exposed.

"So," Y/N finally said, "how did your uncle react to the article about your sustainability initiative?"

Minghao's expression tightened slightly. "About as well as expected. There was a... heated discussion about company direction and my role within it. He believes I'm being influenced by outside perspectives."

"Am I the outside influence he's concerned about?" Y/N asked directly.

"Among others," Minghao admitted. "But my interest in sustainable design predates our collaboration, though working with you has... intensified certain convictions."

"Is your position at risk?" The thought bothered her more than she wanted to admit.

Minghao considered this question carefully. "Not immediately. Family dynamics complicate professional relationships. My uncle values loyalty and tradition, but he also recognizes that markets evolve. The question is whether sustainability represents a fundamental shift in our company identity or merely a strategic adaptation."

"And what do you believe?"

"I believe it's necessary," he said simply. "Both ethically and practically. The future of development must incorporate environmental responsibility—not as marketing strategy but as core principle."

Y/N studied him, struck by how similar his words were to arguments she'd made in industry publications. "That sounds suspiciously like something I would say."

A hint of a smile touched his lips. "Perhaps you've been a bad influence."

"Or a good one, depending on perspective," Y/N countered, returning his smile.

The arrival of their first course provided a welcome shift in conversation to lighter topics. Y/N was surprised by how easily they moved from professional discussions to personal interests—Minghao's background in traditional art, Y/N's early environmental activism, shared admiration for certain architects and mutual disdain for pretentious industry trends.

"I can't believe you also hated the Hansen Tower," Y/N said, laughing at Minghao's devastatingly accurate critique of a recently celebrated building. "Everyone acts like it's revolutionary, but it's just inefficient design hiding behind flashy facades."

"Form without function," Minghao agreed. "Beautiful from a distance but completely impractical to actually occupy. Architecture should serve people, not merely impress them."

"Another suspiciously Y/N-like statement," she observed, enjoying the unexpected alignment of their views.

"I've always held this perspective," Minghao clarified. "But working with you has helped me articulate certain principles more clearly."

As their meal continued, Y/N found herself increasingly aware of how much she was enjoying Minghao's company. His quiet intensity, thoughtful observations, and unexpected flashes of dry humor were dangerously appealing. The careful distance she'd maintained began to feel increasingly arbitrary.

When dessert arrived—a beautifully presented seasonal fruit creation—Minghao hesitated before speaking. "I've been considering a possibility that I wanted to discuss with you."

Something in his tone made Y/N's pulse quicken. "What kind of possibility?"

"A professional one," he clarified, seeming to sense her sudden tension. "I've been contemplating establishing an independent design studio focused on integrating sustainable innovation with cultural and aesthetic excellence. The kind of work we've been doing together, but as a dedicated practice rather than a one-time collaboration."

"You're leaving XM?" Y/N couldn't hide her surprise.

"It's one option I'm considering," Minghao said carefully. "Family expectations are powerful, but at some point, personal convictions must take precedence." After a pause, he added, "I would value your perspective on whether such a venture could succeed."

"I think it could," Y/N said slowly, processing the implications. "But it would be a significant risk compared to your position at XM."

"Some risks are necessary for meaningful change." His gaze met hers with unexpected directness. "Both professionally and personally."

The weight of his words hung between them, carrying implications beyond career choices. Y/N found herself at a crossroads—continue maintaining careful professional boundaries or acknowledge the growing connection between them.

Before she could respond, her phone buzzed with an urgent message. Y/N glanced at it and frowned.

"Everything alright?" Minghao asked.

"It's from Seungkwan. Apparently there's been a leak about our project—some industry blog has published speculation about conflicts between our design approaches, claiming the collaboration is failing."

Minghao's expression darkened. "That could undermine the committee's confidence before our presentation."

"We should address this," Y/N said, professional concerns immediately overriding the personal moment. "Perhaps with a joint statement or preliminary images that demonstrate our progress."

"Agreed." Minghao signaled for the check. "We should return to the studio and review what might have been leaked and prepare a response."

The intimate atmosphere dissolved as they shifted back into work mode, both perhaps secretly relieved to postpone the more complicated conversation that had been developing.

The next morning, Y/N arrived at the studio early, determined to focus on damage control rather than dwelling on the unresolved tension from dinner. To her surprise, she found Mingyu pacing outside the door.

"Y/N!" he exclaimed when he saw her. "Thank goodness. Minghao sent me to wait for you. There's an emergency meeting at XM headquarters. The chairman is demanding to review the project immediately instead of waiting for the committee presentation."

"What? Why?" Y/N asked, alarmed by the sudden interference.

"The leaked information created concern about the project's direction," Mingyu explained as they hurried toward a waiting car. "Minghao's uncle is worried about the company's reputation if the collaboration is perceived as compromising XM's luxury brand identity."

During the drive to XM's imposing glass headquarters, Y/N felt mounting dread. This was exactly the corporate interference she'd initially feared when forced to collaborate with a luxury developer.

The building itself embodied everything Y/N had spent her career criticizing—excessive glass that created massive heating and cooling demands, dramatic but energy-intensive lighting, and materials selected for prestige rather than sustainability. As they rode the elevator to the executive floor, Y/N steeled herself for confrontation.

Mingyu led her to a conference room where Minghao was already engaged in tense conversation with an older man whose commanding presence and family resemblance identified him as the chairman. Several board members and executives observed from around a massive table covered with printouts of their design.

Minghao looked up when Y/N entered, his expression carefully controlled but his eyes communicating a silent apology.

"Ah, the environmental architect," the chairman said, turning to assess Y/N with calculating eyes. "I've heard much about you. Please, join us. We were just discussing certain... concerns about the direction of this project."

Y/N approached with professional composure, noting the specific design elements that had been highlighted for criticism—precisely the innovative integrations she and Minghao had been most proud of developing together.

"Chairman Xu," she acknowledged with a respectful nod. "I understand you have questions about our collaborative approach."

"Indeed," he replied coolly. "XM Development has built its reputation on distinctive luxury experiences. These elements," he gestured to their sustainable water management systems and community-focused spaces, "dilute our brand identity with features that could appear in any public park. Our clients expect exclusivity."

Y/N felt a familiar surge of frustration but maintained her professional demeanor. "With respect, Chairman, this project is specifically designed as a public space that balances environmental responsibility with exceptional design quality. The integration creates something unique rather than diluted."

The chairman's expression remained skeptical. "A noble sentiment, but our investors have specific expectations about XM projects. Minghao knows this," he added with a pointed look at his nephew.

"Uncle," Minghao said, his voice quiet but firm, "the committee specifically requested a collaboration that incorporates both companies' strengths. The design we've developed fulfills that brief while expanding XM's capabilities in an emerging market sector."

"A sector you seem increasingly preoccupied with," the chairman observed. "First your sustainability initiative presentation, now this project. One might wonder where your priorities lie."

The undercurrent of personal disappointment in his tone made the professional criticism more cutting. Y/N saw Minghao's carefully maintained composure falter slightly, revealing how deeply his uncle's approval mattered despite their differing visions.

"My priority is the future success of XM," Minghao replied. "Which requires evolution rather than rigid adherence to past formulas."

The chairman waved this away impatiently. "We need concrete adjustments to realign this project with our brand standards. I suggest removing these community elements, upgrading the materials to our usual specifications, and redesigning the central pavilion to feature our signature aesthetic."

Y/N bit her tongue, recognizing that these changes would effectively erase every sustainable innovation they'd integrated, returning the design to exactly the kind of environmentally irresponsible luxury project she'd fought against throughout her career.

She glanced at Minghao, expecting him to begin negotiating a compromise. To her surprise, he straightened his shoulders and spoke with quiet determination.

"No."

The single word fell into stunned silence. Even Y/N hadn't expected such direct refusal.

"What did you say?" the chairman asked, his tone dangerous.

"I said no," Minghao repeated calmly. "The design represents a balanced integration developed through genuine collaboration. Removing those elements would compromise both its integrity and its purpose."

The chairman's expression hardened. "Perhaps you've forgotten whose name is on this building, Minghao. Your experimental design theories are interesting, but ultimately, XM projects reflect the company vision—my vision."

"I haven't forgotten," Minghao replied. "But I also remember the principles my father valued before you took control—innovation, integrity, and creating spaces that elevated people rather than excluding them."

The personal nature of this statement clearly crossed a line. The chairman's expression turned glacial. "We'll continue this discussion privately. Everyone else, please leave us."

The executives quickly filed out, eager to escape the family tension. Y/N hesitated, looking at Minghao with concern.

"It's alright," he told her quietly. "I'll meet you downstairs after we've finished."

Y/N reluctantly left the room, acutely aware that Minghao had just risked his position—and family relationship—defending their shared vision. The implications of this were too significant to ignore.

An hour passed before Minghao appeared in the lobby, his expression composed but with a new resolution in his eyes.

"Walk with me," he said simply, leading her out of the building and across the street to a small park—one of the few green spaces in the corporate district.

They sat on a bench beneath flowering cherry trees, a moment of natural beauty incongruously peaceful after the tension of the meeting.

"I've been relieved of my position as creative director," Minghao said finally, his voice calm despite the bombshell.

Y/N stared at him in shock. "They fired you? Over our project?"

"The project was simply the catalyst. My uncle and I have been moving in different directions for some time. Today merely forced the issue into the open."

"Minghao, I'm so sorry," Y/N said, genuine distress overriding any professional considerations. "You shouldn't have sacrificed your position. We could have modified some elements, found a compromise—"

"No," he interrupted gently. "The compromise would have destroyed what makes the design valuable. And this isn't just about one project. It's about the future I want to create versus the past my uncle wants to preserve."

"Still, your career—"

"Is not defined by XM," Minghao finished. "Perhaps this was inevitable. I've been considering independent paths for some time, as I mentioned last night."

Y/N studied him, searching for signs of regret or uncertainty. Instead, she found surprising calm—as if a burden had been lifted rather than imposed.

"You seem... okay with this," she observed.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "There's freedom in clarity. For years I've tried to balance family expectations with personal convictions. Now the choice has been made for me."

"What will you do now?"

"Exactly what I suggested yesterday—establish an independent practice based on the principles we've explored together." After a pause, he added more softly, "Though I had hoped to discuss that possibility with you under different circumstances."

Y/N felt a flutter of something that definitely wasn't just professional concern. "With me? In what capacity?"

Minghao turned to face her directly, his usual reserve giving way to unexpected openness. "In whatever capacity you might consider. As a consultant, a collaborator, or..." he hesitated, then continued with quiet determination, "...something more. If that's something you might want."

The directness of this semi-confession left Y/N momentarily speechless. Part of her wanted to retreat behind professional boundaries, to remind both of them of all the reasons personal involvement would be complicated. But after watching Minghao sacrifice his position defending principles they both valued, such caution suddenly seemed cowardly.

"I don't know what I want," she admitted honestly. "Three months ago, I would have said collaborating with an XM developer was my worst nightmare. Now I'm sitting here disturbed by the fact that you're no longer with XM, which makes absolutely no sense considering I've spent years criticizing everything they represent."

"Life rarely follows our expectations," Minghao observed, a hint of humor warming his voice.

"Tell me about it," Y/N sighed. "My entire worldview had such clear lines before meeting you. Sustainable architects: good. Luxury developers: bad. Now everything's complicated."

"Complexity can be valuable," Minghao suggested. "In design and in relationships."

Y/N looked at him—really looked at the person rather than the professional role he'd occupied. The man who had challenged her assumptions while respecting her principles. Who had matched her passion for architecture with his own, differently expressed but equally genuine. Whose carefully maintained reserve concealed depths she'd only begun to discover.

"I think," she said carefully, "that I would like to explore what 'something more' might mean. But slowly. This is all very... new territory."

The smile that transformed Minghao's usually composed features was worth every moment of confusion that had preceded it.

"New territory is where innovation happens," he said softly.

Their conversation was interrupted by Y/N's phone ringing insistently. She glanced at it and groaned.

"It's Seungkwan. Again. He's probably heard about the XM meeting already—news travels unnervingly fast in this industry."

"You should answer," Minghao suggested. "He'll just keep calling otherwise."

Y/N reluctantly accepted the call, holding the phone slightly away from her ear in anticipation of Seungkwan's volume.

"Y/N! IS IT TRUE?" Seungkwan practically shouted. "DID MINGHAO JUST QUIT XM DEVELOPMENT TO BE WITH YOU? THE ENTIRE OFFICE IS LOSING THEIR MINDS! WOOZI JUST SPAT COFFEE ALL OVER HIS KEYBOARD!"

"That's not exactly—" Y/N began, feeling her face heat up as Minghao raised an amused eyebrow, clearly able to hear Seungkwan's voice.

"IT'S THE MOST ROMANTIC THING I'VE EVER HEARD!" Seungkwan continued, undeterred. "GIVING UP A FAMILY EMPIRE FOR LOVE! IT'S LIKE A DRAMA BUT WITH SUSTAINABLE ARCHITECTURE!"

"Seungkwan, please," Y/N attempted, mortified. "It's much more complicated than that. He had professional disagreements with the company direction—"

"BECAUSE OF YOU!" Seungkwan crowed triumphantly. "BECAUSE YOU SHOWED HIM THE LIGHT OF ECO-CONSCIOUS DESIGN WITH YOUR PASSION AND PRINCIPLES! I'M WRITING THE WEDDING SPEECH RIGHT NOW!"

"There is no wedding!" Y/N hissed, avoiding Minghao's gaze. "We haven't even—that is—we're just—"

"Just what?" Seungkwan pressed, finally lowering his volume to merely enthusiastic rather than deafening.

Y/N glanced at Minghao, who was watching her with undisguised amusement and something warmer that made her pulse quicken.

"We're figuring it out," she said finally.

"HA! I KNEW IT!" Seungkwan's volume instantly returned to maximum. "JEONGHAN OWES ME DINNER! I SAID YOU'D ADMIT FEELINGS BEFORE THE PROJECT ENDED!"

"I'm hanging up now," Y/N informed him, doing exactly that despite his protests.

She turned to Minghao with embarrassment. "Sorry about that. Seungkwan has no concept of indoor voice or professional boundaries."

"He cares about you," Minghao observed, echoing his comment from weeks earlier. "Though his enthusiasm is... considerable."

"Wait until you meet the rest of them properly," Y/N said, then paused as she realized the implication of future social integration. "I mean, if that's something that might happen. Eventually."

"I'd like that," Minghao said simply.

They sat in surprisingly comfortable silence for a moment, the cherry blossoms occasionally drifting down around them in the spring breeze.

"So what happens now?" Y/N finally asked. "With the project, with the committee presentation, with... everything?"

"The project continues," Minghao said decisively. "My departure from XM doesn't change my commitment to our design. As for the rest..." he looked at her with quiet intensity, "that depends on what we both want to build."

The architectural metaphor wasn't lost on Y/N. "I've never been good at personal blueprints," she admitted. "Professional plans, environmental strategies, technical specifications—those I can draft perfectly. But this..."

"Perhaps we approach it like our design process," Minghao suggested. "Start with core principles, develop the framework gradually, adjust as we learn, and trust that something valuable will emerge from the collaboration."

Y/N couldn't help smiling at his architect's approach to relationship development. "That's the most Minghao way possible of asking someone to date you."

"Is it working?" he asked, a rare vulnerability visible beneath his composed exterior.

Instead of answering immediately, Y/N reached for his hand—a simple gesture that somehow felt more significant than their entire professional collaboration.

"I think," she said carefully, "that I'd like to see what we might design together. Beyond riverfront projects and sustainable pavilions."

Minghao's fingers interlaced with hers, his touch as precise and intentional as everything else about him. "I've found our collaborative process surprisingly rewarding so far."

"Despite the arguments?"

"Because of them, in part," he amended. "Few people challenge me the way you do. It's... invigorating."

Y/N laughed. "Only you would find someone questioning your every design decision 'invigorating.'"

"Only when the questions are intelligent ones," he clarified, his thumb tracing a small pattern against her palm. "And when they come from someone whose perspective I've grown to value."

The simple honesty of this statement affected Y/N more than any grand declaration could have. She looked at their joined hands—her practical manicure next to his artist's fingers—and thought about how unexpected and yet somehow right this felt.

"So we continue with the committee presentation," she said, bringing the conversation back to safer territory while she processed her emotions. "And afterward..."

"Afterward, we explore possibilities," Minghao finished. "Professional and personal."

"Seungkwan is going to be insufferable about this," Y/N groaned, but couldn't suppress her smile.

"As will Jun," Minghao admitted. "He's been making increasingly unsubtle comments about our 'creative chemistry' for weeks."

The thought of their respective friends' reactions to this development was both mortifying and amusing. Y/N could already imagine the dramatic speeches, the knowing looks, the inevitable "I told you so" declarations.

"We should get back to the studio," she said reluctantly. "We have a presentation to finalize, and now we need to address your change in professional status as well."

Minghao nodded, but neither moved immediately to leave the peaceful moment they'd created together.

"Just to be clear," Y/N said, feeling uncharacteristically uncertain, "you're really okay with what happened at XM? You didn't throw away your career because of our project?"

"I didn't throw away anything," Minghao replied with quiet certainty. "I chose authenticity over compromise. The project was simply the catalyst for a decision that's been forming for longer than you might realize." After a pause, he added, "Though I will admit that knowing you has clarified certain priorities."

Y/N felt a rush of warmth at his words. "That might be the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me, and it wasn't even really a compliment."

"It was absolutely a compliment," Minghao corrected her. "Just expressed with appropriate restraint."

Y/N laughed, struck by how much she enjoyed his particular brand of reserved intensity. "You know, for two people who started out thinking we represented everything wrong with each other's approach to architecture, we've come to a surprisingly compatible place."

"Perhaps we weren't as opposed as we believed," Minghao suggested. "Just viewing the same principles from different angles."

As they finally rose to leave, still holding hands as they walked back toward their studio, Y/N reflected on the unexpected journey that had brought them to this point. From professional adversaries to reluctant collaborators to... whatever they were becoming now. It wasn't a path she could have designed or anticipated.

But sometimes, she was beginning to realize, the most interesting spaces emerged from unexpected intersections—in architecture and in life.

The committee presentation room buzzed with anticipation. Two weeks had passed since Minghao's departure from XM Development—two weeks of intense preparation, industry speculation, and carefully navigated new personal territory between him and Y/N.

"Are you ready for this?" Y/N asked, adjusting the display boards one final time. She wore her most professional outfit, a structured suit in deep green that somehow managed to be both authoritative and a personal statement.

"Absolutely," Minghao replied, his calm demeanor betraying none of the professional upheaval he'd experienced. If anything, he seemed more centered than before, as if shedding his corporate constraints had allowed a more authentic self to emerge.

Word of their situation had spread throughout the industry—the XM creative director who'd left his family's company over creative differences, continuing to collaborate with the sustainable architect who'd presumably influenced his professional rebellion. The resulting publicity had transformed their presentation from a standard committee review into a highly anticipated industry event.

Joshua Hong approached them with an encouraging smile. "Quite the turnout today," he observed, nodding toward the unusually full room. "Your project has generated significant interest."

"Apparently professional drama is good for publicity," Y/N said dryly.

"Quality work is good for publicity," Joshua corrected. "The circumstances simply brought additional attention to what was already an innovative collaboration."

As committee members and industry observers took their seats, Y/N felt a flutter of nerves—not about the design itself, which she knew was exceptional, but about the public perception of her relationship with Minghao. They'd agreed to maintain strictly professional behavior during the presentation, focusing attention on their work rather than the personal connection that had developed alongside it.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Seungkwan: "We're all here! Third row, looking FABULOUS and ready to cheer inappropriately loud!!!"

Y/N glanced over to see Seungkwan, Jeonghan, and Woozi seated together, all giving her enthusiastic thumbs up. Behind them sat Jun, Mingyu, and Wonwoo—Minghao's support team. The sight of their merged friend groups was both heartwarming and mildly terrifying.

"Your colleagues are here," she murmured to Minghao. "And mine. Together. This could be interesting."

"Should we be concerned?" Minghao asked, following her gaze to where Seungkwan was now showing something on his phone to Jun, both of them grinning conspiratorially.

"Definitely," Y/N confirmed.

Before she could elaborate, Joshua called the presentation to order. Y/N took a deep breath, centering herself in the familiar territory of professional expertise as she stepped forward to begin.

"The Hangang Riverfront Revitalization Project presented unique challenges and opportunities," she began, her voice clear and confident. "Our goal was to create a space that serves environmental needs, community functions, and cultural expression in equal measure."

As she outlined the technical aspects of their design, Y/N found herself naturally transitioning to Minghao's contributions without the planned handoff cues they'd rehearsed. Their presentation flowed organically between her explanations of sustainability innovations and his descriptions of spatial experience and cultural references.

The committee watched with undisguised interest as these former adversaries demonstrated a seamless collaborative vision. When they revealed the final design models and renderings, a murmur of appreciation spread through the room.

Their central concept—visible environmental systems integrated with traditional Korean design elements to create both functional efficiency and cultural resonance—was beautifully realized in the detailed models. Water features that processed rainwater while referencing historical irrigation patterns. Community gardens arranged to create contemplative spaces reminiscent of traditional courtyards. Solar elements that cast evolving shadow patterns inspired by traditional architecture.

During the question period, a committee member asked directly about the impact of Minghao's separation from XM Development on the project's viability.

"My professional transition doesn't affect my commitment to this design," Minghao answered with perfect composure. "The concept we've developed represents principles I intend to pursue in my independent practice."

"And how do you respond to industry speculation that personal factors influenced these professional decisions?" the committee member pressed, glancing between Minghao and Y/N with poorly disguised curiosity.

Y/N tensed, but Minghao responded with characteristic grace.

"Professional respect can develop into broader appreciation," he said carefully. "Y/N's environmental expertise and design integrity challenged me to reconsider certain assumptions. That kind of intellectual growth naturally influences career decisions."

It was the perfect answer—acknowledging their connection without feeding gossip or distracting from the work itself. Y/N shot him a grateful look as the questions returned to technical aspects of the design.

When the presentation concluded, the committee announced they would deliberate and provide their decision within the week. As the crowd dispersed, Y/N and Minghao found themselves surrounded by their enthusiastic friends.

"That was AMAZING!" Seungkwan declared, hugging Y/N before she could evade him. "You two have, like, actual presentation chemistry! It was like watching an architectural tango!"

"Please never say 'architectural tango' again," Y/N begged, though she couldn't help smiling at his enthusiasm.

"Your integration of the water systems was particularly elegant," Wonwoo told her, adjusting his glasses. "I appreciated the technical rigor behind the aesthetic elements."

"And your cultural references were so thoughtfully applied," Jeonghan said to Minghao. "Not superficial at all."

As their friends chatted excitedly about various aspects of the presentation, Y/N noticed the easy way their previously separate groups had merged—Mingyu and Seungkwan comparing notes on their respective roles, Jun and Jeonghan clearly bonding over some shared mischievous energy, Wonwoo and Woozi engaged in what appeared to be a deeply technical conversation about acoustic design elements.

"They get along well," Minghao observed quietly, coming to stand beside her.

"Surprisingly well," Y/N agreed. "Though I'm not sure the world is ready for Seungkwan and Jun joining forces."

"Too late," Minghao noted, nodding toward where the two were clearly plotting something, occasional glances in their direction confirming that Y/N and Minghao were the subject of whatever scheme they were developing.

"We should probably be concerned about that," Y/N said.

"Definitely," Minghao agreed, echoing her earlier assessment.

Before they could investigate further, Joshua approached with news.

"The committee was impressed," he told them. "Very impressed. They've asked me to inform you that deliberations may be abbreviated—they're leaning strongly toward full approval with minimal revisions."

"That's wonderful news," Y/N said, relief and pride washing through her. After everything they'd been through, the validation of their shared vision meant more than she'd expected.

"There's something else," Joshua continued. "The city planning department was so taken with your integrated approach that they're considering a larger initiative—a series of sustainable urban interventions throughout Seoul, using your river project as a prototype. They'd be interested in discussing this with both of you, regardless of which firm ultimately leads the river project construction."

Y/N exchanged a look with Minghao, both processing the implications of this unexpected opportunity.

"We'd be very interested in those discussions," Minghao replied, his calm words belying the significance of Joshua's news.

After Joshua departed, Seungkwan appeared with an announcement of his own. "Attention, architectural power couple and assorted friends! We've arranged a celebration at The Garden Terrace. No excuses, attendance mandatory, first round on Jeonghan because he lost the betting pool about when you two would finally get together!"

"We haven't officially—" Y/N began, but Seungkwan waved away her objection.

"Semantics! You're holding hands right now!"

Y/N looked down in surprise to find that, indeed, her hand had somehow found Minghao's during their conversation with Joshua. She hadn't even noticed.

"The evidence is undeniable," Jun declared solemnly. "Subconscious hand-holding indicates advanced relationship development."

"That's not a real thing," Minghao told his friend with fond exasperation.

"And yet," Jun gestured meaningfully at their joined hands, "empirical evidence suggests otherwise."

Rather than pulling away in embarrassment as she might have weeks earlier, Y/N simply adjusted her grip on Minghao's hand more comfortably. "Fine. We'll come to your celebration. But no embarrassing toasts or relationship interrogations."

"We make no such promises," Seungkwan replied cheerfully. "See you all there in thirty minutes!"

The Garden Terrace was exactly the kind of place Y/N and Minghao might have designed together—a rooftop restaurant with traditional elements reimagined through contemporary sustainable design. Living walls provided natural cooling, solar canopies created dappled light patterns across wooden floors, and the careful arrangement of spaces allowed both community interaction and private conversation.

Their friends had reserved a corner section with spectacular views of the city at sunset. Y/N and Minghao found themselves at the center of a boisterous celebration, their successful presentation and potential new opportunities providing the official reason for festivities, though everyone present knew the unofficial cause for celebration was more personal.

"A toast!" Seungkwan announced, raising his glass. "To the most unlikely architectural partnership in Seoul—proof that opposites not only attract but create award-winning public spaces in the process!"

"And to new beginnings," Jeonghan added, with a meaningful look at Minghao. "Professional and otherwise."

Everyone raised their glasses, the genuine warmth of the moment overriding Y/N's usual aversion to being the center of attention. Under the table, Minghao's hand found hers again, a quiet connection amid the lively celebration.

As the evening progressed, Y/N found herself in conversation with Jun while Minghao was engaged in discussion with Woozi across the table.

"He's different with you," Jun observed, nodding toward Minghao. "More himself, somehow."

"What do you mean?" Y/N asked, curious about this perspective from someone who'd known Minghao far longer than she had.

"Minghao has always contained himself," Jun explained. "Precise control in everything—his art, his work, his emotions. Necessary for navigating family expectations and corporate politics, but it became second nature. With you, he's still Minghao—still thoughtful and measured—but there's a freedom to it now. Less constraint, more authentic expression."

Y/N considered this, watching Minghao as he listened intently to Woozi's apparently passionate discourse on acoustic design. There was a subtle openness to his posture and expressions that did seem different from when they'd first met.

"I'm glad," she said simply. "He deserves that freedom."

"And what about you?" Jun asked. "Your friends tell me you've changed too."

"Do they now?" Y/N replied dryly, making a mental note to have words with Seungkwan about discussing her personal development with Minghao's friends.

"Apparently you smile more," Jun said with a grin. "And have developed a surprising tolerance for aesthetic considerations in your designs."

"Function still comes first," Y/N insisted, though she couldn't deny how her perspective had evolved. "But I've come to appreciate that beauty can be functional in its own way—creating spaces people connect with emotionally means they value and protect those spaces."

"Exactly what Minghao has always believed," Jun noted. "See? Perfect harmony."

"Hardly perfect," Y/N laughed. "We still argue constantly."

"Creative tension," Jun corrected. "Essential for innovation."

Across the table, Minghao caught her eye and smiled—that rare, genuine smile that still made her heart do ridiculous things in her chest. He excused himself from his conversation and made his way to her side.

"Stealing my architect, Jun?" he asked, his tone light.

"Just confirming you're worthy of her," Jun replied with theatrical seriousness. "The jury remains deliberating."

"A reasonable concern," Minghao acknowledged, surprising Y/N with his playfulness. "I have similar questions myself."

"On that note, I'll leave you two to your existential relationship doubts," Jun said, standing. "Seungkwan is demonstrating what he calls 'the dance of sustainable architecture' to Mingyu, and I can't miss that."

As Jun departed, Minghao took his place beside Y/N. "Having second thoughts yet?" he asked quietly.

"About?"

"This." He gestured between them. "Us. The complicated personal and professional entanglement we've somehow created."

Y/N considered the question seriously. "Second thoughts? No. Occasional moments of disbelief that I'm actually involved with someone who once represented everything I professionally opposed? Absolutely."

"The feeling is mutual," Minghao assured her, his eyes warm with amusement. "My uncle still can't comprehend it. He called yesterday to ask if this was an elaborate professional strategy to absorb your environmental expertise into a new luxury brand."

"Is it?" Y/N teased.

"If so, it's a strategy that's backfired spectacularly," Minghao replied. "I find myself increasingly aligned with your environmental priorities rather than his profit margins."

"Terrible business sense," Y/N agreed solemnly. "But excellent ethical development."

Their conversation was interrupted by Seungkwan's return, slightly flushed from whatever architectural dance he'd been performing.

"Stop being antisocial in your little couple bubble," he admonished. "We're planning the housewarming party for your new joint studio."

"Our what?" Y/N asked, bewildered.

"Your new studio," Seungkwan repeated as if it were obvious. "For the independent practice you're obviously going to establish together. We've already started a Pinterest board for the design. Very minimal but with plants everywhere. Mingyu suggested a coffee station that would make most cafes jealous."

"We haven't discussed—" Minghao began.

"Details," Seungkwan dismissed with a wave. "The concept is solid. 'XYN Design' or something similarly clever that combines your names. Sustainable luxury for the conscious elite. We're trademarking taglines as we speak."

Y/N looked at Minghao, expecting shared exasperation at their friends' presumption. Instead, she found him looking thoughtful.

"It's not an unreasonable concept," he said carefully. "Combining our complementary expertise in a dedicated practice."

"You're actually considering this?" Y/N asked, surprised by his openness to Seungkwan's meddling.

"I'm considering many possibilities," Minghao clarified. "Including professional collaboration that extends beyond our current project." After a pause, he added more quietly, "If that's something you might be interested in exploring."

Before Y/N could respond, Seungkwan clapped his hands delightedly. "See? It's practically decided! Jun, they're discussing the studio concept! Operation Architecture Romance is advancing to phase three!"

"We have phases?" Y/N asked, alarmed.

"So many phases," Seungkwan confirmed cheerfully before hurrying off to update Jun on this development.

Left momentarily alone despite the bustling celebration around them, Y/N turned to Minghao. "Are we really discussing a joint studio?"

"We're discussing possibilities," Minghao clarified. "No commitment, just... consideration of potential futures."

The careful way he framed it—open but not pressuring—was so characteristic of his approach to everything. Y/N found herself appreciating this thoughtfulness even as part of her marveled at how quickly her life had transformed.

"Three months ago, I would have laughed at the mere suggestion of working with you long-term," she admitted. "Now it seems like the most natural evolution imaginable."

"Evolution rather than revolution," Minghao observed. "Gradual integration of complementary elements."

"You make it sound so architectural," Y/N smiled.

"It's how I understand the world," he acknowledged. "Through spatial relationships and balanced tensions."

"And how do you understand us?" she asked, surprising herself with the directness of the question.

Minghao considered this with characteristic thoughtfulness. "As a harmonious counterpoint," he said finally. "Different melodies that create something more complex and beautiful together than either could alone."

The poetry of his answer caught Y/N off guard. For someone so reserved, Minghao occasionally revealed unexpected depth of feeling through carefully chosen words.

"That's beautiful," she said softly.

"It's accurate," he replied simply. "At least from my perspective."

Around them, their friends continued celebrating, occasional glances and smiles in their direction suggesting that their quiet conversation was not going unnoticed. Y/N found she didn't mind the attention as much as she might have expected. There was something affirming about having their connection witnessed and supported by people who mattered to them both.

"Whatever we decide professionally," Y/N said, returning to the question of their potential collaboration, "I know I want to continue what we've started personally. Despite how unexpected and occasionally inconvenient it might be."

"Inconvenient?" Minghao raised an eyebrow.

"Well, yes," Y/N laughed. "Do you know how often I have to hear Seungkwan say 'I told you so'? At least three times daily. And my entire professional identity was partly built on criticizing exactly the kind of development your family company represents. Plus, you're annoyingly particular about material selections and have opinions about literally every design element down to the smallest detail."

"All valid points," Minghao acknowledged, the hint of a smile playing around his lips. "Though I could note similar inconveniences—Jun's unbearable smugness, my uncle's disappointment, your stubborn insistence on prioritizing function even when aesthetic adjustments would create negligible efficiency impacts..."

"See? Completely impractical connection," Y/N concluded, her smile belying her words.

"And yet," Minghao said softly, taking her hand, "here we are."

"Here we are," Y/N agreed, feeling a sense of rightness that defied all her previous notions of compatibility. "Designing something neither of us planned but both of us need."

Six Months Later

Y/N adjusted the placement of the architectural model on the display table, stepping back to assess its impact in the gallery lighting. Around her, staff made final preparations for the evening's exhibition opening—"Sustainable Harmony: New Directions in Urban Design."

The gallery space—a renovated industrial building with exposed brick walls and carefully preserved structural elements—provided the perfect backdrop for their first major presentation as partners in XYN Studio, the name they'd ultimately embraced despite Y/N's initial eye-rolling at Seungkwan's suggestion.

The past six months had been a whirlwind of change. The Hangang Riverfront project had received unanimous committee approval and was now under construction, with Y/N and Minghao serving as design consultants. Their joint studio had formed organically from their continued collaboration, gathering surprising momentum as clients sought their unique integration of sustainability and aesthetics.

And personally... Y/N smiled to herself, remembering the incredulous looks on her friends' faces when she'd casually mentioned moving in with Minghao just three months into their relationship. For someone who had always prided herself on careful planning and methodical decision-making, the speed of these developments should have been alarming. Instead, each step had felt like a natural progression, as if they were simply acknowledging what had already formed between them.

"Perfect," Minghao's voice came from behind her as he surveyed the model placement. "The lighting highlights the water elements exactly as we intended."

Y/N turned to find him carrying two cups of tea—oolong for himself, black with one sugar for her. The simple gesture of remembering her preference, as he had from their earliest collaboration, still touched her in unexpected ways.

"Nervous?" she asked, accepting the cup.

"Appropriately alert to the professional significance of the evening," he corrected, making her smile. Minghao rarely admitted to anything as unrefined as nervousness, though she'd learned to recognize the subtle signs—the slightly more precise adjustment of his cuffs, the extra moment spent considering his words.

"It's a beautiful exhibition," Y/N assured him, looking around at the carefully curated display of their work. "The perfect introduction of XYN Studio to the wider design community."

Their exhibition showcased a series of urban interventions—some completed, others conceptual—that demonstrated their shared vision. Each project balanced environmental innovation with cultural and aesthetic excellence, creating spaces that served both planet and people with equal consideration.

"Your parents are coming tonight?" Minghao asked, a hint of that not-nervousness in his voice.

"Yes," Y/N confirmed. "They're excited to finally meet you properly. My father has read every article about your departure from XM at least twice. He's fascinated by your professional evolution."

"And your criticism of my family's company?" Minghao asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Also fascinated by that," Y/N admitted with a laugh. "He finds our entire relationship 'conceptually intriguing,' which is high praise from an environmental engineering professor."

"And your uncle?" she asked in return. "Any change in his position?"

Minghao's expression grew more thoughtful. "Some. The success of the river project has made him reconsider certain assumptions. He's even incorporated some sustainability elements into recent XM developments—though more as marketing strategy than core principle."

"Progress nonetheless," Y/N observed.

"Incremental change," Minghao agreed. "Sometimes that's how transformation happens—not through dramatic rejection but gradual integration of new ideas."

The philosophy could have applied equally to their personal journey—from professional adversaries to reluctant collaborators to partners in every sense. Not a sudden conversion but a gradual recognition of complementary values beneath seemingly opposed approaches.

Their moment of reflection was interrupted by the arrival of familiar voices—their friends coming early to preview the exhibition before the official opening.

"It's MAGNIFICENT!" Seungkwan declared before he'd even fully entered the gallery, Jeonghan and Woozi following with more moderate but equally supportive expressions.

"Professional bias noted but appreciated," Y/N replied dryly as Seungkwan embraced her enthusiastically.

"No bias, only objective recognition of excellence," Seungkwan insisted. "Though I do take partial credit for facilitating the partnership that made this possible."

"How exactly did you facilitate it?" Woozi asked skeptically.

"Through strategic encouragement and creating opportunities for romance to blossom," Seungkwan explained grandly. "Also, I totally called it from day one."

"We all called it," Jeonghan corrected. "Some of us were just more vocal about it."

As they bantered, Jun, Mingyu, and Wonwoo arrived, completing what had become their merged circle of friends. The easy integration of their once-separate groups mirrored Y/N and Minghao's own blending of lives and practices—unexpected but surprisingly natural.

"The central concept is exceptionally well-articulated," Wonwoo observed as he studied one of the display boards. "The balance between innovation and accessibility is precisely calibrated."

"High praise from architecture's most discerning analyst," Jun translated for Y/N. "He stayed up all night reading your design manifesto and called it 'refreshingly substantive.'"

As their friends explored the exhibition, offering commentary and support in their various styles, Y/N found herself standing slightly apart with Minghao, observing the scene with shared appreciation.

"Did you ever imagine this?" she asked quietly. "When we were first forced to collaborate on the river project? That we'd end up here?"

"Never," Minghao admitted, his honesty one of the many things she'd come to value deeply. "I expected a difficult professional exercise that would ultimately remain a compromise between opposed visions. I never anticipated discovering such fundamental alignment beneath our surface differences."

"Nor did I," Y/N agreed. "I was so certain I understood exactly who you were and what you represented. Being wrong has never been so satisfying."

Minghao's expression softened into the smile that was still rare in professional settings but increasingly common in their private moments. "Perhaps that's the most valuable outcome of our collaboration—the recognition that initial judgments rarely capture the complexity of another person's perspective."

"That, and the truly exceptional architecture we create together," Y/N added with a grin.

"That too," Minghao acknowledged. "Though I maintain the personal discovery has been the more revolutionary development."

Before Y/N could respond, Seungkwan's voice rose above the general conversation. "Everyone! Attention please! Jun and I have an announcement!"

Y/N and Minghao exchanged wary glances, all too familiar with the creative chaos that tended to result from Seungkwan and Jun's collaborative ideas.

"As the self-appointed chroniclers of the greatest architectural love story of our generation," Seungkwan began dramatically, "Jun and I have created something special to commemorate this exhibition opening."

"We call it 'From Rivalry to Romance: The Architectural Journey of Y/N and Minghao,'" Jun continued, producing a tablet with a flourish. "A digital scrapbook documenting your transformation from enemies to partners."

"You did not," Y/N said, horrified fascination in her voice.

"We absolutely did," Seungkwan confirmed. "Complete with candid photos, overheard quotes, and a timeline of significant moments—including Y/N's legendary takedown of Minghao's Dongdaemun Plaza extension in Sustainable Design Quarterly, which we now recognize as sublimated attraction expressed through professional criticism."

"That was genuine criticism," Y/N protested, though she couldn't help laughing at the absurdity of the situation.

"The glass curtain wall was legitimately problematic from an energy management perspective," Minghao agreed, surprising everyone by joining her defense.

"See? Still perfectly aligned in their architectural principles," Jun declared triumphantly. "True love."

As their friends gathered to view what promised to be an equally embarrassing and endearing documentation of their relationship, Y/N turned to Minghao. "Should we be concerned about this becoming public?"

"Definitely," Minghao replied, echoing their now-familiar exchange. But his expression remained calm, even quietly amused. "Though I find I'm less concerned about public perception than I once would have been."

It was true, Y/N realized. Both of them had grown more comfortable with the unconventional nature of their connection—professional rivals turned partners, environmental advocate and luxury developer finding common ground, opposites creating harmony rather than discord.

As the gallery began filling with exhibition guests—fellow architects, clients, critics, and friends—Y/N felt a moment of perspective on the journey that had brought them here. Not just the architectural achievements displayed around them, but the personal evolution that had made those achievements possible.

Later that evening, after successful introductions between families, enthusiastic reception of their work, and countless congratulations from colleagues, Y/N and Minghao finally found a quiet moment alone in the corner of the gallery.

"A successful launch," Minghao observed, his composed exterior barely hinting at the satisfaction she knew he felt.

"For the studio and the exhibition," Y/N agreed. "Though I could have done without Seungkwan and Jun's multimedia presentation of our 'architectural romance.'"

"It was surprisingly well-produced," Minghao noted with that hint of humor she'd come to treasure. "The timeline of our evolving design approach alongside our personal development showed genuine analytical thinking."

"Of course you would appreciate the organizational structure," Y/N laughed. "Even in embarrassing friend interventions, you find design elements to admire."

"Pattern recognition is fundamental to architectural thinking," Minghao replied solemnly, though his eyes betrayed his amusement.

Y/N studied him in the gallery lighting—the elegant lines of his profile, the careful precision of his movements, the subtle warmth in his expression that most people missed but she had learned to read fluently. All the elements that had once seemed to represent values opposed to her own now recognized as simply different expressions of shared principles.

"I love you," she said simply—a statement they'd exchanged privately before but never in a professional context. "Not despite our differences but because of how they've helped us both grow."

Minghao's expression softened in the way reserved only for her. "I love you too," he replied, his quiet voice carrying the depth of feeling he expressed more through actions than words. "You've changed how I see everything—architecture, sustainability, purpose, balance. It's been the most valuable revelation of my career."

"Just your career?" Y/N teased gently.

"Of my life," Minghao amended, taking her hand with characteristic intentionality. "The most unexpected and essential discovery I never knew I needed to make."

Around them, their exhibition—the physical manifestation of their shared vision—drew appreciation from the design community that had once seen them as representatives of opposed approaches. Their friends and families mingled in unlikely but harmonious combination. And between them, something had formed that neither could have designed alone—a connection that balanced strength with vulnerability, principle with flexibility, certainty with growth.

Not a compromise between conflicting visions, but a new creation altogether—unexpected, challenging, and ultimately more beautiful than either could have imagined when they first faced each other across that conference room, certain they understood exactly who the other was and what they represented.

The most exquisite designs, they had both discovered, emerge not from perfect agreement but from productive tension—opposing forces finding balance to create something neither could achieve alone.

In architecture, and in love.

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captain-joongz · 9 months ago

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i'm back with another delicious little scenario, this time for our boy Hwa~~ hope you enjoy yourself!

hard hours are open, inbox is ready for you darlings!!! <3

HARD HOURS THOUGHTS

warnings: voyeurism, photographing sex, fingering, squirting, exhibitionism, nudity and nude photography

now, let's talk about photography major Seonghwa who uses his bestie for his final project - displays of tasteful nudity

when his professor told Seonghwa their final project in the summer semester would be tasteful nude photography, he immediately thought of you - even though it took some effort to persuade you to help him

as his bff of course you'd do anything for him, but this seemed a little far - you've never been naked in front of him, but in the end you agreed after he promised to buy you those shoes you'd been pining after - none of you could have anticipated how this would end up

Hwa chose his bed as the place and after some hesitation you stripped down to panties. it started innocent enough, with you lying on the bed and Seonghwa kneeling over you with his camera, hands barely touching you to move you to his liking. but after a while he'd get frustrated that his vision just wasn't coming through

his touches would get firmer, more demanding, grabbing roughly onto your flesh and pulling you into different positions, the artist's focus fully consuming him - and shamefully you'd start to get wet. especially when the lines started to blur and he asked for more sensuality, more eroticism and you bowed and bent under his camera, felt yourself up for the lense and grew breathless when his dark eyes took you in and appraised you

after that it didn't take long for his fingers to wander - to make it more authentic, to draw your expressions out better - just to help you out to sell it, that's what he whispered when he slipped them between your thighs and caressed your slick cunt. before you knew it your panties were off and he was three fingers in deep, wild strokes making you thrash about the bed

somehow he still managed to keep taking photos - the shutter sound and occasional flash interrupting your pleasure muddled mind as you writhed under him. and what a vision you made - body twisted beautifully, hands tied and twisted into the bedding as you sought to ground yourself, face an amalgamation of lust, pleasure and gratification.

and he'd be damned if he didn't capture the look of your climax, if he missed the clear shot of your sweet ecstasy

your orgasm somehow creeped up on you - the pleasure was so intense that you didn't even notice when it started boiling over until you were clenching on his long slender fingers and crying out, the waves of pleasure robbing you of your breath

and Hwa did take a photo of it, and weeks later after he went through heaps of shaky blurred photos depicting your little romp and salvaged a few of them, it was the centre piece of his exhibition

divider by @cafekitsune

#hard hours #ateez hard hours #ateez smut #seonghwa smut

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endless-ineffabilities · 11 months ago

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chemical override (6)

Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader

a/n: I hope you all have found ways to cope after the breakup, but here all your questions will be answered on what went down pre-August! Special shoutout to @just-fics-station @thepurplecrown @clarkysblog @hotdismylife and @sprinklesprinkle888 for sharing your ideas and indulging me with the lovely, crazy discourse!

To everyone, I am so chuffed at how this has become OUR story - our lil self-indulgent Ewan Nation production. You all are aces <3

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

In the aftermath of the breakup, the reader and Ewan throw themselves into their work, trying (and failing) to avoid any trace of the other. Will they remain this way - former lovers doomed to drift in each other's orbit?

Some time before August

New York City

The lush office was laden with expensive wooden antiques, one side with built-in shelves displaying film awards and plaques of varying degrees of prestige. A full glass minibar occupied the other side.

The casting director introduced himself as Bruce, insisting that Ewan call him by his first name and not any of that "sir or similar stick-up-the-ass names". Ewan can see him as a mentor or maybe even a friend, Bruce insisted.

After all, they were going to help each other out a lot.

The discussion was straightforward enough, never mind the saccharine tone Bruce seemed to be so good at. Aimed at making Ewan feel welcome, coddling him, remarking with awe at his projects thus far. But there was a fakeness to it. Ewan steeled himself, trying to adapt to the style of conversation. After all, if he is in this for the long haul, then he would have to get used to these situations.

Bruce appraised him, leaning back on his leather swivel chair. "How are you with the fantasy genre? All that YA, lovesick stuff the kids eat up so eagerly nowadays? Personally, I haven't got the taste for it, but it always makes bank, if you know what I mean."

"Oh, well, I'm a fan of all movies. I definitely see why the fantasy genre has made such an impact on audiences, especially with the romance element, you know, I get the appeal."

"Well, son, we've got a solid franchise in our hands here. Some adaptation of an elf-human love story, mind you, it sound ridiculous, but you know how it is. And the team seems to be in agreement - you fit the bill for the male lead. The male elf lead - " he almost guffawed at the thought, then collected himself " - hope you don't mind my saying that you've got elvish features yourself. Long nose, long jaw, lanky. The teens are going to eat you up."

"Ah," Ewan smiled curtly, nodding. There was a backhanded compliment if he ever heard one. "Well, sir, I've read the script - at least, the bit that was sent to me - and it looks quite promising. I'd be honoured to - "

"Of course, of course!" Bruce exclaimed in pleasure, cutting Ewan off mid-sentence. "And there's the case of your leading lady, and this all boils down to chemistry as you know. Our top contender is that Jenna Ortega girl from the Netflix show, you know her?"

Ewan nodded, well aware. He's seen her work, and thinks that she is a top actress of her generation, but leave it to Bruce to reduce her to being that girl from the Netflix show.

"Yes, she's a very talented actress," Ewan replied.

Bruce hums in agreement, head bobbing as a smirk materialises on his face. "Think she's a looker?" he said openly, without shame.

Ewan laughed nervously, his words caught in his throat.

Bruce, characteriscally oblivious to the discomfort of others, carried on. "I only ask because we're going to need you two to be pretty chummy with each other when you jump on this project. It's kind of a condition of the whole thing, but really nothing to concern yourself with." He waved a hand in the air, his proposition barely carrying any weight in his mind. But Ewan was catching on, and he started to develop a dislike about the whole deal.

"What do you mean?" Ewan asked.

"It's pretty common in this business, son. There's a reason why young, new actors like yourself opt to remain unattached so to speak, so they're always open to a PR arrangement or, you know, just so their - your - hoards of fans would think they got a chance with you," Bruce explains lazily. "In this case, since you and Ortega are, as I said, unattached, getting you two together would fuckin' do wonders for our movie."

Our movie, he said, convinced that Ewan was all in, because why would any young actor refuse such a golden opportunity? Franchises like this can set up an entire mainstream Hollywood career.

Ewan thought that he wasn't unattached. Granted, his date with you was yet to happen, but he already felt bound to you. He wished you were the one tapped to be his love interest. Very little acting would be needed there. Maybe he might even be inclined to go along with the idea of selling the relationship, using it for publicity for the film, but even that made him uneasy.

The industry offered a lot of privileges, but more often than not, they come at a cost.

"Sir, I - "

"Bruce."

"Right, sorry. Bruce, I have to tell you that I'm not exactly unattached."

"Got a partner?"

Ewan actually found himself smiling at the thought of you being called his partner. His first easy smile since entering this office. "Yes, she's an actress herself," he agreed.

"I heard of her?" Bruce asked with obvious disinterest. You were but a wedge in his flawless plan.

"She's kind of a new talent like me, but she's brilliant. She plays Alyna Rivers in our show."

"Ah her," Bruce loosened up a little. "I get it, she's a piece."

Ewan cleared his throat loudly, his jaw clenching on instinct. "So, like I said, I'm with her. I'm sorry but this whole PR arrangement with Jenna wouldn't work."

"Look, kid, I want my movie to do well, alright? I got a lot invested here. This PR thing has proven to be highly bankable time and time again. If you don't trust me, I can ask the team to show you the data on all that. It's a lot of boring numbers, but shit, the numbers are never wrong."

"I don't need to see - "

"If you wanna be with your girl, you can, but you just gotta learn to hide it. Sweep it under the rug, you know. Don't canoodle in public, you crazy kids," Bruce offered, like that made things any better.

"You want me to hide my relationship?"

"Hey, now, come on. Word gets around. Isn't your girl also doing this exact same thing with Jacob Elordi?"

"Not anymore, I don't think," Ewan clarifies, "and that was... that was hardly anything. They weren't obligated to do it. It just worked by chance because they were both single for a time."

"Po-ta-to, po-tah-to." Bruce clicked his tongue before making his next point. "So you see how it works, your thing with Ortega won't be any different."

"Do I have a choice?" There it is, the defining factor.

Bruce smiled slowly. The calculating and menacing air about him intensified, and it was obvious he was not there to be Ewan's friend.

"It would be stupid to refuse something like this, kid."

Ewan's blue eyes flashed in return. None of this was ideal, but his nan raised him well, and he knew better than to falter on his values in times of trial.

"Sir, what's stupid is if you ask me to hide my real relationship for the sake of mere publicity for a film."

"Stupid you say?" Bruce sneered, having already discarded Ewan in his mind, his fragile ego bruised. "What a shame."

There wasn't much to say after that. Bruce was clearly not disinclined to reveal the ice that settled in his veins, and it dawned on Ewan that it had always been the case. There was no true hospitality here.

For bigwig casting director-slash-execs like Bruce, this was a transaction. And Ewan was not about to put what he has, or what he could have, with you on the line.

There has to be another way to advance his career. If not bigger productions, then at least those with less domineering producers.

"That is a shame," Ewan said, getting up from his seat. "I won't waste any more of your time, sir. Thank you for considering me."

Bruce's eyes darkened even further. "You're actually refusing me? For some girl?"

Another genuine smile formed on Ewan's face at the thought of you. Some girl.

But you're not just some girl. He nodded without a trace of doubt in his mind, before reaching out to shake Bruce's hand. "If you don't mind, sir... I have to go and see my darling."

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Near the end of August

Los Angeles

The modern space sported a minimalist yet rustic feel, the interiors a blend of sterile white and sleek wooden surfaces. Very LA, as they say. The windowed walls offered plenty of light, as well as precious views of the valley below.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Donna," you greeted Ewan's publicist as she ushered you in her LA office.

"No problem at all, sweetheart," she said. "Please, have a seat. Would you like some coffee or tea? Ewan always has his coffee with way, way too much sugar. Mind you, if that kid wasn't active and boxing all the time, I'd be worried for his health."

You smiled fondly at her genuine concern. "Don't even mention the cigarettes."

"Oh, yeah," she scoffed, settling down on the chair across from you. She could have sat down at her desk, making the meeting more official, but Donna's always had a friendly and open way about her. "So, my sweet, how's your new movie coming up?"

You respond eagerly. The dialogue flowed freely, talking about your film and the lukewarm reception of season 2 of House of The Dragon. And finally, Ewan.

"I really thought he would get the Greta Gerwig film," you said. "Everyone said he was perfect for it. I think Greta herself had nothing but praises for him when they met on Zoom."

She sighed thoughtfully, "I thought so too. And, theoretically, he did have that one almost booked up. But there was an issue with one of the producers, which - I don't even want to get into that."

You shook your head, catching on whom she hinted at. "Donna, I heard... well, it didn't go too well in New York, didn't it? Ewan told me about it but... if you can tell me more, I just want to understand why - "

"Sweetheart," she offered a smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes, "you should talk about this with Ewan."

"I tried. But he wouldn't budge. Mallory told me... that it might have been because of me that he didn't get the role? And also why he's struggling to get roles now? Donna, I... I can't have that."

It took some time for her to formulate a response. She didn't want to step in something that's none of her business. Your relationship with Ewan is yours. But when his career is on the line, she supposed that she needed to have some say in that.

"He met with this top producer in New York. This real old money Hollywood guy. For decades, he's built careers for the greats, you know - Pitt, DiCaprio, Theron, and whatnot. There was a franchise project practically offered to him on a plate, but Ewan refused, because a non-negotiable was that he would have to hide you in favour of a PR arrangement with his leading lady."

You swallowed, the weight of the truth making itself clear. "Couldn't he have just done the movie without that?"

"You would think," she grimaced, "but some producers... when they want something, they have to get it. And well, Bruce wasn't lying, that would have sold the movie well."

"I thought we were past this," you expressed sadly. "I understand how PR relationships work. Just recently, I found myself kind of in the middle of one. But there was no pressure, it wasn't forced on us, and it was meant to be all in good fun."

"I know, sweetheart," she insisted, reaching out to squeeze your hand. "Bruce is an outlier now. Most of the time you do get lucky, with an all-around supportive production team, just like with your project with Elordi."

You hummed in agreement on that positive note, but your mind kept drifting back to Ewan.

Donna continued, wrapping up her story, "but Bruce is still here, and he still has a lot of power. But you know, it'll be fine. Ewan's got such a huge fanbase and so much talent that it'll only be a matter of time before something else knocks on his door."

You wanted to share her sense of optimism, but something ate at you. What else will Ewan have to sacrifice just to be with you? This was his dream, his one dream, and you were standing in the way. How much longer before he is offered another project but he refuses to take it for your sake? Your thoughts blurred together, bordering on irrational, but you couldn't help it.

All you could picture was the unabashed sincerity on his face, that sense of wonder, when he told you that acting had always been his dream.

Being tied down to you, this early in his career, would surely only hurt him. And you don't think you're worth it.

"Ewan loves you, sweetheart. Anyone with eyes can see that," Donna said after a while, heeding the storm brewing in your expression.

He loves you. It was true.

Less than a month in, and you've already found yourself with a love that you've never felt before. And perhaps never will again.

And that was the problem.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

Late September

The podcast moderators are overly welcoming, if not a little loud for Ewan's taste.

The BBC podcast is called Loose Ends, and it's one of the first things Ewan agreed to take on upon returning to England.

He had wanted to head straight home to Derby, to bury himself in his heartache and bitterness, but the team for the show tapped him for a couple more promotional stints, riding on the high of the season finale. And who better than Ewan to offer to the media, the undeniable fan favourite.

Clad in an old gray shirt and blue jeans, people would think he just rolled right out of bed. He didn't really have the motivation to put in more effort. The only striking thing about him is his newly bleached head of hair, supervised by his stylist for a photoshoot a few days ago.

It was ironic, the timing of such a change. Ewan knew that if word got out that you dumped him, he would never hear the end of the joke of that being the reason for his hairstyle change, typical of all heartbroken sods.

Everyone bursts into laughter when he tells them about his mum's reaction to his nude scene. It feels like going through the motions, and he must have been so out of it, so forlorn, that his team prepared an outline for him prior to the interview. The questions and answers all pre-agreed.

Make them laugh. React as required. Remember to speak when spoken to. The mantra goes on in his head.

And don't think about her.

An impossible task, worsened when a moderator goes off script and asks, "Now it wasn't me who saw this, as I'm not on social media myself, but one of our interns did mention that you ventured into Instagram recently? Is that true?"

Oh fuck.

"Mmm, yeah, I guess," Ewan laughs nervously, his hand massaging the back of his neck in a self-soothing motion.

"And your first post went viral? What can you tell us about that? Our listeners would love to know."

"Uhhhm - " He remembers that the broadcast is live, and he can't exactly ask them to edit this part out, so he quickly settles for something indirect. Inconclusive. Safe. " - did it go viral? I'm not too sure how that thing works. I haven't used any kind of social media before."

"Apparently it did! And it had to do with the subject featured in that photo, Ewan. Your costar - "

"Mmm," Ewan stops him there, "didn't you say that you don't use Instagram?"

"No, I think I'm too old!" The moderator laughs.

"It's insane, that whole thing," Ewan shakes his head. "I don't know how to handle it. I'm logged off most of the time."

"Oh, you log off?"

"Yeah, yeah, helps me keep my focus, you know. Keep calm and all that."

"It can get frivolous, can't it?"

Ewan hums in agreement, and thankfully, the moderator moves on to his last question. One that does not breach the subject of you.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

Another day means yet another media stint for Ewan, this time for Now TV.

Still in London, his stylist Davey and the rest of the team prepare him for a day of brief interview clips, to be posted on the social media pages of the company.

Davey had half-joked about Ewan needing even more concealer than usual, the shadows under his eyes having significantly deepened after the breakup.

Some of his team have gotten wind of what happened. They would curiously ask about you, how often Ewan keeps in touch with you while you're on set...

You must be on FaceTime everyday!

Is it hard to be doing long-distance so soon?

Do you miss her? Is that why you're not getting any rest?

...but Ewan would only laugh uncomfortably, dismiss it by bringing up another topic or shifting the attention to someone else, or excuse himself to go for a smoke.

He'd been drowning himself in cigarettes and caffeine during the day, pint after pint in the nighttime. Aimless.

He is coping. He knows how it must look, but he deserves this. He deserves to drift for a while. It's the only thing he can do to keep himself from jumping on the next flight to Atlanta and begging for your hand back.

You said you love him. You did. He hangs on to it like a beacon in a storm. No matter how pointless it may seem, with you choosing someone else over him.

Work is becoming something of an anchor, something that keeps him from spiralling. He's an actor, and he has always wanted to be an actor. People now have expectations of him, and he will answer the call.

The interview session begins with generic questioning, stuff he's answered before on several occasions.

How special is the bond between dragon and rider?

What is a funny moment from set that you can share?

How similar are Aemond and Daemon?

All safe. He's proud of himself for not breaking mental clarity thus far. You're in the back of his mind, dormant as a memory, and not something looming darkly over him. For a while, at least.

But then he is asked, If you could invite any 5 people to a Ewan Mitchell dinner party, who would you pick?

"Matthew McConaughey - "

You.

" - Bruce Lee. I think they could strike up an interesting conversation - "

Your name echoes in his mind, and he can't control it.

" - Andrea Riseborough. She's just a chameleon, like in any role she undertakes -

You have great taste. Even if you would make him eat spicy food again, he'll take it. He'll endure anything for you.

He's stumped for a second, lump in his throat, and his effort in avoiding you leads him to mention someone who will always be a comfort to him.

" - Maybe my nan, because I miss her -

Your name. He has to say your name. Who else? Think of someone else.. but who else? Who would be better?

" - and then, another person. Let's make it from the show... it would be Alyna Rivers."

"Oh really?" The interviewer asks. She's not really meant to respond in this instance, but she knows that the fans would go crazy about any mention of you or your character, so why not jump on this opportunity? "Can you tell us why you chose her?"

"Uhhm, well, she's just an amazing character, you know, fiercely loyal, beautiful, tenacious," Ewan replies easily, "so yeah, she would make for good company."

It is obvious that he is describing you just as much as he does Alyna Rivers, and no doubt, the fans will catch on to this detail.

Later, he's asked about his favourite part about season two, and he duly answers, "Seeing more of Aemond and Vhagar's bond and how that perhaps have gotten stronger. Aemond has definitely reined her in, after the accident at Storm's End."

Then, "There are some new additions to the show. Do you have a particular favourite?"

Another obvious piece of bait. And he takes it, he doesn't care anymore. What's the use of denying the truth?

"A favourite new character? Oh, well, uhmm... I really do like Alyna, and I think I've said before that Aemond and her are quite similar in a sense that they both know what they want and how to achieve it. It's just a shame they're on opposing sides, because if those two get together... " he trails off, leaving it up to the audiences to fill in the rest of the thought.

And they eagerly do. The clips where Ewan mentions Alyna get the most traction, flooded with comments that more or less talk of the same thing -

We know why you chose Alyna, Ewan. We know your ways.

He could have said Alys. Or Gwayne. Or even the ghost of Daeron ffs. But nooooo.... it's Alyna Alyna Alyna 😮‍💨

I wonder if she's there behind the scenes

yeah shes definitely lurking in the background!

Aemond and Alyna better have at least a scene together in season 3!!!!!

Someone kidnap Ryan Condal and make him write this

Ewan doesn't see any of it. Not that he's missing out, because he soon feels the need to call his younger cousin to ask her how to turn off his notifications on Instagram.

Day in and day out, his one single post gets dozens of new comments and likes, a brutal reminder of what he's lost. He could just delete it, and get rid of his profile entirely, but he hates to imagine the discourse that would follow.

All the invasive allegations and rumours. So he leaves it be. It makes no difference to him now. Let people believe what they want.

To his chagrin, he finds himself scrolling on his home page once in a while. The addictive element to it was true, and for him, it's exacerbated because the things he sees are often related to you.

Photos of you from fanpages and news accounts. Ones where your friends have tagged you. It's a toxic habit, looking through it all, but he can't help himself.

Then one day, as he's slouched on the seat in his London apartment, phone propped on his knees, he sees a cutout photo of his face on the corner of the screen. He clicks on it, and it's an image of him interposed among different posts. Posts which he apparently liked.

"Oh for fuck's sake," he cusses at himself, reading the caption.

Boyfriend lurking? - Ewan Mitchell may play a formidable TV villain, but in real life, he's just like us. Click on the link in bio to see his series of liked posts!

Dread takes root in him, followed by self-loathing. Why couldn't he just keep off this bloody thing? He takes to the comments to see what he has allegedly liked on accident and it's predictably photos of you - you at a premiere, stills of you as Alyna, and even, heavens fucking forbid, a behind the scenes shot of you getting pretty close with Jacob Elordi on the set of your film.

He vividly remembers seeing that last one, because he went on a bender after coming across it.

Cursing himself and his wayward, sticky fingers, he exits the app and deletes it from his phone.

Whatever goes on there, whatever people might leave on his profile, he washes his hands of it.

He calls up several of his mates, asking them if they want to come over for a few drinks.

"Again, Ewan?" one of them exclaims. "C'mon, you gotta take a breather, mate."

"I don't need a breather." I need her.

"Ewan - "

His composure breaks, all his damned frustrations rising to the surface, and he confesses, "I wonder if she thinks about me."

"Hang in there, mate. We're coming over."

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

October

The director finally yells a satisfied, "Cut!"

It's only taken a good twenty-something takes for you and Jacob to nail a challenging scene. You had been on a roll since the beginning of the shoot, the last few weeks seemingly a breeze on paper, though it's a constant struggle to keep it together.

You've had to quell your internal dialogue so it does not stray to him. His smile. The feel of his skin against yours. His way of subtly picking up on details, and doing sweet things that surprise you as a result.

But you received word just before the scene that a few of your friends have come to visit, waiting back at your trailer - Phia, Fabien and his girlfriend, Bella.

And so, as if on instinct, Ewan is all you can focus on, every repressed memory of him rushing in like a tidal wave.

Do they know? What could you possibly say to justify what you did? You can only hope he took on that project, to give you a bitter sense of vindication.

It's the only thing that keeps it all the bay, the only thing that keeps you from jumping on the next flight to England and grovelling at his door.

Phia has her arms wrapped around you the moment you open the door to your trailer, loudly squealing, "I missed you!"

You sink into the hug, comforted by her presence.

As well as the fact that she represents some connection to Ewan.

Phia, Helaena. Helaena, Aemond. Aemond, Ewan.

It's a sick game to play, but it's what you have.

"Hey, yous," you hug Fabien and Bella in turn. Not long after, you're all lounging on director's chairs right outside your trailer, enjoying a bit of sun.

"How's our big Hollywood star?" Phia quips, her lips curling in her trademark pleasant upturn.

"Hardly a star," you shake your head fondly. "More of an indie darling."

"Of course, of course," she relents, before going on a monologue about how she's been keeping tabs on your project, how she just adores the costume designer whom she spoke to at length while you were working, and how the rest of the cast is rooting for you.

The rest of the cast.

"Ah, are they?" you ask, making a conscious effort to not simply blurt out his name. What does he think? Has he mentioned you at all?

Do they know?

Do they secretly hate you for what you did?

"Mhmm, right Fabs?" she says.

"Oh, definitely." Fabien agrees right away.

"How's your film? Are you done shooting in Philly?" you ask him.

"Just about done, but I think we're doing some final reshoots next week. I'm just glad my girl's here to visit," he slings an arm around Bella, who smiles and leans closer to him.

You smile at the sight, but it visibly falters. Ewan could be visiting you on set right now, just like Bella with Fabien, if you hadn't fucked it all up.

They notice.

"Love," Phia sighs, her tone softening. "I just want you know - we want you know - we're here for you, okay? No matter what you went through with... " A pause. Like saying his name would open up the floodgates.

Your gaze falls to your lap in shame. You pick on invisible lint on your trousers. Bite your lip. Breathe deeply.

Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.

"So you guys know, huh?"

"Well, more or less," Phia says. "I just spoke with... Ewan... recently. He's back in Derby for the time being, and he's - "

"He's a bit rough," Fabien says firmly. He's not taking sides here, but he's heard from Ewan, and he feels the need to have his mate's back. "Look, I don't want to pry, but what happened? It seemed like you guys were doing so well together!"

"You don't have to tell us," Phia adds, shooting Fabien a look. "But if you want to, we're here to listen. We love you both and we just want to help, love."

You feel your eyes welling up. Leave it to Phia to be oh so sweet. You can't lie to them, you don't want to. Even if you did, they would see right through it.

Your friends know you too well.

"I... I miss him."

Phia squeezes your hand, and the whole story is about to spill out of you when you hear your name being called.

It's your assistant Clara, letting you know you're needed back on set.

You swallow back tears, standing on your feet, trying to maintain enough composure so you can grant yourself access back to your character.

"Go do your thing, superstar," Phia smiles comfortingly. "We'll be here when you're ready."

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

November

"I'd like to propose a toast," Tom declares out loud in the empty pub, "to Ewan, Hollywood's new elf... Lord? Prince? Ah sod it, cheers!"

Round the table, Ewan, Fabien, Luke and Elliott all raise their pints with a collective, "Hear, hear!"

The pub has been cleared out for the lads, thanks to a favour called in by the twins, with the owner being their gym buddy and good friend.

"Thank you," Ewan replies, smirking. "I am your new elf prince, address me as such."

"Your ears have never been pointier, mate," Luke quips.

After a month of moping back home in Derby, or recovering as Ewan prefers to put it, he got a call from his manager telling him that the offer from Bruce still stands.

Apparently, the production team for the movie still had him tapped as the prime choice for the lead. After observing his audience metrics and overall viability, they decided that the movie would fare the best with him in it.

They had planted some half-baked announcements in the media, stating that it was Ewan against Joseph Quinn and Manny Jacinto for the role, and the fan reaction veered in Ewan's favour by a landslide.

Even though Bruce had an unsavoury word or two to say about him, he was willing to work past it, so long as Ewan would be more amenable to his demands.

After careful deliberation, Ewan chose to throw caution to the wind, and accept the role. So what if he has to pretend to have a real-life romance with Jenna? This is what you wanted.

"I'm glad you finally came out to see us, mate," Fabien says. "It's been a while."

"Yeah, fuck's sake. Remind us never to break your heart! That was tough to witness, you hunkerin' down out there all mopey and whatnot," Elliott laughs.

"Mmm." Ewan takes a swig of his beer to hide the wince he couldn't hold back. His friends, and most of the cast know by now, not in too much detail, of what went down between the two of you.

A typical short-lived romance of two actors. A summer fling. Most of them would look back and only see it as that.

Even though it was so much more. Even though Ewan still recalls how warm and soft and beautiful you felt as you whimpered underneath him, the loss of you as painful as getting hit by a freight train.

The liquor helps. Burying himself in work helps. Denial... well, that certainly helps the most.

When he goes out to the back garden for a smoke break with Fabien, he tricks himself into believing it's mere curiosity that compels him to say, "Phia mentioned that you guys went to Atlanta."

Fabien is rendered off guard, because he knows what's coming. "Yeah, we did. Bella came with us too. She was visiting me on set," he says, measuredly.

"Mmm." A long drag, a flick of ash towards the ground, an unaffected shrug - and eventually, with as impassive of a tone as he can muster, Ewan asks, "So how is she?"

Fabien smiles knowingly. "She's doing great. Her film's looking pretty good." He's privy to the truth, after he and Phia managed to gently coax it out of you over several martinis at a hotel bar in Atlanta. But he doesn't think it up to him to reveal that to Ewan, out of respect for your privacy.

While he might not share your sentiment, he thinks it's not in his place to tell Ewan that you basically lied for his sake.

But that doesn't mean he won't drop a helpful nugget or two.

"You know, I don't exactly know what's going on... but her and Jacob came across as nothing more than friends."

Ewan's hand freezes mid-air, the cigarette inches from his lips. He loathes the sense of hope that immediately bloomed in his chest. He's so bloody easy. One miniscule hint, and his delusions break through the wall of indifference he worked so hard to build.

"She said she has feelings for him," Ewan stresses, trying to convince himself. What was the fucking point of all this... this pain... if you never did?

"Hey, mate, I dunno," Fabien puts his hands up, "just telling you what I saw."

"It doesn't matter." It does. "She ended it." He wants you back, he will always want you back. "It's better this way."

"Is it?"

Ewan doesn't answer. He doesn't know how to, without grossly embellishing the truth.

Fabien watches his friend, sensing his hesitation as he averts his gaze. One thing becomes clear to him - you and Ewan are far from being over.

So he says, "She misses you, you know."

Ewan regards him with a stony look, one that slowly softens to reveal the broken boy inside. For but a moment, before he clears his throat and throws the butt of his cigarette on the ground.

"Let's head back inside."

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

December

You're back in London, as production for your film is paused for the upcoming holiday season.

Work is supposed to be the last thing on your mind, but it just so happens that your manager has you booked for a chemistry read for a yet undisclosed film.

Phia came over to your apartment, insisting that she help you get ready. When you asked how she found out about your audition, she was quick to say that she was up for the role as well but didn't think it was right for her.

"Why not?" you ask, as she hovers over you, patting blush on the apples of your cheeks.

"Oh, you just get a feel for these things."

"Phi, it's just a chemistry read," you say, when she reaches for the mascara. "I don't need to get all dolled up for this."

She gasps, "Oh, but this is showbiz, darling. We always have to put a face on."

"Fine," you relent. "Do your worst."

The makeup she ends up doing on you is minimal, but it enhances your features just the right amount. You rush through your final preparations, folding up the script sample you were given and stuffing it in your purse.

Phia stands out on your balcony, in the middle of a call. The window screen is slightly open, so you hear snippets of the conversation as you walk by.

"Is he ready?" she asks. Who's he? You assume it's the guy you are doing the read with.

You don't know about him, but you are ready, so you stick your head out to say, "I gotta go, Phi."

"Oh!" She startles a little, angling her phone away. "Already?"

"Yeah, the read's at 4, I believe. Just lock the door when you leave, 'kay?"

She hurriedly whispers something to her phone, presumably ending her call. "I'll actually head out with you," she grins. "My work here is done anyway."

"Any plans for the night?"

She shrugs, "Might meet with Tom and Martha."

"Oh, why don't I meet you guys after my thing?"

"Uhhhm," she chews on her lip, thinking. Under her breath, you barely hear her mumble, "... hoping you'd be busy."

"What?" A restrained chuckle escapes you, confused as to why she's being so coy.

"Nothing," she tilts her head. "We can meet if you'd like."

The weird exchange is out of your mind when you arrive at the casting agency. You run the scene through in your head as you walk in the building, up the elevator, down the long hallway.

It's a heartfelt scene, if not a little tense, a dialogue between reunited ex-lovers.

Your manager Polina and publicist Mallory greet you at the doors, swiftly briefing you before directing you in.

"They're waiting, just walk right in, doll," Polina says.

"Okay, wish me luck!" You have your hand on the door handle when Mallory strangely remarks, "Don't hate us, sweetheart!"

"Why would I - "

"Go, go," Polina guides you in, then shuts the door behind you.

The office sports an spacious and open layout, with plenty of natural light streaming through large windows. The primary workstation is partially hidden behind a subtle partition. You see silhouettes of a few people behind it, so you walk down that way.

The figures reveal themselves soon enough - the casting agents you recognise as Patrick and Amie, sitting in front of the actor you're meant to read with.

A range of emotion washes over you, but you don't even have time to reckon with them. The casting agents divert your attention from Ewan, as they approach you with wide smiles in greeting.

"So nice to finally meet you!" Amie croons. "Take a seat. You two already know each other, of course. Between us, there won't really be a question of chemistry here."

"Right?" Patrick adds, looking between you and Ewan. "The fans sure think so, and we have to say we already agree."

"So just give us a minute to set up," Amie says. "Then we'll start."

You smile stiffly, settling down on the opposite end of the couch. You keep your gaze straight, trying to keep your attention on Patrick as he sets up the camera. Your heartbeat races the entire time, and you feel your hands getting clammy.

"They're all in on it," you hear Ewan say, prompting you to finally look at him directly. You take him in hungrily, admiring his outline, ever so handsome with his Targaryen-blonde hair and black leather jacket.

A weak "Mmm?" is all you can muster.

"Our teams, Tom, Phia... they set us up. Tom came over and I overheard him on the phone with Phia."

"Oh," you mumble. He doesn't even spare you a glance, leaning on the armrest on his side of the couch. He looks as if he'd rather be anywhere but here, next to you, and it hurts.

It's what you deserve.

"Is this not a real chemistry read?" you ask meekly.

"I suppose it is," he laughs humourlessly, "but it's not a coincidence that you and I just happen to be the only ones scheduled for today." He turns to you, giving you a critical sideways glance. "Didn't see that coming, did you?"

"I... I can leave if you want - "

"Mmm," his brows furrow, "you do seem to be good at that."

You look away. He is not being fair, but you weren't neither, that wretched night back in September.

And he is making you pay for it now.

But then you hear him speak in a softer tone, "Stay."

Stay. When you look at him once more, his attention is entirely on you, arm outstretched on the couch like he just tried to reach for you but decided against it.

Stay, he asked. So you do.

It's what you should have done, months ago.

"Okay, guys. Whenever you're ready," Amie says. She and Patrick take their seats in front of you, with the camera on a stand between them.

The script crinkles on your lap as you hold it with shaky fingers. "It's been a while," you read out your opening line.

The dialogue plays out twisted and ironic, now that you know who your scene partner is.

"Hardly," Ewan responds in character. "I feel like no time as passed."

"Feels like a lifetime."

He pauses, then sighs, "Do you even miss me?"

"How... how can you even ask me that?"

"How can I - "

"Why didn't you... why didn't you fight for me?" your voice breaks, the lines hitting a bit too close to home.

"You're a fucking hypocrite," he spits with venom. "You weren't exactly giving me anything to fight for."

"I did it for us. I did it all for us." If you didn't feel like crying at the weight of the scene, you would have rolled your eyes at the similarities.

"Like I said - nothing to fight for."

"Nothing? So you're telling me I was nothing to you."

"No," he levels you with an icy look, "you were everything to me. Everything. But you left me behind, and for what? So you can run off with the rebel sect?"

"The mission needed me. You wouldn't understand." You feel a sense of relief when the sci-fi elements roll in, otherwise you might have given in to your emotions and sobbed right there on the damn couch.

"I needed you," Ewan says, eyes not leaving yours. "I needed you and you abandoned me, just like that."

"And are you not better for it? When I left, did they not make you General?"

"See, that is the difference between you and I," he says coldly. "I wouldn't have traded what we had for anything - no position, no amount of wealth, no glory... I would have chosen us every time."

"Aaand cut!" Patrick jokes, effectively breaking the tension.

The two of you have unconsciously drifted closer, now only a foot part. Ewan does not drop your gaze, watching you closely. You see his eyes flit down to your parted lips, and he leans in almost imperceptibly.

"Alright, how about we go one more time?" Amie says, diverting your attention. "Give us a different take, and then that's it!"

Ewan settles back on his end of the couch. When he reads his lines again, his tone is harsher and he no longer meets your eyes.

Patrick and Amie commend you both afterward, singing praises about your acting abilities. Ewan is polite as always, blushing and grateful, but he practically dashes out of the door when the meeting finishes.

You're left standing with Amie, as Patrick has taken to his laptop to file the footage.

"The way he looks at you," she sighs dreamily, referring to Ewan. "You'd think the sun shone out your arse, doll."

"He... he was just in character," you disagree. "He's a good actor, as you know."

"Yeah, I mean, he nailed the part's rancour perfectly. But his eyes - oof - you've got a good one there."

Oh. Of course they would still assume you and him are together.

How desperately you want it to be true.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

An hour later, you've just sent Phia a text saying - You owe me. Where do I meet you guys?

But you hear a knock on your apartment door. If you didn't buzz anyone in, it can only be a neighbour or someone the doorman recognised.

Someone familiar to you.

And it's him.

"Ewan?"

"I need to speak with you."

You step aside so he doesn't linger at your doorway. He walks past you, a welcome if not unexpected presence in the room.

You can't decipher his expression, his gaze angled downward as he leans against your kitchen counter.

When the silence becomes almost deafening, you laugh awkwardly, about to make some silly remark on whether he is still in character. But he doesn't let you diffuse the tension.

"I want you," he blurts out without warning. "God help me, I still want you. I think I might have a fucking problem because how can I... after what you did - " A momentary glance of betrayal, but you see the spite clear in his eyes. " - but I do. I can't get you out of my system."

"I'm sorry - "

"I don't need that," he says sharply. "I don't need your sorry. I need you. I need to have you, and maybe this way, I'll satisfy whatever pointless desire I still have in me."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying - I'm asking - will you let me have you?"

"Ewan, I don't under - "

"I'm saying that we should sleep together," he says bluntly, and it feels like the rug has been pulled from under your feet, "but only just. You won't be mine, and I won't be yours."

"You're kidding."

He shakes his head, before adding, "Don't worry. It'll be our little secret. To the rest of the world, I'll have a different girlfriend anyway."

His words register, along with the bitter ache at his words, that you won't be his, he won't be yours. This is purely for pleasure. There used to be love here, and now he just craves the comfort your body allows.

You'll be using each other.

You should refuse. This is not healthy; this is not how you move on. Can you even go back to being good friends after this? But also - what have you got to lose?

What, except for him, and for good this time?

What, except everything?

"So what do you say - " He closes in on you, and with every bit of malice intended, the name no longer possessing the sweetness it once held, he sneers, "- darling?"

💌 next chapter

Taglist: @namelesslosers @skymoonandstardust @valyrianflower @luckyfirebasement @omgsuperstarg @elissanatok @callsignwidow @sinistersnakey49 @darkwriteracademia @yyrzmomo @queenofshinigamis @luvaerina @shamelessblazecrown @mirandastuckinthe80s @elleinex0x0 @pierrotlu @aegonswife @strangersunghoon @lunampacheco @writer-ann-artist @gaiaea @of-swords-and-words @ateliefloresdaprimavera @m00n5t0n3 @helaenaluvr @peachysunrize @annie-ruk @luvly-writer @ananas26t @athenafaes @lovelyteenagebeard @mamawiggers1980 @moongirl27 @katherine93 @barnes70stark @justbelljust @cloudroomblog @somestufftoday @esposadomd @girl-in-the-chairs-void @insideyourimagination @vyctorya @wildrangers @livcookesgf @onlyrealjoy (continued ... )

Some notes in the margins...

Well well well... the transition from friends to lovers to strangers to angsty FWBs sure is a slippery slope!

The time jumps are so we get through the moping quicker! It's mostly back to the regular shenanigans in the next part. Only, you know, angst-ridden. But you hurt Ewan, reader. *wags finger* Don't say you didn't expect this switch! Tsktsk

So what now - will you accept this arrangement? Will things ever be truly okay? Part 7 is going to be hot and hilarious and stupid and messy, just as the doctor ordered.

Let's hash it out in the comments, shall we? 🗡💕

#ewan mitchell #ewan mitchell x reader #ewan mitchell imagine #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #chemical override #hotd #aemond targaryen x reader

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