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ghstyles · 4 months ago

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For Worse or For Worse

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WC: 21K

Masterlist

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Y/N moved with deliberate grace across the living room, her bare feet silent against the plush carpet. The silk pajamas caught the low light as she settled onto the sofa across from him, tucking one leg beneath her.

Harry noted the careful distance she maintained, positioning hrself at the far end of the sofa rather than the center.

Everything about her posture, spine straight, shoulders squared, hands folded neatly in her lap, spoke of boundaries being established.

"I think we should set some ground rules," she said, her voice steady and measured. Professional. As though they were discussing a business contract rather than the boundaries of a fake marriage.

Harry took another sip of his whisky, using the gesture to mask his appraisal of her. The shower had washed away her makeup, revealing a faint scatter of freckles across her nose that he hadn't noticed in years. Her hair, still damp, was several shades darker than its usual color, framing her face in loose waves that would dry into the soft curls he remembered from their youth.

He set his glass down on the side table with deliberate care. "I thought we already had rules."

"Clearly they weren't specific enough," Y/N replied, a hint of sharpness breaking through her composed facade. "Otherwise tonight wouldn't have happened."

Harry leaned back in his chair, his posture deliberately relaxed in contrast to her tension. "Alright. What did you have in mind?"

Y/N's eyes narrowed slightly, as though she'd been expecting more resistance. "First, no physical contact beyond what we've already established without prior discussion and agreement. That means hand holding, arms around waists or shoulders, and brief, closed mouth kisses on cheeks or foreheads are acceptable. Anything beyond that requires explicit consent beforehand."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "That's going to be difficult to maintain if we're trying to appear convincingly married. Spontaneity is part of authenticity."

"Spontaneity doesn't mean surprise make-out sessions," Y/N countered. "It means natural-looking interactions within agreed-upon boundaries."

She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward slightly, her expression intensifying. "I'm not asking for the impossible. I'm asking for basic respect. If you think we need to change our approach to physical interactions in public, we discuss it first. Not in the car on the way to an event, not five seconds before it happens. Properly discuss it, when we're both clear-headed and have time to set parameters."

Harry considered her words, turning his glass slowly between his fingers. "And if something unexpected happens? If the situation calls for a response we haven't specifically outlined?"

"Then you follow the spirit of our agreement rather than looking for loopholes," she replied without hesitation. "You're not stupid, Harry. You know the difference between an arm around my shoulders during a photo and what you did tonight."

The accusation hung between them, sharp-edged and undeniable. Harry fought the instinct to defend himself, to justify actions they both knew had crossed a line.

"Fine," he conceded after a moment. "No physical escalation without prior agreement. What else?"

Y/N seemed momentarily surprised by his easy surrender, her prepared arguments faltering. She recovered quickly, however, tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear.

"Second, we need better communication about our schedules and public appearances. I shouldn't be blindsided by auction bids or impromptu interviews. Your team sends you daily briefings and I think I should be included in those emails."

This request was entirely reasonable, which somehow made it more irritating. Harry had deliberately kept her out of certain loops, maintaining whatever small advantages he could in their power dynamic.

"That can be arranged," he agreed, his tone carefully neutral. "Though some matters are confidential like new music, potential collaborations, that sort of thing."

"I'm not asking for creative access," Y/N clarified. "Just information about events, interviews, and public appearances that might affect me or require my participation."

She paused, then added with pointed emphasis, "And advance notice of any narrative changes you or your team are planning to push."

Harry understood the subtext immediately. The auction's implication of family planning had been a calculated move by his publicity team, designed to generate positive speculation and soften his image further. She'd been ambushed with it, expected to play along without preparation.

"My team can be... overzealous," he acknowledged, offering the closest thing to an apology he could manage. "I'll make it clear that any narrative developments need to be run by both of us."

Y/N nodded, some of the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. "Thank you."

The simple expression of gratitude felt strange between them, a momentary deviation from their usual pattern of barbed exchanges and cold silences.

"Is that all?" Harry asked, reaching for his whisky again.

She uncurled from her position on the sofa, rising to her feet with fluid grace. "I think that covers the essentials. We can revisit if other issues arise."

Harry nodded, watching as she prepared to leave the room. Something compelled him to speak again before she disappeared.

"Y/N."

She paused, turning back with a questioning look.

For a moment, he considered apologizing properly for the kiss, for the auction, for all of it. The words rose in his throat, then faltered and died before reaching his lips.

"Goodnight," he said instead, raising his glass in a small, sardonic toast.

Y/N studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. "Goodnight, Harry."

She turned and left, her silk-clad form disappearing into the shadowed hallway, leaving Harry alone with his whisky, his memories, and the uncomfortable realization that their little war had become as much a habit as a genuine expression of antipathy.

He drained his glass, the peaty warmth of the scotch doing nothing to ease the hollow feeling that had settled in his chest. Setting the empty tumbler aside, Harry leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, wondering when exactly maintaining his hatred for Y/N had become more effort than simply letting it go.

Perhaps he could just…let it go. Not friendship—never that—but something less actively hostile. Perhaps a neutral space where they could both catch their breath before returning to their performances.

The thought was still circling his mind as he finally rose and headed upstairs toward their shared bedroom. He paused at the threshold of the bedroom, momentarily arrested by the sight of Y/N seated at the ornate vanity across from their king-sized bed.

She was brushing her hair with methodical strokes, the damp strands catching the warm light from the bedside lamps. In the mirror's reflection, he could see her expression—distant and thoughtful, with none of the guarded tension she typically wore in his presence.

She noticed him in the mirror and their eyes met briefly before she returned her attention to her hair, the brush moving in long, smooth strokes from crown to ends. The domesticity of the scene struck him with unexpected force. This quiet, intimate moment at the end of a day that had been anything but quiet or intimate.

Harry stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click that seemed to echo in the charged silence between them.

He moved to his side of the room, unbuttoning his shirt with mechanical efficiency. Each movement was precise, controlled, a stark contrast to the chaotic thoughts swirling beneath his composed exterior. He slipped the white dress shirt from his shoulders, revealing the tapestry of tattoos across his chest and arms, before hanging it carefully in the section of the walk-in closet designated as his.

The silence between them felt loaded with unspoken tensions and not just from tonight's events, but from years of accumulated grievances and misunderstandings.

"Grumpus," Y/N's voice cut through the quiet, the seemingly random word landing between them. "Is there a reason that's what you're naming this cat we're supposedly getting?"

Harry turned to find her watching him through the mirror, her brush suspended mid-stroke. He could see her grip on the handle tightening, her knuckles whitening slightly against the silver handle.

The question caught him off-guard.

Had he chosen the name deliberately? Or had it surfaced from some buried corner of his memory without conscious intention?

Harry reached for a plain white t-shirt, pulling it over his head before responding. "The shelter's sending one over tomorrow. I’m told it’s grumpy. The name seemed... fitting."

It wasn't quite an answer, and they both knew it. He watched her reflection as she processed his words, trying to discern whether he was acknowledging their shared history or simply offering a convenient explanation.

"Fitting," she repeated, the single word carrying a weight of skepticism. "And you just happened to mention this cat during your interview today without bothering to tell me first."

Harry shrugged, moving to unbutton his trousers. "It was a spontaneous response. The interviewer asked about pets, and I thought it might add a nice domestic touch to our narrative. My assistant arranged it this afternoon."

Y/N resumed brushing her hair, though her movements were now sharper, less fluid. "So we're getting a cat. A grumpy cat named Grumpus. Because you thought it would make a good story."

The accusation in her tone was unmistakable. Once again, he'd made a unilateral decision that affected them both, barely hours after agreeing not to do exactly that.

"We don't have to keep the name," he offered, stepping out of his trousers and folding them neatly. "It was just the first thing that came to mind."

Y/N set the brush down with deliberate care, turning on the vanity stool to face him directly rather than continue the conversation through their reflections.

"That's not the point, Harry. The point is that once again, you've made a decision that affects our daily lives without even mentioning it to me. Now we'll have a living creature to care for, one that needs food, attention, veterinary appointments, and you didn't think that was worth discussing first?"

Harry paused, one hand on the elastic waistband of his boxer briefs. There was a strange vulnerability in standing before her in his underwear while having this particular conversation. A physical exposure that mirrored the emotional exposure of acknowledging he'd been thoughtless.

"I didn't think—" he began.

"Clearly," she cut him off, though without the sharp edge her interruptions usually carried. "Harry, a pet is a long-term commitment. What happens to this cat when our arrangement ends? Have you thought about that?"

The question hung between them, unexpectedly weighty. Their arrangement had an expiration date. A fact they both acknowledged but rarely discussed directly. In eight months, their contractual marriage would conclude, and they would go their separate ways, their paths likely never to cross again.

Harry hadn't considered the cat beyond its immediate PR value. The thought of what would happen to it after their separation hadn't occurred to him.

"I'll keep it," he said finally, the solution seeming obvious now that he thought about it. "After we... after the year is up. It can stay with me."

Y/N studied him, skepticism evident in her expression. "You travel constantly. You're on tour half the year. When exactly will you have time to care for a pet?"

"I have staff," Harry replied, defensive now. "People who can look after it when I'm away."

"So you're getting a cat that you'll barely see, to be cared for by employees," Y/N summarized, shaking her head slightly. "That poor animal."

Her genuine concern for a cat they hadn't even met yet caught Harry by surprise. It shouldn't have. Y/N had always had a soft spot for strays, even as a child. He remembered her coaxing a half-feral kitten from under a garden shed one summer, spending days earning its trust with patience and bits of canned tuna.

The memory surfaced unbidden, another unwelcome intrusion from a past he'd worked hard to forget.

"If you're so concerned, you can take it when we're done," he offered, the words coming out more harshly than he'd intended.

Y/N's expression closed off immediately, her momentary openness vanishing behind the familiar mask of cool detachment. "That's not the point either. The point is that you made this decision unilaterally, without considering the long-term implications."

She turned away from him, moving toward the bed. "But what's done is done. We'll figure out the logistics later."

"You're right."

Y/N froze, then slowly turned back to face him, genuine confusion evident in her expression.

"I should have discussed it first," Harry continued, forcing himself to maintain eye contact despite the unfamiliar territory of admitting fault. "It was impulsive, and I didn't think through the consequences."

Y/N blinked, clearly surprised by his easy agreement. "Yes. You should have."

A beat of silence passed between them, neither quite sure how to proceed in the face of his unexpected acquiescence.

"For what it's worth," he added, moving toward the en-suite bathroom, "I did think you might like having a cat around. You always seemed fond of them."

The statement hovered in the air between them. A small acknowledgment of their shared past, an admission that he remembered details about her preferences. It was dangerously close to kindness, and they both seemed equally unsettled by the implication.

Y/N's expression softened slightly, a complex emotion flickering across her features. "I do like cats. But that's not—"

"I know," Harry interrupted, sparing them both the repetition of her point. "It should have been a conversation. It will be, next time."

He disappeared into the bathroom without waiting for her response, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. Leaning against the marble counter, Harry stared at his reflection in the mirror, confronting the uncomfortable truth that had been needling at him all evening.

The name hadn't been a coincidence. Some part of him had remembered Grumpus, had remembered the fierce way Y/N had defended her beloved pet, the way her eyes had flashed with indignation at his casual cruelty. Some part of him had wanted to see if she remembered too. If their shared history still registered for her the way it occasionally, inconveniently did for him.

And now he had his answer. She remembered.

Harry turned on the tap, splashing cold water on his face as if it might wash away the complications of the past that kept seeping into their present. When he reemerged from the bathroom several minutes later, teeth brushed and face washed, Y/N had already settled on her side of the bed, her back to his empty half, a clear physical boundary established despite their shared mattress.

He slipped under the covers on his side, maintaining the careful distance that had become their nightly ritual. The king-sized bed allowed them to sleep without risk of accidental contact, a neutral zone of several feet separating their bodies even in unconsciousness.

As he reached to turn off his bedside lamp, Harry found himself speaking into the dimness, his voice low and unexpectedly sincere.

"For what it's worth, I am sorry about the kiss tonight. You were right, it crossed a line."

In the soft glow of her reading lamp, he saw Y/N's shoulders tense slightly, though she didn't turn to face him.

"Thank you for acknowledging that," she replied after a moment, her voice carefully neutral.

Another silence stretched between them, this one less hostile than those that usually punctuated their interactions.

"Goodnight, Harry," she said finally, reaching to switch off her own lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

"Goodnight," he echoed, settling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling he couldn't see.

In the darkness, with Y/N's measured breathing the only sound breaking the silence, Harry found himself wondering how many more nights they would spend like this. Physically close yet emotionally distant, separated by years of hurt and misunderstanding that neither was willing to address.

Eight more months of their arrangement stretched ahead of them. The prospect felt simultaneously endless and strangely insufficient, as though a single year could never be enough time to untangle the knots they'd tied in each other's lives.

Harry closed his eyes, willing sleep to come and silence the uncomfortable thoughts circling his mind. Across the expanse of sheets that separated them, Y/N shifted slightly, a small reminder of her presence that followed him down into uneasy dreams.

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Twelve years earlier

In sleep, Harry's mind drifted backward through time, peeling away the layers of adulthood, fame, and cultivated disdain until he found himself standing once more at the edge of the woods that separated his family's summer estate from the small town where Y/N had grown up.

The dream-memory came with startling clarity. the humid summer air heavy against his skin, the mixed scent of pine and wildflowers, the particular quality of afternoon light filtering through the leaves overhead.

He was thirteen again, gangly and uncertain in his still-growing body, wearing expensive shorts and a polo shirt that his mother had insisted upon despite the impracticality for woodland exploration. The clothes were a constant reminder of the world he belonged to, the expectations he carried, even here in this secret place where he came to escape them.

In the dream, he waited at their usual meeting spot, a fallen oak that created a natural bridge across the small creek that marked the unofficial boundary between their worlds.

He was early.

He was always early, though he'd never have admitted how eagerly he anticipated these meetings, how they formed the bright center of his otherwise regimented summer days.

When Y/N appeared through the trees on the opposite bank, his dream-self felt that familiar leap of excitement, followed immediately by the practiced suppression of it. Even at thirteen, he'd been learning to hide his genuine reactions, to maintain the careful distance his mother had taught him was necessary with people "like them."

The Y/N of his memory-dream crossed the log bridge with practiced ease, her movements confident in a way his never quite managed to be in these woods that were more her territory than his. She wore denim shorts with frayed edges and a faded t-shirt, her long hair caught up in a messy ponytail, her skin sun-kissed in a way his mother would have considered common.

She was beautiful in the unself-conscious way of the young with all bright eyes and quick smiles, unaware yet of how the world would try to dim both.

"You're late," his thirteen-year-old self said, the words coming out more accusatory than he'd intended.

"By like two minutes," dream-Y/N replied with an easy grin, dropping her backpack onto the soft ground. "And only because Grumpus followed me halfway here. I had to keep stopping to make sure he went home."

"That ugly cat is still alive? Figured it would've wandered into traffic by now."

The words had been calculated to provoke, and they'd succeeded. Y/N's expression shifted instantly from warmth to anger.

"Don't call him ugly! He's beautiful, and he's smart, and he's the best cat in the world!"

"He's got one eye and he's fat," Harry had countered, the cruel words spilling from him with practiced ease, an echo of his mother's dismissive tone. "And that orange tabby fur makes him look like someone spilled cheap juice on a dirty carpet."

In the dream, as in the memory, Y/N's eyes flashed with a fury that transformed her, no longer just the carefree girl from town, but something fiercer, a defender of all things loved and vulnerable.

"Take that back," she'd demanded, stepping closer, her hands curling into small fists at her sides.

"Why should I? It's true. That cat is the ugliest thing I've ever seen."

The lie had tasted sour even as he'd spoken it. In truth, he'd found Grumpus rather charming in his battered, one-eyed dignity. But something in him had needed to push, to test, to see if Y/N would accept his cruelty the way so many others did, intimidated by his family name and wealth.

She hadn't.

"You're just like your mother," she'd spat, the words landing like a physical blow. "Pretty on the outside, mean on the inside. And for your information, Grumpus lost his eye defending me from a dog that was three times his size. He's brave and loyal, which is more than I can say for you, Harry Styles."

In the dream, as in the memory, his name in her mouth had felt like an indictment and a reminder of all he represented. All he was expected to be.

"At least I'm not poor," he'd retorted, falling back on the most obvious difference between them, the one his mother emphasized most often. "At least my dad can afford a proper house instead of that tiny shop your family lives above."

The moment the words left his mouth, he'd wanted to recall them. Y/N had gone very still, her expression shifting from anger to something worse—disappointment, as though she'd finally seen him clearly

"My dad works hard," she'd said quietly, her voice steady despite the tears gathering in her eyes. "Every day, with his hands, making things people need. What does your dad do, Harry? Besides count money other people earned for him?"

The question had pierced straight through his practiced arrogance, touching on insecurities he hadn't known how to articulate at thirteen. What did his father do, really? What value did the Styles family add to the world beyond accumulating wealth and influence?

Unable to answer, he'd lashed out again.

"At least my father isn't one bad season away from bankruptcy," he'd sneered, parroting phrases he'd overheard from his parents' discussions about the "quaint local businesses" they occasionally deigned to patronize.

Y/N had looked at him then with such raw hurt that even in sleep, decades later, Harry felt the shame of it burning through him. She'd picked up her backpack with deliberate calm, slung it over one shoulder, and turned to leave.

"I'm not talking to you anymore," she'd declared, her voice thick with unshed tears. "Not tomorrow, not ever. Find someone else to spend your summer with, Harry Styles."

"Fine!" he'd shouted at her retreating back. "I don't need you anyway! There are plenty of other kids around here who'd love to hang out with me!"

She hadn't turned around, hadn't acknowledged his words at all, just continued walking away until she disappeared among the trees, leaving him alone with the hollow victory of having the last word.

He'd meant it, in that moment. He'd sworn to himself he wouldn't seek her out again, wouldn't return to their meeting spot, wouldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing him waiting for her.

Yet the very next day, he'd found himself at the fallen log, arriving even earlier than usual, his heart racing every time a bird startled from the underbrush or a branch cracked in the distance. He'd waited for over an hour, telling himself with each passing minute that this would be the last one, that he was only staying to prove he could, that he didn't care if she came or not.

When she'd finally appeared on the opposite bank, her expression guarded but her presence an undeniable olive branch, the relief had been so overwhelming he'd had to disguise it as annoyance.

"Took you long enough," he'd said by way of greeting.

"I wasn't going to come at all," she'd admitted, crossing the log bridge with less confidence than usual. "But then I thought maybe you'd apologize."

He'd scoffed, thirteen and foolish and desperately afraid of revealing how much her friendship meant to him. "Apologize for what? Telling the truth about your weird cat?"

Y/N had studied him for a long moment, something older and wiser than her years in her gaze. Then, remarkably, she'd smiled. A small, knowing thing that suggested she saw through him in ways he wasn't comfortable being seen.

"You're right. Grumpus is kind of funny-looking," she'd conceded, dropping down to sit on the fallen log. "But he's still the best cat in the world, and I won't let anyone say otherwise, not even you."

It had been a peace offering of sorts. An acknowledgment of his perspective without surrendering her own. More generosity than he'd deserved, even then.

"I guess he's not the ugliest," Harry had mumbled, the closest thing to an apology he could manage at thirteen. "Maybe the second ugliest."

Y/N had laughed, the sound breaking the tension between them. "You're impossible," she'd said, but there had been fondness in it, forgiveness he hadn't earned but desperately wanted.

They'd spent the rest of that afternoon exploring the creek, searching for unusual stones and competing to see who could skip rocks the furthest across the wider pools. Neither had mentioned their fight again, but something had shifted between them. A sort of recognition that their friendship could withstand storms, that they would fight and make up and continue finding their way back to each other despite the worlds that sought to separate them.

In the dream, as the memory began to fade, adult Harry found himself trying to hold onto it, to preserve the simple clarity of that reconciliation, the unspoken promise it had contained. They'd been so young then, unburdened by the weight of adult expectations, unaware of how completely their paths would diverge, how thoroughly his mother's influence would eventually poison what had once been pure.

He stirred in his sleep, his adult body shifting restlessly beneath the expensive sheets of the bed he now shared with the woman who had once been that fierce, forgiving girl. The Y/N who slept beside him now carried the same spirit within her, though life had taught her to guard it more carefully, to be less free with her forgiveness, her trust.

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“What do you mean she’s crying?”

Harry was seated at the head of a long glass conference table in the sleek downtown offices of his record label, half-listening to his manager's breakdown of potential brand partnerships for the upcoming quarter. The room was a study in minimalist luxury. Clean lines, muted grays, and strategically placed greenery designed to convey both success and artistic sensibility.

Around him, the members of his team, his publicist, manager, lawyer, and two label executives, were engaged in the familiar dance of pretending his opinions mattered while subtly steering him toward decisions they'd already made. It was a dynamic he'd grown accustomed to over the years, occasionally asserting his preferences forcefully enough to remind them who ultimately paid their salaries.

When his phone vibrated against the table, Harry glanced down to see his assistant's name flashing on the screen. Normally, she wouldn't interrupt a scheduled meeting unless it was urgent.

"Excuse me," he murmured, rising from his chair with the practiced smoothness of someone accustomed to his movements being observed. "I need to take this."

His manager paused mid-sentence, clearly annoyed but too professional to show it beyond a tightening around his eyes. The others at the table shifted in their seats, using the interruption to check their own phones or refill water glasses.

Harry stepped into an adjacent empty office, closing the door behind him before answering the call.

"Anna, what is it?" he asked, his tone clipped with the irritation of being pulled away from business matters, no matter how tedious they might be.

His assistant's voice came through with uncharacteristic uncertainty. "I'm sorry to interrupt your meeting, Mr. Styles, but there's a situation at the house with Mrs. Styles."

Harry tensed, an unexpected jolt of concern catching him off-guard. "What kind of situation?"

"It's about the cat." Anna's voice grew more hesitant. "The shelter delivered it this morning as arranged, but when Mrs. Styles saw it, she... well, she became upset."

Harry frowned, moving further into the empty office. "What do you mean, 'upset'?"

There was a pause on the line, then Anna admitted, "She's crying, sir. Quite a lot, actually."

"What do you mean she's crying?" Harry demanded, the volume of his voice rising enough that he glanced toward the door, concerned about being overheard.

"I don't know exactly," Anna continued, her words coming faster now. "It was the only tabby available on short notice. Orange, one-eyed, missing the right eye, actually, and yes, it's a bit overweight. I didn't think it was that ugly. But when she saw it, she just... started crying. Should I get another one? I can call around to other shelters—"

Harry cut her off, his mind racing to process what he was hearing. "Wait. You're telling me the cat is orange, one-eyed, and overweight?"

"Yes, sir. The shelter said he's about seven years old, very sweet-tempered despite his appearance. I thought that matched what you were looking for. A tabby with some character. Was I mistaken?"

Harry leaned against the edge of the desk, suddenly needing the support. The coincidence was too precise to be accidental. This cat was essentially Grumpus reincarnated, down to the missing eye. No wonder Y/N had broken down. To her, it wouldn't seem like coincidence at all, but rather a deliberate cruelty, a calculated reminder of their past designed to wound her.

"Mr. Styles? Are you still there? Should I return the cat?"

Harry dragged a hand down his face, trying to gather his thoughts. "No, don't return it. I'll... I'll handle this. Is Y/N still at the house?"

"Yes, sir. She's in the library with the cat. She actually seems quite attached to it already, despite her emotional reaction. She was crying but also... petting it? Talking to it? It was a bit confusing, to be honest."

Of course she was attached already, Harry thought. For all her carefully constructed defenses around him, Y/N had always had an almost immediate capacity for connection with animals, a genuine warmth and empathy that extended to creatures most people overlooked or dismissed.

"I'm on my way," Harry said, making a decision that would surprise his team in the next room. "Tell her I'll be home in thirty minutes."

"But sir, your meeting—"

"Reschedule it," he instructed, already moving toward the door. "Something's come up at home that requires my immediate attention."

Ending the call, Harry returned to the conference room, where six expectant faces turned toward him.

"I need to cut this short," he announced, gathering his things with efficient movements that discouraged questions. "Family matter. My assistant will be in touch to reschedule."

His manager started to protest, but Harry silenced him with a raised hand. "It's not negotiable, Mark. The partnerships will still be there tomorrow."

Without waiting for further discussion, Harry strode from the room, texting his driver as he made his way to the elevator. The twenty-minute drive from downtown to their Hampstead Heath mansion would give him time to figure out what exactly he was going to say when he arrived home. What explanation he could possibly offer that wouldn't sound like either a cruel joke or an uncharacteristic sentimentality?

The truth was, he hadn't specified any particular appearance for the cat beyond "tabby." The one-eyed, orange, overweight reality was pure coincidence. The kind of cosmic joke that might seem amusing if it weren't causing Y/N genuine distress.

As his car navigated through midday London traffic, Harry stared out the window, remembering the fierce way twelve-year-old Y/N had defended her beloved pet against his casual cruelty. The memory brought with it a familiar discomfort and the recognition of how easily he'd adopted his mother's disdain, how readily he'd leveraged his position of privilege to wound.

Now, years later, he'd unintentionally recreated the exact circumstances that had triggered their first real fight. A fight that, in his dream-memory last night, he'd recognized as a turning point in their relationship, the moment he'd first understood that Y/N wouldn't simply accept his cruelty because of who he was.

When the car finally pulled through the gates of their estate, Harry found himself unusually anxious about what awaited him inside. He'd seen Y/N angry, frustrated, resigned, and coldly polite, but he hadn't seen her cry since they were teenagers. Hadn't been confronted with the raw vulnerability that tears represented.

He entered the house quietly, nodding to the housekeeper who appeared briefly in the hallway before tactfully withdrawing. Following his assistant's information, Harry made his way to the library, a room Y/N had claimed as her primary retreat within the sprawling mansion, filling it with books that reflected her eclectic interests rather than the carefully curated literary selections his interior designer had originally installed for show.

Pausing outside the closed door, Harry took a deep breath, still unsure exactly what he planned to say. Then, with a decisive motion, he knocked lightly and entered without waiting for a response.

The library was bathed in the soft natural light that streamed through its tall windows, illuminating the comfortable reading nook Y/N had created in one corner. She was curled in the oversized armchair, her legs tucked beneath her, a small orange bundle of fur nestled in her lap. At Harry's entrance, she looked up, and he was struck by the evidence of recent tears. Her eyes slightly reddened, her cheeks still bearing faint tracks of moisture.

The cat—an uncanny echo of the long-ago Grumpus—lifted its head from her lap, regarding Harry with a single yellow eye that seemed to hold judgment beyond its feline capacity. The right eye socket was scarred but well-healed, suggesting the injury had happened years ago.

"Harry," Y/N said, clearly surprised by his unexpected appearance. "What are you doing home? I thought you had meetings all day."

Her fingers continued to stroke the cat's fur as she spoke, an unconscious gesture of comfort.

Though whether for herself or the animal, Harry couldn't tell.

He remained near the doorway, suddenly uncertain of his welcome in this space that had become distinctly hers within their shared home. "Anna called. She was concerned about... your reaction to the cat."

Y/N's hand stilled momentarily on the orange fur, then resumed its gentle motion. "I see. And that was enough to pull you away from your important business meetings? I'm fine, Harry. You can go back to work."

There was a brittle quality to her composure that suggested it might crack with the slightest pressure. Harry took a few steps further into the room, moving cautiously, as though approaching a wild creature that might bolt.

"She said you were crying," he said quietly, watching Y/N's face for her reaction.

A flash of embarrassment crossed her features, quickly replaced by a defensive lift of her chin. "I was surprised, that's all. It was...an emotional coincidence."

Harry moved closer still, until he stood just a few feet from her chair. From this distance, the cat's resemblance to the long-ago Grumpus was even more striking. The same broad face, the same slightly matted orange fur, the same air of dignified resignation to the indignities of existence.

"I didn't ask for a one-eyed cat," he said, the words emerging more abruptly than he'd intended. "I just told Anna to get a tabby. The rest was... coincidence."

Y/N met his gaze directly, a hint of her earlier vulnerability still visible beneath her composed exterior. "A very specific coincidence, don't you think? Orange, overweight, one-eyed. just like the cat you once called 'the ugliest thing you'd ever seen.'"

The quotation of his teenage self's cruel words hung in the air between them, a reminder of how long she had carried them, how precisely she remembered the hurt he'd caused.

"I didn't plan this, Y/N," Harry said, finding himself in the unusual position of needing her to believe him. "I wouldn't... I'm not that cruel."

Something in his tone must have convinced her, because after studying his face for a long moment, Y/N's expression softened slightly.

"No," she agreed quietly, "I don't think even you would go that far. It's just... seeing him, it brought everything back so vividly. Not just Grumpus, but... that summer. Who we were then."

The cat chose that moment to stretch languidly in her lap, pressing its head against her hand in a silent demand for continued attention. Y/N obliged automatically, her fingers resuming their gentle stroking.

Harry found himself moving to sit on the ottoman near her chair, close enough to reach out and touch the cat if he wanted to, though he kept his hands to himself.

"I remember," he admitted, the words feeling like a concession of territory he'd been determined to defend. "I dreamed about it last night, actually. About our fight over Grumpus."

Y/N looked up sharply, surprise evident in her expression. "You did?"

Harry nodded, uncomfortable with the admission but unwilling to retract it. "About how I said he was ugly, and you told me I was just like my mother."

A faint flush colored Y/N's cheeks. "I was angry. Children say hurtful things when they're angry."

"You weren't wrong, though," Harry said, the honesty surprising them both. "I was becoming exactly what she wanted me to be. Sometimes I think I still am."

The statement hung between them, more vulnerable than anything he'd allowed himself to express since their arrangement began. Y/N regarded him with a mixture of surprise and something that might have been understanding.

"What do you want to do about this cat?" she asked after a moment, steering them back to the immediate issue. "I assume you didn't actually want a pet, given how rarely you're even home."

Harry glanced at the animal, which had settled more comfortably in Y/N's lap, its single eye already drooping with contentment.

"We can keep him," he said, surprising himself with the decisiveness of it. "He seems to have chosen his person already."

Y/N's fingers paused in their stroking of the orange fur. "Are you sure? A pet is a long-term commitment, beyond our... arrangement."

"We can determine custody arrangements when the time comes," Harry replied, matching her tone. "For now, he's here, and he seems comfortable. Unless you'd prefer we find him another home?"

Y/N looked down at the cat, now purring audibly in her lap. "No," she said softly. "I'd like to keep him."

A moment of accord stretched between them. Rare enough in their contentious relationship to feel significant. Harry found himself reluctant to break it by rising to leave, by returning to the polished professional persona waiting for him back at the office.

"Have you named him yet?" he asked instead, settling more comfortably on the ottoman.

Y/N's lips curved in a small smile, the first genuine one he'd seen directed at him in longer than he could remember. "I was thinking of calling him Grumps. In honor of the original, but... his own identity."

Harry nodded, acknowledging the gesture for what it was. A bridge between past and present, a recognition of history without being bound by it. "Grumps it is, then."

The cat opened its single eye at the sound of its new name, regarding them both with what Harry could have sworn was approval before settling back into Y/N's lap, clearly having found its home.

In the quiet of the library, with afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows and the gentle sound of purring filling the space between them, Harry and Y/N had reached an unexpected cease-fire—a fragile peace built on the foundation of a shared memory and the unexpected arrival of a one-eyed cat that bridged the years between who they had been and who they had become.

The peaceful moment in the library was interrupted by the sharp buzz of Harry's phone. He glanced down to see his mother's name illuminated on the screen, and a familiar tension immediately settled across his shoulders.

Y/N noticed the change in his demeanor, her own expression shifting from open to guarded as she recognized the caller without needing to be told. She had developed a sixth sense for detecting when Anne was about to intrude on their lives.

It wasn't hard considering Harry's entire bearing changed, a subtle straightening of his spine and tightening around his eyes that spoke volumes about the complex dynamics between mother and son.

"I should take this," Harry said, already rising from the ottoman, creating physical distance as if preparing for battle. "It's my mother."

Y/N nodded, her fingers continuing their rhythmic stroking of Grumps' fur. A self-soothing gesture as much as comfort for the cat. "Of course."

Harry moved toward the window, putting several feet between them before answering the call, though not leaving the room entirely. Perhaps he was unwilling to completely break their momentary truce, or perhaps he simply didn't want to grant his mother the privacy such distance would afford.

"Mother," he greeted, his voice sliding into the polished, slightly detached tone he reserved for his most important business contacts—and for Anne. "This is unexpected."

Y/N couldn't hear Anne's side of the conversation, but she could track its content through Harry's responses and the subtle shifts in his expression. A muscle working in his jaw, a tightening around his eyes, the slight straightening of his already perfect posture.

"Tonight?" Harry's voice carried a note of surprise, though not outright objection. "That's very short notice."

Another pause as Anne presumably continued speaking, Harry's eyes briefly meeting Y/N's across the room before darting away.

"Yes, I understand you're my mother," he said, a hint of the exasperation he usually kept carefully contained bleeding into his tone. "But we do have schedules, and—"

He was cut off, listening for several long moments before responding with a resigned, "Of course. We'll expect you at seven, then."

After exchanging a few more pleasantries that sounded hollow even from Y/N's position across the room, Harry ended the call and turned to face her, his expression a complex mixture of annoyance and resignation.

"My mother has decided to grace us with her presence for dinner tonight," he announced, slipping the phone back into his pocket. "Apparently, she's heard some concerning rumors about us 'starting a family' and feels the need to investigate in person."

The phrase hung in the air between them, laden with implications. They both knew what Anne really meant. she'd gotten wind of their cat adoption through her extensive network of informants (likely one of the household staff who reported to her on the side), and had interpreted it as a sign they might be taking steps toward a real marriage rather than the arrangement they'd agreed upon.

Y/N stroked Grumps' fur thoughtfully, her expression carefully neutral. "Let me guess. she didn't phrase it as a request."

Harry's mouth quirked in a humorless smile. "Anne Styles doesn't make requests. She makes pronouncements that we're expected to accommodate."

He moved back toward the seating area, though he didn't resume his place on the ottoman, choosing instead to lean against one of the bookshelves. "I'm sorry about this. I know how she can be, especially toward you."

The apology was unexpected. a deviation from their usual script where Harry either ignored his mother's rudeness toward Y/N or tacitly supported it through his silence.

Y/N looked up at him with mild surprise. "It's fine. I've survived Anne Styles before; I can do it again for one dinner."

"She'll likely be at her worst tonight," Harry warned, running a hand through his hair in a rare display of genuine agitation. "The idea of us becoming more... permanent... is exactly what she's been dreading since this arrangement began."

Y/N set her jaw, a flash of determination crossing her features. "Well, she'll just have to be disappointed, won't she? Both about our supposed 'family planning' and about getting a rise out of me. I can play the dutiful daughter-in-law for one evening."

Harry studied her for a moment, something unreadable in his expression. "You shouldn't have to."

"We both do things we'd rather not as part of this arrangement," Y/N reminded him, her tone matter-of-fact rather than accusatory. "One dinner with your mother hardly compares to some of the public appearances I've endured."

Harry acknowledged this with a slight inclination of his head, then glanced at his watch. "I'll have Mrs. Patterson prepare something suitable for dinner. Mother will find fault regardless, but at least we can avoid giving her obvious targets."

"I should probably change," Y/N said, gently relocating Grumps from her lap to the cushion beside her as she stood. "Your mother has strong opinions about what counts as appropriate attire for a Styles family dinner."

The cat made a small sound of protest at being moved, then promptly resettled, curling into a tight orange ball against the arm of the chair.

Harry's eyes tracked the movement, then returned to Y/N's face. "Wear whatever you want. It's your house too, at least for now."

The qualification "at least for now" was unnecessary but typical of Harry, a reminder of the temporary nature of their arrangement that he seemed compelled to insert into any moment that might suggest otherwise.

Y/N chose to ignore it, focusing instead on the practical matters at hand. "Should I tell Maria to set up the formal dining room? Or would you prefer the smaller one?"

"The formal dining room," Harry decided after a moment's consideration. "Mother expects a certain level of... performance. Best to give her the full spectacle she's anticipating."

Y/N nodded, already mentally cataloging the preparations that would need to be made.

The specific china Anne preferred, the floral arrangements that would meet her exacting standards, the precise positioning of the silver that would avoid her criticism.

"I'll speak with Maria," she said, moving toward the door. "And have Thomas bring up a bottle of that Bordeaux your mother pretends not to enjoy but always finishes."

Harry's mouth twitched in something close to genuine amusement. "Good call."

As Y/N reached the doorway, she paused, turning back to face him. "Do you think we should hide Grumps for the evening? Your mother isn't exactly... kind... about things she finds aesthetically displeasing."

Harry glanced at the sleeping cat, something hardening in his expression. "No. Let her see him. If she has something to say about his appearance, she can say it to me."

The protectiveness in his tone was surprising. Another deviation from their established patterns. Y/N studied him for a moment, trying to reconcile this Harry with the man who had spent the last four months maintaining careful emotional distance from both her and anything that might suggest genuine investment in their shared life.

"Alright," she said finally. "I'll see you at dinner, then."

Dinners with Anne were exercises in restraint and strategic diplomacy, with Y/N constantly navigating a minefield of subtle insults and pointed questions designed to expose her as unworthy.

Tonight would be no different.

Except perhaps that for the first time since their arrangement began, there was a possibility, however small, that Harry might actually stand beside her rather than allowing her to weather his mother's disdain alone.

As Y/N made her way upstairs to change, she reminded herself not to read too much into one afternoon's unexpected ceasefire. Their marriage remained what it had always been: a business arrangement with a defined expiration date. Getting attached—to Harry, to this life, or even to the one-eyed cat currently sleeping in the library—would only make the inevitable ending more painful.

Still, as she opened her closet to select an outfit that would armor her against Anne's critical gaze, Y/N couldn't entirely suppress the small, treacherous spark of hope that had ignited in her chest. Hope that perhaps, in some small way, the dynamics between them were beginning to shift.

Several hours later, with the house prepared to Anne's exacting standards and both Harry and Y/N dressed for the occasion, the doorbell rang precisely at seven o'clock. Anne Styles was nothing if not punctual, particularly when punctuality could be wielded as another measure of superiority.

Harry had changed from his earlier business attire into a more casual but equally expensive ensemble. Dark trousers and a cashmere sweater in a shade of green that emphasized his eyes. He stood in the entryway as their housekeeper moved to answer the door, his posture alert but outwardly relaxed, like a fighter preparing for a bout he's confident of winning but knows will be grueling nonetheless.

Y/N descended the stairs just as the door opened, revealing Anne Styles in all her intimidating glory. At fifty-six, Anne was a striking woman—tall and slender, with expertly colored hair cut in a sleek bob that framed a face maintained through the most exclusive cosmetic procedures available. She was dressed impeccably in a tailored ivory suit that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent, accessorized with a signature pearl necklace and subtle but unmistakably real diamonds at her ears.

Her gaze swept the entryway critically before landing on Harry, her expression softening marginally as she extended her cheek for his dutiful kiss.

"Darling," she greeted, her voice carrying that particular upper-class British inflection that suggested generations of privilege. "How lovely to see you, though I wish it hadn't been so long. A son should visit his mother more regularly, don't you think?"

Before Harry could respond, Anne's attention shifted to Y/N, who had reached the bottom of the stairs. Her expression cooled noticeably, the smile becoming fixed and considerably less warm.

"Y/N," she acknowledged with a slight nod, not offering the cheek kiss she had given Harry. "I see married life agrees with you."

The comment was delivered with just enough emphasis to suggest the opposite. That Y/N was somehow failing to meet the standards expected of a Styles wife, despite her efforts to present an appropriately polished appearance in a simple but elegant navy dress that highlighted her figure without being provocative.

"Anne," Y/N returned with a practiced smile, refusing to rise to the bait. "What a pleasant surprise. We're so glad you could join us for dinner on such short notice."

Anne's eyebrow arched slightly at the implied criticism of her last-minute arrival, but she moved past it with practiced social grace. "Well, when one hears rumors about one's only son, one naturally wishes to investigate personally rather than relying on secondhand accounts."

Harry stepped forward, placing a hand at the small of Y/N's back in what might have appeared to an observer as a gesture of marital solidarity, though Y/N felt the slight tension in his fingers that betrayed his own discomfort.

"What rumors would those be, Mother?" he asked, guiding both women toward the formal living room where drinks had been arranged. "I wasn't aware we'd been doing anything newsworthy lately."

Anne settled gracefully onto one of the pristine cream sofas, arranging herself with the precision of someone accustomed to being photographed from every angle. "Oh, just whispers here and there about you two... nesting. First a cat, I'm told, and who knows what might follow. I thought it prudent to check whether congratulations might soon be in order."

The implication was clear. Anne was concerned they might be considering children, a development that would complicate the clean break planned at the end of their contract year.

Y/N felt Harry's hand tense against her back before he removed it to pour drinks at the sidebar. "I'm afraid you've been misinformed, Mother," he said, his tone deliberately casual. "Y/N has indeed adopted a cat, but that hardly constitutes 'nesting.'"

"A cat?" Anne repeated, accepting the glass of chilled white wine Harry offered her with a slight moue of distaste. "How... domestic. Though I suppose it's less commitment than other options."

Her gaze slid meaningfully to Y/N's midsection before returning to her face with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"It was a somewhat impulsive decision," Y/N admitted, accepting her own wine from Harry with a grateful nod. "But he needed a home, and we have plenty of space."

"He?" Anne inquired, clearly fishing for details.

As if on cue, a distinctive orange shape appeared in the doorway of the living room. Grumps, apparently having awakened from his nap and decided to investigate the new voice, sauntered into the room with the unhurried confidence of a creature who considered the entire house his domain.

Anne's eyes widened slightly as she took in the cat's appearance—the missing eye, the slightly matted orange fur, the overall impression of an animal that had seen better days despite clearly being well-fed.

"Good lord," she exclaimed, making no attempt to disguise her revulsion. "What on earth is that? It looks positively...feral."

Harry, who had been raising his own glass to his lips, set it down with a deliberate motion that caused both women to look at him.

"That," he said with a calmness that didn't quite mask the edge beneath, "is Grumps. Our cat. Who has had a difficult life but is now part of this household."

Anne's eyebrows rose at his tone. "Really, Harry, there's no need to be defensive. I was merely expressing surprise. If you wanted a pet, I would have thought you'd select something more...suitable. Perhaps a purebred of some sort."

Grumps, oblivious to the discussion of his merits, proceeded to leap gracefully onto the sofa beside Y/N, who automatically stroked his fur, drawing a loud purr that seemed to fill the tense silence.

"Grumps chose us," Y/N said quietly. "Sometimes the best things in life aren't what we'd have selected if left entirely to our own devices."

The comment could have been harmless, but there was an undercurrent that suggested Y/N might be referring to more than just the cat. Anne clearly caught it, her lips thinning slightly as she took a deliberate sip of her wine.

"How philosophical," she remarked dryly. "Though I've always found that careful selection according to appropriate criteria yields far better results than...impulse adoptions."

Harry cleared his throat, clearly recognizing the brewing tension. "Dinner should be ready soon. Mother, I believe Mrs. Patterson has prepared that salmon you enjoyed last time."

The attempted change of subject was transparent but effective. Anne allowed herself to be led into a discussion of the menu, though her gaze kept returning to Grumps with barely disguised distaste, particularly when the cat settled more comfortably against Y/N's thigh, his single eye regarding Anne with what could almost be described as disdain.

As they made their way into the dining room a short time later, Harry leaned close to Y/N, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

"Round one to us," he murmured, a hint of unexpected humor in his tone. "Though I expect she's just warming up."

Y/N glanced at him in surprise, taken aback by the casual use of "us" that positioned them as a united front rather than adversaries. Harry didn't meet her eyes, already moving ahead to hold Anne's chair, but the moment of alliance hung between them.

Another small crack in the wall they'd so carefully constructed.

As they took their seats at the impeccably set table, Y/N couldn't help but feel that this dinner, unlike previous encounters with Anne, might represent something of a turning point.

The dining room had fallen into a familiar rhythm

Anne's crisp voice dominated the conversation while servants moved silently around them, replacing courses and refilling wine glasses with practiced efficiency. The tension that had briefly lifted in the library earlier that day had settled back around Harry and Y/N's shoulders like a well-worn coat, each of them retreating to their practiced roles in this recurring performance.

Y/N kept her eyes on her plate, cutting a perfect bite of the expertly prepared salmon as Anne continued her seemingly endless monologue about the latest scandals and triumphs among London's elite circles. Her fork moved mechanically between plate and mouth, the food—despite Mrs. Patterson's considerable culinary skill—tasting like little more than texture against her tongue.

"...and then Caroline Whitmore-Hayes had the audacity to suggest that her daughter's debut should precede the Westfield girl's, despite the Westfields' significantly superior connections," Anne was saying, her voice carrying the particular blend of amusement and disdain she reserved for recounting the social missteps of those she considered beneath her. "I told Judith Westfield not to concern herself. No one of consequence would attend the Whitmore-Hayes affair regardless of timing."

Harry made an appropriate noise of acknowledgment without actually commenting, a skill he had perfected over years of these dinners. His posture remained impeccable, one hand occasionally reaching for his wine glass in what Y/N had come to recognize as his subtle method of self-medication during his mother's visits.

"The entire affair reminded me of that unfortunate garden party the Hendersons hosted last summer," Anne continued, her gaze sliding briefly to Y/N. "You remember, Harry. The one where they invited that woman who claimed to be some sort of 'influencer.' As if social media popularity could ever substitute for proper breeding and connections."

The comment was clearly aimed at Y/N, a reminder of her status as an outsider to Anne's world despite the wedding ring on her finger. Four months into their marriage, and Anne had yet to miss an opportunity to emphasize Y/N's supposed unsuitability.

Y/N took another bite of her salmon, chewing deliberately as she maintained her composure. She had learned early in their arrangement that responding to Anne's barbs only provided the woman with more ammunition. Silence was her most effective weapon as it meant denying Anne the satisfaction of visible discomfort.

Harry cleared his throat, setting down his fork with deliberate precision. "Speaking of social media, the new campaign images for Burberry were released today. My team tells me the response has been exceptionally positive."

It was a clumsy attempt at changing the subject, but Y/N appreciated the effort nevertheless.

Anne's lips curved in a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Yes, I saw them. You looked quite handsome, darling. Though I did wonder about the styling choices. That particular shade of blue doesn't do your complexion any favors. I've always told you that deeper tones bring out your eyes more effectively."

Harry's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "The creative director felt it complemented the overall aesthetic of the campaign."

"Of course, dear," Anne conceded with the air of someone humoring a child's mistake. "I'm sure they know best, though I can't help but feel that my son deserves to be presented in the most flattering light possible. Perhaps next time you might suggest they consult with someone more experienced."

Before Harry could respond, Anne turned her attention to Y/N, her expression shifting into the particular blend of polite interest and underlying judgment she reserved for her daughter-in-law.

"And what about you, Y/N? Have you found anything productive to occupy your time lately? It must be terribly dull for you, rattling around this enormous house while Harry is working."

The question carried its own set of barbs. The implication that Y/N was useless, idle, merely decorative.

Y/N set down her fork, meeting Anne's gaze directly for the first time since they'd sat down to dinner. "Actually, I've been quite busy. The children's literacy foundation asked me to chair their fundraising committee for the spring gala. It's an important cause. Bringing books and educational resources to underserved communities."

Anne's expression remained pleasant, though her eyes narrowed slightly. "How... charitable. Though I would have thought the Styles Family Foundation might be a more appropriate channel for your energies, given your position. The literacy foundation is rather... small, isn't it?"

"Small but impactful," Y/N responded, keeping her tone light despite the familiar frustration building in her chest. "They've helped establish libraries in over fifty schools across the country in the past year alone."

"Hmm," Anne hummed noncommittally, taking a delicate sip of her wine. "Well, I suppose it's good for you to have some project to keep yourself occupied. Though do be careful about overcommitting the Styles name. There are considerations beyond your personal interests."

Harry set down his wine glass with slightly more force than necessary, drawing both women's attention. "Y/N's work with the literacy foundation has my full support, Mother. In fact, we've discussed making it one of our primary charitable focuses moving forward."

The "we" hung in the air. A small but significant deviation from Harry's usual careful language that maintained separation between them. Y/N glanced at him in surprise, finding his expression unreadable as he returned to his meal.

Anne, however, didn't miss the implication. Her gaze sharpened, moving between them with renewed assessment.

"How unusual," she remarked after a moment. "You've never shown particular interest in literacy charities before, Harry."

"Perhaps my interests are evolving," he replied with a casual shrug that didn't quite mask the tension in his shoulders.

An uncomfortable silence descended over the table, broken only by the soft clink of silverware against fine china. Y/N found herself oddly unable to continue eating, her appetite diminished by the strange undercurrents between mother and son.

Something had shifted in the dynamic, though she couldn't quite identify what—or why.

After a moment, Anne deliberately changed tactics, her smile brightening with artificial warmth. "I ran into Camilla Fairchild at the Harrington's benefit last week. She asked after you quite specifically, Harry."

The name was clearly meant to provoke a reaction. Y/N didn't recognize it, but from the subtle tightening around Harry's eyes, she gathered this Camilla was someone from his past.

Likely someone Anne considered a more suitable match than Y/N.

"Did she," Harry responded flatly, not phrasing it as a question. "How is Camilla these days?"

"Absolutely thriving," Anne enthused, warming to her topic. "She's just returned from overseeing the Paris office of her father's company. Made quite a splash in the international business community, from what I hear. And of course, she's as lovely as ever."

Anne turned to Y/N with a smile that was all teeth. "Camilla and Harry were quite close for a time, you know. Everyone expected them to announce an engagement eventually. Two perfectly matched young people from excellent families. It was such a disappointment when their schedules pulled them in different directions."

The meaning was clear: Camilla had been the appropriate choice, the woman Anne had selected for her son. Y/N was the mistake, the temporary diversion that would eventually be corrected.

Y/N maintained her neutral expression with effort, refusing to give Anne the satisfaction of seeing her discomfort. "How fortunate for Camilla to have found such success in her career," she replied evenly. "Paris is a beautiful city."

Harry's hand moved suddenly across the table, covering Y/N's in a gesture that appeared spontaneous but felt calculated for his mother's benefit. "Camilla and I wanted very different things," he said, his eyes meeting Y/N's with an intensity that seemed performative yet somehow genuine. "It became clear we weren't compatible."

The touch of his hand was warm against hers, his palm slightly calloused in a way that surprised her. For someone who lived such a privileged life, Harry's hands bore the evidence of real work. Perhaps from his music, or from the fitness regimen he maintained with religious dedication.

Anne watched the gesture with poorly disguised disapproval. "People's needs and desires change over time, darling. What seems incompatible at twenty-five might make perfect sense at thirty."

The implication hung in the air: Harry's marriage to Y/N was the youthful mistake; reconciliation with someone like Camilla would be the mature correction.

Harry's fingers tightened slightly around Y/N's before he released her hand, his expression cooling as he turned back to his mother. "I'm quite satisfied with my current situation, Mother."

The statement was perfectly calibrated. It is supportive enough of their marriage to rebuff Anne's meddling, yet ambiguous enough that it could refer merely to the business arrangement rather than any genuine emotional attachment. It was exactly the sort of careful linguistic navigation Harry had perfected in their months together.

Anne's smile thinned, but before she could respond, a distinctive thump followed by the padding of paws announced Grumps' arrival in the dining room. The orange cat sauntered in with his characteristic confidence, tail held high as he surveyed the gathering with his single eye.

Anne visibly recoiled as Grumps approached the table, fixing her with what could only be described as feline contempt. "Really, must that creature be allowed at the table? It's hardly hygienic."

Grumps, as if understanding the criticism, chose that moment to leap gracefully onto the empty chair beside Y/N, settling himself with regal dignity. A one-eyed, battle-scarred monarch surveying his domain.

Harry's mouth quirked in what might have been amusement. "Grumps appears to have decided he's part of the family dinner, Mother. I'm afraid we've been rather permissive with his boundaries."

"Clearly," Anne replied, her distaste evident as she deliberately shifted her chair away from the cat's line of sight. "When I had pets as a child, they understood their place in the household hierarchy."

"Times change," Y/N murmured, reaching over to stroke Grumps' fur. The cat responded with a rumbling purr that seemed deliberately provocative in the tense atmosphere.

Anne's eyes narrowed at Y/N's subtle defiance. "Some standards should remain constant, regardless of changing fashions. Discipline and proper order have always been the foundation of well-run households. And successful marriages, for that matter."

The server entered with the dessert course, momentarily disrupting the brewing tension. As delicate plates of panna cotta were placed before each of them, Anne returned her attention to Harry, her expression softening into something almost wistful.

"Your father always said that the true measure of a man was his ability to maintain order in his own home," she remarked, the invocation of Harry's deceased father clearly calculated for maximum impact.

Harry's expression tightened, as it always did at the mention of his father. "Dad had many opinions about how others should live their lives," he responded, his tone deliberately neutral. "Not all of which I share."

Anne's lips pressed together in disapproval. "Your father built everything we have, Harry. His wisdom deserves more respect than that."

"I respected my father," Harry replied, a dangerous edge entering his voice. "But respect doesn't require blind adherence to outdated values."

Y/N remained silent, watching the familiar dynamic unfold. Anne's most effective weapon had always been Harry's complicated relationship with his father

In their four months of marriage, Y/N had learned to recognize the signs of Anne deploying this particular strategy when other approaches failed.

Anne set down her spoon, her expression a perfect blend of disappointment and concern. "I worry about you, darling. Your father had such hopes for your future. For the Styles legacy. He would be concerned about the direction your life has taken recently."

The "direction" was clearly meant to encompass everything from Harry's marriage to Y/N to the adoption of a one-eyed rescue cat. all deviations from the carefully plotted course Anne and her late husband had envisioned for their son.

Harry's jaw tightened, but before he could respond, Y/N surprised both of them by speaking.

"With all due respect, Anne," she said quietly, "I think a father's greatest hope would be for his son's happiness, not adherence to a specific blueprint for his life."

Both Harry and Anne turned to her with matching expressions of surprise, though for entirely different reasons.

Harry appeared startled by her willingness to enter a conversation that had previously been strictly between mother and son, while Anne seemed genuinely shocked by Y/N's audacity.

"I hardly think you're qualified to speculate on what Desmond Styles would have wanted for his only son," Anne replied, her tone glacial. "You never even met the man."

"No, I didn't," Y/N acknowledged, maintaining her composure despite the chill emanating from her mother-in-law. "But I've heard Harry speak of him often enough to understand he was a man who valued determination and authenticity. Qualities Harry demonstrates every day."

The statement wasn't entirely truthful.

Harry rarely spoke of his father voluntarily but it served its purpose. Anne's expression flickered, momentarily uncertain how to counter this unexpected approach.

Harry was watching Y/N with an unreadable expression, something complex shifting behind his eyes.

"My father," he said after a moment, his voice carrying an unusual weight, "believed in making strategic choices. In that respect, at least, I think he would have approved of my recent decisions."

Anne's gaze moved between them, clearly sensing something had changed but unable to identify exactly what. "Perhaps," she conceded reluctantly. "Though Desmond always took a long-term view. Temporary... arrangements... were never his preference."

Temporary

Arrangements

Y/N felt a strange hollowness expand in her chest at the reminder, though she maintained her neutral expression with practiced ease. Their arrangement had always been clear—this was a business transaction, not a love match. The fact that something seemed to be shifting between them recently didn't change the fundamentals of their agreement.

Harry set down his dessert spoon, his panna cotta barely touched. "I believe I'm capable of making my own judgments about what would best serve the Styles legacy, Mother. But I appreciate your concern, as always."

The dismissal was polite but firm. A signal that the conversation had reached its conclusion. Anne recognized it for what it was, her lips thinning slightly before she adopted a more conciliatory expression.

"Of course, darling. I only want what's best for you."

The remainder of dessert passed in strained conversation about safer topics: the upcoming charity season, Harry's plans for his next album, Anne's recent renovation of her country house. Throughout it all, Grumps remained regally seated in his chair, occasionally fixing Anne with his one-eyed stare in a manner that seemed deliberately provocative.

By the time coffee was served in the sitting room, the atmosphere had settled into a brittle détente, with Anne having apparently decided to reserve her more pointed critiques for another occasion. As she gathered her things to leave shortly before ten, she turned to Harry with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"I've been thinking, darling. It's been too long since you visited the estate in the country. Why don't you and Y/N come for the weekend at the end of the month? The gardens will be lovely by then, and it would give us a chance for some proper family time."

The invitation was clearly a strategic move rather than a genuine desire for their company. Anne's country estate had been the site of some of their most tense encounters, a place where Anne held complete control over the environment and could more effectively isolate Y/N from Harry's attention.

Harry hesitated, his expression carefully neutral. "I'll have to check my schedule, Mother. We've got quite a lot of commitments in the coming weeks."

"Of course," Anne replied smoothly, kissing his cheek in farewell. "But do try to make it work. Family should be a priority, after all."

Her gaze slid to Y/N, the smile remaining fixed in place as she extended her hand rather than offering the cheek kiss she'd given Harry. "Y/N, it's been... illuminating, as always. Do take care of that cat. I'm sure with proper attention, its appearance could be somewhat improved."

Y/N accepted the limp handshake with a practiced smile of her own. "Thank you for coming, Anne. It's always a pleasure."

The blatant untruth hung in the air between them, acknowledged by neither but understood by both. As Thomas showed Anne to the door, Y/N felt the tension she'd been holding in her shoulders begin to release, the familiar post-Anne exhaustion settling into her bones.

Harry remained in the foyer, watching through the side window as his mother's sleek black car pulled away from the house. Only when the taillights had disappeared down the long driveway did he turn back to Y/N, his expression unguarded for a rare moment.

"Well," he said, running a hand through his hair in a gesture of genuine weariness, "that was about what I expected."

Y/N leaned against the doorframe, suddenly too tired to maintain the perfect posture she'd held throughout dinner. "She seemed particularly determined to emphasize our temporary status tonight."

Harry's mouth quirked in a humorless smile. "Mother excels at reminding everyone of their proper place in her world order."

"And my proper place is very much not as your wife," Y/N observed, stating the obvious without rancor. It was simply a fact. One they both had acknowledged from the beginning.

Harry studied her for a moment, something unreadable in his expression. "You handled her well tonight. Especially that bit about my father. I've never seen her quite so wrong-footed."

It wasn't quite a compliment, but it was closer than anything he'd offered her in their four months of marriage. Y/N shrugged, uncomfortable with the acknowledgment.

"I've had enough practice by now," she replied, pushing herself away from the doorframe. "Though I think Grumps may have been the real MVP of the evening. Your mother's face when he jumped on the chair was... memorable."

Harry's expression lightened, a genuine smile briefly transforming his features. "He does seem to have excellent timing. And an uncanny ability to identify the person in the room most likely to be annoyed by his presence."

The shared moment of amusement felt foreign between them. Y/N found herself wanting to preserve it, to extend this unusual ceasefire beyond the boundaries of Anne's visit.

"Would you like a real drink?" she asked impulsively. "Something stronger than the wine we had with dinner? I think we've both earned it after surviving another Styles family dinner."

Harry looked surprised by the offer, hesitating as if weighing the implications of accepting. Their usual pattern after one of Anne's visits was to retreat to separate corners of the house, processing the encounter in isolation rather than together.

"Actually," he said after a moment, "that sounds like exactly what I need."

Y/N nodded, leading the way toward the library where they kept the better liquor. As they walked in companionable silence, Grumps appeared from wherever he'd been hiding during Anne's departure, falling into step beside them with his distinctive one-sided gait.

The library had transformed from a formal space into something more intimate as the night progressed. What had begun as a single drink to decompress after Anne's departure had evolved into several, the expensive whiskey loosening the rigid boundaries they typically maintained. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the book-lined walls as they settled deeper into the oversized leather chairs.

Y/N's cheeks were flushed from the alcohol, her posture relaxed in a way it rarely was around Harry. The glass in her hand was nearly empty––her third of the evening—and her laughter came more freely with each sip.

"I want to rip my hair out sometimes when you shower and then just leave your towel in the bed. Yes we have housekeeping but it's called being decent," she said, gesturing emphatically with her free hand.

Harry snorted, taking another sip of his whiskey as he lounged back in his chair, legs stretched out toward the fire. His usual perfect posture had given way to something more casual, his hair slightly mussed where he'd run his fingers through it repeatedly during their conversation.

"At least I don't leave my makeup scattered across every surface in the bathroom," he countered, his accent growing slightly more pronounced with the alcohol. "How many bloody lipsticks does one person need? And why can't they all go in the same drawer?"

He mimicked opening various drawers and cabinets, his expression exaggerated. "It's like a treasure hunt every morning just trying to find my own razor."

Y/N rolled her eyes, though the gesture lacked its usual edge. "They're organized by color family, not that you'd understand the concept. And at least I don't leave wet towels on Egyptian cotton sheets."

Harry leaned forward to refill his glass, the movement slightly less coordinated than usual. "The sheets dry eventually," he said with a dismissive wave. "What about how you insist on keeping the temperature at arctic levels? I found Mrs. Patterson wearing a cardigan in the kitchen last week, in August."

Y/N laughed, the sound genuine and unguarded. "Some of us don't naturally run at the temperature of a furnace. And Mrs. Patterson exaggerates. It was barely below seventy."

"Barely below seventy," Harry mimicked, dropping his voice to a dramatically serious tone. "Tell that to Grumps—I found him sleeping on top of the heating vent earlier."

As if summoned by his name, Grumps appeared in the doorway, stretching languidly before padding over to jump onto the arm of Y/N's chair. The cat settled into a comfortable position, his single eye regarding Harry with what looked suspiciously like judgment.

"See? He agrees with me," Harry said, gesturing at the cat with his glass. "That's his 'Harry is right and you're being ridiculous' face."

Y/N scratched behind Grumps' ears, earning a contented purr. "This is his 'I tolerate the loud human because hes going to be feeding me occasionally' face, actually. I've become fluent in Grumps expressions."

Harry's eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, the expression transforming his face in a way that still caught Y/N off guard. When he genuinely smiled, not the practiced, camera-ready version, but the real thing, he looked younger, more approachable. Almost like the boy she'd known all those summers ago, before his mother's influence had fully taken hold.

"What about how you alphabetize the spice rack?" he continued, shifting to sit sideways in the chair, his long legs draped over one arm. "Who does that? It's maddening trying to find anything."

"It's called organization," Y/N protested, taking another sip of her whiskey. "Not everyone wants to hunt for oregano for ten minutes every time they cook."

"But paprika and pepper should be together," Harry insisted with the passionate conviction of the mildly drunk. "They're both... p spices. It just makes sense."

Y/N burst out laughing, nearly spilling her drink. "P spices? That's your organizational system? By first letter?"

"It's intuitive," he defended, trying to maintain a serious expression but failing as a smile broke through. "Better than your color-coordinated bookshelf. Looking for that music history book the other day was like trying to solve a bloody Rubik's cube."

"The blue section is clearly music and arts," Y/N replied with exaggerated patience. "Everyone knows that."

"Everyone does not know that," Harry countered, leaning forward to emphasize his point. "Because it's a system that exists only in your mind. Like how you insist the good mugs can only be used on weekends."

Y/N gasped in mock offense. "The handmade pottery mugs are special! They shouldn't be used for random Tuesday morning coffee."

"They're mugs, Y/N. Their purpose is to hold liquid, not to mark special occasions."

"Says the man who has separate towels for his hair and body," she shot back, grinning. "Talk about unnecessary."

Harry's eyes widened. "How do you know about that?"

"Mrs. Patterson told me," Y/N admitted, looking smug. "She finds it hilarious that you need a specific towel just for your precious hair."

Harry ran a hand through said hair self-consciously. "It's not weird. Hair towels are smaller and more absorbent."

"Mmhmm," Y/N hummed skeptically, her eyes dancing with amusement. "And I suppose the special Italian conditioner that has to be specially imported is also completely normal?"

Harry's expression shifted to genuine surprise. "How do you know about the conditioner?"

"I live here too," Y/N reminded him, gesturing broadly with her glass. "I notice things. Like how you organize your clothes by designer, not type or color."

Harry looked slightly disconcerted at the revelation that she'd been paying such close attention to his habits. His gaze dropped to his whiskey glass, turning it slowly in his hands.

"Well, I notice things too," he said after a moment, glancing up with a challenging expression. "Like how you always put your left shoe on first. Or how you talk to yourself when you think no one's listening."

Now it was Y/N's turn to look surprised. "I don't talk to myself."

"You absolutely do," Harry insisted, a genuine smile spreading across his face. "Usually when you're reading. You have entire conversations with the characters and arguing with them when they make decisions you don't like."

Heat rose to Y/N's cheeks that had nothing to do with the alcohol or the fire. "I... I didn't realize I did that out loud."

"It's..." Harry hesitated, seeming to search for the right word. "It's actually rather charming. Especially when you get really worked up about some nineteenth-century idiot making poor choices."

The word "charming" hung in the air between them, unexpected and slightly dangerous. This was new territory.

Acknowledging positive aspects of each other beyond the carefully maintained façade they presented to the public. Y/N took another sip of her whiskey, using the moment to gather her thoughts.

"Well, at least I don't sing the same line of a song over and over for days," she countered, steering them back to the safer ground of gentle teasing. "Last week it was just 'the rhythm of the rain' for three days straight. I nearly lost my mind."

Harry laughed, accepting the shift in tone. "Occupational hazard. Sometimes a line just gets stuck in my head until I figure out where it belongs."

"In the meantime, the rest of us suffer," Y/N replied with an exaggerated sigh.

"Speaking of suffering," Harry said, his expression turning mischievous, "what about your obsession with those terrible reality dating shows? The walls in this house aren't soundproof, you know. I can hear you yelling at the TV from my study."

Y/N groaned, covering her face with her free hand. "They're a guilty pleasure, okay? And those people make objectively terrible decisions. Aomeone needs to tell them."

"And that someone is you, shouting 'He's clearly using you for screen time!' at eleven at night?" Harry's impression of her voice was comically high-pitched.

"I do not sound like that," Y/N protested, laughing despite herself. "And I was right about that guy. He dumped her the minute the cameras stopped rolling."

Harry raised his glass in a mock toast. "To your superior judgment of reality TV contestants' motivations."

Y/N clinked her glass against his, still smiling. "And to your completely unnecessary hair towels."

The moment felt surreal. Sitting in the library, trading playful insults with the man she'd been at constant odds with for months. The alcohol had lowered their usual defenses, allowing a glimpse of what their relationship might have been under different circumstances.

if they'd met as equals rather than through a business arrangement, if Anne's influence hadn't poisoned Harry against her family from childhood, if the weight of expectations and resentments didn't constantly hover between them.

Harry seemed to be having similar thoughts, his expression turning contemplative as he studied her over the rim of his glass. The firelight caught in his eyes, turning them a deeper, warmer green than usual.

"You know," he said after a moment, his voice softer, "when we were kids, that summer when I was eleven and you were... what, 10? I used to look forward to seeing you at the lake every day."

The sudden shift to their shared past caught Y/N off guard. They rarely discussed their childhood encounters. the brief friendship they'd formed during the summers when Harry's family stayed at their country estate near Y/N's childhood home. It felt like opening a door they'd tacitly agreed to keep closed.

"I remember," she said carefully, watching his expression. "You taught me how to skip stones. You were so proud when I finally got one to bounce four times."

A genuine smile spread across Harry's face at the memory. "You were a determined little thing. Wouldn't stop until you beat my record."

"And I never did," Y/N admitted with a rueful laugh. "What was it, eight skips?"

"Nine, on a good day," Harry corrected, his expression softening. "Though I'd been practicing for years by then, so it wasn't really a fair competition."

Y/N swirled the remaining whiskey in her glass, watching the amber liquid catch the firelight. "Your mother found us there once, didn't she? At the lake. I remember her being... unhappy."

Harry's expression clouded slightly at the mention of Anne. "That's putting it mildly. She forbade me from going back to that part of the property for the rest of the summer. Said it wasn't appropriate for me to be 'consorting with the shopkeeper's daughter.'"

He mimicked Anne's precise, clipped tones with surprising accuracy, though there was an edge of bitterness beneath the impression.

"Yet you still came back the next day," Y/N reminded him, remembering her surprise when he'd appeared at their usual meeting spot despite his mother's prohibition.

Harry's gaze dropped to his glass. "I did."

It was a reminder that there had been a time when Harry had chosen Y/N's company over his mother's approval, however briefly. Before the years of conditioning had fully taken hold, before he'd learned to view her through Anne's contemptuous lens.

"What happened to us, Harry?" Y/N asked softly, the alcohol making her braver than she might otherwise have been. "We were friends once, weren't we? Before... all of this."

Harry was quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable as he stared into the fire. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a weight she rarely heard from him.

"We were children," he said, not unkindly but with finality. "Children don't understand the complications of the real world."

The statement felt rehearsed, as if he'd told himself the same thing many times over the years. A justification for the distance he'd put between them as they grew older, for the contempt he'd adopted toward her family in mimicry of his mother's attitudes.

Y/N nodded slowly, accepting the boundary he'd drawn even as disappointment settled in her chest. The brief window of genuine connection seemed to be closing, the walls between them reasserting themselves despite the alcohol and the cozy intimacy of the firelit room.

"I should probably get some sleep," she said after a moment, setting her empty glass on the side table and gently dislodging Grumps from his perch on the arm of her chair. "It's getting late."

Harry glanced at her, something complicated flickering in his expression before it settled back into careful neutrality. "Of course. It's been a long day."

As Y/N stood, she felt the effects of the whiskey more strongly, swaying slightly on her feet. Harry rose quickly, one hand reaching out to steady her elbow. The contact was brief but electric, his fingers warm through the thin fabric of her blouse.

"Careful," he murmured, his voice lower than usual. "Perhaps we both had more than intended."

They stood close for a moment, closer than they typically allowed themselves to be when not performing for cameras or guests. Y/N could smell the subtle notes of his cologne mingled with whiskey and the sandalwood scent of the fire, a combination that was uniquely Harry, familiar yet somehow new in this context.

"Thank you," she said softly, stepping back carefully to reestablish the appropriate distance between them. "For the drinks and... this. It was nice to just talk for once."

Harry nodded, his expression difficult to read in the flickering firelight. "It was... a pleasant change of pace."

The formality of his response should have been jarring after the relative ease of their earlier conversation, but Y/N recognized it for what it was. A retreat to safer ground. A reminder of the actual nature of their relationship, regardless of momentary détentes.

"Goodnight, Harry," she said, offering a small smile as she turned toward the door, Grumps trailing at her heels.

"Y/N," Harry called as she reached the threshold, causing her to pause and look back. "For what it's worth... I did consider you a friend. Back then."

The admission was small but significant. An acknowledgment of a truth they both knew but rarely voiced. Y/N nodded, unsure how to respond to this unexpected olive branch.

"So did I," she finally replied, the simple truth feeling both inadequate and too revealing.

With a final nod, she continued out of the library, leaving Harry standing by the fire, whiskey glass in hand, his expression thoughtful as he watched her go. The corridor felt cooler after the warmth of the library, or perhaps it was simply the absence of the unexpected connection they'd briefly shared.

As Y/N made her way up the grand staircase toward her bedroom, Grumps padding silently beside her, she couldn't help but wonder what had prompted Harry's unusual openness tonight. Whether it had been merely the influence of good whiskey and exhaustion after his mother's visit, or something deeper—a hairline crack in the careful walls they'd built around themselves.

Either way, she knew better than to assign too much significance to a single evening of relative harmony. Tomorrow would likely bring a return to their usual careful distance, the momentary connection forgotten or deliberately ignored as they resumed their performative roles.

Yet as she prepared for bed, moving through her nightly routine with the mechanical precision of habit, Y/N found herself replaying moments from their conversation.

The genuine laugh when she'd teased him about his hair towels

The softness in his expression when he recalled teaching her to skip stones

The brief warmth of his hand on her elbow.

Small things, insignificant in the grand scheme of their arrangement. Yet somehow, as she slipped beneath the cool sheets of her bed, these moments felt like pebbles dropped into still water—tiny disturbances that sent ripples outward, changing the surface in ways too subtle to name but impossible to entirely ignore.

Harry's brow furrowed as he slipped beneath the silk sheets an hour later, expecting to find Y/N already lost to her dreams. Instead, her voice cut through the darkness like a blade—sharp, accusatory, and laced with years of unresolved pain.

"You lied."

The words charged with emotion brewing since their conversation in the library. The whiskey's warmth still lingered in his veins, but the comfort it had provided was rapidly evaporating.

"What?" he asked, genuinely startled by her wakefulness and her accusation’s directness.

Y/N shifted in the darkness, turning to face him. Even in the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains, he could see the hurt etched across her features.

"That's what happened to us. You lied," she repeated, her voice steadier now but no less wounded.

Harry's jaw tightened. "About what?"

"You said, no, you promised you'd come back. But you never did."

"Christ," he muttered, settling onto his back with a heavy exhale. "You're drunk."

"And you're a liar," Y/N replied, her voice clearer now, more steady than he'd expected.

The whiskey still coursed through his veins, warming his blood and loosening the tight grip he usually maintained on his memories—on the parts of himself he'd worked so hard to bury. That summer. That clearing in the woods. Her lips against his, inexperienced but eager.

He stared at the ceiling, jaw tightening. "It was a lifetime ago."

"You said you'd come back," she repeated, her voice steadier now, more insistent. She propped herself on her elbow, the sheets pooling around her waist. "That summer. In the woods. You promised."

The woods. The clearing. The dappled sunlight through the leaves. Her younger face tilted up toward his, trusting and open in a way she never looked at him anymore. The taste of her lips, inexperienced but eager. His whispered promises.

"We were kids," he said dismissively, though something uncomfortable twisted in his stomach. "People say things."

"Not just people. You." Her voice hardened. "You looked me in the eyes and promised. Then you vanished."

"What do you want me to say?" Harry snapped, propping himself up on his elbow. "That I'm sorry? Fine—I'm fucking sorry I didn't keep a promise I made when I was sixteen. Is that what you need to hear?"

"I need to understand what happened to us!" Y/N's voice rose, cracking slightly. "How did we go from that to... to this? To you treating me like I'm nothing but an inconvenience, like I'm beneath you?"

"I didn't have a fucking choice!" Harry's volume matched hers now, the careful facade of indifference crumbling. "You think my mother would have allowed me to keep seeing you? The daughter of a shopkeeper?"

"You're such an asshole," she hissed. "You knew exactly what you were doing when you offered me this arrangement. You knew who I was."

"Of course I knew who you were," he snapped back, his own temper flaring. "The pathetic girl from the village my mother always warned me about. The one who wasn't good enough for me then, and certainly isn't now."

Her sharp intake of breath told him he'd struck a nerve. Good. He wanted to hurt her like she was hurting him with these memories.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, frustration building. "You want the truth? My mother happened. She told me what a fucking embarrassment it would be if anyone found out I was sneaking around with the shopkeeper's daughter. How it would ruin everything my family had built."

"And you believed her," Y/N said quietly. "You just... accepted that I wasn't good enough."

"I was a kid!" Harry's voice rose to match hers. "A stupid kid who'd been taught his whole life that people like you were—"

"People like me?" Y/N cut in, sitting up fully now. "What exactly are 'people like me,' Harry? Poor? Common? Not worthy of breathing the same air as the almighty Styles family?"

Harry ran a hand over his face, the stubble on his jaw rough against his palm. "I was sixteen, for fuck's sake. We were kids."

"Bullshit," Y/N snapped, her voice rising. "You just decided I wasn't worth the trouble. Your mother made sure of that, didn't she? Made sure you understood that people like me weren't good enough for people like you."

Harry sat up abruptly, anger flaring. "Don't pretend to know what happened. You have no fucking idea what my life was like then."

"Then tell me!" she demanded. "Tell me why you left without a word. Why did you promise to meet me and then never showed up. Why you let me wait there in that clearing for hours like some pathetic, lovesick fool!"

"Because I was a coward!" Harry shouted, the admission tearing from him before he could stop it.

"Is that what you want to hear? That I was too fucking weak to stand up to my mother? That I let her convince me you were beneath me? That I spent years trying to forget about you because remembering hurt too goddamn much?"

Y/N stared at him, momentarily stunned by his outburst. Then her eyes narrowed. "So you just... what? Decided to hate me instead? To treat me like dirt the under your expensive shoes? That was easier?"

"Yes!" he hissed, leaning closer, his face inches from hers. "Yes, it was fucking easier to hate you than to admit I was wrong. Than to admit I missed you. Than to admit that for years after, every time I closed my eyes, I saw your face waiting for me in that clearing."

The tension between them crackled like electricity, years of resentment and unspoken truths finally surfacing. They were breathing hard, glaring at each other in the half-light.

"You're such an asshole," Y/N whispered, her voice trembling with emotion.

"And you're a fucking pain in my ass," Harry growled back.

"Was it worth it?" Y/N asked quietly.

The question hit him like a physical blow. Was it worth it? The Grammy awards, the sold-out stadiums, the wealth beyond imagination—all of it built on the foundation his mother had established for him, brick by calculated brick.

"Yes," he answered automatically, but even to his own ears, the word sounded hollow. "It has to be."

"So you admit it," she challenged, not backing down despite his proximity. Her eyes flashed in the darkness. "You left because you thought I wasn't good enough. That I wasnt worth it”

"I left because I had bigger things waiting for me than some summer romance!" he shouted, losing his composure entirely. "What did you expect? That I'd throw away everything for you?"

"I expected you to at least say goodbye!" she shouted back, pushing against his chest. "Not to make promises you had no intention of keeping!"

He caught her wrists, his grip firm but not painful. "What's the real problem here, Y/N? That I broke a promise, or that I was your first taste of rejection?"

Her face contorted with rage. "You arrogant son of a—"

"Careful," he warned, his face inches from hers. "That's your mother-in-law you're talking about."

"This isn't a real marriage," she spat.

"No," he agreed, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "It's not. It's business. So stop acting like I broke your heart."

"You did break my heart," she admitted, the raw honesty in her voice momentarily stunning him. "And the worst part is, you never even cared enough to notice."

The sudden shift in her tone caught Harry off-guard. He watched as the fight seemed to drain out of her, replaced by something worse—resignation.

"I didn't expect you to throw everything away. I just thought I was worth a goodbye."

Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over before she could turn away.

"Fuck," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Don't—don't cry."

"I'm not crying because of you," she lied, her voice thick as she wiped angrily at her cheeks. "I'm crying because I'm tired and drunk and I hate that I ever agreed to this stupid arrangement."

Harry stood frozen, watching her shoulders shake with suppressed sobs. This wasn't the fiery Y/N he'd grown accustomed to sparring with. This was the girl from the lake, vulnerable and hurt.

Hurt that he'd caused, both then and now.

“because I wasted so much time wondering what I did wrong. Wondering why you hated me."

Harry's hand dropped away. "I never hated you," he admitted quietly. "I hated what you represented. The choice I was too weak to make."

Y/N wiped at her eyes, her vulnerability making her look younger, reminding him of the girl he'd known. "Your mother would have made your life hell."

"She did anyway," Harry said with a bitter laugh. "Just in different ways."

More silence stretched between them, but it felt different now—less hostile, more thoughtful.

"I didn't..." he began, then stopped, unsure what to say. "I wanted to come back."

Y/N went still, her back to him.

"My mother found out," he continued, the words coming reluctantly. "About us. About that day in the woods. Someone saw us and told her. She was... livid. Said she'd cut me off completely if I ever saw you again."

He moved closer, cautious as if approaching a wounded animal.

"I was sixteen, Y/N. Music was all I had. It was my only way out from under her thumb. If she'd cut me off, I wouldn't have had the money for the demos, for the connections I needed. I couldn't..."

"You couldn't choose me," Y/N finished, her voice small. "I understand."

"No, you don't," Harry sighed, the fight gone from him too. "I tried to send you a letter. My mother intercepted it. After that, she made sure we left early and never returned to that house. By the next summer, I was on tour. Everything happened so fast."

He hesitated, then placed a tentative hand on her shoulder. When she didn't shake it off, he gently turned her to face him.

"I'm not saying it was right," he said, looking down at her tear-streaked face. "I'm not saying I'm not a coward or an asshole. But I didn't forget you, Y/N. I just... couldn't have both worlds."

Y/N looked up at him, searching his face for the truth. After a moment, she nodded slightly.

"I waited for you," she admitted, her voice barely audible. "That whole next summer. Every day at our spot in the woods."

The confession hit Harry like a physical blow. He closed his eyes briefly, guilt washing over him.

"I'm sorry," he said, the words inadequate but sincere. "I should have tried harder to reach you. To explain."

Y/N nodded again, wiping away the last of her tears. "And I'm sorry for bringing it all up. It's ancient history now."

"Is it?" Harry asked, surprising himself with the question. His hand was still on her shoulder, and he was suddenly acutely aware of how close they were standing.

Y/N looked up at him, confusion evident in her expression. "What do you mean?"

Harry struggled to articulate the strange feeling in his chest—a mixture of nostalgia, regret, and something else he wasn't ready to name.

"I don't know," he admitted. "Just... today, with my mother. The way she talked to you. I hated it."

"You defended me," Y/N said softly. "I didn't expect that."

"Neither did I," Harry confessed with a hint of a smile. "Turns out there are limits to how much of her bullshit I can stomach."

Y/N gave a watery laugh, and the tension in the room eased slightly.

"We should try to get some sleep," she suggested, gesturing toward the bed. "Tomorrow's another day of pretending we don't want to strangle each other."

Harry nodded, but as they both climbed back into bed, he found himself saying, "What if we tried?"

"Tried what?" Y/N asked sleepily, already settling onto her side of the mattress.

"To not hate each other," Harry clarified, staring up at the ceiling again. "To at least... I don't know, call a truce or something."

There was a long silence, and he thought perhaps she'd already fallen asleep. Then he felt her shift slightly closer.

"I'd like that," she murmured, her voice soft with approaching sleep. "A truce."

"Goodnight, Y/N," Harry whispered, something unfamiliar and warm settling in his chest.

"Goodnight, Harry," she replied, and for the first time since their arrangement began, the silence between them felt peaceful rather than hostile.

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a gentle glow across the bedroom. Harry had woken early, his mind uncomfortably full with memories from the night before. The rawness of their conversation, the tears, the vulnerability—it all felt like too much in the harsh clarity of daybreak.

He'd slipped out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake Y/N, and spent an hour in the home gym, pushing himself through a punishing workout as if he could sweat out the uncomfortable feelings taking root in his chest. By the time he returned upstairs, showered and dressed in fitted jeans and a simple white t-shirt that clung to his still-damp torso, he'd built his walls back up, brick by emotional brick.

Morning arrived with the gentle persistence of English summer sunlight filtering through the gap in the curtains. Y/N stirred slowly, the events of the previous night returning to her consciousness in fragments—whiskey in the library, unexpected laughter, confessions in the moonlight. A strange sense of vulnerability lingered, as if something fundamental had shifted while they slept.

She reached out automatically for her phone on the nightstand, checking the time. 8:47. Later than she usually woke, but understandable given how late they'd stayed up talking. Harry's side of the bed was empty, the sheets cool to the touch. He must have risen some time ago.

As she stretched and contemplated facing the day, Y/N wondered how their interaction would be affected by last night's unusual openness. Would there be an awkward acknowledgment? A tacit agreement to pretend nothing had changed? Or perhaps, optimistically, a slight easing of the constant tension that characterized their daily coexistence?

The answer came sooner than expected. As she descended the stairs, voices drifted from the kitchen—Harry's, and what sounded like Mrs. Patterson discussing the day's schedule. Y/N paused in the doorway, taking in the scene: Harry leaning against the counter in workout clothes, hair damp from a recent shower, scrolling through his phone while Mrs. Patterson arranged fresh flowers in a vase.

"Good morning," Y/N said, stepping into the kitchen.

Harry glanced up, his expression instantly hardening in a way that felt like a physical blow after the relative warmth of the previous night. His eyes, which had been soft in the firelight as he recalled teaching her to skip stones, were now cold and distant.

"Finally decided to join the land of the living?" he remarked, his tone carrying that familiar edge of condescension. "It's nearly nine."

Y/N blinked, momentarily thrown by the sharp contrast to the man who had apologized in the darkness just hours ago. "I was tired," she said simply, moving toward the coffee maker. "We were up late."

"Some of us still managed to be productive this morning," Harry replied, gesturing to his workout clothes. "I've already been for a run, showered, and handled three calls with the label about the tour schedule."

Mrs. Patterson shot Y/N a sympathetic glance before busying herself with the flowers, clearly sensing the tension and wanting no part of it. This was familiar territory—Harry's subtle digs, the implication that Y/N was somehow failing to meet an arbitrary standard he'd set.

"Congratulations on your superior time management skills," Y/N replied, keeping her voice deliberately light as she poured juice into a mug—one of the everyday ones, not the "special" weekend pottery. "I'm sure your morning was far more virtuous than mine."

Harry's jaw tightened slightly, whether at her refusal to rise to the bait or simply from general irritation was unclear. "I've got meetings in the city all day," he said abruptly. "Don't wait up."

"Wasn't planning to," Y/N replied automatically, the familiar script of their antagonism reasserting itself with depressing ease.

Mrs. Patterson cleared her throat delicately. "Will you be wanting dinner when you return, Mr. Styles? I could leave something that could be easily reheated."

"No need," Harry said, still scrolling through his phone. "I'll be dining with the Sony executives. It will probably run late."

His tone carried a subtle implication—that these meetings were important, significant in a way that Y/N couldn't possibly understand. It was classic Harry, reinforcing the boundary between his world of music industry elites and her more ordinary existence.

"Very good, sir," Mrs. Patterson nodded, gathering her gardening shears and moving toward the door. "I'll just finish arranging these flowers in the sitting room."

As she left, a heavy silence fell between Harry and Y/N. It was Y/N who broke it, unable to reconcile the man before her with the one who had spoken with such unexpected honesty just hours ago.

"Is this how it's going to be?" she asked quietly, cradling her mug. "We have one honest conversation, and now you're going to be even more of an ass to compensate?"

Harry's gaze snapped up from his phone, his expression briefly revealing something—discomfort? guilt?—before settling back into cool indifference.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do," Y/N pressed, setting her mug down with more force than intended. "Last night happened, Harry. We talked. Actually talked, for once. You apologized for something. And now you're acting like I've personally offended you by existing in your kitchen."

Harry's posture stiffened, his knuckles whitening slightly where he gripped his phone. "Last night was a mistake," he said flatly. "We'd both had too much to drink. I said things I shouldn't have."

"You mean you were honest for once?" Y/N challenged, frustration building. "God forbid you actually acknowledge that there's history between us, that we're not just strangers thrown together by circumstance."

"That's exactly what we are," Harry shot back, his voice hardening. "This is a business arrangement, Y/N. Nothing more. Whatever happened years ago is irrelevant to our current situation."

The dismissal stung more than it should have, given that it was nothing she hadn't heard from him before. Yet after the glimpse of a different Harry last night—one capable of reflection, of acknowledging past wrongs—the return to this cold, defensive version felt like a deliberate rejection.

"Right," she said, her own voice cooling to match his. "How could I forget? I'm just the shopkeeper's daughter who was convenient for your PR strategy. Nothing more."

Something flickered in Harry's eyes at her words—a brief crack in the façade before he reinforced it. "I have to go," he said, pushing away from the counter. "James is waiting with the car."

"Of course he is," Y/N murmured, turning away to stare out the kitchen window at the meticulously maintained garden. "Heaven forbid the great Harry Styles be delayed by an actual conversation."

Harry paused in the doorway, and for a moment Y/N thought he might say something more—might offer some explanation for his abrupt reversion to hostility. Instead, he simply adjusted his watch, his expression carefully neutral.

"Like I said, don't wait up."

With that, he was gone, leaving Y/N alone in the kitchen with cooling coffee and the lingering sense that whatever brief connection they'd shared the night before had been deliberately severed.

She sank into one of the kitchen chairs, trying to process the whiplash of emotions. Had she imagined the significance of last night's conversation? Had it meant nothing to him beyond a momentary lowering of defenses due to alcohol?

No, she decided, recalling the genuine regret in his voice when he'd apologized for disappearing that summer. There had been real honesty there, however briefly. Which meant this morning's hostility was a deliberate choice. A retreat to familiar territory after venturing too far into emotional vulnerability.

Well into the night, Y/N remained at the window seat, watching as Harry emerged from the car in the driveway below. Even from this distance, his unsteady gait was evident as he stumbled slightly on the gravel, causing James to step forward with a steadying hand that Harry immediately shrugged off with visible irritation. She could hear the muffled sound of voices. James saying something in a concerned tone, Harry's response too slurred to make out the words but clearly dismissive in tone.

She hadn't seen Harry this drunk before. Throughout their four months of marriage, he'd been careful to maintain control, especially in public where photographers might be lurking. Whatever happened at his "business dinner" with Sony executives had clearly driven him past his usual limits.

Grumps lifted his head at the sound of the front door closing with more force than necessary, followed by a thud and muttered cursing that suggested Harry had collided with something in the foyer. The cat's ears flattened slightly before he settled back against Y/N's leg, apparently deciding the disturbance wasn't worth investigating.

Y/N debated whether to remain where she was or go downstairs. Their earlier interaction hardly encouraged her to seek him out, yet there was something about the uncharacteristic loss of control that worried her. Harry's public image, and by extension, their arrangement, depended on his maintaining a certain persona. If he was spiraling for some reason...

The decision was made for her when she heard the uneven progress of footsteps on the stairs, followed by the bedroom door swinging open with enough force to bang against the wall. Harry stood swaying in the doorway, his normally immaculate appearance in disarray, tie loosened and askew, top buttons of his shirt undone, hair disheveled as if he'd been repeatedly running his hands through it.

"Well, well," he slurred, his gaze finding her at the window seat. "If it isn't my lovely, devoted wife, waiting up despite being told not to."

The bitter emphasis he placed on "devoted" carried a weight of sarcasm that immediately set Y/N's defenses on edge.

"I wasn't waiting for you," she replied evenly, keeping her voice calm despite the tension coiling in her stomach. "I couldn't sleep."

Harry snorted, stumbling further into the room and collapsing onto the edge of the bed. "Couldn't sleep," he mimicked, his accent more pronounced in his inebriated state. "Worried about me, were you? How touching."

He fumbled with his tie, trying unsuccessfully to remove it before giving up with a frustrated grunt. The display was so at odds with his usual precise control that Y/N found herself rising from the window seat, concern temporarily overriding her irritation.

"What happened, Harry?" she asked, maintaining a careful distance. "This isn't like you."

His laugh was harsh, devoid of any real humor. "What would you know about what's 'like me'? You don't know me at all."

"I know you don't usually get drunk enough to barely stand," Y/N countered, crossing her arms. "I thought this was an important business dinner."

"Oh, it was," Harry replied, attempting to toe off his shoes and nearly toppling sideways in the process. "Very important. Lots of important people saying important things about my important career."

He finally succeeded in removing one shoe, letting it drop to the floor with a thud. "And then my mother called the head of the label. Right in the middle of dinner. To express her 'concerns' about my recent behavior."

Y/N stiffened. "What concerns?"

"Apparently," Harry continued, his words running together slightly, "I've been 'overemphasizing my personal life' in interviews. Making our marriage 'too central to my public narrative.' Risking my 'long-term credibility with serious music critics.'"

He mimicked Anne's precise, cutting tone with surprising accuracy despite his drunken state. The second shoe joined the first on the floor, followed by his suit jacket, which he shrugged off and tossed carelessly aside.

"She thinks I'm using you as a crutch," he added, his expression darkening. "That I'm hiding behind this—" he gestured vaguely between them "—this arrangement because I'm insecure about the reception of the new album."

"And the label executives agreed with her?"

Harry's laugh held a note of genuine bitterness that cut through the alcohol-induced looseness. "They're terrified of her. Always have been. My mother has connections throughout the industry. She's been shaping my career since before I had a career. So when Anne Styles calls with 'concerns,' everyone jumps to attention."

He attempted to unbutton his shirt, his fingers clumsy and uncoordinated. After watching him struggle for a moment, Y/N sighed and stepped forward.

"Let me," she said quietly, batting his hands away to deal with the buttons herself. It was an oddly intimate gesture for two people who maintained such careful distance, but the practicality of the situation overrode the awkwardness.

Harry's gaze fixed on her face as she worked, his expression unreadable beneath the glassy sheen of intoxication. This close, she could smell the whiskey on his breath, along with the lingering notes of his cologne and something else—cigarettes, though she'd never seen him smoke.

"They want to 'adjust the narrative,'" he continued as she finished with the buttons, his voice quieter now but no less bitter. "Less focus on being a 'settled family man,' more emphasis on me as a 'serious artist' focused on my craft. They're going to start planting stories about how absorbed I am in the new album, how I've 'retreated to focus on artistic exploration.'"

Y/N stepped back, processing the implications. "What does that mean for our arrangement?"

Harry shrugged, the movement loose and exaggerated. "Nothing changes officially. We're still married. You still get your money. I still get my..." he trailed off, seeming to lose his train of thought momentarily. "Whatever I'm getting out of this."

The uncertainty in his voice struck a discordant note. Harry had always been clear about his motivations. The endorsements, the expanded fan base, the image reformation. This suggestion that he himself wasn't sure what he was gaining was new, and concerning.

"Harry," Y/N said carefully, "how much did you drink tonight?"

He waved the question away, falling back onto the bed to stare at the ceiling. "Enough. Not enough. Who knows? The great Harry Styles, can't even handle his liquor properly. Another disappointment to add to the list."

The self-loathing in his voice was startling. A crack in the carefully maintained façade of arrogant self-assurance he typically projected. Y/N hesitated, uncertain how to respond to this unexpected vulnerability.

"You should drink some water," she said finally, practical concerns overriding the complicated emotions swirling beneath the surface. "You're going to have a miserable headache in the morning as it is."

Harry's laugh held no humor. "Always so practical, Y/N. Always thinking about the sensible thing to do. Don't you ever just... lose control? Let yourself feel something without calculating all the consequences first?"

The question hit uncomfortably close to home. A criticism she'd heard before from friends who found her too cautious, too measured in her responses to life's challenges.

"Someone in this room has to maintain some sense," she replied, deflecting the personal nature of his inquiry. "And right now, it clearly isn't going to be you."

She moved toward the en-suite bathroom to get him water, but Harry's next words stopped her in her tracks.

"I saw your face this morning," he said, his voice suddenly clearer, as if he'd momentarily broken through the alcohol haze. "When I... when I was cold to you. You looked hurt."

Y/N turned slowly, finding him propped up on his elbows, watching her with an intensity that belied his drunken state.

"I wasn't hurt," she denied automatically, the lie transparent even to her own ears. "I was just surprised by the mood swing after... after our conversation last night."

"Liar," Harry said, the word lacking accusation, simply stating a fact. "You were hurt. I hurt you. I'm good at that, apparently. Hurting people. Especially people who..." he trailed off again, this time seeming genuinely lost in his own thoughts.

"People who what, Harry?" Y/N pressed, something in his tone making her heart beat faster despite her better judgment.

He shook his head, falling back onto the bed with his arm flung over his eyes. "Doesn't matter. Nothing matters. My mother's right. I'm making a mess of everything. The album, the tour, this marriage. All of it."

The defeated tone was so unlike him, so contrary to the confident, sometimes arrogant man, she'd lived with for four months.

Y/N found herself moving to sit tentatively on the edge of the bed.

"That doesn't sound like you," she said quietly. "Since when do you let Anne dictate how you feel about your own life?"

A harsh laugh escaped him. "Since always. Haven't you been paying attention? My whole life is just... following her blueprint. Being what she wanted. The perfect son. The successful musician. Dating the right people from the right families. And the one time—the one time—I try to make a decision she doesn't approve of..."

He gestured vaguely toward Y/N, the movement uncoordinated and expansive. "Even this. Even marrying you. It wasn't really rebellion, was it? It was just... finding another way to prove something to her. Using you to make a point."

The blunt admission stung, despite being nothing Y/N hadn't already suspected. Still, having it confirmed so baldly, in Harry's own slurred words, felt like a physical blow.

"I knew what I was getting into," she said stiffly, rising from the bed. "This was always a business arrangement. Your motivations are your own business."

Harry sat up abruptly, reaching for her wrist with surprising coordination given his state. "No, that's not... I didn't mean..." He struggled visibly to organize his thoughts. "Last night, when we talked about that summer. About the kiss. Do you ever wonder what would have happened if I'd come back? If I'd kept my promise?"

The question caught Y/N entirely off-guard, both its content and the raw vulnerability with which he asked it. She stared at him, trying to determine if this was genuine introspection or simply the rambling of a drunk man who wouldn't remember any of this in the morning.

"It doesn't matter now," she said carefully, gently extracting her wrist from his grip. "We can't change the past, Harry."

"But what if we could?" he persisted, his eyes glassy but intent. "What if I'd stood up to my mother back then? What if I'd told her I wanted to spend time with the shopkeeper's daughter and didn't care what she thought? What if I'd been brave instead of... instead of whatever I was?"

The plaintive note in his voice made something in Y/N's chest ache. This was dangerous territory, speculating about paths not taken, possibilities that had withered years ago.

"You were sixteen," she said softly. "No one expects a sixteen-year-old boy to defy his mother, especially not one as formidable as Anne."

Harry shook his head, the movement causing him to sway slightly. "I should have. I've spent over a decade doing exactly what she wanted, becoming exactly who she thought I should be. And for what? So she could call the head of my label and tell him I'm overemphasizing my marriage in interviews?"

His voice cracked on the last words, and to Y/N's horror, she saw his eyes filling with tears, actual tears gathering in the eyes of a man she'd never seen display genuine emotion beyond anger or irritation.

"I'm so tired, Y/N," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper

Y/N hesitated, her hand hovering uncertainly in the space between them. Her instinct was to comfort, but their history of antagonism made her wary of overstepping.

Still, something in his broken confession tugged at her, reminding her of the boy she'd once known. The one who'd taught her to skip stones and kissed her beneath the willow tree before disappearing from her life.

"T-tired of what, Harry?" she asked, her voice softening as she scooted closer on the edge of the bed.

Harry's gaze fixed on her face, his green eyes glassy with alcohol and unshed tears. For a long moment, he said nothing, seeming to struggle with whether to continue down this path of unexpected honesty or retreat back behind his usual walls. The battle played out visibly across his features before he finally spoke, his voice rough and low.

"Tired of... pretending," he admitted, the words seeming to cost him something vital. "Tired of being what everyone expects. What my mother demands. What the label needs. What the fans want." He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, leaving it standing in uneven tufts. "Tired of waking up every morning and putting on Harry Styles like he's a... a bloody costume I have to wear."

The raw honesty in his voice caught Y/N off-guard. This wasn't just drunk rambling. There was a depth of feeling behind his words that suggested these thoughts had been building for a long time, held back by the careful control he usually maintained.

"And what would you be," she asked carefully, "if you weren't being 'Harry Styles'?"

He laughed, the sound edged with something like despair. "That's just it. I don't even know anymore. I've been playing this part for so long I'm not sure where the performance ends and I begin." His hand found hers on the bedspread, gripping it with unexpected intensity. "Do you know who I am, Y/N? You knew me... before. Before all of this. Before I became... this."

The question was plaintive, almost childlike in its directness. Y/N looked down at their joined hands, his larger one enveloping hers completely, the familiar tattoos stark against his skin, and felt a strange ache in her chest.

"I knew a boy who loved to swim in the lake even when the water was freezing," she said quietly. "Who could skip stones farther than anyone I'd ever met. Who snuck me chocolate from the fancy box his mother kept for guests, even though he knew he'd be in trouble if she found out."

A ghost of a smile flickered across Harry's face at the memories. "I was better at skipping stones than you."

"You were," she acknowledged with a small answering smile. "You were patient enough to practice. I always got frustrated and gave up too easily."

His thumb traced an absent pattern on the back of her hand, the gesture unconscious and oddly intimate. "You were stubborn though. Wouldn't let me help you unless I pretended I was just as bad at it."

The fact that he remembered this specific detail, her childish pride, her refusal to accept direct instruction, was unexpected. Y/N had assumed those summers held little significance for him, especially given how easily he'd disappeared from her life afterward.

"That boy is still in there somewhere," she said softly, responding to his earlier question. "Under all the fame and the image and your mother's expectations. He's still part of who you are."

Harry's expression clouded, his grip on her hand tightening. "Is he? Sometimes I think that version of me died a long time ago. Killed by ambition or success or... or my mother's relentless fucking standards."

The bitterness in his voice was palpable, decades of resentment distilled into those few words. Y/N sensed they were approaching dangerous territory. Harry was revealing wounds he normally kept carefully hidden, even from himself.

"Maybe you just need to find him again," she suggested gently. "Reconnect with the parts of yourself that existed before all of this."

"How?" The question held genuine bewilderment, as if the concept of reconnecting with his authentic self was entirely foreign. "Everything I do is scheduled, managed, scrutinized. I haven't made a truly independent decision in years."

He laughed suddenly, the sound holding more genuine humor than bitterness this time. "Except marrying you. That wasn't in anyone's plan. Not the label's, not my manager's, and certainly not my mother's."

Y/N raised an eyebrow, surprised by this declaration. "I thought the whole point was that the label wanted you to seem more settled and relatable. That marrying a 'normal' girl would help with certain endorsements."

Harry shook his head, then immediately winced as the movement apparently intensified his dizziness. "That was the justification I gave them afterward. Made it seem like a strategic decision rather than..." he trailed off, seeming unsure how to complete the thought.

"Rather than what?" Y/N pressed, curiosity overriding her better judgment.

Harry's gaze found hers again, surprisingly direct despite his intoxication. "Rather than what it really was. A fuck-you to my mother. To everyone who's been controlling my life. And maybe... maybe a way to make up for what happened that summer. For breaking my promise to you."

The admission was too honest, too raw to be easily dismissed. Y/N felt her heart beating faster, unsure how to process this revelation. Had their entire arrangement been motivated not just by career strategy but by some lingering guilt over their shared past?

Before she could formulate a response, Harry's expression crumpled suddenly, the tears that had been threatening finally spilling over. One slid down his cheek, then another, until he was openly crying, quiet, shuddering sobs that seemed to surprise him as much as they did Y/N.

"Shit," he muttered, trying unsuccessfully to wipe away the tears with the back of his hand. "Shit, I'm sorry. I don't... I never..."

The sight of Harry Styles––confident, controlled, perpetually composed Harry Styles—breaking down completely shattered Y/N's remaining hesitation. She moved closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulders without conscious thought.

"It's okay," she said softly, feeling his body shaking against hers. "It's okay to feel things, Harry. Even the difficult things."

He turned toward her, his face pressing into her shoulder as if seeking refuge from his own emotions. His arms came around her waist, clinging with an almost desperate intensity as the tears continued.

"I'm so fucking tired," he repeated, the words muffled against her shirt. "I'm tired of disappointing everyone. The fans, the critics, my mother. You."

Y/N's hand moved to his hair automatically, stroking the soft strands in a soothing rhythm. "You haven't disappointed me, Harry."

He pulled back slightly to look at her, his face tear-streaked and vulnerable in a way she'd never seen before. "Haven't I? I've been awful to you. Every day for months. I've been cold and dismissive and... and cruel, sometimes. Because it was easier than admitting that I..." he swallowed hard, seeming to struggle with the words. "That I still care what you think of me. After all these years."

The confession hung between them, weighted with implications neither was prepared to fully examine. Y/N felt her own throat tighten with emotion she couldn't quite name.

Not quite forgiveness, not quite understanding, but something in between.

"We've both been playing parts," she acknowledged softly. "The cold, demanding celebrity husband. The pragmatic, emotionless wife who's only here for the money. It's been easier than... than being real with each other."

Harry nodded, his forehead coming to rest against hers in a gesture of startling intimacy. "I don't know how to be real anymore," he whispered, his breath warm against her face, carrying the scent of expensive whiskey. "I've forgotten how."

Their faces were close now and Y/N could see every detail of his features. The fan of his lashes, damp with tears; the slight stubble along his jaw that would roughen into proper beard if left unattended; the small scar near his eye that makeup artists usually concealed for photoshoots.

His vulnerability in this moment was complete, all the careful artifice stripped away by alcohol and exhaustion and emotions too long suppressed.

"Maybe we could learn," she heard herself say, the words emerging before she'd fully formed the thought. "Together. How to be real again."

Harry's eyes searched hers, looking for something—sincerity, perhaps, or the catch that would reveal this as just another negotiation in their complicated arrangement. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him, because the tension in his shoulders eased slightly.

"I'd like that," he whispered, the words barely audible. "I've missed you, Y/N. Not just... not just now. But all these years. I've missed who I was when I was with you."

The confession struck her with unexpected force, a truth she hadn't allowed herself to acknowledge: that she too had missed not just him, but the version of herself who had existed in those carefree summer days, before responsibility and hardship and the compromises of adulthood had reshaped her.

Before she could respond, Harry's eyes fluttered closed, his body slumping further against hers as exhaustion and alcohol finally overwhelmed him. His breathing deepened, the emotional storm passing as suddenly as it had arrived, leaving him drained and on the verge of unconsciousness.

"Harry?" she said softly, receiving only a mumbled, incoherent response.

With a sigh that held equal parts exasperation and unexpected tenderness, Y/N maneuvered him into a more comfortable position on the bed. She removed his remaining clothing down to his boxers—a task made easier by his semi-conscious state—and pulled the covers over him, positioning him on his side in case he became ill during the night.

As she moved to get him water and aspirin for the inevitable morning hangover, Harry's hand caught hers once more, his grip weak but insistent.

"Stay?" he murmured, the word slurred with approaching sleep. "Please?"

Y/N hesitated, weighing the emotional complexities of what had just transpired against the practical reality of a drunk man who likely wouldn't remember any of this in the morning. The vulnerability he'd shown had changed something between them, created a shift she wasn't sure either of them was ready to acknowledge in the cold light of day.

Yet the request itself was simple, human. A plea not to be left alone with the emotional aftermath of his breakdown.

"I'll be right back," she promised, gently extricating her hand. "Just getting you water and something for the headache you're going to have."

A faint smile touched his lips before his features relaxed completely into sleep. Y/N watched him for a moment, this unguarded version of Harry Styles so different from the man who had coldly dismissed her that morning. Would he remember any of this tomorrow? Would he retreat back behind his walls, pretend none of it had happened? Or would this unexpected moment of honesty create an opening for something different between them?

She didn't know, couldn't predict how either of them would navigate the aftermath of tonight's revelations. But as she went to fetch water and pain relievers, Y/N found herself hoping—against all practical judgment—that something of the connection they'd shared would remain when morning came.

When she returned to the bedroom, Harry was fully asleep, his breathing deep and even. She set the water and medicine on his nightstand, then hesitated, unsure whether to honor his request to stay or retreat to one of the guest rooms for the night.

After a moment's consideration, she changed into her nightclothes and slipped under the covers on her side of the bed, maintaining a careful distance between them. As she reached to turn off the bedside lamp, she glanced over at Harry's sleeping form, his face relaxed in a way it never was during waking hours.

"Goodnight, Harry," she whispered softly, before turning off the light and letting darkness envelop the room.

In the quiet darkness, Y/N lay awake for a long time, replaying Harry's tearful confessions and wondering what the morning would bring. Would he remember his vulnerability, his admissions about his mother's control, his suggestion that their marriage had been motivated by more than just business considerations? Or would alcohol erase it all, leaving them back at square one?

She didn't know the answer, and couldn't predict how either of them would navigate what had happened tonight. But as sleep finally began to claim her, Y/N found herself hoping.

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

A/N: Phew! That was a long one. Yall really said you don’t mind the longer parts and I took that and RAN with it. I hope it wasn’t too long. But sheesh they really went at it in this one. Just kept escalating.

As always, thank you for reading <3

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