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artcdecos · 22 days ago

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“Already ruined” pt3

Harry Da Souza x f!Reader

Part 1 here | Part 2 here | Harry’s Masterlist

Summary: You agree to a double date—just you, your best friend Jan, Harry… and the imaginary boyfriend you had to invent so Jan wouldn’t suspect you’re fucking with her husband.

WC: 6.5k

Warnings/Tags: smut, minors DNI, unprotected piv, semi-public sex, slight choking, dirty talk, infidelity

You shouldn’t have lied to Jan, making up some story about a guy from work you were allegedly seeing. And when she said “We should double date sometime.” You shouldn’t have agreed.

What were you supposed to say? “Actually, Jan, I’ve been fucking your husband behind your back. Sorry, darling, can’t make Thursday?”

So you smiled. Lied. Fumbled through excuses—something about being way too busy, or the thing with your office coworker not being that serious.

But Jan wasn’t stupid. She saw through people like fog. You remembered the other night—tea, biscuits, and that offhanded, soul-crushing confession:

“I think he might be cheating on me,” she said, stirring sugar into her tea like it wasn’t the single most devastating sentence she could’ve dropped.

You nearly choked on your biscuit, your throat locking up like a trap. The words clung to the air, suffocating.

“No way, babe,” you said quickly, too quickly, a drop of sweat crawling down your spine.

“I don’t even know what to believe anymore. He’s just… different. It’s not just work, it’s—he’s somewhere else lately.”

Her voice trembled. You stared at her, guilt slicing through you like a dull knife, slow and unrelenting.

“It’s probably just work and stress. You know, you shouldn’t let the intrusive thoughts in.”

“Maybe. All I know is that it’s getting worse with him. He’s not the same.”

You wanted to scream. To confess. To disappear. Instead you poured her more tea with shaking hands.

So when Jan had insisted and practically begged to have a double date, you had no choice but to ask Liam from Accounting—the least threatening man on Earth.

Liam, who smiled like a golden retriever and winced every time someone raised their voice. He was cute. Not your type at all, but cute anyway. Always in a plaid suit. Always with that little notebook he carried tucked under one arm, his glasses perched slightly crooked on the bridge of his nose.

He’d asked you out, once. Mumbled it. Rushed through it like a man stepping onto a train just as the doors closed. And you’d said no — gently, kindly — and made sure to smile the way that said please don’t feel embarrassed, even though you both knew he would anyway. But he hadn’t held it against you.

And that was what made him perfect now.

Liam was the kind of man Jan wouldn’t blink twice at. He was sweet. Predictable. Safe. Nothing like the man whose ring she wore.

The man who’d already texted you that afternoon with a single word:

“Don’t.”

And now, here you were.

Perched on the rooftop of the chic restaurant Jan had insisted on—some airy space with twinkling string lights, linen tablecloths, and a view of the skyline that should’ve felt romantic. Instead, it felt like a spotlight.

Liam sat next to you. Across from you, Jan beamed, foot tapping against the floor in nervous little bursts. Harry was nowhere to be seen.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, scanning the rooftop. “This is so Harry. Honestly.”

“Don’t worry,” Liam replied, offering his most cheerful grin. “These things happen.”

“He always does this,” Jan said, more to herself now. “Every damn time he—”

And then Harry arrived. The air changed. Just like that. He moved through the restaurant like he owned it, the cut of his coat sharp, his stare sharper. When he saw Liam, something shifted behind his eyes—a twitch, a shadow, gone as quickly as it came.

He kissed Jan’s cheek. Shook Liam’s hand just a fraction too hard. Then turned to you.

That look. That stare. He didn’t kiss your cheek. Just looked. And it was enough. Enough to make your breath catch, your spine stiffen, your skin prickle like he’d branded it with a glance.

He didn’t need words. You’d crossed a line.

Harry sat across from you, his broad shoulders dwarfing the worn leather booth, his fingers tight around a sweating glass of bourbon.

He hadn’t said much—he didn’t need to. His eyes had done all the talking the moment he saw Liam’s hand lightly on your back.

Steel. Fury. Possessiveness barely masked behind polite indifference.

Liam laughed at something Jan said and turned to you. “You didn’t tell me Jan was this funny.”

You forced a smile. “She’s the best.” It wasn’t a lie. But it sat on your tongue like poison.

Harry’s eyes flicked to you, then Liam, then down to your thigh—the one Liam had casually touched earlier. A moment you’d brushed off with a laugh, but Harry had seen it. Catalogued it.

He leaned in.

“So, Liam,” he said, voice low and perfectly civil, “what is it you do again?”

Liam blinked. “Oh—uh, data analytics. Mostly spreadsheets. Models. Numbers.”

Harry hummed. “Right. Numbers. A safe bet.” Then, a pause. “How’s it feel workin’ in a place where the biggest threat is a papercut?”

Liam chuckled awkwardly. “Better than needing hazard pay, I suppose.”

Harry smiled, all teeth. “Don’t sell yourself short. Spreadsheets can be brutal. One formula off and the whole quarter goes to hell.”

It sounded polite. But you felt the blade in it.

You shot Harry a look—sharp, warning—but he didn’t see it. Or ignored it. He was still staring at Liam, dissecting him with his eyes.

You watched Liam straighten in his seat, visibly unsettled, like he’d just realized he was prey.

…

Later, Liam was talking about a podcast—economic collapse, startup failures. Jan listened with genuine curiosity. You nodded along, pretending to follow, but really, you were watching Harry.

And he was watching you. He was too calm. Too quiet. That meant danger.

He hadn’t touched his steak. His glass was half-empty and forgotten. But he’d refilled your wine—twice. Not Jan’s.

His knee bumped yours under the table. A warning. A promise.

“Anyway,” Liam said, a little too brightly, “I was telling her earlier I’d love to take her to this rooftop bar I know. The view’s amazing.”

Harry set his glass down. Hard. The sound cracked across the table. A nearby waiter flinched.

“Oh, that sounds lovely,” Jan said, eyes bright with innocent support. “You should take her sometime!”

Harry’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Right. Very noble of you. Bet she’s lucky to have you.”

Jan turned to him, blinking. “You alright, babe?”

“Peachy,” Harry said smoothly. “Just enjoyin’ the company. Liam’s got a… lovely presence.” His voice was like syrup over broken glass.

You smiled through it. Drank your wine. And wished you could vanish through the cracks in the marble floor.

Your throat was tight. Your jaw ached from the strain of pretending. You could feel Harry’s eyes on you—hot, watchful, seething beneath a lazy mask.

You tried not to stiffen. Jan didn’t notice. She was too busy slicing into her salmon, oblivious to the war zone she was sitting in.

“So, Liam,” she said, gesturing with her fork, “you two met at work, right?”

“Had my eye on her ever since her first day. She’s smart,” Liam said, smiling as he turned toward you. “Everyone likes her at the office. Honestly, you’ve made Mondays bearable.”

You felt your stomach sink.

Harry’s jaw flexed. “Cute,” he murmured. That word sounded like a threat.

Jan smiled between you all, cheerful and radiant, completely unaware. “You two would make a cute couple.”

Your heart stuttered. You nearly dropped your fork, metal clinking against the plate like a gunshot.

Harry let out a low laugh—sharp, humorless, a blade hidden in velvet. “Would they?”

Liam blinked. Unsure. Hesitating like prey sensing the predator too late.

You chuckled nervously. “I mean… we’re just getting to know each other.”

“Yes, but I can already tell she’s a keeper,” Liam added with a confident smile.

Jan beamed.

You coughed lightly, reaching for your wine to cover the sudden tremble in your fingers. Your glass was empty. Before you could even ask, Harry reached over—refilled it silently. His fingers brushed yours. Deliberate. Cold. Possessive.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice low enough that only you could hear. “Wouldn’t want you too drunk to remember this nice evenin’ with your fella here.”

You froze for half a breath. His voice was silk pulled taut over iron.

Liam, bless him, tried to recover.

“So… uh, this duck is incredible,” he said, tone too bright, eyes flicking around the table like he was trying to distract a bear with a picnic basket. “Really tender. You guys tried it?”

Jan smiled. “It’s one of my favorites here. We came here for our anniversary once, remember?” She turned to Harry, her eyes soft, warm.

Harry didn’t look at her. He was still watching you.

He cut into his steak with slow, surgical precision. His knife slicing through meat like a warning. “Mm. Hard to forget.”

You wanted to sink into the seat and disappear.

Jan, always the peacemaker, leaned toward Liam, trying to patch the bleeding tension with small talk. “So, Liam—how long have you been at the company with her?”

“Oh, coming up on a year now,” Liam replied quickly, clearly grateful for the redirect. “Still learning the ropes, but I’ve got a good team.”

Harry sipped his bourbon, watching Liam over the rim of his glass. “That’s cute.”

Liam blinked, confused. “Sorry?”

“I said that’s cute,” Harry repeated, smiling now. A cold, thin smile that never touched his eyes. “The whole… still learnin’ thing. It’s good to know your place early on.”

Another sip. Another smirk.

“Avoids disappointment later.”

His words were dressed up like banter, but you could feel the pulse of violence beneath them.

Jan frowned. “Harry.”

“What?” he asked, playing innocent, feigning charm. You could almost hear the snarl behind his voice. “I’m just makin’ conversation.”

Jan leaned toward Liam again. “He’s just teasing. Harry’s always like this with new people.”

“Am I?” Harry said, turning his gaze slowly toward her, head tilted, like he was measuring something. Or someone.

Jan, undeterred, tried again. “So, Liam—any trips planned? You said earlier you love traveling, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” Liam said, latching on to the new topic like a lifeline. “Thinking of Barcelona. Maybe a few days off next month.”

Harry’s voice cut in smooth and slow. “That so? And you plannin’ to take her with you?” He didn’t gesture. Didn’t need to. His gaze slid to you like a blade drawn across bare skin.

Your cheeks flushed instantly. A line of heat rising up your neck. Your spine straightened, muscles locked like you’d been yanked upright by an invisible wire.

Liam laughed again, nervous now. “I mean… if she wanted to. That’d be fun, right?”

You smiled tightly. “We’ll see.” It was the safest answer you could give. And even that felt like a gamble.

Harry’s smile stretched wider. Lazy. Dangerous. Like a wolf with blood in its teeth.

“You could do Paris,” he said, swirling his bourbon. “City of love, innit?”

You gripped the stem of your wine glass too tight. Any tighter and it might’ve snapped in your hand. Because you could hear what he was really saying: You’re mine. I dare you to forget it.

You needed air.

You excused yourself with a tight smile, mumbling something about the bathroom, and stood so quickly your napkin fell to the floor. You left it.

You didn’t breathe until the door swung shut behind you. You leaned over the sink, bracing your hands against the cool porcelain, and stared into the mirror.

Your lipstick was still perfect. Your composure wasn’t.

The door creaked open behind you.

You didn’t have to look to know it was him.

He didn’t speak right away. You watched his reflection instead—broad shoulders filling the doorway, eyes dark and burning, that same slow, deliberate way he moved when he was pissed off and trying not to show it.

The door clicked shut behind him.

You turned.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you hissed, voice low, sharp. “This is the ladie—”

His smile was slow. Mocking. “What do you think I’m doin’?”

“You can’t be in here—”

“I can be wherever the fuck I want,” he said, stepping forward. “Who the fuck is that twat you brought here?”

You backed up, but the sink was already pressing into your spine. “Liam’s just a guy from work.”

“Just a guy from work who touches your tights like he has the right to.”

“What the fuck did you want me to do? Your wife wanted to meet the guy I had to make up so she wouldn’t suspect I’m fucking her husband!”

“Yet you’re lettin’ him touch you like he has a chance. Lettin’ him talk about rooftop bars and fuckin’ Barcelona while you sat there pretendin’ your cunt isn’t mine.”

“I’m sorry, Harry, I didn’t know we were exclusive,” you said. “Maybe you’re forgetting about the fact you’re married, so you have no right to act like a jealous cunt.”

“Of course I’m a jealous cunt when I see that wanker sittin’ there next to you. You think he could handle you?” he whispered, breath hot against your cheek. “You think he’d know what to do if you started crying from how good it felt? You think he could take you in the dark, hand over your mouth to shush your screams?”

You shook your head, breath ragged. “Stop—someone could come in.”

His smile sharpened. “Get in the stall.”

“Harry—”

“Now.”

He pressed closer. You felt him now hard beneath his pants, hips flush against yours, the edge of his thigh pinning you in place.

“You belong to me,” he said, lips brushing your ear. “Every breath, every lie you told tonight, you did it with my cum still inside you, didn’t you?”

You gasped. “Harry—”

The stall door creaks open behind you —the farthest one, tucked into the corner— and before you can speak, Harry’s hand wraps around your wrist and yanks you inside.

The lock slams shut.

“What are you—”

He spins you around and shoves you back against the tiled wall. Not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to make your knees buckle.

His thigh wedges between yours, and the friction makes you moan. He grins — cruel, crooked, like he already knows he’s won.

“You want him to hear you?” Harry hisses. “Want that cunt to wonder why you’re takin’ so long while I’ve got you spread open in a fuckin’ restaurant bathroom?”

“Harry—please—”

He kisses you — brutal, devouring. All teeth and tongue and fury. You don’t kiss back so much as survive it.

Your teeth slam together. Your skull thuds against cold tile. His stubble scrapes your chin raw. He kisses like he wants to consume you, like he’s trying to carve himself into your mouth with each savage drag of his tongue.

He bites your lip hard enough to sting, then trails kisses down your neck, wet and open-mouthed.

Each kiss lands with a filthy, desperate sound, lips dragging, teeth scraping across your throat like he wants to mark you inside and out. His tongue flicks over your pulse, hot and possessive, and then he sinks his teeth in just enough to bruise. You feel it blossom beneath his mouth before it even swells — purple and aching, a secret brand.

He turns you around and presses your chest up to the wall; his hands hikes your dress up over your ass, exposing your panties. His grip is bruising, you can already feel the shape of his fingers etching into your skin, anchoring you in place like you might try to run.

“Fuck. You wore these for him?” His voice was a dark, guttural rasp, full of disbelief and something wilder like possession. Fury disguised as lust.

His fingers dragging slowly along the sheer edge of your panties, feeling just how soft—how barely-there—they were.

“No,” you gasped, back arching into his touch. “No, I wore them for you—”

“Bet he’s over there thinkin’ he’s gonna get this ass once dinner’s over, right?” One hand flattened against your lower back, the other sliding down until he was grabbing a handful of your ass through the lace—rough, possessive. “Bet he’s sittin’ across the fuckin’ table with a hard-on, thinkin’ he’s earned a taste of what I’ve already ruined for anyone else.”

You whimpered, knees threatening to buckle. “He’s not. He’s not—he won’t touch me—”

“Damn right he won’t,” Harry snarled.

His fingers hook the waistband of your panties and snap the elastic against your skin — hard. The sting makes you flinch. Then he slips his hand beneath the lace, knuckles grazing your inner thigh, slow and deliberate and cruel, like he’s savoring the way you squirm.

“Are you gonna let him fuck you later? Eh?” His voice was low, guttural, that edge of jealousy slicing through each word like a blade.

“God, no.” Your voice came out a little too fast, a little too breathless. Because just the idea of anyone else touching you? It made your skin crawl. It made you feel dirty.

He growled softly in your ear. “You better let that fucker know he’s not gettin’ any of this tonight.”

His hand slips under the lace — slow, deliberate — fingers ghosting over your soaked folds, and when he feels just how wet you are, he stills. The breath he drags in is sharp. His jaw clenches so tight you can see the muscle ticking.

“Drippin’,” he mutters, almost in disbelief. “Fuckin’ drippin’. Like a little whore in heat.”

You whimper, you can’t help it, his fingers haven’t even done anything yet, and already you’re clenching around nothing.

“This for him?” His voice drops to a dangerous low, rasping filth against your ear while his fingers press more firmly between your folds. “You’re this wet because of him?”

“No,” you gasp, head falling back as his fingers start to move, slow, shallow strokes that barely graze your entrance, maddening and perfect all at once. “It’s you, Harry. It’s only you.”

He growls, low and guttural, and hooks a finger just enough to slide through your slick folds again, spreading it, feeling how it coats you.

“Fuckin’ right it’s me,” he snarls. “Because I’m the one who knows how to make this cunt cry, yeah? I’m the one who knows how to ruin you so good you can’t walk straight for a fuckin’ week.”

You moan, your hips jerking, desperate for more, for deeper. But he’s not giving it to you yet. He’s savoring it. Making you beg.

“What are you, love? Tell me what you are.”

Your voice is barely a whisper, shaky and wrecked: “Yours.”

He presses in deeper now, two fingers, and your knees nearly buckle as he curls them just right.

You feel him twitch against your hip. He’s rock hard , thick and heavy, straining behind the rough press of his trousers. The head of his cock grinds against the curve of your ass.

He drags your panties down and lets them hang around your knees. Then he unzips himself. The sound is brutal in the silence, sharp and dirty, like a gun cocking, like violence.

He doesn’t even look down. Just lines himself up with the soaked seam of you and shoves in.

No warning. No pause. Just one savage, ruthless thrust.

The stretch is brutal. He’s too big, too deep, too fucking fast. It hits you like a freight train, knocks the breath clean out of your lungs, the force of him splitting you open so suddenly your knees give out.

You try to cry out, but your mouth just hangs open, silent, your throat working uselessly around the sheer overwhelming fullness. You’re choking on it — on him — stretched to the edge of pain and trembling right there on the knife’s edge of unbearable pleasure.

Your teeth sink into your fist, trying to muffle the scream that’s clawing its way out. But Harry sees it.

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare stay quiet now,” he growls, fucking into you with punishing pace.

Each thrust slams you forward, your cheek skidding across the cold tile, hands scrabbling uselessly for leverage. His hips crash into you like a hammer — unforgiving, relentless, obscene. The slap of skin on skin is a goddamn metronome, cruel and constant.

“You weren’t quiet when he touched your thigh, were you? Let’s see if you’re still so bold with my cock inside you.” And then he slams into you again, brutal and punishing, his cock driving so deep you swear he’s in your throat.

The stall shakes. Your hands fly to the wall, fingers scrabbling at the tile for purchase as Harry slams into you, over and over, like he’s trying to erase any trace of Liam from your skin. Like he’s branding you from the inside out.

Your thighs tremble. Your cunt clenches around him involuntarily with every sharp snap of his hips.

You were soaked, the slick sound of him fucking into you loud enough to echo, filthy enough to make your cheeks burn. Every stroke feels impossibly deep, like he’s trying to fuck you into the wall.

It’s too much. It’s never enough.

You’re already close. Too close.

His hand wraps around your throat, tight enough to make your vision blur at the edges.

Your moan is strangled, helpless and guttural. It vibrates in your throat under his palm. The pressure sends lightning through your nerves, makes your knees buckle, your cunt clench.

“You want to cum?” he growls, voice low and merciless behind you. “Say it.”

You whimper, running out of breath, your body trembling under his grip, brain fogged with nothing but him “Harry—”

His fingers dig harder into your throat, bruising, anchoring you in place. You can feel the threat in his hold, the raw tension coiled in his muscles. “Say. It.”

“I want to cum,” you choke out, voice breaking. “Please—please let me—”

“Not yet.”

And then he pulls all the way out. Letting go of your throat.

You gasp for air, a shattered, desperate sound. Your cunt clenches around nothing, fluttering wildly, aching for him, for anything.

The emptiness is unbearable. A sharp, searing ache deep inside that has your body twitching, your thighs trembling from how close you were.

“Fuck—Harry—please—”

He doesn’t answer. Just kicks your legs wider, spreading you open like he owns you, like your body was made to take this. And then he slams back in. Deeper. Harder. Rougher.

You scream. Raw and hoarse and helpless. The sound punches out of your chest like a sob, split wide open by the sheer force of him.

You can feel every inch, every vein, every ridge. The thick, ruthless length of him dragging against your walls, splitting you open until your legs shake and your arms give out.

“That’s it,” he growls, voice thick with possessive rage. “Let them hear. Let every sorry fuck in this place know who you belong to.”

His pace doesn’t slow, it only gets rougher, more vicious. His cock pounds into you with ruthless precision, dragging you back onto him like you’re nothing but a toy made to take him. His hands clamp down on your hips, fingers bruising, controlling every jolt of your wrecked body as he drives into you again. And again. And again.

He’s owning you. Like a man unhinged, fucked-out and jealous and determined to stake a claim no one else could ever challenge.

“You think he’d fuck you like this?” he snarls, breath hot against your neck, hips slamming into you so hard the filthy slap of skin echoes off the walls. “Think Liam could make you cry just by fillin’ you up?”

You sob — a real, broken thing — the kind that rattles in your throat and spills out of your mouth before you can stop it.

His hand shoots up, grabs a fistful of your hair, and yanks your head back so your neck arches, your mouth falling open on a silent moan. His lips brush your ear, but his voice is a growl, raw and dark and right on the edge of losing control.

“Answer me.”

“N-no,” you choke out, barely audible, “no one else. Just you.”

He groans, loud and guttural, like your words lit a fuse inside him.

“That fuckin’ twat would cum in less than a minute if he ever felt a cunt as good as yours.” His hips slam forward so hard you jolt, caught between his grip and the tile beneath you.

“So fuckin’ tight. So hot,” he gasps, his rhythm brutal, punishing. “This cunt was made for me. Do you hear me? I’ve ruined it for anyone else.”

And god, you know it’s true. You can feel it in every thrust, the way he fits so deep it hurts, the way your body clenches around him like it never wants to let go. Like it knows him.

“Only I can fuck you like this. Only I know how to handle this pretty little body.”

Your knees give out. Only the wall — and his grip — keep you upright.

“Beg,” he hisses. “Beg me to let you cum.”

You sob. “Please—Harry, please—I can’t—I’m gonna—”

“Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours—I’m yours—please—”

He fucks you like he’s losing his mind, like loving you is killing him, and he’s choosing it anyway. Your tits bounce with every brutal thrust, the stall rattling, your body a trembling, gasping ruin in his hands.

“Fuck, I love you, babe.” His voice breaks on a moan, hips still snapping forward with merciless rhythm. “I fuckin’ love you. You’re mine.”

Your breath catches. He just said it. Dropped the fucking I love you bomb right there, mid-thrust, while your body trembles beneath his, your palms slipping against the cold bathroom tile, your cunt stretched around his cock and clenching so hard it hurts.

That’s what burns you alive. That’s what splits you open and leaves you bleeding for him.

Because his wife is outside. She’s sitting at the table. Your best friend, who minutes ago laughed at something you said. Passed you the wine. Touched your hand. And now you’re bent in half in a public restroom, getting ruined by the man who promised her forever. And he’s telling you he loves you.

His hand slides between your thighs, and he rubs once — just once — and you shatter. You cum with a scream, loud, raw and helpless, his hand presses over your mouth to muffle the ragged, animal sound that rips out of you. Your body convulsing, walls clenching tight around him like a vice. It tears out of you like an exorcism, wild, violent, blinding.

Harry groans low in your ear and follows you over the edge. His hips snap once, twice, then he buries himself deep, balls pressed tight against your soaked, swollen clit.

He growls, animal and broken, as he spills inside you, thick and hot, his cock jerking deep in your fluttering walls, cum leaking out around his cock in slow, messy drips, before he even pulls away.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. The only sound is the echo of your breathing, the soft, wet drip of your mixed release hitting the tile.

Then he pulls out — slow, final, the wet drag of him leaving your body raw and trembling.

He tucks himself away, breath still ragged, knuckles white as he zips up like it takes effort, like pulling himself out of you meant severing a vein.

And then he just stands there for a moment, looking down. His gaze drops to the slick mess between your thighs — your arousal, his release, the ruin he’s left behind. And he stares like it’s holy. Like it’s fucking proof. Like it’s a mark of ownership burned into your skin.

He leans in and presses a kiss to your shoulder, gentle, reverent, too soft for what just happened. It feels like a benediction. Like the final word in a prayer.

“Clean up,” he murmurs, voice low and dark, like a secret you’ll carry for the rest of your life. “And smile when you come back to the table.”

He’s gone. The door swings shut behind him, the echo leaving you breathless, hollowed out, dripping. He doesn’t even bother to address his confession from before.

You looked at your reflection, he’d left you completely wrecked, makeup smudged across your face, tears streaming down your cheeks. Lipstick smeared. Bite marks swelling on your collarbone. Hair mussed, dress wrinkled, panties tangled around one ankle. A thick, milky line slides slowly down your inner thigh — his claim on you.

And yet, your expression in the mirror wasn’t shame.

It was hunger. Victory. Satisfaction. A smile threatening at the corner of your bloodied mouth.

It was something far more dangerous.

It was the middle of the night when your phone buzzed quietly on the nightstand, the screen lighting up the dark room.

A text from Harry.

“Can’t stop thinking about the mess we made in that bathroom.”

You smiled to yourself in the glow of the screen, biting your lip as the memory burned fresh and filthy in your mind. Your thighs clenched under the covers instinctively.

Your fingers tapped out a reply, teasing:

“I think someone was a little jealous, huh?”

A few seconds passed. Then his name lit up your screen again.

“I ever see you around that cunt again and I’ll kill him.”

God. Cheeky. Possessive. Dangerous. Yours.

“Don’t worry,”

“You’re the one who gets all of me.”

“Always.”

He didn’t respond right away. You watched the typing bubble blink in and out before finally, his next message came through:

“You looked beautiful tonight. Too beautiful for a prick like him.”

Your cheeks flushed in the dark, a heat blooming beneath your skin that had nothing to do with the covers. You weren’t sixteen, and yet here you were, grinning into your pillow like some girl with a crush.

You typed back:

“It’s not like I was trying to make you jealous or anything…”

“I just didn’t want Jan to suspect.”

A beat.

Then—

“I know.”

“I meant what I said earlier, just so you know.”

Your heart kicked up, fingers hesitating above the screen. You swallowed.

“What part?”

“You said a lot.”

His reply came fast.

“Everything.”

“Including the I love you.”

Shit. You stared at the words, your chest tightening around them like a vise. The echo of him—his voice growling that confession into your ear as he buried himself inside you—resurfaced in a wave of heat and guilt.

And yet… You let your thumbs type slowly, deliberately:

“Go to sleep, Harry. It’s late.”

You set the phone face-down on the nightstand before you could overthink it, your pulse still racing as you rolled over.

But sleep didn’t come easy.

Not with the ghost of his hands still gripping your hips.

Not with the way your name had sounded broken in his throat when he came inside you.

And not with the weight of three words still hanging in the air between you, not when you loved him back just as much. But you knew it could never be.

You woke up the next day, groggy and sore, but the moment you grabbed your phone, your eyes flew wide open.

Your muscles ached from the night before, your skin still hot with the ghosts of his hands, but all of that vanished the second the screen lit up.

Six missed calls from Harry.

Twenty-five from Jan.

And then you saw them—a flood of text messages that made your stomach twist and drop like a stone:

“You fucking lying whore.”

“I can’t believe I ever trusted you.”

“I let you in my house.”

“You lied to my face.”

Each word hit like a slap, like a fist tightening around your throat. Your heart stuttered, then raced. Your breath caught. Your vision blurred. You felt like you might throw up.

Panic surged through you like a lightning bolt, white-hot and unforgiving.

Had she found out? Did she go through Harry’s phone? Did he leave something behind—some trace, some scent, some mark she couldn’t ignore?

Did she notice the way you walked funny last night, when you came out of the bathroom barely holding yourself together, thighs still shaking from how hard he’d fucked you against the tiles? The bruises on your hips, your throat, the inside of your thighs—faint fingerprints left in places no one else was ever supposed to see?

Had she seen those? Had she looked at you and known? Felt it in her bones—the betrayal, the heat, the truth?

Before you could even think about what your next move should be, there was a knock on the door.

Hard. Sharp. Urgent.

Your whole body tensed. You stood frozen, phone still in your hand, heart pounding against your ribs like it wanted out.

You didn’t even breathe. Just stared at the door like it might burst open.

And then, slowly, with shaking hands, you opened it.

Harry.

He stood there, and he looked like fucking hell.

His face pale, drawn tight, lips pressed together like he was holding back an avalanche. His shirt wrinkled like he hadn’t changed, collar twisted, one button undone.

His hair was a mess—flattened on one side, pushed back on the other like he’d run his fingers through it again and again and again. Eyes bloodshot, bruised underneath. Eyes that had clearly not seen sleep.

“Harry, what the fuck happened? I’ve got— I’ve got like a million missed calls—”

“I broke it off with Jan.”

His voice was quiet. Too quiet. Like he didn’t even realize what the fuck he’d just said. Like it wasn’t the most seismic thing to ever come out of his mouth.

“I came clean. Told her the truth. She deserved that much.”

You stared at him, completely stunned, mouth dry, pulse thundering in your ears. You couldn’t even blink.

“You told her about us?!” Your voice cracked. It came out high, panicked. Your whole body flushed with heat, your skin prickling, blood rushing in a thousand directions at once. “What… what did you say exactly?”

He sighed and looked away, hand rubbing the back of his neck, fingers twitching, like even now, after it was done, he didn’t have the courage to face it all head-on.

“I told her I fell in love with you.”

The air left your lungs. Completely. Your stomach dropped like a trapdoor had opened inside of you.

“And you told her we’ve been fucking behind her back for months?”

He winced. “Well… I didn’t… I didn’t use those exact words. Tried to make it sound… less harsh.”

“Oh my god, Harry. Why? Why would you do that?” Your voice trembled now, barely above a whisper. You could barely stand still. Your legs were weak and your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

He was quiet for a beat. Too long.

“Hmm… why I broke the heart of a woman I deeply care about?” He looked back at you, eyes full of regret and something softer underneath. “To be with the woman I love.”

“Jesus. This is a mess. This is—”

“Relax,” he stepped forward, hands reaching out fast, anchoring themselves on your shoulders. The heat of his skin seeped through your shirt. “Just relax. Look at me. It’s alright.”

“It’s not alright, Harry! It’s—God—How did she take it?”

He sighed again, deeper this time, like he was still carrying the weight of it in his lungs.

“She cried. Then she yelled. Threw a plate at the wall—missed my head by an inch.” His mouth twitched like he wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. “Then she said this marriage was broken long before you came into the picture.”

You stared at him, chest heaving, mind reeling. It didn’t feel real. None of it. Like you were in the middle of a dream and every second only pulled you further into the freefall.

“Fuck. What are you gonna do now?”

“I’ll sign the divorce papers when she hands them to me. I’m sure she already has a lawyer handlin’ that.”

“How…how are you?”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Like he was letting you see everything. No walls. No filters. Just him. Raw. Tired. Unraveling.

“It’s not easy. Hurtin’ someone you once loved never is. But…”

He paused. His voice rasped with exhaustion, and something else—freedom. Relief. Pain. All tangled together.

“I feel like it’s the first time in years I can finally breathe. Feel like I don’t have a rope tied around my neck. Relief. I reckon that’s the word.”

You bit your lip, hard. The air between you felt thick. Heavy with everything you’d never said.

“Why now? Why did you do it now?”

He stepped closer.

“You want the truth? Yeah? I did it because I couldn’t sleep last night, couldn’t stop thinkin’ that the happiest moment in my whole week, right? Was the ten minutes I spent with you inside that bathroom stall.”

He kept going, his words falling out of him like a confession he couldn’t hold in anymore.

“Because I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you, babe. About how I feel when I’m around you. And how fuckin’ sick it made me to imagine you with someone else. How I’d have to sit across a dinner table one day, watchin’ you hold some other man’s hand while pretendin’ I didn’t want to rip his throat out.”

And then he closed the gap, his hands sliding around your waist, gripping tight like he needed to make sure you were really there.

Your body pressed flush against his, hip to hip, chest to chest. You could feel the tension thrumming through him, the heat of his skin, the desperation in his fingers.

“I kept thinking about how I don’t want to hide anymore. About how I want you in my bed, in my home. Not just in secret. Not just in the dark.”

“Harry, I—”

“You don’t understand.” His voice cracked, barely held together. His face twisted with all the things he never let anyone see. “How miserable I was before you. How the only time I ever fuckin’ smile is when I’m with you. How alive I feel when you look at me like that, like I’m not just some man wastin’ away in a dead marriage.”

You couldn’t take it anymore. Your hands reached up on their own, fingers brushing along the sharp line of his jaw, slow and reverent, like touching something sacred.

“I love you, Harry.” Your voice was trembling, soaked in truth, remembering the way he had said it the night before. “I love you too.”

He blinked, and for a second—just one second—his entire face softened.

“For a long time I thought this was all life could be. And then you came along. And I realized…there could be more.”

And then he kissed you.

Soft. Sweet. Gentle.

Nothing like the brutal, desperate way he had the night before—when he fucked you like he was trying to crawl inside your skin.

This was slower. Realer.

A kiss from a man who had just destroyed something sacred to hold you like this.

A kiss that tasted like endings—and beginnings.

And in that moment, mess and wreckage and all, you knew:

Whatever comes next, you’re not running anymore.

You’re his. And he’s yours.

Even if it costs you everything.

A/N: This was the final part of the story, I really hope you enjoy the ending! I ended up going with a happy ending for Harry and the reader, so fingers crossed it hits right. And if not… feel free to gaslight yourself into believing whatever ending you prefer lol.

And to everyone who’s requested Harry fics, don’t worry, they’re coming very soon!!

Thanks so much for all the support, love y’all💖

@rach5ive @reidswifeyyyyyy @weepingnimulot1995 @reidswifeyyyyyy @staley83

dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

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