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⯠HARRY EXPERIENCES THE BIGGEST LOSS OF HIS CAREER BUT HIS BEST FRIEND IS ALWAYS THERE TO SOFTEN THE BLOW.
â° rugby!harry friends to lovers. minor warnings for somnophilia. heavy descriptions of size kink and harry being bigger than reader. minors dni.
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Y/N watches from the sidelines, eyes ping-ponging to each side of the pitch as the ball makes its way back and forth, back and forth. Her lungs beg for fresh oxygen that she wonât grant them. Franceâs full-back pellets the ball high up into the air, straight into the arms of Englandâs full-back, Englandâs full-back wallops it back to Franceâs full-back. Y/Nâs skin fucking burns with impatienceâcould someone just play the ball? Her gaze flits over the broad numbers littering the field⌠threeâgrass stains streaking across whiteâeight, twelveâblood streaming down templesâeleven, nine⌠Ten.Â
Harry hangs back, intense, focused eyes following every movement of the ball; just like Y/N, only with pinpoint accuracy. Heâs the decision maker of the team, the fly-halfâthe player that sets up most of the scores, who guides the play. One of the most important pieces of the puzzle and⌠heâs frazzled, Y/N can tell. By the slight mania in his widened eyes and the frantic point he stresses towards the other side of the pitch, desperate for his teammates to attackâto get some phases going, some passesâanything other than kick tennis.
France have had the upperhand all game. Theyâre the favourites, after all, and playing at their home groundâbut this is the final game of the Six Nations. This is the win England need to set them up for the World Cup.
And theyâre losing. Theyâve been losing since the second minute when France scored a try from their own twenty twoâtheir lightning fast winger weaving in and out of all of Englandâs defence to dive over the lineâleaving his electric trail in a bolt behind him.
And now itâs the seventy eighth minute and France are two points ahead. Y/N knows why Harry is signalling so passionatelyâhe is desperate to get the ball further down the opponentâs end of the field. If not to score then to force them to make an error, to give away a penalty. Anything to secure the win in the final two minutes.
She is practically barking orders at the players herselfâonly quietly under her breath instead of the way she is sure Harry is shouting. Every technique, every tacticâY/N has observed them all. She knows that the clock ticks twice as fast in the final moments of a game. She knows that Harryâs close to losing control of the match completelyâof losing that chance of evening the scorelineâand her heart is beating out of her chest watching it all unfold.
The ball finally makes its way into a playerâs hands for more than two seconds. France donât kick it away; their number nine makes a run for itâdetermined to end the game with an extra score on the board. He executes a dummy pass, feigning to throw the ball to his teammate and successfully losing Englandâs own nine that slips in the grass in his attempt to mark. Disarmingly quick for a small player, he gets all the way to the halfway line before being tackled.
And this⌠this is when everything changes. Y/N shoots up from her seat when he goes downâpiled upon by white jerseys desperate to rip the ball right out of his hands. She holds her breath as he stays on the floor, canât find the ball within the chaosâflits her eyes over to Harry who is standing in formation with the rest of the backs. His mouth moves a million miles a second, expression rampant, arms flailing as he screams at his players.
Just a little longer, just a little longer⌠âCome on, ref,â Y/N mutters under her breath, âblow the fucking whistle.â She watches the man in red do just thatâbring the whistle up to his lips in a rapid motion, throwing his arm up in the air to favour England.Â
A penalty. In the final minute. For England.
The stadium goes up in a cacophony of roars. Furious French moans drowned out by the deafening screams of the English. A rivalry as old as time goes down to the wire once again. Y/Nâs heart pounds away inside of her ribsâhardly able to process the sight of Harry and his team celebratingâthe relieved clenching of his fists.
Waterboys rush onto the pitch, slinging the kicking tee to Harryâs awaiting palms. Time continues to passâthe clock sure to enter the red before heâs made contact with the ball that he meticulously balances at the perfect angle. Y/N has watched Harry perform a thousand kicks and yet nothing will ever quell the gut-churning anxiety she feels during these moments in a match. To witness the mass of eighty thousand people reduced to murmurs as Please respect the kicker appears on every screen in sight. To watch Harry, his routine��because every fly-half has oneâthe way he eyes up the ball, angles himself, blocks out the world around him to draw that invisible line from the ball to the posts⌠it's an honour and a damnation.
And Y/N is always nervous to watch him kick, but right now, her body feels as though it might start emanating electricity. Harryâs a near perfect shot. His success rate is one of the highest in the gameâpast and presentâbut⌠This angle is, for lack of a better word, fucked. Heâs practically kissing the touchline, ball facing a direction you would not expect to be the correct one. But Harry prepares himself, positioned with the posts nearly behind him, ready to curve it just right.
Then he kicks itâhe boots it as all kickers do. And it bends. It curves in the air, slicing through it like soft, melted butter. Y/N goes deathly stillâtime slows downâsheâs only half-aware of the screens showing the clock tick over to red. The ball soars, heading straight for the posts, it glides like it has fucking wingsâ
And then it collides heavily against the left post and bounces back into play. Straight into French hands.
Heâs missed. Heâsâmissed. Y/Nâs exhale comes out as some sort of wet exasperation, hands flying to cover her cheek in pure disbelief. No. The stadium cries out so loudly she can hardly hear herself think. All she can see is Harry. The way he crouches down and pinches the bridge of his nose as France kicks the ball out of play and the referee blows the final whistle.
Itâs over. All those weeks, all those games, all that fighting. Just to lose it on the last kick of the game. Y/N canât believe her eyes.Â
âYouâve got this, Harry. Youâve got this. Donât even worry. Yâthe best England have seen since Farrell.â
She betrayed him by encouraging such a statement, sheâs sure (despite the fact of it). Maybe it got to him; the pressure. The kind of pressure Y/N hoped would be helpful. The truth being that he is the best player they have right now. Heâs breaking records, heâs setting new standards, he is the bright, shining new star. But maybe thatâs too much to place on a personâs shoulders. Even on the breadth of Harryâs.
The pitch starts hurtling closer and itâs only then that Y/N processes the speed in which her legs are stampeding towards Harry. She canât get at all as close as she yearns to beâreaching the edge of the box with an aching chest. Not with anger, not with disappointment. With sadness for her friend, for her best friend. Tonight was supposed to be a celebration, a night of euphoria and drunkenness and laughter.
All Y/N can see is Harryâs sullen face as his teammate hauls him up and slaps him heavily on the backâno gentility from the hardness of a rugby player. The teams shake hands and France take a victory lap around the pitch, celebrating with fans whilst the award podium is set up. All Y/N wants to do is get to Harry but England have to stand there and watch France lift the trophy. She glances at it now with disdain.
Itâs always a struggle to find Harry after a matchâsometimes heâs got press to do, sometimes heâs being ushered into the changing rooms, sometimes he strolls around the pitch with his team, taking photos with fans. Y/N always waits, always watches with stars in her eyes. Nothing ever quite matches the rapid beat of her heart when she gets to observe him in his element; after a win.
But today theyâve lost. And today, Harry doesnât linger. He doesnât even let himself get pulled aside for pitchside interviewsâlucky that the captain is hounded first. Y/N can already see the headlines. Styles Sulks After Shattering Six Nations Defeat. His hands clapping for France but the line of his mouth hard and the sheen of his eyes glossed over. She knows the noise all fades into the background for him, his mind is elsewhereâbody desperate to join.
Her own knows the feeling; too far away from him to relax as their magnetic forces pull towards one another. Keeping her feet planted firmly on the ground is a hard task, when the only focused object in her vision is the outline of Harry. And as soon as he makes that first step towards the tunnel, sheâll make sure to run through anyone who stands in her way.
Getting to Harryâs hotel room proves harder than it should be. Y/N had wasted her time looking for him anywhere elseâof course he wouldnât have wanted to go to an afterparty. To celebrate what? A crushing loss? Franceâs pilfering victory? Entering a room as Harry Styles might as well be the equivalent of shitting on a plate and offering it around like some kind of hors d'oeuvres. Charm is usually his specialty but itâs no surprise that he chose to hide himself away as soon as the opportunity aroseâto take back what little control he has over today and deny prying eyes passing judgement where he can see them.
She thinks, for a moment, that heâs not going to answer the door and her sympathy nearly bubbles into misguided anger before she alters its path. She is so frantic to reach him that it feels like a waste of time to stand still for even a second. But the soft padding of socked feet against carpet sounds from behind the thick wood, and the click of a lock as the door gives way to reveal the image of a forlorn Harry.
Heâs so tall, and so broad, and his personality is larger than lifeâbut right now⌠Right now, Harry looks small. His shoulders weigh heavy and his posture slumps forward, and despite the fact of his towering height, Y/N doesnât feel so dwarfed in his presence right now. Neither of them say anything; both waiting for the other to speak up first but neither does. Y/N just stands there⌠in the hallway, suspended in a moment, looking at Harry with sad eyes as his fingers linger on the door handle.
And then she throws her arms around his hulking shoulders and feels his chest deflate against her own expanding one, as she breathes, âIâm sorry, Harry.â
He doesnât replyâwhat is there to say? Nothing positive or optimistic, only bashes to his performance, his ability as a player. Instead, he curls his arms around her back; an immediate solace to breathe in the wash of her scent, the soft of her hair as he buries his nose against her crown. His biceps squeeze around her, compressing the bones in her body with a heavenly kind of weight. Small in his arms but big enough to provide comfort. Always the biggest part of his heart, the place he goes to for relief.
Every exhale against her head bleeds warmly into her scalp, seeping down to her toes and regulating her heartbeat. Weightlessness is a common feeling in the presence of Harry, more often physically than not, as he pulls her off the tips of her toes and carries their embrace to the foot of the hotel bed. The door clicking shut serves as a reminder of the outside world; of time continuing to tick away despite the silence that blankets the room theyâre in. Y/N removes her hands from Harryâs nape as he sits down, his own paws lingering on the plush of her hips. His eyes are sad, tired, embarrassed. Y/N doesnât recognise him like this.
âKev is gonna kill me,â Harry laughs with exasperation, a hand dragging itself down his face. Itâs not often that he finds himself on coachâs bad sideâheâs not sure he ever really has. Heâs well disciplined, a little too cheeky sometimes, perhaps, but manages to ride the line with ease. He works hard, he trains hard, he respects the game and lives to improve with every new day. (Y/N once joked that Harry would struggle getting on the bad side of a wasp; could charm his way out of a potential sting without breaking a sweat.)
She breathes softly, fingertips carding through freshly washed hair; a shower the only thing he could force himself to do after the loss. âKevin is not going to kill you. Youâre his best player.â
Itâs hard not to let his sigh turn into a moan with the way she handles him with such tenderness. Thereâs no fight, none at all, when he closes his eyes and lets her scratch his scalp. âNot supposed to sulk about it. Got tâget up and move on. Prepare for the next thing.â
A gentle tug at the back of his head, not painful, but stern. He looks up at her figure between his legs. âHarry, you can be upset, itâs okay.â
âCanât be grumpy tomorrow.â
âJust for tonight then.â
It works. He huffs, âI fuckinâââ falling backwards and pulling Y/Nâs body with him. She holds back her affronted squeal, palms landing on either side of his shoulders. ââruined it for everyone.â
âNo you did not.â Itâs not fair to berate him but Y/N has never been one to allow self-deprecation. That was reserved for herself, and herself only. Her palm meets his chest lightly as she frowns, âYou didnât ruin anything, are you kidding? You kept that match alive.â
âAnd then I bottled it! Right at the bloody end.â
Her smile is sad; wishing for thaumaturgy to run through her veinsâor the ability to turn back time. âAnd next time the posts wonât get in the way.â
âHm. Not funny. Might not even be a next time. Iâll probably get dropped for this.â
âNo, you wonât, donât be silly. If everyone got dropped for a single mistake, youâd have no fucking players left.â
It falls silent for a while, their embrace a steady rising and falling of chestsâlike a dingy floating down a lazy river. Harry strokes up and down her back, as though sheâs the one that needs reassurance. It feels nice all the same. The only thing Y/N can do is let her weight settle atop of his hefty body, trying to breathe as deeply as her lungs can manage in hopes that Harryâs heart will mirror. Of course, sheâs kidding herself into believing she is any sort of definition of calm, but her mind hasnât quite caught up yet. Maybe itâs the humidity that forces the catch of her breath as Harry shifts beneath herâmaybe itâs the pollen count. Probably the pollen count.
âIâm glad youâre here,â he murmurs after a moment, mindless hands fidgeting amongst her clothes. The layers sheâd meticulously arranged to combat the brandishing winds have untucked themselves from the denim of her jeans. Harryâs fingers slip underneath and brush against the silken skin of her waist. He sighs, speaking once more before Y/N can hum her agreement, âYouâre so soft.â
There are unspoken lines in relationships, right? Boundaries, expectations, societal normalities. Y/N has lost count over the years, how often herself and Harry have been mistaken for a couple. It alludes to something deeper than neither of the two have ever addressed. And the line⌠itâs never been crossed but that doesnât mean it hasnât been toed upon. The waters arenât as cold as theyâve been before. Y/Nâs cheeks warm with the comfort of hiding in her best friendâs chest. The things he says always make her skin thrum with unbridled energy; thereâs just something about the way he wields words that has her feeling special. But she hides it with great effort; yearns to maintain a cooler front, perhaps to match her counterpart and appear a worthy equal beside Harryâs coveted self. Being described as soft isnât an inherently romantic thingâitâs simply a statementâbut Harry hums it so freely, like her softness is the salve for all of his cuts and scrapes. The delicacy of a girl, his girl, itâs enough to plaster over the disappointment of his day, because bigger things matter more.
In moments like these, Y/N could reply with a myriad of things. She sure as hell hears a million and one of them pinging around her head. Maybe sheâs cowardly, or maybe sheâs sensibleâshe adopts a jibing approach, âIt helps not to roll yourself around a muddy field every day.â
âCharming. Weâre not pigs, you little shit.â She makes him laugh, a huffed exhale, but a humoured noise nonetheless. Her lips curl up into his neck and she pretends that heâs happy for just a moment.Â
When the lull of silence passes and Harry starts to shuffle beneath her, a sense of panic morphs to desperate distractionânot too dissimilar to the reaction of an overworked mother catching her toddler on the verge of bouncing its wails off the walls like some twisted sort of hyena mimicryâshe waves a brightly coloured toy in front of his face, equipped with all kinds of bells and whistles.
His pecs indent with the pads of her fingers as she pushes herself up and plasters on an exaggerated grin that can only preface mischief, wiggling her eyebrows, âWant a massage?â ever the unalluring as her drawl tiptoes into the boundaries of offensively inaccurate Northern, âHm? Free of charge.â
A blip of relief radiates through Y/Nâs chest like the echo of a submarine when the corners of Harryâs mouth twitch upwards; in response to the sudden animation of her movements or the laxation that comes promised with her proposition, sheâs not sure. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth as he hums, neck propped up lazily by the palm of his hand, âTheyâre all free of charge.â
She runs with this fragment of a gameâpractically bullies herself into a sprint as she nods, âYou should be grateful Iâm not charging you by the minute. I studied for years.â
She did study for years, and Harryâs never been more grateful for itâselfishly cashing in all the massages he can get. âAnd lookââÂ
âRoll overââ she hoists her hips up to alleviate her weight, off of his body so he can do as she says and shuffle onto his front.
ââWhere youâve ended up.â Itâs a self-deprecating thought, not one to banter or jibe, despite being disguised as such. Holed up in lacklustre Room 143, frittering time away with a subpar athlete. Harryâs lucky sheâs here lest he dig himself into an even deeper hole.
âI knowâŚâ her sigh is light, completely oblivious to Harryâs thoughts only a mere skullâs width away, âso tragic.â
Itâs quiet again after that, the vacant hotel air perforated with an occasional thick exhale from Harryâs pouting mouth as Y/Nâs hands work through knots and kinks over the breadth of his back. He tries to fight sleep but she presses in harder, just shy of too hard, just enough to melt the taut into goo. When those breaths start coating themselves in gravel, the air catching on his larynx on its way out, and salaciously undiluted hums turn to feathery gruntsâY/N feels smug when she does that to a personâespecially when itâs Harry.
Y/N doesnât have to ask what he wants when she orders room service. Five years of friendship lends itself to the memorisation of eating habits. Heâs tired after the massage, muscles heavy and bones squishy, when her efforts to scoot him towards the headboard proved impossibly strenuous. Itâs caught up with him like a wave crashing to the shoreâall-consuming; submerging. Harry drowns in it entirely, can barely keep his eyes open long enough to shovel his cheat dinner into his mouth. The TV ends up screening old reruns of Friends. Y/N can tell Harryâs clocked outâmind traversing the depths of his insecuritiesâand it tugs her lips downwards to know she canât distract him. Not even acting along to their favourite scene makes the smile reach his eyes. She unfocuses her own just to pretend sheâs seeing what he isâthe blur of the television, colours melting together in kaleidoscope swirls. Rossâ forlorn Hi pulls her out of it.
She feels bad for projecting; for expecting or hoping him to be okay. Of course, heâs not going to be okay. Okay is waking up on a Monday morning with time to buy yourself a treat for lunch before heading into your dreary office job. Harryâs not even knocking on the door of Oh-Kay. But itâs a useless feelingâto be witnessing misery so candidly with nothing worthwhile to offer as a fix. Then she looks over at him, prompted by a thick rumble, and it all goes quiet inside her head for a moment. Heâs asleepâplate resting precariously over his lap. The waves catch up to her too, brows smoothing out to mirror the peace of Harryâs expression, and she knows it's time for bed.
Everything seems so much louder when youâre trying to be quiet. Y/N experiences that tenfold in the en-suite bathroom. Her toothbrush vibrates too hard, the water splashes too violently, the cap of her cleanser is obnoxious when it clicks shut. Harry peeks an eye open when she settles atop the covers once again; rosy notes clinging to the full of her soft cheeks, glowing in the soft vibrance of the bedside lamp sheâd leant over his chest to click on. Thereâs no guilt on his face that might suggest heâs been awake for a while, and the rumble of his voice solidifies Y/Nâs panic of disrupting his sleep.
âSorry,â she winces, adjusting her bare knees on top of the sheets. Harryâs sleepy eyes flit down to the hem of her shorts brushing against the plush of her thighs. Then he shrugs a shoulder and extends his arm, beckoning her forward with a curl of his fingers. âCome on. Need a cuddle.âÂ
And Y/N falls into him easilyâhead tucked beneath his chin, open palm smoothing over his heart, just like thatâas they both ignore the intimacy of their embrace.
Parisian sunlight doesnât filter past Y/Nâs eyelids when they twitch awake, fluttering open less than elegantly. The stitches of memories sew themselves back together piecemealâtoo slowly to find it questionableâthe caress of soft pads across the puff of her cheek. She thinks she grunts.Â
Itâs the moon that shows her. The silhouette of wide shoulders and a sloping neck; the sheer curtain enveloped with gentle pockets of wind that slip through the open window, billowing inwards. It pools across the carpet; cool moonlight, casting an unearthly glow along the bicep that reaches out.
Harryâs thumb brushes the girlâs feathery lashes, ducking beneath her undereye to stroke the skin there. Itâs such a gentle awakening that Y/N feels heavyâhalf awake and half still dreamingâstill floating through the clouds of her imagination. Weights tug her eyes shut again.
âDidnât mean to wake you,â a quiet murmur, not quite a whisper, the edges grisly but well-intentioned.
â...What time âs it?â The pillow sinks in further, weighted with the nuzzle of a nose and an overt inhale. Seasalt and sandalwood, from a little blue bottleâtravel sizeâbathing the cotton covers and tucking Y/N safely into cushions of secure muscle and warm skin.Â
âNot sure, go back tâsleep.â
Just enough of the day before creeps into the periphery of her consciousness, forcing the sleep away with an obvious disgruntled twitch. âAre you okay?â
Harry supplies a hum, noncommittal and farawayâtoo engrossed in the trail of his thumb against her cheek to provide much more. âWhatâre you doing?â She whines, fighting the curl of her mouth with the principle of her pilfered slumber. Each nerve ending he passes over leaves bumps in his wake in an endearing betrayal.
âDonât move,â he tuts when she wriggles her head someâticklish. âI was thinkingâŚâ and if Y/N were less catatonic sheâd quip something predictable to earn an answering pinch, âthinking that Iâm really glad youâre here.â Itâs a saving grace that her tongue lays heavy behind her lips. Harryâs timbre slicks itself over her, satiny like silk. Sincerity isnât their forte most of the time. It makes her stiffen, anticipating what comes next.Â
âI really love you.âÂ
The weight behind his words should be more startlingâa stumble during an elegant figure skating routineâbut it glides over the ice with ease, buttery and smooth. Y/N feels herself slipping under the cotton wool covers of unconsciousness with these words, a tiny smile evidence enough for Harry that she heard him, understood him. What might encourage a pregnant pause in the afternoon light, coaxes her back to sleep in the predawn.
Itâs a sentiment untold, bearing new significance in the whisperings between sheets. His hotel room, now a honeymoon suite, perhapsâwith promises of romantic views and crisp, white palettes bouncing light from wall to wall. Too much room for a newly wedded couple but grand in gesture and boundless in memory.
Only theyâre not even lovers, let alone united in matrimony, and no newfound intimacy comes without question. But itâs two in the morning, or three, or four, and this all feels like some sort of beautiful dreamâweightlessâventuring beyond imagination. Maybe Y/N is dreaming, maybe sheâs conquered the intricacies of lucid dreaming, maybe thatâs why it isnât scary to hear. Because itâs not entirely true.Â
But itâs hard to imagine, to fabricate the pressing of lips against the corner of her mouth and the soft plumes of air tickling her cheek. And itâs even harder when those same lips knit themselves over her hairline and a winding forearm pulls her in closer into a grounding embrace. She falls asleep again before her brain can whir up enough to provide conclusion.
Harry sounds different when Y/N wakes up. He feels different too. Heâs solid as ever, solid yet yielding around her own softer form, but there are new ridges where sheâs never known them to be and skin rocking forwards to kiss curves.Â
For a moment, it doesnât register that this is⌠unusual. Y/N seems to process it twice.Â
Once with a sense of nonchalance.Â
Oh, Harryâs humping me in his sleep.
And once with an urgent kind of astonishment.
 Oh. Harry is humping me in his sleep.Â
But that realisation doesnât lend itself to her advantage. It doesnât make her shoot upwards and scramble away before he realises. Becauseâsleepiness asideâit feels⌠it feels really good. His body is warm and his arms are tight around her waist; a security blanket made of bicep and sinewy forearm. But itâs wrong to enjoy him like this, without his permission, without his awareness.Â
âHarry. Harry, wake up, youâreââ
âY/NâŚâ her name falls from his lips like a feather; a confession soft spoken.
âYes,â but heâs not awake. âHarry,â she digs her fingernails into his wrist, hoping the pinch will stir his slumber but he only ruts into her harder, a groan catching in his throat.
âBabyââ Y/N gasps with his moan, muscles tightening, seizing with panic. The bump in his sweats knocks over the rounds of her bum, sleep shorts thin and easily mussed. She can feel them riding up with each roll that Harry gives and the voice in the back of her head telling her to let him⌠it only gets louder.Â
Heâs holding her so tight, entirely safe in his arms, so cardinal, so desired. It wouldnât be so wrong of her to let him use her body like this. He deserves to feel good. She tells herself itâs not selfish, itâs not impolite of her to feel fulfilled too. Thereâs no control over what makes her body sing. But Harry seems to be pretty good at it, even in sleep.Â
His breath is in her ear; it blankets over the slope of her shoulder, warm and seducing. It feels right to have Harryâs lips tucked against her neck, like it was always supposed to be there. What if the side of her neck never feels warm again. Itâs the shift of her hips backwards, mistakenly, that arouses him.Â
His body stills and the groans in his throat diminish as realisation dawns. But heâs not hurried, or stuttery in his movements. No, thereâs no rush at all. A slight tumble over his words as he wakes up, âOh shâshit, mâsorry peaches,â and a stroke across the exposed skin of her stomach when he pulls back, âThatâs my bad.â But thatâs all he reveals, before untangling himself from the sheets.
Y/N coughs, splutters, over a response, unable to reply with anything that could be considered coherent. Her eyes are fighting to dart down when he stands. Thatâs my bad. His indifference, Y/N thinks, strikes a chord. But she doesnât understand. Why her heart pounds harder and her legs squeeze tighter. Is she disappointed or is she disturbed? Itâs too early to piece any of her feelings together. Her phone beams seven-forty when she taps the screen.
She rolls over onto her back, dragging her clammy palms over her face as Harry takes himself to the on-suite too casually. Her skin is all hot, roiling waves washing over her and strangling her thudding heart. The ghost of his body still presses against her, the hardness, the softness, all of it. The sounds he was making; new to her ears in all their time knowing one another. No amount of pretending could send her back to sleep now.
The bathroom fan whirs and Y/N canât decide if sheâs grateful or dismayed that she canât make out any clear sounds.Â
When Harry emerges, the dusting of rouge across his cheeks makes Y/Nâs stomach flutter, eyes darting around the room to look at anything else. He clears his throat and brushes the back of his index finger under his nose. Y/N might believe he was trying not to laugh if she werenât so mortified.
And then he actually speaks. He speaks to her and she has to acknowledge him. âIâve got to get the coach back this morninâ.â
She swallows, âYeah, mhm, okay.â
âAlright,â A keycard appears between his fingers, and then he places it on the console table, âyâcan return this to the front desk fâme?â Y/N nods silently. She doesnât watch Harry as he gets dressed, or as he shoves things into his bag. She doesnât even sit up, mouth seemingly stuck open in a gape. âOkay, bye, see you later, stinky.â
âSee youââ but the door has already clicked shut, ââlater.â
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