grapejuicebrat

[grapejuicebrat]

put me in a movie [sugar daddy au] p.5

word count: 6720

series masterlist

There was no knock.

Just the mechanical slide of her building’s lock disengaging. The one she’d told herself was secure. The one she now realized never really was.

She didn’t hear his footsteps at first. Only the shift in the air, that strange static hush that came before something dangerous enters a room.

And then—

His voice.

Low. Even. Detached.

“You saw something you weren’t meant to.”

She turned slowly. He was already inside.

Coat half unbuttoned. One glove off, held between long fingers. His hair was slightly damp, like he’d walked through the rain without bothering to shield himself from it. He looked at home in her space — like it had been waiting for him.

She swallowed. Her voice felt too thin.

“You didn’t say I couldn’t go out.”

“I didn’t think you’d need to.”

That made her flinch, just slightly.

He dropped the glove on her table like it weighed nothing and stepped farther in, gaze unchanging.

“Is that what you want? To watch from the outside? To wonder who I spend my nights with when I’m not spending them here?”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Not without giving him something she’d rather keep hidden.

So he kept going.

“You wore jealousy like perfume that night. You stank of it.”

Her hands clenched at her sides. The old her — the logical one, the one who’d kept her head down and her bills barely paid — would’ve said this wasn’t part of the agreement. But the girl standing there now wasn’t logical anymore. She was something new. Something unraveling.

“Why did you come here?” she asked finally, voice like a thread pulled tight.

Harry looked at her for a long moment. Then, almost lazily:

“Because I don’t like unfinished things.”

He took another step.

“And I don’t like being watched. Not when I haven’t invited it.”

He reached out — slow, deliberate — and brushed his fingers against the sleeve of the sweater she wore. Nothing dramatic. Just enough contact to remind her of the weight of his attention.

“You’ve gotten comfortable,” he murmured. “I let that happen.”

She drew back.

“I’m not a thing to be managed.”

“Aren’t you?”

The silence between them shifted — thicker now, charged.

“I don’t want this anymore,” she said, barely above a whisper.

His head tilted. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Then run.”

She blinked.

“What?”

He stepped closer, breath ghosting her cheek.

“Run, baby. Run all you want. I’ll still catch you.”

And in that moment — cruel, soft, terrifying — she realized that she’d never really walked into this of her own accord.

She’d been led.

Every breadcrumb. Every look. Every absence.

He had built the maze.

And now, he wanted to watch her try to escape it.

She didn’t run.

She stepped back.

But it wasn’t fear in her body. Not fully. It was defiance — the kind that had been building since that night at the bar, since the moment he turned his face away like she didn’t exist.

He watched her as though every inch she moved back was a gift. Or a test.

“You think this makes you powerful?” she asked, and her voice was steadier than she expected. “Breaking silence just to remind me how small I am to you?”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.

“No,” he said simply. “I think you think that.”

She swallowed.

“Then what am I?”

He walked past her — slow, smooth, never touching — but close enough that the air between their bodies narrowed like a held breath.

“You’re someone who thought you could play with fire,” he murmured, standing behind her now, breath brushing her ear. “But you forgot who lit the match.”

A flicker of something sharp cut through her.

She turned to face him again, meeting his eyes. He was close. Closer than he should be. But not touching. Always just on the edge.

“You wanted me dependent,” she said quietly. “You knew what I needed and you made sure you were the one to give it.”

He smiled then — not cruelly. Not kindly. Just knowingly.

“I never promised freedom,” he said. “You just assumed I was interested in your wings.”

She breathed in sharply, like his words hit somewhere her lungs couldn’t protect.

And then, quieter.

“Why me?”

For the first time, he hesitated.

Not long — just a flicker of pause. But enough.

“Because you’re the first to look me in the eye while starving.”

He stepped back finally, but only enough to give her the illusion of distance.

“And I don’t feed people who lie about their hunger.”

The words sank deep, too deep.

She didn’t respond.

Not yet.

Because in that moment, she didn’t know whether to fight him… or prove him right.

He turned his back to her.

On purpose.

It was an insult, not an escape — an unspoken challenge that said you can go now, even though both of them knew she wouldn’t. Not yet.

Her breath caught as she stared at him — the line of his shoulders beneath his coat, the deliberate slowness of how he pulled it off, letting it fall across the back of her chair like he owned the air in the room, like he had time to waste watching her unravel.

“Still here,” he said softly, not turning around.

She didn’t answer. Didn’t trust herself to.

Her body buzzed like a wire stretched too tight — half of her ready to run, the other half already leaning forward.

He turned, finally, and in three strides he was close again. Too close. His fingers brushed under her chin, tilting her face up so she had to meet his eyes.

“Tell me what this is, Y/N.”

Her name didn’t sound like a name in his mouth. It sounded like a verdict.

“Power,” she said, surprising even herself.

A flicker of something shifted in his face. Maybe pleasure. Maybe amusement. Maybe both.

His hand moved from her jaw to the side of her throat — not tight, not hard. Just present. Just there. His thumb resting against the pulse he could now feel racing.

“And whose is it?” he asked.

The air around them cracked — that invisible thing between bodies right before something happens.

“Yours,” she whispered.

But she said it like a dare. Like a trap.

His grip didn’t tighten — it softened. The pad of his thumb stroked once over her throat, gentle. Thoughtful. Calculated.

“Wrong,” he said.

And then, suddenly, he moved.

He pushed her — not hard, but fast — back against the wall. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to take her breath away. To make her blink up at him like prey cornered by something it still didn’t fully fear.

He leaned in, mouth inches from hers, but didn’t kiss her.

“You’ve had it all along,” he breathed. “You just never knew how to use it.”

She shuddered — not from fear. From recognition.

Her hands came up between them — not to push him away, not quite to pull him closer — but he caught her wrists mid-air. Held them between them like a question.

“Say stop,” he murmured.

She didn’t.

Not yet.

And so, he bent to her ear, voice low, lips brushing skin.

“Then we go deeper.”

She didn’t pull her hands away.

But she didn’t give them freely either.

They hovered between them, suspended in the space where uncertainty breathes. Her pulse thundered in the quiet, but her voice stayed locked behind her teeth.

Harry watched her.

Not like a man looking at a woman.

Like a man looking at a puzzle.

His fingers didn’t squeeze — not hard. He wasn’t brute force. He never had to be. That was the most terrifying thing about him. Power, when it’s sure of itself, doesn’t raise its voice.

“You keep waiting for the moment this becomes about sex,” he said, calm, cruel. “But it never was.”

Her brows knit, unsure if it was accusation or confession.

“Then what do you want?” she asked, breath tight.

He smiled, slow, devastating.

“I want your obedience.”

That word cut. It sounded too big in her mouth, too heavy in her ears. She tried to mask the way it shook something loose in her chest.

“You think money buys that?”

He let go of her wrists — gently, like letting petals fall — and stepped back just far enough to make her feel the distance.

“No,” he said. “But starvation does.”

Her breath caught.

“You think I’m weak?”

“I think you’ve never had a man look at you and see the void,” he murmured. “And not turn away from it.”

She didn’t speak.

Her hands, still slightly raised, hung in the air like they weren’t sure who they belonged to anymore.

Harry moved closer again, slower now. Measured. Dangerous in a different way.

“I don’t want your body,” he said. “I want your choices. I want you to wake up and wonder what I’ll let you do today.”

She blinked, throat dry, heart sick with some emotion that had no name. He saw it — that slow blink of panic mixing with heat — and tilted his head like a question had been answered.

“Say no,” he whispered again, softer this time. “Say it, and I’ll go.”

But they both knew the rules of this game.

He always offered the door when he knew she wouldn’t take it.

And she… she always stood still a second too long.

That second was all he needed.

His hands touched her face — gentle, reverent — thumbs brushing under her eyes like he could sculpt a truth out of her. She didn’t move. She didn’t breathe.

“Good girl,” he whispered.

And that was the worst part.

It didn’t sound like praise.

It sounded like prophecy.

—————————————

She didn’t plan to go out.

Not really.

But silence does strange things to people — especially when it’s laced with money. Especially when it’s coming from him. The card had been refilled again that morning. A quiet, unspoken nod from someone who still hadn’t spoken since that night.

No message. No order. No rules.

So she tested the boundary.

It wasn’t calculated. She just slipped the card into her purse like it meant nothing, like she hadn’t memorized the weight of it. A drink with friends. One cocktail. That’s all.

That’s all.

But she used it.

And that was enough.

She got home late. Not obscenely so. Just… late enough. The apartment was still. Dimly lit. Her heels clicked softly across the hardwood as she stepped inside, door clicking shut behind her.

He was sitting at her kitchen counter.

No theatrics. No shadows. He just… waited.

She froze. Her breath locked.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

When she moved — just an inch — his voice cut clean through the air.

“Where is it.”

Her heart thumped hard.

“What?” she tried. Stupid.

He stood. Slowly. Measured.

“The card.”

The words landed heavy.

She swallowed.

“I didn’t—”

“You did,” he said, voice colder than she’d ever heard it. “In public. In your name. You didn’t even try to cover the trail.”

She shrank in place. Her fingers curled into the hem of her dress.

“It was just a drink,” she whispered.

“There are no justs when I’m the one paying.”

His eyes narrowed. Something distant burned in them, something worse than anger. Disappointment wrapped in control. Punishment waiting to be spoken.

“Give it back.”

The words were sharp, flat, and final.

She didn’t move. He stepped closer.

“Now, Y/N.”

Her fingers fumbled into her purse. She pulled out the card — suddenly too heavy, too shameful — and placed it on the counter.

He didn’t touch it right away. He looked at her. Like he was recalibrating her value. Like she’d shown him she couldn’t be trusted with even that.

“I gave you rules,” he said, quiet. “You smiled and nodded and let me believe you understood what they meant.”

“I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t need to think. That was the point.”

She felt her eyes sting. Not because of him. Not exactly. Because of what she was under him. And how easily she’d proven it.

He finally took the card and slid it into his coat pocket.

“No more,” he said.

“What does that mean?” she asked, voice breaking.

He paused. Looked at her like she was a stranger now. Not a girl on his leash — just a mess he’d briefly entertained.

“It means you were never the one in control,” he said. “But now you don’t even get to pretend.”

And with that, he left. No kiss. No look back. Just the door closing behind him. And her, alone. Burning.

Obsession didn’t feel like what she thought it would.

It didn’t crash into her like a storm. It seeped in.

The apartment still smelled faintly like his cologne — something rich and smoky, left behind in the fibers of her furniture like he meant to leave a trace. His glass still sat in the sink. His fingerprint was still on the rim.

And the card — his card — was gone.

She should have felt free. Should’ve felt like she reclaimed something by breaking the rule. But now, everything in her felt raw, like she’d peeled off her skin and found nothing beneath it.

He hadn’t texted since that night.

No calls. No messages. Not even a transfer into her account.

She kept checking anyway. Every few hours. She kept expecting him to watch. To punish. To press.

But he’d gone silent.

And somehow that was worse.

She found herself retracing old messages, rereading his words like scripture. She sat in the dress she wore when he first touched her jaw and told her she was a good girl — not like praise, but like possession. She slept on the side of the bed he never laid in. She listened for footsteps in the hall when it got quiet after midnight.

She even wore her hair how he liked it.

For no one.

She saw his name everywhere.

Not in text — in men.

Men who weren’t him. Men who sat wrong. Spoke too much. Smelled too sharp.

She went back to the bar.

Not with anyone. Just… alone. She sat in the same corner, wore something bolder than usual, painted her lips the same blood-red that made him smirk. She hoped he’d show up again. Say her name like it wasn’t hers anymore.

He didn’t.

That night, she touched herself in his shirt — the one he forgot in her closet, maybe on purpose — and hated how much she needed it to smell like him to finish.

She hadn’t needed money. Not really.

She needed him to see her again.

To look at her with that clinical coldness. To remind her that he could have her, and chose to wait. To make her feel powerless in a world where she’d fought her whole life to stay upright.

She didn’t want love. She wanted his attention.

And he was starving her of it. That was the worst punishment of all.

She tried to return to the version of herself she remembered before him, but even the most basic rituals had shifted beneath the weight of his absence. Her morning coffee tasted different. Her walk to class felt hollow. She no longer found relief in her part-time job, no comfort in the worn faces of her friends who now seemed almost childlike in their simplicity, untouched by the depth of what she’d stepped into. They spoke of crushes and deadlines and Spotify playlists while her brain buzzed like static, sharp and unsettled, unable to let go of the imprint he had left behind.

Every night, she stayed up too late.

Not doing anything. Not watching or reading or scrolling. Just waiting — as if his voice might crawl out of the dark, as if the silence might finally break and give her something to latch onto again. The silence was worse than anything he could’ve said. It felt tactical, like he was still playing with her, only now with gloves on, letting her spiral without even touching her.

She started seeing him in strangers. A man on the train wore his cologne, and she followed him through two stops before realizing she was trembling. Another sat in the back of a café in the same cut of black wool coat — not as expensive, not as tailored — but enough to make her look twice. She didn’t speak to these men. She didn’t want them. But they became her hauntings. Flickers of something she had tasted and never swallowed. She wasn’t hunting for him. She was haunted by the space he left.

She couldn’t explain it to anyone.

What would she say? That she missed a man who made her feel like currency? That she felt more seen when she was a kept thing in his pocket than when she walked freely through her own life? That being held under his gaze made her feel more real than any class or job or photograph of herself smiling ever had?

She told herself he hadn’t meant to do this to her. He hadn’t loved her. He hadn’t even liked her, not really. She had been something to decorate his boredom. He had said it without saying it — in the way he touched her hair like silk and not skin, in the way he ordered her dinner and expected her not to speak when he answered his phone. He hadn’t offered comfort or affection or lies.

He had only offered himself — once. Twice. And now, not at all.

She still remembered the first time he kissed her. Not because it was soft. It hadn’t been. Not because it was romantic — it wasn’t that, either. But because it was the first time he claimed something from her, the first time she tasted what it meant to be wanted like an object, adored like a thing too expensive to own. It wasn’t that he didn’t want her now. It was that he had decided she was used. Like something he’d worn twice and folded away.

And she hated that it worked. She hated that she still checked her phone before bed. Hated that she thought about breaking into his apartment just to feel something sharp again. She hated that when she stared into the mirror, all she could see was the ghost of the girl who once meant something to a man who now meant everything.

She hated the quiet.

But she hated herself more.

She wondered if he ever thought about her.

And then she laughed — cold, bitter, without sound — because she knew the answer.

If he did, it wouldn’t be like this. It would be cleaner. Controlled. He wouldn’t miss her. He’d remember her.

And that was worse.

It didn’t happen all at once.

There was no single night when she snapped, no breaking of glass, no sobbing on the floor. She didn’t throw out his shirt. She didn’t delete his number. She didn’t scream into her pillow or cut her hair or drink herself into oblivion. The unraveling was subtler than that — more patient. And more complete.

She started sleeping in his t-shirt every night.

Not out of sentiment. Not even out of longing. But because it felt like control. Like if she wore it often enough, it might become armor instead of a wound. She didn’t wash it. Not once. The scent faded gradually — softer each week, until it was barely there, and then not at all. She kept wearing it anyway.

She went to class but stopped taking notes. Stopped raising her hand. Stopped responding when her professors called her name with growing irritation. Her friends invited her out less. At first, they asked if she was okay. She lied. Then they stopped asking, and she pretended not to notice. There were texts she never opened. Emails she deleted without reading.

She stared at herself in the mirror more often than before, but never for very long. Not because she didn’t like what she saw — but because it didn’t feel like her anymore. Her eyes looked older. Her mouth looked tighter. She found herself tilting her head the way he once did, scanning her reflection the way he used to look at her — as if she were a purchase to be evaluated. As if her worth could be measured in stillness.

And still, she didn’t cry.

Instead, she cleaned obsessively. She moved through the apartment in silence, rearranging objects she’d never cared about before. She scrubbed the baseboards. She organized drawers she never used. She stacked and unstacked books until the edges wore down. She touched everything except herself.

There were nights she didn’t sleep at all. She’d sit in the corner of her bedroom, knees pulled to her chest, staring at the door as if he might appear again. As if he might walk in with a quiet smirk and a command to stand up, to show him what she remembered. But he never did.

She dreamed about him once. Just once.

In the dream, he wasn’t cruel.

He was worse.

He was indifferent.

And she woke up shaking.

Sometimes, she thought about messaging him. But she knew what he’d see if she did. Not power. Not allure. Not something lost worth reclaiming. Just weakness. Just need. She couldn’t give him that. Even if she ached for it. Even if her body remembered his touch like it was memory carved into muscle.

She remembered what he’d said the last night he stood in her apartment.

“You don’t even get to pretend.”

She hadn’t understood it then. She thought it was about the card. About the broken rule.

But now, she understood.

She couldn’t pretend to be normal anymore. Couldn’t pretend this hadn’t changed her. Couldn’t pretend she hadn’t liked being seen as something to be kept.

The worst part wasn’t that he left.

The worst part was that he’d seen exactly what she was beneath the surface — and she had proven him right.

It was the knock on the door that startled her most — not because of the sound, but because it was real. She’d imagined it too many times before, phantom knocks in the middle of the night that never became anything. But this one… this one echoed. Sharp, short, impatient.

She didn’t answer right away. She stood in the hallway, barefoot and silent, staring at the door like it was a threat. Her heart thudded once, hard. For a second, she imagined it was him. Coming to reclaim what he had so coldly abandoned. Her mind raced — what would she say? What would she do?

But when she opened it, it wasn’t him.

It was Luca.

Not a friend, not really. More like a recurring presence from her classes — quiet, observant, the kind of person who noticed when someone disappeared without ever saying it aloud. He looked awkward standing there, holding a paper coffee cup like it was a peace offering he didn’t expect her to take.

“I didn’t mean to bother you,” he said, eyes flicking past her into the dim apartment. “You’ve just… missed a few things. Thought I’d check in.”

She said nothing.

He paused. Swallowed. “I can go.”

Still, she didn’t speak. But she didn’t close the door either.

Luca stepped back slightly, as if sensing the unease crackling in the air between them. He didn’t look at her like Harry did. There was no calculation, no slow burn of desire or power or control. Just concern. Maybe pity.

And it made her stomach turn.

After a beat, he held the coffee out again. “I didn’t know what you liked. This one’s just… plain.”

She took it with fingers that trembled slightly, more from the shift in atmosphere than the weight of the cup. Her voice felt foreign in her throat when she finally used it. “Thanks.”

He looked relieved. Not overly expressive. Just relieved. Like he hadn’t known if she’d speak at all.

“You haven’t answered any messages,” he said carefully. “Or emails. I thought maybe you’d dropped out.”

“I should have.”

His brow creased, and he tilted his head slightly. “You okay?”

“No.”

There was silence, thick and heavy, but not the kind that stifled. This one invited something. Honesty, maybe. Or reckoning.

He didn’t fill it with empty platitudes. Didn’t tell her she looked tired, or that she should come back to class, or that things would get better. He just stood there, quiet and real, and somehow that made her chest ache more than any performance of comfort could have.

“I know we don’t talk much,” he said finally, softer now, “but you used to look like you had something burning under your skin. Now you just look—” He stopped. “Gone.”

That word lodged itself inside her.

Gone.

She hadn’t known she was showing it. She thought she’d buried it better. The stillness. The hunger. The obsession.

But it was leaking out anyway.

She looked down at the coffee in her hand, then back at him, the stranger who somehow saw her more clearly now than she wanted to be seen.

“You should go,” she said quietly.

Luca nodded, like he expected it. But he didn’t look offended. “I’ll be around.”

When she closed the door, her fingers tightened around the cup until the heat almost burned.

Someone still saw her.

And for the first time in weeks, it didn’t feel like a comfort.

It felt like a threat to the world she’d built around him.

A crack.

A door he hadn’t closed tightly enough.

She started answering Luca’s messages — not all, not right away, but enough to keep a thread alive. Her words were careful, measured, like stepping over cracked glass barefoot. She didn’t want him too close, but she didn’t want to be alone either. It was a balancing act, a dance she hadn’t remembered learning.

When he asked if she wanted to grab coffee, she said yes, even though her heart clenched at the thought of being out in the world, seen and judged. She wore a hoodie over the dress she’d once reserved for nights with Harry — softening the edges, hiding the part of herself still bruised and raw. Luca didn’t comment. He just smiled, easy and unassuming, like he was glad she’d come.

They sat in the corner of a quiet café, the hum of conversations and clinking cups filling the spaces between their words. She told herself she was here for the coffee, for the distraction, for the chance to pretend she could still be normal. But when Luca looked at her — really looked — it felt different than Harry’s gaze. It wasn’t possession. It was curiosity. Maybe even kindness.

For a moment, she let herself believe she could breathe again.

But the thought was like smoke in her lungs, impossible to hold.

She laughed quietly when Luca asked about her silence, making a joke about college stress and part-time jobs. He nodded, understanding more than she expected, but never pushing.

Later, when they parted, she caught herself watching his back as he walked away, wondering if she was trading one shadow for another. But for now, it was enough to pretend — enough to think that maybe she could reclaim herself, piece by piece, even if the sharp edges of Harry’s absence never quite dulled.

And somewhere deep inside, she knew the pretending was just another kind of waiting.

Harry sat alone in the dim light of his penthouse, the city sprawled beneath him like a silent audience. The hum of traffic and distant music filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but none of it touched him. His gaze was fixed on the phone lying face-up on the marble countertop, dark and still like a sleeping animal.

He hadn’t messaged her. Hadn’t called. Didn’t need to.

Because he was certain she would come back. Or at least, that she would try to.

He had watched — quietly, meticulously — as the days stretched into a void. He knew her patterns, her desperate attempts at normalcy, the way she clung to anything that wasn’t him. The threads she grasped, hoping to weave a life without the shadow he cast.

It amused him.

The way she tried to fill the silence with someone else — a substitute. He didn’t care about Luca. Not really. Luca was a pawn, a distraction, a temporary itch she’d scratch only to realize how empty it left her.

Harry smiled, a slow, dark curl of lips that didn’t reach his eyes. He liked the game of waiting. The power of being unseen yet omnipresent. She thought she was free. She thought he was gone.

But freedom was a lie.

He traced his fingers over the edge of the card he’d taken back — the cold metal a reminder of control, of ownership.

And ownership wasn’t given lightly. It was claimed. Held. Tightened when needed.

He wasn’t finished with her.

Not yet.

Because she was hungry.

And hunger, he knew better than anyone, was the strongest kind of bond.

Harry sat back in his leather chair, the weight of the silence between him and Y/N pressing heavier than any crowd he’d been surrounded by. The game had shifted, but the rules remained the same. She thought she was reclaiming herself, weaving a fragile new world without him, but he knew the truth buried beneath her tentative steps — she was still tethered, tangled, and longing in ways she refused to admit.

He allowed his fingers to drape over the edge of his desk, tracing invisible lines, pacing out the chessboard in his mind. The card was gone from her hands, but the debt lingered, deeper than money. She craved his attention — his control. He could feel it vibrating in her absence like a wire stretched too tight.

The question wasn’t if she’d come back. It was when, and under what terms.

Harry thought of Luca — the quiet interloper trying to fill a space he’d deliberately left empty. It was amusing, in a cold way. The kid was nothing more than a placeholder, a distraction to dull the ache he’d engineered in her. He could be useful, maybe, if played right.

But first, Harry needed to remind Y/N who held the cards.

His phone lit up, and he didn’t hesitate. Fingers flew over the screen, crafting a message that was simple, deliberate, impossible to ignore.

“I’ve sent something to your account. Consider it a reminder that control is a gift, not a threat. Use it wisely.”

He hit send before second-guessing himself.

There was no warmth in the words. No apology. No invitation.

Just power.

The kind she’d forgotten how to resist.

Harry leaned forward, eyes dark and calculating, and waited.

The game was far from over.

Y/N stared at her phone, the screen glowing with the new message. The words were cold, precise—no room for warmth, no hint of mercy. A reminder that control is a gift, not a threat. Her breath hitched as the weight of the statement pressed down on her chest, squeezing tight, dragging her back into the space she had been desperately trying to escape.

The message wasn’t just a note—it was a command wrapped in ice. Her fingers trembled as she opened her banking app, eyes scanning the incoming transfer. The numbers confirmed what the message had already told her: he was still watching, still deciding how and when to pull the strings.

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. She hated that she cared. Hated that every beat of her heart still pulsed with the echo of his presence. She had tried to build walls, to pretend she was moving forward. But the silence had only been the calm before this calculated storm.

Her mind flashed back to his voice, low and certain, telling her that freedom was a lie. Now, with his money flooding her account like a silent tether, she realized it wasn’t just his words—it was the unyielding truth of their twisted connection.

She slid down against the wall, phone clenched tightly in her hand, feeling the cold seep through her skin. Somewhere beneath the fear and frustration, a darker part of her stirred—hungry, willing, broken.

And she knew, without a doubt, the game was far from over.

Y/N’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, the familiar tremor shaking her hand betraying the facade she tried so hard to keep. She wasn’t sure if the impulse to respond came from defiance, desperation, or something far more tangled—maybe a fragile mix of all three.

Her thumb pressed against the screen and typed out a message carefully weighed in every letter, every word chosen to test the waters without giving away too much:

“Control isn’t a gift. It’s a cage. And cages can be broken.”

She hesitated a moment before hitting send, breath caught in her throat as she waited, knowing well that every word she sent was a move in a dangerous dance. The silence that followed was suffocating, stretching seconds into eternities.

When the reply finally came, it was a whisper of ice—cold, unyielding, and absolute:

“Some cages are built to last forever.”

The weight of his words wrapped around her like chains tightening. She could almost feel the invisible grip pulling her back, deeper into the game she had tried to walk away from.

But beneath the fear and the pull, a small fire kindled inside her—fragile, but stubborn.

She wasn’t ready to be owned. Not yet.

And maybe, just maybe, she would find a way to break free.

Y/N’s phone buzzed again almost immediately, and she barely had time to process before his next message appeared, each word deliberate, slicing through the fragile calm she tried to maintain.

“Freedom isn’t something I grant, Y/N. It’s something you earn. But first, you have to want it enough to fight for it.”

Her fingers trembled, heart pounding as she crafted her response. She knew this wasn’t a game she could win by words alone, but she needed to hold onto some semblance of power.

“Maybe I’m ready to fight. But not for you. For myself.”

The pause before his reply was a taut wire stretching to its breaking point.

“Fighting for yourself often means choosing which chains you wear. Are you sure you know which ones you want?”

Her breath caught. His voice echoed in her mind, the dark edge behind every phrase — a reminder that beneath the charm, the luxury, there was always control.

She typed carefully, refusing to let him see her fear.

“I’m done pretending I’m yours. You lost me the day you made me prove I was worth keeping.”

A beat.

“I never lost you. You just forgot where you belong.”

Her phone slipped from her hands, the cold glass pressing against her palm. She sat back, eyes wide and heavy, realizing that this conversation wasn’t about who had control anymore — it was about who would break first.

Harry arrived unannounced, stepping into the dimly lit café where Y/N sat tucked in the far corner, her gaze fixed on the chipped rim of her coffee cup. The air thickened as he approached, the quiet buzz of other patrons fading beneath the weight of his presence. He didn’t ask if he could sit; he simply slid into the seat opposite her, eyes locking with hers in a silent challenge.

“I could have sent another message,” he said, voice low and steady, “but I wanted to see if you’d say what you mean when I’m right here.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, the tension coiling tighter between them. She straightened, meeting his stare with a mixture of defiance and something darker — the flicker of a hunger neither was willing to admit.

“You think you own me,” she whispered, voice rough, “but I’m the one who’s been holding the leash all along.”

Harry’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. “Is that what you tell yourself? Because the leash feels pretty tight from where I’m sitting.”

Their eyes locked again, a silent war raging beneath the surface, every unspoken word loaded with power and pain. Neither moved, but the air between them crackled — charged with the pull of two forces unwilling to surrender.

Finally, Harry leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I don’t want to own you. I want to see if you can run and still come back.”

Y/N swallowed hard, the fight and the fear twisting inside her. “Maybe I’m tired of running.”

A long pause stretched between them before Harry’s gaze softened — just enough to shatter the cold armor he wore like a second skin.

“Then don’t,” he said. “Not yet.”

Harry’s eyes darkened with a flicker of something she hadn’t seen before — something raw and almost wistful. The café’s quiet buzz faded as he leaned back, fingers tapping lightly on the table.

“You want to know why I keep this distance? Why I play the game the way I do?” His voice was softer now, almost hesitant. “It’s because I tried once. With someone else.”

Y/N’s breath caught, curiosity sparking beneath her guarded exterior.

“She was… different. Not like you. Not like anyone I’d met before. She wasn’t just someone to keep, or a distraction to pass the time. I thought it would be simple — money for company, boundaries set clear. But it never is, is it?”

He shook his head slowly. “She got under my skin. I thought I was in control, but I wasn’t. I was falling, and I didn’t want to. And when I finally admitted it, when I tried to let her in, it all went to shit.”

His jaw tightened. “She left. Took everything with her — trust, respect, the illusion I’d built around myself. It broke me in ways I’m still patching up.”

He looked back at Y/N, eyes sharp but vulnerable. “That’s why I’m careful with you. Because I don’t want to lose control again. Because I’m scared that if I let go… I’ll get burned.”

For a moment, the coldness melted away, replaced by something raw and painfully human.

Harry’s confession hung in the air between them, heavier than the dim light filtering through the café window. Y/N’s eyes flickered away, caught in the swirl of emotions she wasn’t ready to untangle. Part of her wanted to reach out, to soften the edges of his story with understanding. But another part — the part still bruised by his distance — bristled with frustration.

“So, you’re scared,” she said finally, voice low but steady. “Scared that if you let someone in, you’ll lose control. That they’ll break you.”

She looked back at him, searching his face for something — maybe a crack in the armor, maybe a sign that beneath all the power plays, there was still a man who wanted more than just control.

“But what about me?” she whispered. “What if I’m not just someone to keep or break? What if I’m the one who’s tired of running from you — and from myself?”

Her hands clenched around the warm cup. “I don’t want your control. I don’t want to be another name in your history. I want… I don’t know. Something real.”

The tension between them twisted tighter, raw and fragile. Neither dared to breathe too loud, for fear the moment might shatter.

Harry met her gaze, eyes dark and unreadable, as if weighing the truth in her words against the walls he’d built.

“Maybe real,” he murmured, “is the scariest thing of all.”

Harry’s confession was met not with softness, but with a cold, almost bitter laugh. Y/N’s eyes narrowed, a hard glint replacing any trace of empathy. The fragile moment dissolved like smoke.

“Scared, huh?” she said, voice sharp, almost mocking. “Funny. I thought you just didn’t want to be caught. Not scared.”

She leaned forward, the challenge burning in her gaze. “You talk about control like it’s some twisted game you’re winning. But what if you’re the one trapped? What if all this—” she gestured between them, “is just a cage you built to keep yourself safe from getting hurt?”

Harry’s jaw tightened. The faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, dark and dangerous.

“Maybe,” he said slowly, “but cages aren’t always prisons. Sometimes they’re shields.”

The words hung between them like a challenge thrown down in the dust. Neither moved to pick it up.

Y/N flicked her eyes to the door, then back to him. “I’m done playing by your rules. Maybe I never started.”

Harry’s laugh was low and dry, almost a growl. “Rules? There’s only one rule. You don’t forget who holds the leash.”

She met his gaze unflinchingly, voice steady but fierce. “I’m not the one holding anything anymore.”

For a long moment, they sat like statues, two forces locked in a standoff that neither wanted to break—because breaking meant losing control. Because losing control was what they both feared most.

The café’s low murmur faded into nothingness as the tension between them thickened, tangible and suffocating. Harry’s eyes darkened, the cold glint sharpening into something sharper, more dangerous. He leaned forward, the weight of his presence pressing down on her like a storm about to break.

“You think you can just walk away?” His voice was low, rough, a dangerous edge cutting through the space between them. “You think I’ll let you go that easily?”

Y/N’s jaw clenched, every muscle taut like a coiled wire ready to snap. “I never said I was walking away.” Her voice was steady, but beneath it simmered a fierce defiance, the kind that refused to be crushed. “I’m just done being your game piece.”

Harry’s smile twisted, dark and cruel. “Game piece? You forget who’s playing. I’m the one holding the cards — and the leash.”

Her eyes flashed with fire. “Maybe it’s time you learn what happens when the leash is broken.”

Without warning, she shoved the table, the clatter loud and jarring. Harry didn’t flinch; instead, he reached across, his hand gripping her wrist with an iron grip. The contact was electric — harsh, possessive, a silent claim.

“You think you can break free?” he hissed, voice low and threatening. “Try me.”

The world narrowed to the heat between them, the battle of wills raging in silence, in every locked gaze and trembling breath. Neither willing to blink, neither willing to lose.

And in that moment, power wasn’t given — it was taken.

Harry’s grip tightened just enough to remind her who held the power without crushing her, the contrast between strength and restraint electrifying the charged air around them. His eyes bore into hers, dark and unyielding, daring her to challenge him further.

Y/N’s breath hitched, but she refused to back down. Instead, she met his intensity head-on, a flicker of defiance sparking in her gaze despite the storm swirling inside her. “I’m not afraid of you,” she whispered, voice trembling but fierce. “Maybe that scares you more than anything.”

A slow, dangerous smile curled on Harry’s lips as if he welcomed the challenge. He leaned in closer, his breath warm against her skin. “Good,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

The tension between them spiraled, every heartbeat loud in the silence as they stood on the edge of something raw and uncharted — a battle for control where neither side intended to surrender easily.

The café’s dim light seemed to bend around them, shadows twisting as Harry’s presence pressed closer, heavier — a storm about to break, unpredictable and dangerous. His hand didn’t loosen, fingers tightening just enough to speak possession without overt violence, a reminder that he controlled the space between them and everything inside it. His breath was slow, deliberate, brushing against her skin with a heat that promised both torment and something far darker.

Y/N’s pulse hammered against her ribs, a wild rhythm of fear and fierce defiance. Her eyes didn’t waver; if anything, they burned brighter, a raw ember in the thickening tension. “You think you own me,” she said, voice low, laced with steel, “but you don’t own what you can’t keep.”

Harry’s smile was a slow, cruel curve, shadows dancing in his eyes like flames. “I don’t need to own you,” he whispered, voice rough and unyielding. “I just need to know you’ll come back when the leash slips — when you think you’re free.”

He leaned in, the space closing until his lips brushed the corner of her mouth — a dark promise, a warning veiled in the heat of proximity. His grip shifted, guiding her hand to the edge of the table, pinning it there with a possessive strength that was both intoxicating and terrifying.

“Try to run,” he breathed against her skin, voice a husky threat, “and I’ll find you. Again and again.”

The world around them blurred, the air thick with a dangerous mix of power, hunger, and something unspoken — a dark covenant neither dared to break, yet both felt pulling tighter with every breath.

The café around them seemed to dissolve into a haze of muted sounds and flickering shadows, leaving only the two of them suspended in a charged silence that was anything but calm. Harry’s hand was a weight on hers, heavy but controlled, like a force that could either protect or punish—and she felt both pulling at her in equal, devastating measure. The heat of his breath against her skin was a low burn, igniting something fierce and raw beneath the surface, something she tried desperately to deny but couldn’t.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, a wild, unrelenting drumbeat that matched the rapid beat of a hunger she was still learning to name. Her fingers twitched against the cold edge of the table, trapped beneath his grasp yet aching to reach out—to break free, or perhaps to surrender—she wasn’t sure which anymore.

His voice dropped to a near whisper, the dark promise curling in every syllable. “I don’t want you because you’re mine. I want you because you’re wild. Because even when you push, even when you run, you come back. You can’t help yourself. And neither can I.”

The tension between them was a living thing, pulsing with every shallow breath, every stolen glance. His eyes searched hers, fierce and unblinking, reading the fractures she tried to hide—the desire tangled with fear, the defiance wrapped in vulnerability.

Y/N’s lips parted, a breath caught somewhere between a challenge and a plea, the lines between control and surrender blurring dangerously close. She was drowning in the space he carved around them, drawn to the darkness in his eyes even as it threatened to consume her.

“I’m not yours,” she whispered, voice raw but steady, “and I’m not free.”

Harry’s smile was a shadowed thing, a secret shared between predators and prey alike. “Maybe you’re both.”

His grip shifted—tightening, sure—claiming the moment, claiming her. The world contracted until nothing existed outside that touch, that breath, that silent promise that the game was far from over.

And deep inside, beneath every fractured piece of herself, Y/N realized she didn’t want it to be.

The grip finally loosened, but the electric charge between them didn’t dissipate. Harry leaned back, the corner of his mouth curling into a satisfied smirk, as if he’d just reminded her exactly who held the power—but also who was hooked in the game.

Y/N sat still for a moment, the rush of adrenaline slowly ebbing into a dull ache that settled deep in her bones. She ran her fingers over the spot where his hand had been, feeling the phantom pressure linger like a brand.

Neither of them spoke for a long beat. Around them, the café’s noise crept back—the clink of cups, the murmur of conversations—but it felt distant, like another world she was only half part of.

Harry’s eyes flicked to the door, then back to her, voice low and calculated. “You can fight all you want. But when it comes down to it… you’ll always come back.”

Y/N’s jaw tightened, a mix of defiance and reluctant acknowledgment twisting inside her. She wasn’t ready to admit it, but the truth was clawing at the edges of her resolve.

She stood up abruptly, gathering her things with deliberate calm. “Maybe,” she said, voice steady but edged with steel. “Or maybe I’m just waiting for the right moment to disappear.”

Harry’s smile deepened, dark and knowing, as he watched her walk away. The game wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

And in the shadows between them, the quiet pull of obsession lingered—binding, dangerous, and far from broken.

Harry watched her leave, the click of her heels fading into the ambient noise of the café, but inside the silence that settled over him was anything but calm. His eyes narrowed, a flicker of something darker stirring beneath the surface—a mix of frustration, desire, and something closer to obsession.

He clenched his jaw, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the tabletop as he replayed every moment—the sharp defiance in her eyes, the way she refused to break, the fragile line between control and surrender that neither of them dared cross fully.

A slow, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips, one that held promise and warning all at once. The game was far from over, and he was already plotting the next move—patient, relentless, certain.

Because Y/N thought she could disappear. But in his world, nothing truly vanished. Not when he wanted to find it.

He pulled out his phone, fingers moving with deliberate precision as he drafted a new message—a whisper of power and possession meant to remind her that some ties weren’t so easily severed.

“No matter how far you go, you’ll always hear the leash tightening.”

With a quiet exhale, Harry set the phone down, eyes flicking back toward the door as if daring her to test the boundaries again.

taglist: @angeldavis777 @sstylezzz @amyluvsmatt @triski73 @flamingfrenchgirl @billweasleywife @hannah9921

[grapejuicebrat]

Is it possible to put word counts on your pieces? It would just allow me how to set aside time.

yeah sure

[grapejuicebrat]

oops

i can’t write fics anymore cause i just saw that video where harry kissed some chick. yk in my fics he is so damn hot and i just saw that fish kiss and ohhh damnnnnn

[grapejuicebrat]

the drawer stays closed (sneak peek)

Genre: dark romance, psychological thriller, horror Warnings: serial killer themes, obsession, manipulation, morally grey characters, trauma, toxic intimacy, no happy ending

I saw the photos. I saw her earrings. The ones I complimented when she wore them to dinner. The ones she was wearing the night she said she didn’t trust him.

They were in his drawer. And I still made him tea the next morning.

I still kissed his cheek. Still laughed at his jokes. Still laid beside him, warm and soft, like I hadn’t seen the truth pulsing under his skin.

Because I knew if I ran, he’d find me. And if he found me, I’d end up like her. Like all of them.

But if I stayed…

If I watched…

If I waited…

Maybe I could become something worse than the thing that hunts.

So no — I didn’t run. I started sharpening.

check out my patreon for this au. there is a free access for everyone so feel free to read this one :)

[grapejuicebrat]

the hanging tree [killer!harry styles au]

Inspired by “The Hanging Tree” — The Hunger Games personally recommend to listen to this song while reading the story Genre: Dark romance, thriller. Warnings: mentions of death, execution, manipulation, killer!Harry, psychological tension, morally grey themes..

They said he killed her. They said she followed him willingly. They said he waits in the forest, beneath the hanging tree, for another to call his name.

The woods had never frightened you.

Not even when you were a child and they whispered your name like a threat. Not even when your mother warned you not to follow the sound of music after dusk. “If you hear him,” she used to say, holding your chin, eyes sharp with something that wasn’t quite fear, “turn around. Walk back. Do not sing. Do not speak. And never—never follow him to the tree.”

You had always thought the story was a lie. A fireside tale to keep girls obedient.

But now, the chill of the wind behind your ears, the sickly-sweet scent of overripe apples clinging to your tongue, and the hush in the forest like it was holding its breath—you knew it wasn’t.

You saw him before he saw you.

Or maybe he always knew you were there.

He stood beneath the tree that sagged under the weight of legend, the one at the heart of the forest no map dared mark. The branches stretched out like arms, crooked, cracked, reaching. From one of them hung a rope. And from the rope—nothing. Not yet.

He looked up at it like it spoke to him.

The rumors said he killed a girl here, once.

The truth was stranger: they said she sang to him before she stepped onto the stump. Smiled, barefoot in the cold, as though death was the gift he gave her. They said her body twisted in the wind, but her mouth never closed, even when her heart did.

He turned slowly when he heard your steps.

No fear in his expression. No surprise.

Harry Styles.

The name wasn’t supposed to be spoken. It echoed in the village with shame and silence. They called him a ghost. A murderer. A monster. But no one ever proved it. No one ever found her body. Just the song, passed down, warped by time, sung soft by those too young to know what it meant.

You thought you could confront him. You thought you came for truth.

But now that you were here, with his green eyes fixed on you like vines winding up a crumbling wall, you weren’t sure if you had come of your own will… or if something had drawn you.

“Are you,” he began, voice low, rough like gravel under your heel, “coming to me willingly?”

You opened your mouth, but no sound came out.

He took a step toward you. The rope swayed behind him.

“You heard the song,” he said. “Didn’t you?”

You nodded.

“Did you sing it?”

You didn’t remember.

Maybe in your sleep. Maybe under your breath. Maybe it had slipped out when the wind carried the tune through your window at midnight and something inside you answered.

His lips twitched. Not a smile—never that. Something darker. A flicker of knowing.

“She did too,” he whispered, and his eyes flicked toward the tree. “She sang it like a prayer.”

He tilted his head.

“You’re not the first,” he said. “But maybe you’ll be the last.”

He moved toward you with a kind of grace that should have felt human, but didn’t. There was something coiled in the way he walked, something patient and precise, like he’d been waiting years for this moment, and now he could finally exhale.

You should have run.

You didn’t.

His fingers brushed yours before you even realized he’d closed the distance.

Not a grab, not a force. Just contact. Cold, like the wind, but grounded—real.

“You’re not afraid,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

You didn’t answer, but not because you didn’t want to. You just… didn’t know. Maybe you were afraid, but not of him. Afraid of what had brought you here. Afraid of how natural this felt.

He looked down at your hand like it was a thing he recognized. “It starts like that,” he murmured. “A name. A face. A step into the woods. And then… nothing feels strange anymore.”

The forest pulsed around you, alive with silence. There were no birds. No crickets. No branches cracking overhead. Just the two of you beneath that ancient tree, and the rope swinging slow like it was swaying to a rhythm only he could hear.

You thought he might hurt you. That was what you were raised to believe.

But instead he did something far worse.

He was kind.

He reached for your face—not in warning, not in threat—and touched a strand of hair that had fallen across your cheek. Tucked it behind your ear with a tenderness that made your stomach twist.

“You have the same eyes,” he said, almost to himself.

“Whose?” you asked, and hated how soft your voice sounded. Like you already belonged here.

He didn’t answer. He just walked past you, brushing your shoulder lightly, and you turned to follow him without being told. Down a narrow path that hadn’t been walked in years, thorns dragging across your legs, your heartbeat keeping time with the sound of his boots against the earth.

You should have asked questions.

Instead, you watched the way his shoulders moved beneath his coat, the way his breath fogged in the air even though yours didn’t.

The cabin wasn’t what you expected.

It was smaller. Older. Like it had grown out of the ground and never quite separated from it. Moss lined the edges of the stone walls, the roof caved slightly on one side. But inside, it was warm. The fire had already been lit.

And there was another thing you didn’t expect: books.

Dozens of them. Scattered. Piled. Annotated in the margins. Titles you recognized—dark ones, mythic ones—but others in languages you didn’t read. Maps on the walls. Candles burnt to the wick. A teacup on the table, half full.

As if he’d been expecting you.

“Do you live here?” you asked.

Harry turned, unbuttoning his coat slowly. His movements were deliberate, calm. Controlled. “You ask that like you don’t already know.”

“I don’t,” you whispered.

“You will.”

He set the coat down, then leaned against the table, studying you the way someone might study a painting that didn’t belong in the gallery it was placed in.

“You’ll stay, won’t you?”

You blinked. “Stay?”

He nodded toward the hearth. “The fire’s already lit. You’ve already crossed the threshold. If you leave now, the forest won’t let you go easily.”

“Why not?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Because you sang.”

You didn’t even remember doing it. But deep in your throat, you could taste the tune. It lived in you now.

Harry walked to the window. The tree was just visible from here—framed like a portrait. The rope still swung.

“You can go back if you want,” he said. “But if you do… you’ll still end up here. Eventually.”

“And if I stay?”

He turned to you then, fully. His eyes were wild and ancient and young all at once.

“If you stay,” he said slowly, “you’ll know why they come. You’ll know why they sing.”

He paused. The room seemed to shrink.

“And you’ll know why they never leave.”

That night, you couldn’t sleep.

The fire crackled low in the hearth, painting the walls in flickering orange and gold. Outside, the forest groaned in its sleep. And across the room, Harry sat by the window, unmoving, one hand resting under his chin, the other tracing idle patterns into the dust-covered table beside him.

He hadn’t spoken since nightfall. You weren’t sure if he was thinking, waiting, or simply watching you without looking.

Eventually, you broke the silence.

“Was she real?”

He didn’t turn, didn’t blink. But he smiled—just barely. The kind of smile that felt like it had teeth hidden behind it.

“Elara,” he said, almost gently. “Yes. She was very real.”

You sat up slowly, arms wrapped around your knees. “What happened to her?”

He rose, quiet as smoke, and crossed the room to the shelf. From the very top, behind a row of weathered books and dried flowers, he pulled down a box. Old. Locked. Splintered around the edges like it had been opened too many times by hands that didn’t want to forget.

“She came into the woods looking for stories,” he said as he opened it. “Just like you.”

Inside were little things. A blue ribbon. A hair comb, its silver cracked down the center. A sketch on yellowed paper—her face. Pretty. Startled. Young. You stared at it and felt the breath catch in your chest.

“She wasn’t afraid of me,” Harry said. “Not at first. She thought the stories were overblown. Thought I was misunderstood. She liked the idea of danger—but only in theory.”

He looked down at the ribbon in his hand, then let it fall back into the box.

“She stayed longer than she should have. She asked questions. Followed me. She thought she was falling in love.”

You asked the question even though you didn’t want the answer. “And you?”

He met your eyes then.

“I liked watching her realize she’d made a mistake.”

You froze.

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t harden. It stayed calm. Gentle. But the fire in his eyes flickered differently now—like he had opened a door and you were only just now seeing what stood behind it.

“She was clever, but not clever enough. She thought if she smiled, if she slept in my bed, if she touched my face just right, she’d be safe. That she could tame me.” He leaned forward a little. “That’s what they always think.”

Your throat tightened. “They?”

Harry’s head tilted, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“I didn’t kill her because I hated her,” he said. “I killed her because I could.”

You stepped back.

“She begged,” he added, almost as if remembering it now made him feel something warm. “Not for her life. No, she was too proud for that. She begged for me to tell her why. That was the last thing she ever said.”

He reached up, dragging a finger slowly down the side of your face.

“You’re braver than she was. Quieter. I think I like that.”

Your skin turned to ice beneath his touch.

“You can scream,” he whispered. “No one will come. But that’s not how it works anyway. Not here. The forest doesn’t listen. And it certainly doesn’t save.”

You stared at him, blood thundering in your ears.

“Elara didn’t jump, did she?”

Harry stepped aside so you could see out the window.

The hanging tree stood just as it always had—twisted, tall, and patient. The rope swayed, though there was no wind. And in the dirt below it, just barely visible in the moonlight, you saw something pale.

A bone.

“No,” he said. “She didn’t jump.”

Then he smiled again. And this time, it was full.

Your heart was thudding now, painfully loud in your chest. Every instinct screamed at you to move—run, hide, fight, something—but your body felt like stone. Or maybe it was instinct that froze you, too. Predators like him… they loved when things ran.

You needed to be smarter than Elara.

Harry turned his back to you, gently placing the box back on the shelf, humming something low under his breath. The same tune you’d heard before. The one the children whispered at the edge of the woods.

“Are you, are you coming to the tree…”

It was soft. Almost childlike. And far, far more terrifying than if he’d shouted.

You scanned the room quickly: fire iron by the hearth. The heavy kettle. A single knife left on the table, half-buried under a folded rag.

You didn’t go for any of them.

You went still.

Let him think you weren’t going to try. Let him believe you were too scared. Because if he thought that—if he thought you were breaking—he’d let his guard drop. Men like him always wanted control, but they wanted it to feel earned. Like they’d bent you themselves.

“I want to stay,” you said softly, carefully, barely above a whisper.

The humming stopped.

You saw the shift in his shoulders—tension replaced with curiosity. He turned, slow and deliberate, like a cat sniffing at a caught bird pretending to be dead.

“You want to stay,” he echoed.

You nodded once. “You were right. About the others. About her. I think I understand now.”

He stepped toward you again. One step. Then two.

“That’s good,” he murmured. “Understanding is the first step.”

His hand lifted, hovering over your face again, and this time you didn’t flinch. He smiled, satisfied.

“You’ll sleep here tonight,” he said. “Tomorrow, I’ll show you something.”

“Something?”

“The place where she’s buried,” he said, almost cheerfully. “So you’ll know how this ends.”

You forced your lips into something like a smile.

He bolted the cabin door from the inside before retreating to his bed across the room. You waited. Listened. His breathing slowed. His back to you. Maybe asleep. Maybe not.

Does he sleep at all?

You didn’t try the front door. He’d hear it. But there was something else—what you’d noticed earlier.

The floorboard behind the hearth.

You moved silently, keeping low. Heart in your throat. Every breath measured. When you reached the stone wall, you pressed your hand to the floorboard. Loose. Soft in the center. You lifted it inch by inch until it came free—and beneath it: dark, dry earth. A crawl space.

You looked back.

Harry hadn’t moved.

You didn’t think. You slipped inside, pressing the board back into place above you, sealing yourself into the dark.

It smelled like dirt and blood.

You crawled. Slowly. Arms trembling. The space was barely wide enough to breathe in. You moved until your fingers hit stone. Then your nails hit it. Then—

—air.

You pushed through and emerged behind the cabin, under the broken edge of the foundation. The night air hit you like a slap, sharp and full of trees that suddenly didn’t feel like witnesses—but watchers.

You ran.

Branches sliced at your arms. Roots tore at your boots. But you didn’t stop. You didn’t look back.

You didn’t need to.

Because somewhere behind you, far too close, a voice drifted into the trees like smoke:

“Where are you going, little songbird?”

You didn’t answer.

You kept running.

And the rope on the tree swayed harder than before.

You didn’t know how long you ran. Time lost shape between the trees. The woods blurred—branches, breath, heartbeat. The air burned your lungs, and your legs screamed, but you didn’t stop.

Not until you saw the light.

Faint. Pale. A flickering glow behind a crooked line of pine trees. You stumbled toward it, branches clawing at your skin, roots reaching like hands from the soil.

Then—suddenly—you broke through the treeline.

There it was.

A cabin. Smaller than Harry’s. Squat, tilted, half-swallowed by moss and ivy. But the windows glowed. Warm yellow light. A candle—or maybe a lantern—flickering inside.

You didn’t think. You moved.

Your knuckles rapped against the door with shaking urgency. Once. Twice. You almost screamed, almost fell to your knees, when you heard it:

Footsteps.

The door creaked open. A woman stood there. Middle-aged. Worn hands, lined face. She wore a thick sweater and had flour dusted on her skirt.

She looked at you—really looked—and without asking a single question, she stepped aside and said:

“Come in, child.”

You did.

The inside of the cabin was quiet. Woodsmoke. A kettle hissing gently on the stove. There were books on the shelves and a wool blanket folded on a worn couch. It smelled like cinnamon and old earth. Like safety.

You collapsed onto a chair by the hearth. She knelt by your side.

“Tell me what happened,” she said softly.

And you told her.

Everything.

Not all at once—but the way someone bleeds after the first cut: reluctant, inevitable, raw. You told her about the tree. About the locket. About Elara. About Harry.

When you were done, the woman sat in silence. Her eyes had grown distant, her mouth a tight line.

Then she said, “I know him.”

Your blood ran cold.

“I thought he was gone,” she added. “Years ago. I prayed he was gone.”

You gripped the arms of the chair. “You believe me?”

She turned her gaze on you.

“Yes,” she said. “Because I lost someone, too.”

A pause. Then:

“My daughter. Her name was Elara.”

The floor dropped out from under you.

You stared at her, throat closing.

“She went into the woods when she was sixteen. Looking for stories. She never came back.” Her voice broke, just barely. “I never found her body.”

You stood too quickly. The room tilted.

“You have to leave,” she said suddenly, sharply. “Now. While he’s still searching the other way.”

“I—I thought this was safe.”

The woman’s face twisted. “It was. But he always comes back. He watches the people who get too close to her name. You said it out loud. In this forest, that’s enough.”

“I can’t go back out there,” you whispered.

She stood, crossing to the far wall. Moved a rug. Pulled open a trapdoor. Beneath it—stone steps.

“This leads to the river,” she said. “Keep left when you reach it. There’s a ranger’s cabin half a mile downstream. They’ve got a radio. You’ll be safe if you make it before sunrise.”

You hesitated. She met your eyes.

“Run. Don’t stop. Don’t listen to his voice—he’ll try to talk to you. He always does. But he doesn’t want love. Or company. He wants replicas.”

Your breath hitched.

“Elara looked like you,” she whispered. “That’s why he picked you.”

You didn’t speak. Just ran.

Down the stone steps. Into the tunnel. Toward the river. The air got colder with every step.

And behind you—somewhere above—you heard a creak of floorboards. Not from your footsteps.

From his.

The stone steps were slick beneath your feet, damp with something that felt too thick to be water. You pressed one hand against the wall to steady yourself as you descended, deeper, deeper, until even the faint candlelight above had vanished.

It was dark now.

Not night-dark.

Earth-dark.

Your breath echoed off stone, ragged, uneven. Somewhere far behind you, the trapdoor thudded shut. You didn’t know if the woman had closed it to protect you… or to keep something else from getting out.

The tunnel leveled. You moved faster.

It smelled different here.

Not like dust or soil—but like iron. Rusted metal. Blood.

The air was colder than it should’ve been. You tried to tell yourself it was just your nerves. The fear. The shock of everything catching up with you. But your skin knew better. Every inch of you was waiting. Every hair stood on edge. Your body already knew what your mind was trying to deny.

You weren’t alone down there.

And then you saw it.

At first, you thought it was a trick of the dark. But no—the shape was real. Half-lit by the faintest red glow from some unknown source, it sat slumped in the corner of the tunnel.

A body.

No, not one. Three.

Piled.

You crept closer, against your will. Something compelled you. A sick kind of gravity. The top figure was a girl. Her dress torn. Her hair tangled with leaves and dirt. You couldn’t see her face—

—until she shifted.

Your scream caught before it left your throat.

The girl’s eyes opened.

Mouth torn wide into a grotesque grin, slack and broken but somehow aware.

She looked at you and smiled.

And in a voice that was not hers, she whispered:

“I didn’t scream either.”

You stumbled backward into the tunnel wall, shaking. But it didn’t end there.

From the other side of the corridor—slow, dragging footsteps.

Not running. Not chasing.

Following.

You didn’t wait.

You turned and ran, deeper into the tunnel, breath ragged, tears slicing your cheeks. It twisted ahead—unnatural, looping, too long for what it should be. The walls curved inward. The air grew hotter.

Then—a voice.

Not a scream. Not a shout.

Just Harry’s voice, echoing low and steady from behind the stone:

“You left too early. You didn’t let me finish the story.”

You pressed your hands over your ears and kept running. But it was in the walls. It was under your skin.

“Elara begged. Not for mercy—for remembrance. That was kind of her. Don’t you want that too?”

Your feet slipped. The floor dipped suddenly downward. You fell—hard—scraping your knees and palms on jagged stone. You landed in a wide chamber, carved like a bowl into the rock.

And at its center:

The hanging tree.

But not like outside.

This one was carved into the stone, its limbs stretching across the walls. Dozens of ropes hung from it, motionless. Waiting. Beneath each one: a name.

One of them—

—was yours.

Etched into the stone. Fresh. Still glistening. You backed away. And that’s when you felt it.

A hand on your shoulder. Not rough. Not violent. Gentle. Like someone tucking you into bed.

“Don’t cry,” Harry whispered, lips beside your ear. “You found it. The heart of the forest.”

You didn’t scream.

Even when you felt his breath at your ear, even when his hand slid from your shoulder to your throat—not squeezing, just resting, like he was measuring something. Your name carved into the stone stared back at you, mocking.

You were never getting out.

He’d always known that.

You turned to face him slowly.

His eyes were soft, almost mournful. You hated that the last face you’d see could still look like that. So human. So warm.

“You didn’t want me,” you whispered. “You wanted a memory.”

His head tilted, curls falling into his eyes.

“No,” he said. “I wanted silence. And you were just loud enough to ruin it.”

You opened your mouth to speak—but the ropes above creaked.

A wind moved through the chamber now, though there was no source. The carvings on the walls seemed to shift, the tree branches reaching. Names glowed faintly. Yours brightest of all.

You stepped back—but his hand caught yours.

“Don’t run. Not now.”

A pause.

“Running was the prologue. This… this is the last page.”

You tried to fight, but your limbs felt heavy. Sleepy. Like your blood had thickened. The cold wasn’t cold anymore. It was… soft.

You looked down.

His other hand held something small. A silver pin. Thin. Dipped in something dark.

Poison.

Had he—

Your thoughts began to slow.

He pulled you close, resting your head gently against his chest. And even now, as your breath turned shallow and the edges of the world curled inward, he hummed.

That song again.

“Are you, are you, coming to the tree…”

Your heartbeat faltered.

“Where they strung up a man, they say murdered three…”

You wanted to hate him.

But all you felt was emptiness.

“Strange things did happen here…”

His fingers brushed your hair.

“No stranger would it be…”

You thought of Elara. Of the river you never reached. Of the woman who sent you into the dark, maybe knowing you’d never make it out.

“If we met at midnight…”

The last thing you saw was his face above yours, backlit by the stone tree, the ropes, the names, and the flicker of something ancient and hungry.

“In the hanging tree.”

And then the forest swallowed you whole.

———

The village knew better than to speak her name aloud.

But she sang it anyway.

Softly, in the dark, beneath her breath.

A fragile thread of sound weaving through the quiet nights like a secret.

She was the new one.

New blood. New fear. New curiosity.

Her footsteps were lighter than yours had been, but the hunger in her eyes was the same. The way she tilted her head at the edge of the forest. The way the wind seemed to catch her hair and pull her closer.

They warned her: Don’t follow the song.

Don’t answer the call.

But something inside her—something old and restless—wouldn’t listen.

She walked past the village’s last lamplight, stepping into the shadows where the trees leaned close and whispered stories nobody else dared hear.

And in the distance, beneath the hanging tree, the rope swung slow and steady.

Waiting.

For her.

They say the hanging tree remembers every name, every whisper, every last breath.

Before Elara, there was Mira.

Mira was the first—young, fierce, full of fire. She came to the forest seeking freedom from a world that told her she was too wild to stay. They say she ran too fast, but Harry caught her anyway. She fought with claws and curses, but in the end, she hung beneath the tree, singing a bitter lullaby no one else dared repeat.

Then came Lena.

Quiet Lena, who never spoke unless spoken to. She followed the song because it promised belonging. Harry found her sitting on the roots, tears drying on her cheeks, and whispered lies so sweet she handed herself over without a fight. Her name is carved in the stone, worn now by rain and time, but still visible to those who look close.

There was Faye too—bright-eyed and full of hope, convinced she could save Elara’s spirit. She stayed for days, watching the tree, waiting for a sign. Instead, she became one. They say Harry kept her longer than the others, spinning stories in the dark to keep her close until the rope claimed her.

Each one left a mark—some in the soil, some in the stories whispered by the wind. Their voices rise with the trees when the night is still, weaving warnings wrapped in melody.

“Are you, are you coming to the tree?”

The rope swings, waiting.

The names glow faintly on the stone, just beneath the carved branches. The newest is always brightest, the oldest fading like a ghost.

And Harry waits.

Patient.

Hungry.

Because the forest never forgets.

And neither does he.

taglist: @triski73

[grapejuicebrat]

put me in a movie [sugar daddy au] masterlist

Genres: Dark Romance, Psychological Drama, Slow Burn, Angst, Contemporary Fiction

Content Warnings: Adult Themes, Power Imbalance, Financial Dependency, Emotional Manipulation, Dominance & Submission, Ambiguous Consent, Psychological Tension, Dark Sexual Content, Possession, Flashbacks, Toxic Relationship Elements

CHAPTERS:

1. CHAPTER 1

2. CHAPTER 2

3. CHAPTER 3

4. CHAPTER 4

5. CHAPTER 5

Chapter 6 coming soon…

[grapejuicebrat]

put me in a movie [sugar daddy au] p. 4

careful this fic changed to the dark physiological thriller and there is a little bit of smut

previous chapter <<<

His fingers trailed over the back of her thigh, deliberate and slow, like he was mapping something he’d long since memorized.

She stood frozen in the mirror’s reflection, flushed and bare, her chest rising in uneven breaths, caught between instinct and invitation.

“Do you still think this is about sex?” Harry asked — his voice low, husky, closer now.

She tried to speak, but her voice caught.

He leaned down, lips brushing her spine as he whispered, “I could’ve had a body. Any body. Yours was just the first that looked back at me.”

She flinched — not because his words were cruel, but because they were true.

There had been no illusion here. No false promises. Only a transaction with blurred lines. Rent, tuition, silence. Her skin for his time.

But she hadn’t expected the way he watched her like he was searching for cracks. Or the way he never touched her like a man touching a woman — but like an owner inspecting something that dared to resist.

“Say the word,” Harry murmured again, this time with his hand flat on her stomach, keeping her still. “Tell me no. Tell me you want out.”

And she wanted to. God, she wanted to.

But her breath betrayed her again. And he smiled against her shoulder.

“That’s what I thought.”

His lips moved lower, pressing kisses along the curve of her shoulder, over the back of her neck, letting her feel the slow intention of every inch. His body was warm, but his voice remained cold — like control was still the only thing he truly craved.

Her eyes locked with his in the mirror again.

He didn’t blink.

“You’re not the first girl who came here looking for a savior,” he said softly. “But you might be the first who doesn’t realize she came looking to be ruined.”

Her knees trembled.

He caught her — not with sweetness, not with concern, but with the same restraint he used for everything else. He held her there like she belonged in his hands, not because she wanted to, but because she’d been shaped for it.

And then, he turned her to face him.

“Tell me now,” he said, searching her face.

Her lips parted.

But nothing came.

Harry smiled — dark and satisfied.

And then, with no rush at all, he kissed her again.

Not soft. Not slow. But possessive.

Final.

The kiss grew heavier, pressed full with heat and pressure and something darker beneath it — not tenderness, not even lust. Claim.

Harry’s fingers tilted her chin up, holding her mouth to his like he owned it — like he paid for the right.

Her body responded faster than her mind did, arching toward him, like it had finally surrendered the argument.

But he still didn’t rush. He didn’t tear her apart in one brutal movement. No — he wanted to take her apart slowly. Thoughtfully. Like a man unwrapping a gift he’d waited too long to open.

He lifted her, arms firm beneath her thighs, and carried her without a word.

Not to a bed. Not to a place of comfort.

But to the cold glass window overlooking the city — his city — the one she was now a secret inside.

He pressed her back against the cool surface and leaned in close, his hips slotting between hers as her bare back met the chill. She gasped — and his mouth caught the sound, eating it like he was starving.

“You don’t get to hide,” Harry said into her skin. “Not tonight.”

His hands roamed now — slow at first, then firmer, bolder, trailing up the insides of her thighs, drawing lines of fire along the softest places. Her breath came faster, ragged now, her nails gripping at his shirt, unsure whether to pull him closer or push him away.

He didn’t undress.

He kept the tailored shirt, the belt, the layers that reminded her of what he was — power in a man’s body. She was the only one bare. The only one exposed.

“Open your eyes,” he commanded.

She didn’t even realize she’d shut them.

He pressed closer until her breath fogged the glass behind her. The world was gone — only the reflection remained. Her, undone. Him, composed.

“I want you to see what you are,” he murmured, his voice nearly cruel in how calm it was. “Not a girl with debt. Not a college student. Not even mine.”

His mouth ghosted her jaw, his grip tightening at her hips.

“Just owned,” he said.

And then, with a roughness that startled her — he pressed into her.

The world collapsed.

There was no gentleness, no ease. Only tension, rhythm, restraint. A dark tempo between them, paced by breath and flesh, by her soft gasps and his low groans. He stayed quiet mostly, except to whisper things she barely understood. Words about how good she felt, how ruined she looked, how he could make this last all night. How she’d never forget the shape of him inside her. The weight of him. The way he didn’t have to love her to own her.

And God help her — she didn’t forget.

Not when she came undone against the glass with her name trapped between her teeth.

Not when his voice finally broke — guttural and low as he finished inside her with a bite to her shoulder and a whisper:

“Mine.”

The air was thick, humid with sweat and breath and unspoken things. Her back still pressed against the glass, smeared faintly with the echo of what they’d done. The city blinked below like it didn’t matter — like they weren’t pressed against the skyline, locked in something that had long since crossed the line of reason.

Harry didn’t move.

Not right away.

He stayed between her legs, chest rising slow, the weight of his body keeping her caged and close. His forehead dropped to her collarbone, lips brushing the skin as he exhaled — not like a man satisfied, but like a man trying to reclaim control.

Because she hadn’t fallen apart the way he expected.

She hadn’t sobbed. She hadn’t clung.

She had taken every dark, demanding inch of him… and stared him in the eyes while doing it.

He straightened slowly, gaze dragging up her body, stopping at her mouth, then her eyes.

And there it was.

That look again.

That quiet, terrifying defiance.

He cupped her jaw, thumb brushing along the seam of her lips, smudging the faint trace of where he’d kissed her raw.

“You’re not broken,” he said, almost to himself. Almost like he didn’t like it.

She blinked — slow. Her chest still bare, skin flushed, legs trembling slightly — and still, her voice was steady when she answered.

“Is that what you wanted?”

He didn’t reply.

But his grip tightened.

Then he leaned in again — not to kiss. Just to look. To inhale. To decide.

“Go on,” she whispered, voice sharp now, slicing through the silence. “Ruin me again. Or send me home. But stop pretending you’re still in control.”

His jaw flexed. A muscle twitched.

And for the first time, he looked shaken.

Not visibly. Not enough for anyone else to notice.

But she saw it.

In the smallest falter of his breath. In the way his hand dropped from her face like it had been burned.

“You think this was about control?” he asked — the calm cracking around the edges of his voice now. “You think I chose this?”

She pushed off the glass.

Naked. Unashamed. She stepped around him.

“You sent the message,” she said. “You invited me here.”

“I invited someone who would disappear.”

She turned. “Too late.”

Harry’s eyes darkened. His fingers flexed at his side like he didn’t know whether to grab her or let her walk.

She saw the war happening in real time — the part of him that wanted to press her back down, silence her again with his body. And the part of him that was realizing: this wasn’t a transaction anymore. This was an unraveling.

And he was not immune.

She reached for his discarded jacket, slipping it on like armor, her bare legs still visible beneath the hem. Then she tilted her head, watching him carefully.

“You’re not used to losing,” she said.

And with a slight smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes:

“Good.”

Then she turned — walking slow toward the bedroom, toward the place where everything had started.

She didn’t slam the door.

She didn’t have to.

The silence she left behind screamed.

The silence in the hallway stretched long enough to almost be believable. Like maybe she had left him behind in that glass cage of a room. Maybe she meant it — that walk, that dismissal. Maybe she wasn’t coming back.

But then she stopped at the edge of the bedroom, hand resting on the frame.

And she waited.

Not out of hesitation — but because she knew he’d follow.

Not if. When.

And she was right.

Harry didn’t announce his presence when he entered the room. No footsteps, no door creaking shut. Just that heat behind her again, that shift in the air. He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask permission. The kind of man who didn’t need to. Not because she hadn’t said no — but because she’d already said yes, in ways more dangerous than words.

She turned slowly to face him, Harry’s jacket still hanging off her shoulders, nearly swallowing her whole — except for the way it fell open in front, revealing flushed skin, the rise and fall of her breath, the unapologetic aftermath of what they’d just done.

His eyes drank her in like a punishment.

And then he moved.

Fast.

Not rough — precise. He pinned her wrists to the wall beside the bed, the jacket falling to the floor like it no longer mattered. His body pressed hers down, caging her again. But this time, it wasn’t because he wanted silence.

It was because he needed to hear what she would sound like when she stopped pretending not to feel it.

“You think you understand what this is,” Harry said, breath hot against her cheek. “But you don’t.”

She tried to speak — to push — but he dipped his head to her throat, teeth grazing skin with dangerous restraint.

“You think you can walk away,” he whispered. “You can’t.”

His knee nudged her legs apart again, slow and steady. His grip didn’t loosen. His mouth trailed up the side of her neck, stopping just beneath her ear.

“You don’t belong to yourself anymore.”

She shivered.

But not from fear.

From recognition.

He kissed her there — sharp, dark, final — and then released her wrists, only to trail his hands down her body like he was retracing something he already claimed.

She should’ve walked away.

But she leaned in.

He caught her chin again, tilting her face to meet his. His mouth hovered over hers, so close, so maddeningly still.

“I’m not gentle,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “I won’t pretend to be.”

“I know,” she whispered back. “I don’t want you to be.”

Something flickered in him — not softness. Never softness. But hunger.

And then he kissed her again, harder than before — like he wanted to put every contradiction between them into that one breathless, brutal connection.

And when he lifted her and threw her onto the bed, his body caging hers again between cold sheets and silk, she didn’t whimper.

She smiled.

Because she finally understood.

She hadn’t walked into his trap.

He’d walked into hers.

The bed creaked softly beneath them — an old, expensive sound, muffled by the weight of bodies and heat and what had already happened between them. Harry didn’t ask anything this time. There was no contract, no trade, no carefully rehearsed script of power.

There was just need.

And him — between her thighs, above her, inside her head even before he touched her again.

He looked down at her like she was something he’d carved from stone — something made for his hands, his mouth, his rules. But when she arched her back and pulled him down, nails digging into his shoulders like anchors, she reminded him: you’re not the only one who can take.

His hands were everywhere now — rough, skilled, commanding. They gripped her waist like they were fitting her back together, piece by trembling piece. His mouth dragged along her collarbone, down the center of her chest, lingering at places he’d already marked and places he would. Her skin was glowing, hot and damp, lips parted as she gasped against his name — not pleading, not asking — daring.

He slid back up her body, eyes locked on hers, voice a gravelled hum at her throat. “You wanted this.”

She nodded — breathless, helpless. “I still do.”

And that was it.

He pinned her wrists again, harder this time. His hips shifted lower, slow, maddening — not to tease, but to teach. Every movement was intentional. Measured. Like he wanted her to remember the shape of every second. Like he wanted her to never be able to touch herself without thinking of him.

“You’ll beg,” he said, tone calm, cruel, intimate. “Not because I ask. Because you’ll need to.”

She tried to throw back something snide, something that would put a wall back between them. But he was already inside her again — in a single, slow, brutal thrust that knocked the words out of her lungs.

She cried out.

He grinned.

And then he moved.

Not fast — deep.

His hands still bound her wrists, but he leaned closer, forehead resting against hers as he thrust into her, over and over, each time more possessive, more consuming, more personal.

It wasn’t about money anymore. Not about arrangements.

It was about the way she bit her lip to stop from moaning.

The way she failed.

The way her legs wrapped around him like they belonged there.

The way her eyes stayed open — staring right into his, even as he broke her open from the inside.

“Say it,” he growled.

She barely understood.

“Say whose you are.”

She didn’t. Not with her voice.

But when her whole body arched beneath him, trembling and raw, tears pricking her eyes from the overwhelming release— she didn’t need to speak.

He felt it.

And when he came seconds later, forehead against her shoulder, voice lost in a low, ragged sound of relief and ruin, she knew it too:

She wasn’t his.

He was hers now.

And that was the most dangerous thing of all.

She lay beneath him, skin damp and shivering, but not from cold. It was the kind of aftershock that didn’t fade easily — the kind that stayed in your bones, in your thoughts, in the curve of your mouth long after it should’ve passed. Her wrists were free now, but she hadn’t moved. Not away. Not toward.

Harry’s head was still bowed at her shoulder. His breath, uneven. His hands had slipped from command to contact, one resting at her hip, the other tangled in the sheets beside her. There was something in his silence. Not peace. Not comfort.

Restraint.

And it terrified her more than anything he’d done before.

She turned slightly beneath him, just enough to catch his face in the low light — his eyes, still shadowed, still unreadable. But his mouth… it was parted like he wanted to say something and couldn’t.

“You still pretending this was a transaction?” she whispered, voice cracked from the breathlessness, the tension, the truth.

His eyes flicked up. Met hers.

And then he moved.

Quick.

Too quick.

She gasped as he rolled her beneath him again, this time smoother, less violent, but no less intentional. His hand slid to her jaw, angling her head up so she couldn’t look away.

“I was pretending,” he said, voice low and bitter. “You weren’t.”

A heartbeat passed.

Then two.

He didn’t kiss her.

Not yet.

Instead, he trailed his hand down the column of her throat, not possessive now — but reverent. Like he was trying to memorize what he’d already marked. He pressed a palm flat over her chest, right where her heart beat wild and loud beneath his fingers.

“It’s still mine,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Even now.”

Her hands found his shoulders again, nails faintly pressing in. “Then take it again.”

That did it.

Whatever fragile restraint had been hovering in his limbs, in his breath — it shattered.

He pulled her up to him this time, not pushing her down. Their mouths met not as claim, but as collision — bruising, breathless, furious. His hand fisted in her hair, her legs wrapping around his hips without invitation. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet.

It was inevitable.

A second wave.

Not a repeat, not softer — sharper.

Because this time, it wasn’t about who had the power.

It was about what happened when neither of them did.

The air in the room had grown thick, weighed down by the heat between them and the silence that followed. Every breath she drew felt dense, like she was inhaling something more than just oxygen — like his presence had changed the very quality of the air around her. Her skin was still warm, marked by his touch, but the electricity of what had just happened was giving way to something quieter, more dangerous: the aftertaste of being seen.

Harry hadn’t moved much. His body was still draped over hers, not heavy, but grounded, like he was anchoring himself to her without realizing it. One of his arms was braced beside her head, the other curled under her back, his palm resting between her shoulder blades in a way that felt far too intimate for what this was supposed to be. His forehead pressed against the slope of her collarbone, his breath steady but strained, brushing across her skin like a secret he wasn’t ready to say aloud.

She didn’t know how long they stayed like that. Long enough for her heartbeat to slow, but not long enough for her thoughts to quiet. Her fingers found their way into his hair again — no longer gripping, no longer desperate — just moving, as if trying to understand him by touch alone. There was a weight to the silence now, as if words were building behind it, waiting to crack the surface.

And then he spoke.

Barely audible, rough-edged, like the words had been dragged out of somewhere deep and unwilling. “You shouldn’t have let me.”

At first, she didn’t quite register what he meant. The haze still clung to her, clouding everything. Her eyes drifted across the ceiling, unfocused, trying to make sense of the shift in his tone. She spoke softly, cautiously, her voice brittle from disuse. “Let you what?”

He didn’t respond, but something in the tension of his body changed — a stiffness in his shoulders, a sharp breath that didn’t settle right. And then she understood. It wasn’t about the act, not entirely. It was about what had happened around it, inside it. About how she’d let him look at her without flinching, how she’d answered without words. About how she hadn’t just let him in — she had met him there, willingly.

And he didn’t know what to do with that.

“I didn’t let you do anything,” she said, voice steadier now, though not much louder. “You took what you wanted.”

“No,” he cut in, voice low but sharper this time. He lifted his head to look at her, and the expression he wore made her stomach tighten — not out of fear, but recognition. There was something almost pained in his eyes, a flicker of something too real for a man who’d built walls thick enough to keep the world out. “You let me close,” he continued, the words like gravel. “And I don’t… I don’t do close.”

She couldn’t look away from him now. Something about hearing her name from his mouth, the way it sounded — not transactional, not teasing, just spoken — sent a strange shiver down her spine. He’d said it like it meant something, and that, more than anything else, made her heart race.

“Then what is this?” she asked, the question almost a whisper, but no less urgent.

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw tightened, his mouth opened slightly like he was about to speak, but he hesitated. Whatever it was he wanted to say — whatever truth was clawing its way out — it got stuck somewhere between his chest and his throat.

And then, barely loud enough to hear, he exhaled the words that felt like the most honest thing he’d ever said.

“I don’t know.”

There was no drama in it, no performative weight. Just a man unraveling in the silence, stripped bare in a way that had nothing to do with his body. And in that moment, she saw him not as the untouchable, controlled figure he presented to the world, but as someone unexpectedly human — and that was far more terrifying.

Because if he didn’t understand what was happening between them — if he was losing his grip — then whatever this was had already slipped out of their hands.

And it was only just beginning.

The sunlight that filtered through her blinds the next morning was almost too bright, too honest. It painted her room in soft gold, but she felt no warmth from it. Her limbs ached with the kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from lack of sleep, but from something deeper — a tension left unresolved, a question left echoing in her chest.

She had woken alone.

Not just in the bed.

In the silence, too.

No message, no call. No goodbye.

For a man who had claimed her body like it was his right, he left her with nothing but air.

And yet, sometime around noon, her phone buzzed with a quiet alert — the soft ping of a banking app notification. It was subtle. Bare. Clean.

A deposit.

Substantial.

More than she expected.

Followed, a few seconds later, by a single message.

“Added extra. You’ll need a coat for the rain tonight. Be well.”

No greeting. No sign-off. No question, no concern.

Just that.

Detached. Practical. As if the previous night had never happened. As if his hands hadn’t trembled against her skin. As if his voice hadn’t broken when he said I don’t know like it meant everything he never dared admit aloud.

She stared at the screen, her stomach hollow.

And still — she didn’t delete the message.

Didn’t respond either.

Because what could she even say?

Thank you for the money?

Thank you for pretending I’m no one again?

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long moment, her mind trying to convince her not to care. To remember the rules. To remember who he was, and what this was supposed to be.

But it was too late for pretending.

Because part of her, the part he hadn’t paid for — the part that felt too much, too fast — was already calculating how long it would take before he texted again.

Not with money.

But with something real.

And maybe that was the most dangerous part of all.

The weather turned colder overnight.

It wasn’t anything dramatic — just a bite in the wind that made her tuck her hands deeper into her coat pockets, the one she bought with his money, though she hadn’t admitted that to herself yet.

She went to class like she was supposed to. Sat through a lecture about postmodern theory that felt more absurd than usual. Everything felt a little abstract now. The professor’s voice was distant, hollow, like a radio left on in a different room. She nodded at the right moments, jotted words down in her notebook — words that didn’t land. Words that sounded small next to the ones still stuck in her throat.

When she checked her phone between classes, there was no new message.

She told herself that was good. She didn’t want a message. It would be pathetic to wait for one, right? This wasn’t… whatever she was letting herself believe it was becoming. He gave her money. He gave her orders. And then he left.

That was the transaction.

Still, when she walked past the cafe near campus — the one with the low lights and velvet seats and a view of the street — she saw a man with dark hair and wide shoulders sitting near the window, head bent over a newspaper, a cup of something black and untouched beside him.

For half a breath, she thought it was him.

And for the rest of the walk home, she hated herself for hoping it was.

That night, she lay in bed wrapped in the coat she said she wouldn’t wear.

And she didn’t sleep.

Not really.

———

There was a package at her door.

No name on it. No note. Just a thin black box wrapped in matte paper, with a ribbon tied too neatly for a store-bought gift.

She knew it was from him.

Inside: a dress. Deep burgundy silk, the kind that poured between your fingers. It looked expensive. It was expensive.

And inside the box lid, written in small, inked cursive:

“Wear this if you want to be seen.”

No address. No time. No name.

Just an invitation laced with threat, desire, and something that made her breath catch.

She set the box aside and didn’t open it again that night. But she kept thinking about the word seen.

Hadn’t that already happened? Hadn’t she already let him look too closely? And hadn’t he left her anyway?

The silence was louder today.

She told herself she wasn’t waiting. That the dress in the box meant nothing. That the transfer of money wasn’t intimacy, just logistics. She told herself these things as she scrubbed her kitchen counters, folded the same sweater three times, scrolled endlessly on her phone with no real intent.

By 8:43 p.m., she’d grown tired of pretending.

She didn’t touch the dress.

Instead, she pulled on jeans and a black turtleneck, lined her eyes in something dark enough to feel like armor, and walked two blocks to a low-lit bar she’d only visited once before. It wasn’t somewhere she expected to see anyone she knew — which made it feel safe.

But safety was a lie.

She ordered a glass of red wine and sat alone in the corner, legs crossed, phone facedown on the table. For a while, it was fine. The hum of voices, the bass of music under it, the sound of glasses clinking — all of it built a quiet, temporary shield.

Until the door opened, and everything in her stilled.

He didn’t notice her at first.

Harry walked in like he owned the dark. Charcoal coat. Black gloves. Hair pushed back, mouth set in that same indifferent line. He was with someone — a woman in a pale coat and too-tall heels, the kind of woman who wore her lipstick like a warning.

They didn’t touch, but they stood too close. Spoke in low tones. He leaned down slightly when she said something that made her smile, and when she reached for his arm, he didn’t move away.

Y/N didn’t breathe.

Her stomach went cold.

She watched him from the shadows, unable to look away, caught in the strange gravity of being invisible to someone who had once looked through her.

When the woman stepped away to take a call, Harry’s gaze flicked across the room.

And landed on her.

For a second — just a second — neither of them moved. No smile. No frown. No nod of recognition. Just stillness.

Then he turned away.

As if she hadn’t been there at all.

The glass in her hand trembled.

She stood, left cash on the table, and walked out before the wine could stain her throat. The night air cut across her cheeks like a slap, her heartbeat lodged somewhere between her ribs and her teeth.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t even speak.

But when she got home, the dress was still on the chair.

She opened the box.

She didn’t try it on.

She just sat there, staring at it, as if it could explain something about him that she hadn’t been able to understand.

The city was loud, but her world had gone still.

She didn’t leave her apartment that day.

The blinds stayed drawn. Her phone lay face down and forgotten on the floor beside her bed, the battery dead, like it knew there was nothing worth lighting up for. She didn’t open the banking app. She didn’t check for messages. She didn’t want to see that there were none.

There was no hunger. Just the dull throb of something ancient and unnamed beneath her skin, something that came from being almost wanted, almost seen, almost something.

She thought about the bar.

About the way he’d looked through her like fog on glass.

It would’ve been easier if he hadn’t looked at all. If he’d kept his head down and passed her by. But he had looked. And he’d chosen not to react. That was the part that kept looping in her head — not the woman, not the distance, not the wine she’d left untouched on the table. Just the fact that he saw her… and turned away anyway.

She had no name for that kind of quiet cruelty. No room for it inside her chest. So instead, she did nothing.

The dress sat on her desk chair, still folded neatly in its black box.

She couldn’t bring herself to hang it up.

It felt like a lie. A taunt. A bruise in silk.

She showered late that night — hot water turned to scalding, turned to cold — until her skin ached and the mirror steamed over and still, she didn’t feel clean. Not dirty, just… hollow.

Her eyes caught her reflection.

She didn’t look sad.

She looked like someone who had forgotten how to ask for things out loud.

And Harry — wherever he was, whoever he was with — wasn’t going to remind her.

So she climbed into bed, pulled the blanket over her head, and let the silence have her.

It didn’t feel like peace.

It felt like being erased.

check out my patreon for free blurb to put me in a movie!

i’m so happy you liked this story as much as i do. believe me it means a lot to me. i received a lot of messages from you guys and i can’t believe that so many people are waiting for next parts.

oh and someone asked me if this is my primary acc. it’s not! @grapejuicebratmary is my primary acc but i don’t post there anything. i just like and reblog some stuff :)

taglist: @angeldavis777 @sstylezzz @amyluvsmatt @triski73 @flamingfrenchgirl

[grapejuicebrat]

HEYYYYYYYY I just recently found your account because of "put me in a movie". Im only on part one but I was wondering how many parts you plan on making, just curious is all xx

hey! i planned to do it like 14-15 parts series. but it depends on how you guys will be interested in it

[grapejuicebrat]

put me in a movie [sugar daddy au] p.3

previous chapter <<<

The promise sat between them, invisible but solid, like a door quietly opening in the dark. She was still on the floor beside him, and he could feel how tense her body had become—not in fear, but in restraint. She was holding herself together by instinct alone, and he didn’t want to break that. Not yet.

Harry shifted just enough to face her more fully. He didn’t reach for her. He didn’t command or coax. He just looked at her in the low light—watched the way her lashes brushed her cheeks when she blinked, the way her mouth parted slightly as though she had a thousand words she didn’t trust herself to say.

“You’ve been performing your whole life, haven’t you?” he asked, not unkindly.

Y/n hesitated, then gave a faint nod. “It’s how I get by. Smile when it hurts. Be sweet when I’m drowning. Pretend the rent isn’t late again. Pretend I’m not afraid.”

He studied her, eyes unreadable. “And what does it cost you?”

She looked down at her hands. “Everything.”

He leaned forward then, elbows resting on his knees, his voice quiet and steady. “Then give me the version of you that costs the most. Give me the girl who’s tired of surviving.”

A silence stretched out between them—deep, like still water. Y/n looked up at him, eyes shining but not wet. “And what if I don’t know how to do that? What if I forget how to be anything else?”

“You won’t forget,” he said. “You’ll remember. Slowly. Painfully. But you will. You’ll remember who you were before the world made you small.”

The words sank into her, slow and heavy, like warmth finding its way into frozen places.

He stood then, not abruptly, not with force—just with quiet finality—and held out a hand.

“I’m not asking you to follow,” he said. “I’m asking you to walk beside me.”

Y/n hesitated for just a second longer, then placed her hand in his. His grip was firm but not demanding, and when he helped her up, it wasn’t with possession. It was with care.

No orders.

No seduction.

Just a man and a girl standing in a room, both haunted by the things they never said out loud.

And when he guided her to the velvet couch in the far corner of the room, it wasn’t with the intention to touch her. It was to sit beside her in the quiet, to let the night unfold without pressure or demand.

“Start by breathing,” he said, his voice low, grounding. “That’s enough for now.”

So she did.

She breathed.

And for the first time in what felt like years, it didn’t feel like a performance.

It felt like beginning.

The silence held, but something inside it was beginning to shift—an undertow stirring just beneath the calm.

Y/n sat beside him on the couch, her body still, but her mind racing, thoughts unraveling in a way she couldn’t control. She was breathing, like he told her to, slow and deliberate, but the weight of his presence beside her made every breath feel more exposed.

She hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected him.

When she’d come here, her body had already prepared itself for a different kind of surrender—the physical kind. The kind that came with a price tag and an understanding. She’d made peace with that before she knocked on the door.

But this was worse.

This kind of surrender crept under her skin. It cracked open the parts of her she’d spent years locking away. And as much as she hated it, as much as it terrified her, she couldn’t look away from him.

He was silent now, staring straight ahead, hands resting lightly on his knees. Not touching her. Not even watching her. And yet he saw her more clearly than anyone ever had.

That was the shift.

Not a word. Not a kiss. Not a demand.

Just the unbearable tension of being seen.

She turned her head, studying the edge of his profile. The sharp line of his jaw. The small muscle in his cheek that ticked whenever he was holding something back.

“You act like you don’t want anything from me,” she said finally. Her voice was quiet but edged with something sharp. “But I don’t believe you.”

He didn’t look at her, not right away. Just let the words hang there between them, heavy.

Then he turned, slow and precise, and met her gaze.

“I want everything,” he said.

Her breath caught.

“But not the way you think.”

The air between them tightened.

“I don’t want your body,” he continued. “That would be too easy. Too… shallow. I want the parts of you you’ve never shown anyone. I want the girl who’s furious and broken and exhausted. The one who screams inside her head when she smiles at people she hates. I want her.”

Y/n’s fingers curled against her thighs.

“And what do I do with that?” she asked, voice shaking now. “What the hell am I supposed to do with someone wanting parts of me I don’t even want to look at?”

He leaned in, just enough that she felt the warmth of him again.

“You feel it,” he said. “You let it burn. And you stop running.”

The shift cracked open then—subtle but seismic.

Not sex.

Not ownership.

But something more dangerous.

She didn’t realize she was crying until one tear fell to her wrist. And when he reached out, not to wipe it, but to simply see it—to acknowledge it without shame—that’s when she knew:

This was never about sugar or power.

It was about being haunted by everything you’ve never dared to feel… and finally being asked to.

n sat frozen, her hands curled into fists against her legs, his words still pulsing in her ears. The room was warm, but her skin prickled, cold. The heat wasn’t in the air — it was in the stare he pinned her with. Measured. Calculated. Like a fire someone had left burning too long in a locked room.

She wanted to run. Every part of her screamed to. But she didn’t.

And maybe that’s why he moved.

He stood slowly, towering above her now. Not looming — just still. Silent. Watching.

“Stand up,” he said, quiet, unreadable.

Her legs obeyed before her mind caught up, trembling slightly beneath her.

His eyes dragged down her body — not with hunger, but with scrutiny, like she was something he was trying to read through. Or break open.

“You think you’re here for what I can give you,” he said. “Money. Escape. Some sick kind of stability.”

He stepped closer, just once. She didn’t move.

“But that’s not what you’re starving for.”

She swallowed, lips parted to speak — but he cut her off before she could try.

“No. You want something worse. You want to be stripped down so far you forget who you were before the pain. You want someone to reach inside you and take it — all the fear, all the shame, all the things no one ever touched.”

She didn’t deny it.

Couldn’t.

Because somewhere in her — in the bruised, abandoned parts of her soul — he was right.

“You want it to hurt,” he murmured, stepping behind her now. “But not the way you thought.”

His hand didn’t touch her. It hovered above her back — close enough to feel the heat, the threat, the promise.

“You want someone to hurt you right,” he breathed near her ear, “because you’ve spent too long hurting yourself the wrong way.”

Her breath hitched. Her knees locked to stay upright.

He didn’t touch her. Not yet. The cruelty was in the restraint.

“Take off your coat,” he said.

She did. Slow. Controlled.

“Turn around.”

She turned.

His face was unreadable — no lust, no smile. Just that sharp, unbearable intensity.

“Tell me something no one knows about you.”

She hesitated. “I—”

“No lies. Not here.”

“I used to cut the labels out of my clothes so no one at school would know they were second-hand,” she said quickly, breath catching on the confession. “I told them my mom bought everything in Europe.”

He nodded once, slow. “Good girl.”

The words hit her like a blow. Not because of how he said them — but because of what they did to her.

They made her feel. Like someone was listening. Like someone saw.

He stepped closer.

“Take off your shirt.”

Her hands shook, but she obeyed.

“Now stand still.”

He moved to the table behind her — not for rope, not for cuffs, nothing so cliché. But when he returned, he carried something small in his hand.

A single gold ring.

Simple. Elegant.

He slipped it onto her finger without a word. It wasn’t a gift. It wasn’t a promise.

It was a mark.

“You’re mine,” he said. “Not your body. Not your mind. Your truth. That’s what belongs to me now.”

And she nodded — trembling, breathless — because for the first time in years, someone had finally taken something real from her.

And hadn’t thrown it away.

The ring on her finger felt heavier than it should. It wasn’t just gold; it was a sentence, a seal, a brand. Not because it glittered, but because it told the truth — she belonged to someone now. And not the way she thought she would.

Harry didn’t look at her like a man who wanted to possess her flesh. He looked at her like a man who had already dissected her soul and was still deciding what parts he would keep.

She stood, bare to the waist, her skin goose-pimpled from the air and something else — anticipation. Dread. Need.

Still, he didn’t touch her.

Instead, he circled her slowly, each step deliberate, a ritual, as if she were something sacred and fragile and unclean.

“You want me to make you feel small,” he said, voice steady and cruel in its calm. “But not with pain. With truth.”

She swallowed. He was behind her again. She could feel his breath when he spoke next.

“You want me to say what no one else ever dared.”

A pause. Her whole body clenched.

“You’re forgettable.”

The words hit harder than any slap could have. Her jaw tightened.

“You walk into rooms and make yourself quiet. You shrink. You wait to be chosen — and you think that’s virtue. You think invisibility is dignity.”

He came around to face her again. His eyes were cold and bright, like something sharp held to a flame.

“But I see what you’re really doing,” he said. “You’re starving yourself for attention. Waiting for someone cruel enough to notice what’s underneath all that pretending.”

Y/n’s hands trembled at her sides. Her eyes stung, but she wouldn’t cry. Not yet.

“Are you?” she whispered. “Cruel enough?”

He leaned in, close enough that his lips grazed her cheek without touching. “I’m the cruelty you’ve been praying for.”

Her knees buckled. He caught her, not tenderly, but efficiently — like she was a body to be used, not saved. He walked her backward, until her back hit the cold wall, and there he kept her pinned — not with hands, but with presence. With command.

“No more pretending,” he said. “No more performance.”

She couldn’t answer. Could barely breathe.

He grabbed her chin suddenly, fingers firm, not bruising, but unapologetically in control. “Speak.”

“I don’t know who I am when I’m not afraid,” she confessed, voice cracked open.

“Good,” he said. “We’ll kill the girl who lived in fear.”

Then he did something she didn’t expect.

He kissed her. Not with lust. With ownership. Slow. Brutal. Inevitable.

It wasn’t passion.

It was erasure.

The kiss burned through every version of herself she had learned to wear. It pulled pieces of her up from places she had buried. Shame, hunger, helplessness, hunger again.

He tasted all of it — and demanded more.

And when he finally pulled back, leaving her breathless and dazed, he said, “Now we begin.”

For a moment, there was only the sound of her breathing — shallow and quick, like it didn’t know whether to anchor her or abandon her entirely. The room felt too quiet, too intimate, too charged. And his hand, resting so lightly at her throat, no longer felt like a thrill. It felt like a warning.

Y/n sat motionless, the ring on her finger colder than it had been minutes ago, as if it too had sensed the shift in the air. Something in her — something quiet, usually buried — began to rise. Not strength, exactly. Not bravery. But fear, finally speaking in a voice louder than her hunger.

“I don’t want this,” she said, softly, but it wasn’t a whisper. It was deliberate. Clear.

His hand froze against her skin, the heat of his palm suddenly foreign. Slowly, like he’d been waiting for it, he let his fingers fall away, straightening to his full height in front of her. He looked down at her as if her words didn’t sting him — as if he’d expected them.

“You don’t want this,” he repeated, his tone unreadable, but laced with something dangerous underneath the calm. “Now that you’ve seen what it really is?”

She stood, knees unsteady, her chest tight. She didn’t respond — just shook her head and stepped back, needing to create distance, to feel the space between them again.

“I thought I could handle it,” she said, her voice cracking on the edge of breath. “But I can’t. You’re— It’s too much. All of it.”

A slow smile began to form on his lips, but it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t kind. It looked like it had been carved there by something sharp, something ancient.

“Too much,” he echoed, like the words tasted sweet to him. “You finally see me now, don’t you?”

She took another step toward the door. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, louder than his voice, louder than her own thoughts. “I’m leaving,” she said.

Still, he didn’t move. Didn’t reach for her. He simply watched.

Then he said it — not loud, but low, like something intimate and private. “Then run.”

Her breath hitched.

He took a slow step forward, though he didn’t come closer. “Run, baby. If that’s what you think will save you.”

She turned then, and she didn’t wait. Her feet moved faster than her mind could catch up. Through the hallway, around the corner — breath snagging in her throat as she passed room after room of things she didn’t recognize. The house felt bigger now. Maze-like. Built for this very moment.

Behind her, she didn’t hear footsteps.

She didn’t have to.

Because his voice still echoed in her mind — not taunting, but certain.

He wasn’t going to chase her.

He didn’t need to.

“I’ll catch you anyway.”

And the worst part — the part that made her blood turn to ice — was that she believed him.

Because this wasn’t about the house. Or the money. Or even the fear that gripped her ribs like a fist.

This was about him.

And the part of her that didn’t want to run at all.

It wasn’t until she crossed the threshold of her apartment that she let herself cry.

The door clicked shut behind her, the lock turning with a soft, final snap, and only then did her shoulders collapse inward. Her legs gave out in the middle of the room, and she sank to the floor in a heap, arms curled around her knees like a child trying to shrink into nothing.

She had run. Really run. Through the halls of his impossible house, down stairs that curved like they had no end, through doors that looked like walls, through gates that should have stayed locked. She hadn’t looked back, hadn’t dared. If she had, she might’ve stopped — or worse, he might have been there, waiting, patient.

But he hadn’t followed.

He’d let her go.

Or so she thought.

The next few hours passed in a haze. She peeled off the ring first, tossing it onto the kitchen counter like it burned. She took a shower, too hot, too long, scrubbing at her skin as though she could erase the feel of his gaze, the sound of his voice echoing inside her bones. She dressed in layers, soft cotton and wool, covering every part of herself he had seen, even though he had barely touched her.

She made tea. Didn’t drink it. Turned on the TV. Didn’t watch it.

And as the hours deepened into night, the silence inside her apartment began to settle like dust — thick, clinging, unnatural. She kept glancing toward the window, checking the door, flicking the lamp on and off as if the light might keep her grounded.

She told herself it was over.

That it was just a strange mistake. A rich man’s fantasy meeting her desperation at the wrong time. He would move on. Forget her. Find someone else to brand with his cold affection.

But something didn’t feel right.

The kind of wrong that didn’t make sound, didn’t show itself in creaking floorboards or shadows under the door. It was deeper than that. Quieter. Like the space around her was holding its breath.

When she finally lay down, sleep did not come easily. Her limbs were tense beneath the covers, her eyes open long after the room had gone still. She faced the door, as if watching it would stop anything from crossing the line.

At some point, exhaustion won. Her eyes drifted closed, lashes trembling, breath slowing.

And that’s when she felt it.

Not touch.

Not breath.

Just knowing.

That she was no longer alone.

Her body locked into stillness, every instinct screaming to move, but she didn’t. Couldn’t. The air had changed — not colder, but denser, like someone else was breathing with her, like someone had stepped inside her world without making a sound.

And then—

From the dark, a voice. Soft. Patient. Familiar.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t find you?”

She gasped and sat up, heart in her throat.

But no one was there.

No shadow in the corner. No silhouette in the doorway.

Only silence.

But she knew.

He was close.

Maybe he had never left.

And deep in her chest, beneath the panic, beneath the confusion, something else stirred.

A flicker of truth she couldn’t unsee now — couldn’t deny.

She didn’t want to be free.

She wanted him to take her all the way.

She didn’t sleep again.

Not that night. Not really.

She laid there in the dim light of her bedroom until her eyes began to blur from dryness, blinking through the dark as if it might shift, as if it might breathe. Her fingers gripped the edge of the blanket too tight. Her spine curled inward, like she could protect something he hadn’t yet touched — but she knew better.

There was nothing left untouched.

Even in his absence, he filled the space. Quietly. Methodically. Like smoke curling beneath the door, impossible to see until you were already choking on it.

Every time the floor creaked, she flinched. Every time the fridge hummed, her breath caught. But no one came. No one stepped through the door, no shadow moved behind her, no voice followed.

Except his.

Not out loud. Not anymore.

It was in her head now.

The memory of him didn’t fade — it deepened. As if by leaving, she had opened a door she couldn’t close. She’d thought the silence would save her. But silence was how he hunted.

She got out of bed and walked to the bathroom, her bare feet cold on the tile. She flicked on the light and stared at herself in the mirror — wide eyes, pale skin, trembling hands. The same girl she’d always been.

Except she wasn’t.

She touched her throat. It still burned from where his fingers had rested, even though there were no marks. That was the worst part. The proof wasn’t on her skin. It was inside her.

She turned on the faucet to break the quiet, cupping cold water in her palms and splashing it onto her face. She kept her eyes down, focused on the sink. When she finally looked up—

The mirror had fogged.

But she hadn’t run hot water.

And through the haze, faint and fading, she could swear she saw a shape behind her shoulder.

She spun around.

Nothing.

Just the open doorway. Just the empty apartment. Just her.

But her breath quickened. Her chest rose and fell too fast, heart hammering. She backed away from the mirror, bumping into the wall, dragging herself down to the floor, her legs folding under her like a child’s.

She curled her knees to her chest and pressed her hands to her ears.

Still — he was there.

Not in the room.

In her.

“I’ll catch you anyway.”

It wasn’t just a threat. It was a promise. A prophecy.

He didn’t need to be here physically.

He’d already broken past the threshold.

He’d already moved in.

Not to her apartment.

To her mind.

And now — even if she locked every door, burned every trace of him, screamed his name into the sky —

She would never be alone again.

She didn’t know how long she sat on the bathroom floor before her breathing steadied.

At some point, the light above her began to flicker — the soft hum of the bulb above the mirror stuttering in rhythm with her thoughts. She stayed still through it. Made herself count backwards from one hundred. Focused on the cold tile beneath her fingertips. Grounded herself in her body, not his. Not the version of her that curled up under his gaze like she belonged to it.

She got up.

Her knees ached. Her palms stung where her nails had bitten into them. But she stood.

And when she looked back at her reflection, she didn’t flinch.

He wasn’t there.

He wasn’t here.

That was the first lie she let herself believe.

She left the bathroom, grabbing her phone from the nightstand, fingers flying across the screen in frantic silence. She looked up articles on psychic attachment. Parasocial delusions. She found nothing that matched what she felt — nothing for the feeling of someone living inside you like a second heartbeat, silent but ever-present.

She tried music. Full volume. Anything to drown him out. She turned on every light. Opened every window. She threw out the ring she’d once worn, wrapped in a dish towel and shoved deep into the dumpster outside like it had teeth.

She told herself she was cleansing.

She saged the corners of her room with incense from a store down the street. Wrote his name and tore it into pieces. Took a bath with salt and rose petals like some forum told her would “reclaim energetic autonomy.” She cried in the water, fingers trembling as she scrubbed behind her ears and whispered, he can’t touch me, he can’t touch me, he can’t—

But when she sank below the water, holding her breath in silence—

She heard him again.

“You think this is yours?”

The voice came not from the room, not even from her thoughts, but deeper — threaded through the blood in her ears, thudding with the beat of her heart. It was the tone he’d used before, the one that had nothing to do with seduction and everything to do with possession.

She surfaced gasping.

Water sloshed over the edge of the tub. Her lungs burned. Her eyes stung.

And still, his voice lingered. Fainter now, but not gone.

Just patient.

She ran.

Naked and dripping, she fled the bathroom, grabbing her clothes from the floor, dressing with trembling limbs. She left the apartment with no plan, no wallet, just keys clutched in one fist and her phone in the other. The streets were empty at that hour, soft and silver beneath the city lights. She walked fast. Then faster. She didn’t stop until her body couldn’t keep going.

She ended up at a friend’s house she hadn’t spoken to in weeks.

They let her in without question, took one look at her face and didn’t ask. She curled up on their couch under a borrowed blanket, and for the first time in days, she almost believed she’d escaped.

There were no mirrors there. No windows big enough to reflect anything but shadows.

And the silence, for a while, was only silence.

She drifted into sleep before she meant to, her body surrendering to the exhaustion of the fight.

But just before she slipped under—

She felt it again.

Not a voice this time.

A touch.

Barely there. A ghost of breath against the curve of her ear. As if someone had leaned down in the dark, unseen by anyone else, and whispered into her sleeping form:

“You can burn my name. Tear up the walls. Sleep in someone else’s bed. But you’ll never be clean, baby.”

Her eyes flew open.

There was no one in the room.

But her skin burned with something invisible, and her throat ached with the weight of a truth she could no longer fight:

He hadn’t followed her.

He’d never had to.

Because she wasn’t haunted.

She was claimed.

The apartment was cloaked in shadow, the faint glow of the streetlights outside filtering through the curtains and casting long, uneven shapes across the walls. The silence was so thick it pressed against her ears like a physical weight. Y/n’s breath came shallow, each inhale trembling as her eyes scanned every corner, every darkened space that could conceal him.

Suddenly, the faintest creak sliced through the stillness—the soft groan of the door opening just enough to let in a silhouette that moved with a deliberate, unhurried grace. The air shifted; a chill curled along her spine even though the room was warm.

There he was.

Harry stood framed by the doorway, the dim light tracing the strong lines of his jaw, the curve of his collarbone just visible beneath the open neck of his shirt. His dark hair was tousled, but there was a sharpness in his eyes that made her heart stutter—intense, calculating, and utterly still.

He didn’t speak at first. Instead, he took a slow step forward, the subtle sound of his footsteps against the hardwood floor echoing like a heartbeat she hadn’t realized she’d been waiting for.

Y/n felt her body freeze—her limbs heavy, caught between the urge to flee and the undeniable gravity pulling her toward him.

Finally, his voice broke the silence. Low, steady, and quietly ruthless. “I told you,” he said, his gaze locking onto hers with a weight that made her feel exposed and strangely protected all at once, “you can run, but I’ll catch you anyway.”

He closed the distance with measured steps, his presence filling the room like smoke curling around her skin. The calm certainty in his posture made her realize this wasn’t a game. It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.

“I’m not here to ask for forgiveness,” he continued, his voice a dark velvet whisper that wrapped around her like a binding spell. “I’m here because you belong here—with me.”

Her throat tightened, a knot of emotions twisting inside her—fear, confusion, longing—all colliding in a breath she couldn’t release.

She glanced toward the door behind him, her supposed sanctuary now feeling smaller, more fragile. Then back to him, her eyes searching for something—defiance, maybe, or clarity.

“Why?” she whispered, voice trembling as if she were exposing the rawest parts of herself.

He reached out slowly, fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, his touch lingering just long enough to send a shiver down her spine. It wasn’t rough or demanding, but it was undeniably his. Possession and promise all wrapped into a single, silent gesture.

“You don’t have to understand,” he murmured close to her skin, his breath warm against her cheek, “you just have to accept it.”

Her heart hammered painfully as she swallowed hard. She wanted to scream, to push him away, to run from the magnetic pull of everything he represented. But when her eyes met his, she saw something she couldn’t deny—the man who had haunted her nights, the man who had torn down every wall she’d built.

She saw the man who had already claimed her—not just her body, but the very parts of her she’d kept hidden.

And in that moment, the space between them wasn’t empty anymore.

Her breath caught again, the words hanging between them like a weight that threatened to crush her. You just have to accept it. The phrase echoed in her mind, twisting and turning, refusing to settle.

She wanted to resist. To push back against the way his eyes stripped her bare without a single touch. To tell him she wasn’t his — not like this, not now, not ever. Yet the part of her that had been suffocating under loneliness and desperation for so long stirred with something she barely recognized: a flicker of surrender.

Her hands trembled at her sides, fingers curling into fists as she fought the pull. Her heart pounded wildly, each beat a clash between rebellion and yearning. Was this fear? Or something darker—something thrilling in the way he held her without chains, yet bound her tighter than any lock?

She took a tentative step back, searching his face for a trace of softness, for a hint that this was a choice, that she could say no and walk away. But his expression was unreadable—calm, patient, and terrifyingly sure.

The room seemed to shrink around her, the shadows pressing closer as if to swallow her whole. And yet, within that pressure, she felt an unexpected clarity. The lies she’d told herself to stay safe—the walls she’d built to keep the world at bay—began to crumble under the weight of his gaze.

Her mind raced, tangled in memories of every time she had hidden, every time she had begged herself to be invisible. Could she really accept this? Could she allow someone to see the pieces she’d kept shattered, broken, and forgotten?

Tears welled unbidden in her eyes, blurring her vision. Not from pain. Not from weakness. But from the raw ache of wanting—wanting to be seen, wanted to be claimed, even if it terrified her.

Harry’s voice softened, barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to say anything.”

His words were a balm and a blade. She closed her eyes, fighting the storm inside. The fight wasn’t over. It would never be over. But the choice was no longer just about running or fighting—it was about who she would be if she stayed.

And for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to be the girl who ran.

Her eyelids fluttered closed, but the storm inside her eyes refused to calm. Every nerve ending burned with a thousand silent screams, the fragile walls she’d built over years of solitude now trembling on the brink of collapse. She had wanted control—over her life, her body, her pain—and here he stood, dismantling it with a glance so sharp it sliced through every scar she’d tried to hide.

The room felt suffocating and endless all at once, the air thick with unspoken truths. She could still feel the ghost of his touch—the faint heat where his fingers had grazed her skin—a cruel reminder that the hold he had was not just physical, but something far more insidious. It was the kind of claim that settled deep inside her bones, entwining with the parts of herself she hadn’t dared to face.

Her breath hitched as memories flashed unbidden—nights spent alone, empty rooms echoing with silence, the gnawing ache of being unseen. And now, here he was, like a storm breaking through a drought, fierce and relentless, forcing her to confront the hunger she had denied.

Fear tangled with something darker beneath her ribs, a trembling mix of revulsion and craving that she didn’t want to understand but couldn’t ignore. The thought of surrender terrified her—not because she was weak, but because she was so achingly aware of what surrender meant. It wasn’t loss. It was transformation. It was the death of the girl who had fought to survive, and the birth of something new. Something raw and unguarded and terrifyingly real.

Her fists clenched tighter at her sides, nails biting into her palms as if to anchor herself to the present, to the fragile thread of autonomy she still held. But even as she willed herself to pull away, to break free, she knew that part of her had already crossed the line—had already been claimed in a way no running could undo.

A tear slipped down her cheek, hot and stubborn, catching in the hollow beneath her jaw. She tasted the salt and thought of all the lies she’d told herself: that she was invisible, that she was untouchable, that she was enough on her own.

The truth, whispered in the dark between them, was that she wasn’t.

Harry���s voice, soft but commanding, broke through her storm once more.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he repeated.

His presence was no longer just an intrusion—it was the axis around which her world now spun. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to fight it or surrender, but she knew with terrifying clarity that nothing would ever be the same.

Her heart beat a ragged rhythm, echoing the fragile fracture within her soul.

And in that shattering silence, she realized the fight was only just beginning.

Her body trembled subtly, the adrenaline coursing through her veins tightening every muscle and sharpening every nerve ending. The weight of his gaze was heavier than any touch, pressing down on her like an unseen force that rooted her to the spot, even as every instinct screamed at her to run.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides, knuckles pale beneath the skin, fingers trembling from the effort to hold back. She swallowed hard, the sudden dryness in her mouth making each breath a conscious effort, shallow and uneven. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, heart pounding in her ears louder than the quiet hum of the room.

As he stepped closer, the air between them thickened, charged with a tension that made her skin prickle and her stomach coil with nerves and something deeper, more tangled. She could feel the faintest warmth radiating from his body, an electric current that seemed to crackle just beneath her skin.

Her legs felt unsteady beneath her, as though they might give out at any moment, but she fought to keep herself upright. Every fiber of her being was alert, alive, aching with the strange mixture of fear and magnetic pull that made her want to retreat and yet—paradoxically—stay.

Harry’s hand lifted slowly, not reaching for her, but hovering near her face. His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair back with deliberate slowness, a touch so light it barely disturbed her skin—but enough to send a shiver cascading down her spine. Her breath hitched, chest tightening with the sudden surge of sensation.

Her eyes fluttered shut briefly, heart thrumming erratically, as she fought to steady the storm inside. When she opened them again, she met his gaze—steady, unflinching, commanding. There was no room for argument in his look. No invitation, only quiet possession.

Her lips parted slightly, a soft exhale escaping as she unconsciously leaned into the faint pressure of his fingers. The warmth lingered, and with it came the fragile flicker of surrender she had tried so hard to deny.

Yet beneath the surface, a pulse of defiance still beat strong—a reminder that while she might bend, she was far from broken.

His fingers lingered at the edge of her cheek, the faintest pressure tracing the line of her jaw. She held her breath, every muscle taut beneath her skin, caught between the instinct to pull away and the magnetism that rooted her in place. Her eyes searched his face, looking for a crack—something human, something soft—that might give her permission to break the spell.

But there was only that calm certainty in his gaze, a silent command that wrapped around her like a shackle.

Without moving his hand, he lowered his voice to a near whisper, dark and steady. “You’re already here,” he said, “even if you don’t want to be.”

Her throat tightened. She wanted to deny it, to say she was more than this, more than the sum of his claim, but the truth pressed down on her chest like a weight she could no longer lift.

“I’m not yours,” she said, voice barely more than a breath, but the words felt hollow.

Harry’s smile was slow, almost cruel in its patience. “Not yet,” he murmured, and then his hand moved—just a brush of his thumb along her cheek, feather-light but charged with something raw and deliberate.

Her skin flared under his touch. She shivered, part from the contact, part from the vulnerability it exposed.

She blinked, trying to steady herself, and in that brief moment he stepped closer, closing the small distance between them until the heat of his body was undeniable. The scent of his cologne—spicy, dark—wrapped around her senses, overwhelming and intoxicating.

“You’re fighting,” he said, voice rougher now, “but every fight only makes me want you more.”

Her pulse hammered wildly, mind spinning with the contradiction of wanting to flee and wanting to fall deeper into whatever this was.

She swallowed hard, lips parted, breath trembling.

And when his gaze dropped to her mouth, slow and deliberate, she felt the last of her defenses crumble—not because he demanded it, but because, somehow, she wanted to surrender.

The space between them shrank with every passing second, a taut thread pulling tighter and tighter, ready to snap but somehow holding on. Her skin still tingled where his thumb had brushed her cheek, a spark that refused to die down no matter how much she willed it away. She could feel the heat radiating off him like a slow-burning flame, dangerous and tempting.

Neither of them moved. Neither spoke.

Her eyes flickered to his lips, slightly parted as if he were about to say something—something that would change everything. But the words never came. Instead, he held her gaze with that steady, unblinking intensity that made her feel stripped bare beneath his stare.

The silence between them stretched, heavy with unsaid things. Her chest rose and fell unevenly, every breath a small battle against the overwhelming pull settling in her bones. She wanted to break it—to look away, to run, to scream—but her body betrayed her, rooted to the spot by a force she couldn’t name.

His hand lingered, hovering just inches from her face, a silent question without words.

Her own fingers twitched at her sides, the fight flickering inside her like a fragile flame struggling against a gathering storm. She wanted to resist, to push him away, but the raw ache beneath her ribs whispered otherwise.

Slowly, impossibly slowly, he bent just a fraction closer, his breath warm against the shell of her ear.

“Say my name,” he murmured, voice barely audible, thick with promise and command.

Her heart slammed in her chest, eyes wide, body tense and trembling.

The room seemed to hold its breath along with her.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to deny. But all that came out was a breathy, fragile whisper—

“Harry.”

And in that single word, the distance between them shattered.

When her whispered name fell from her lips, it was like releasing a secret she had barely admitted to herself. The silence shattered instantly, replaced by a current so electric it thrummed through the room, twisting the air between them into something thick and almost suffocating.

Harry’s eyes darkened, shadows pooling in their depths as he closed the remaining distance without hesitation. His hands came up, strong and sure, one settling at the curve of her waist while the other traced a deliberate path along her neck, fingers tightening ever so slightly—an unspoken claim.

Her breath hitched, caught in the rawness of the moment as his mouth met hers with a slow, demanding pressure. The kiss wasn’t soft or hesitant; it was heavy, possessive, like a force that bent her will beneath its weight. His lips molded over hers, rough and insistent, claiming territory with every movement.

She wanted to pull away, to scream at herself for falling into this, but her body betrayed her completely—arching toward him, trembling under the weight of something dark and dangerous she hadn’t known she craved.

His tongue slipped past her lips, exploring, claiming, igniting a fire deep inside that flickered between pain and pleasure. The taste of him was intoxicating—bitter and sweet, familiar and foreign all at once.

His hands tightened just a fraction, a reminder that this wasn’t a kiss born from tenderness, but from power. From possession. From a hunger that refused to be denied.

Her fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt, clutching as if holding onto something solid while the world spun beneath her. The line between fear and desire blurred until it vanished altogether, leaving only the dark pulse of something neither of them could name, but both recognized.

When they finally broke apart, their breaths mingled, ragged and uneven.

Harry’s voice was a low growl, raw and full of promise. “You’re mine.”

The words weren’t a question.

They were a sentence.

And in that moment, she understood that the darkness between them wasn’t just around them—it was inside her now, irrevocably, a part of who she had become.

Harry’s lips lingered near hers, the faint heat of his breath stirring a restless ache deep inside her. His eyes never left hers, dark and unwavering, as his hand slid down from her neck to grip the small of her back with firm, possessive pressure. The strength in his touch tethered her, grounding and overwhelming all at once.

He moved with a slow certainty, closing the remaining space until her body pressed fully against his. Every inch of her skin seemed to ignite under his touch—the subtle brush of his chest, the steady beat of his heart against her own. She could feel the hardness beneath his shirt, the unmistakable promise of power waiting just beneath the surface.

Without breaking eye contact, he traced a finger down her jawline, tilting her face up so their lips met again—this time with a deeper hunger, more urgent, as if he was marking her with every kiss. His mouth claimed hers with a dark insistence, rough and commanding, leaving no room for doubt or escape.

Her breath hitched, body trembling with the conflict swirling inside her—wanting to resist, wanting to give in, wanting everything and nothing all at once.

His hands roamed deliberately, mapping the curve of her waist, slipping beneath the fabric of her shirt to press against bare skin. The contrast of cool air and the heat of his touch made her shiver, caught in the pull of desire and fear tangled together.

When he finally pulled back, his gaze dropped to her lips, swollen and parted, before returning to lock onto her eyes with a fierce intensity.

“You don’t have to say it again,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “I know.”

And with that, he leaned in once more, capturing her mouth in a kiss that promised possession—not just of her body, but of every piece of her she thought was hers alone.

Harry pulled back just enough to look at her—really look, as if peeling back every layer she tried to hide behind. His eyes gleamed with a knowing sharpness, that mischievous flicker of irony playing at the corners of his mouth.

“I see you,” he said slowly, deliberately, voice low and laced with something almost cruel in its clarity. “I see how much you want my body.”

She swallowed, cheeks flushed, heart pounding from the lingering heat of his touch.

But then, with a tilt of his head and a sly, almost imperceptible smirk, he added, “And, ironically…” —his gaze darkened even further— “I don’t want yours.”

The words hit her like a shock—half a challenge, half a punishment.

He stepped back, distancing himself just enough to make the space between them ache.

“It’s never been about your body,” he murmured, voice dropping to a whisper thick with meaning. “It’s about what you think you want. About the parts of you you hide—even from yourself.”

Her breath caught, confusion and something raw bubbling beneath her skin.

He paused, the playful edge slipping from his expression, replaced by a steady, almost ruthless certainty.

“So, don’t mistake desire for possession,” he said quietly. “You want me. But I don’t want you—not in the way you think.”

And just like that, the tension twisted, tangled into something darker—a game where he held all the cards, and she was left guessing what came next.

Harry’s eyes bore into hers, unblinking and sharp as a blade. The air between them thickened, charged with an almost cruel electricity that made her skin crawl and burn at the same time.

He stepped forward again, closing the distance but never touching—just enough to remind her he controlled the space, the moment, the game.

“You think this is about bodies,” he said, voice low, deliberate, each word measured like a stone dropped into a still pond, sending ripples through her very core. “But it’s not. It’s about control. About who holds the power when no one else is watching.”

His gaze flicked down to her lips, then back to her eyes, darkening further with intent. “You want me. That’s obvious. But what you don’t realize is how much I want to own the parts of you you think are untouchable.”

Her breath hitched, heart hammering like a warning drum in her chest. The thrill of fear tangled with something darker—something like a silent surrender she wasn’t ready to admit.

He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to echo inside her skull. “You’ll learn that wanting isn’t enough. That desire can be twisted until it breaks you.”

His words were a promise and a warning—sharp edges wrapped in silk.

“And when I take what I want,” he said, voice growing harder, “it’s not because you gave it. It’s because I took it.”

The challenge in his eyes was undeniable. There was no negotiation here. No room for mercy.

Only the raw, dark gravity of possession.

Without waiting for a response, Harry closed the final distance between them, his hands gripping her waist with an iron certainty that left no room for doubt. The heat of his touch burned through the thin fabric of her shirt, pressing her body flush against his with deliberate intent.

His eyes locked onto hers, dark and commanding, daring her to resist as his mouth descended with slow, heavy pressure onto hers once more. This kiss was different—less teasing, more claiming. His lips crushed against hers with a weight that crushed the last defenses she clung to, his tongue tracing a possessive path that left no question of who held control.

She trembled beneath him, caught between the desire that ignited in her core and the fear that twisted her gut into knots. Her fingers curled into the collar of his shirt, clutching at him as if to anchor herself, even as every part of her screamed to pull away.

But he didn’t let her.

His hands slid up her back, gripping firmly beneath her shoulder blades, pressing her closer still. The pressure was unrelenting, a physical reminder of the dark ownership he claimed—not just of her body, but of her will.

His voice rumbled against her lips, low and dangerous. “You’re mine,” he whispered, each word a vow and a command. “No more running. No more hiding.”

The room seemed to shrink around them, the only sound the ragged mix of their breaths and the pounding of her heart, wild and captive all at once.

In that moment, surrender wasn’t weakness.

It was inevitability.

———

The night was heavy with stillness, the city sprawling beneath Harry’s penthouse window like a glittering web of lights and shadows. From this height, the world seemed distant and unreal, a place he could observe without ever truly being part of it. The pulse of music from a far-off club, the muffled honks of traffic, the occasional flicker of neon signs—all blended into a quiet hum that barely registered against the blank space inside him.

He sat alone in the dimly lit room, the leather chair beneath him creaking softly as he shifted his weight. His fingers idly scrolled through his phone, flicking past endless images of perfect smiles, curated lives, and tired attempts at connection. None of it caught his interest. None of it stirred anything beyond a flicker of boredom.

Then, her face appeared.

Not some polished, airbrushed portrait made for the cameras, but a raw, unfiltered glimpse of someone who wore exhaustion like a second skin. Her eyes were rimmed with fatigue, her expression guarded but real. She wasn’t trying to be anything but herself, and that made her stand out like a beacon in the endless sea of façades.

He studied her photo longer than he intended, drawn to the unspoken story etched into the lines of her face. There was a weight there—a quiet desperation, a struggle that didn’t seek sympathy but silently demanded to be seen. And for the first time in a long time, Harry felt a flicker of something dangerous stir within him.

Not affection. Not care.

Curiosity.

His thumb hovered above the keyboard, fingers tense with the decision he was about to make. He didn’t know why he was drawn to her, didn’t understand what he expected to find. Maybe it was the challenge. The rawness. The way she seemed so utterly out of place in the world he inhabited.

He typed slowly, deliberately, as if the words themselves carried a power he wasn’t quite ready to wield.

The message was simple. Uncomplicated. But beneath the surface, it held a promise and a threat all at once.

He didn’t wait for second thoughts. He pressed send.

The screen blinked—message delivered.

And in that instant, the quiet game he had been playing with himself shifted. What started as a flicker of boredom became a pulse of intent, a thread that would pull them both deeper into something neither fully understood yet.

Because Harry Styles wasn’t a man who sought connection for comfort or companionship.

He sought it to claim.

And once he had set his sights on something, there was no turning back.

———

Harry’s fingers brushed against her skin with deliberate weight, tracing slow, possessive patterns that left her breath hitching in her throat. The room around them seemed to dissolve, collapsing into a space where only the raw, electric tension between them existed. His eyes never left hers—dark, intense, unyielding—holding her captive without a word.

She wanted to pull away, to reclaim whatever scraps of control she still had, but her body betrayed her, frozen beneath his touch. Every nerve ending sang with a fierce mixture of fear and something dangerously close to craving. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low murmur that vibrated through the air like a promise—and a warning.

“You think you want this,” he said slowly, “but you don’t understand what you’re really asking for.”

His lips brushed against the hollow of her neck, breath warm and uneven, sending a shiver spiraling down her spine. His hand tightened slightly at her waist, pulling her impossibly closer.

“Because once I have you,” he whispered, “there’s no going back.”

The weight of those words hung between them, thick and suffocating, as if the room itself was holding its breath. And as much as she wanted to fight, to scream, to run, something deep inside her—a dark, aching part she’d long tried to bury—stirred awake.

Harry’s presence was a storm she couldn’t outrun, a darkness that claimed her not despite her resistance, but because of it.

And in that fragile, breaking moment, she knew she was lost.

taglist: @angeldavis777 @sstylezzz @amyluvsmatt

next chapter >>>

[grapejuicebrat]

As a blind girly could you please make your font bigger?

sorry i saw your request right after i’ve ended writing pt2 of my new series. next time i’ll change my font!

[grapejuicebrat]

put me in a movie [sugar daddy au] p.2

previous chapter <<<

She stood in front of the mirror longer than she should have.

Not for vanity.

Not for approval.

But because she didn’t quite recognize herself in the reflection.

There was no glamour to hide behind — no layers of perfume or makeup, no carefully applied lipstick or false confidence. Just her. Bare-faced. Quiet. A girl in a soft black sweater and dark jeans, hair loosely gathered at the nape of her neck, like she was headed somewhere she wasn’t sure she belonged.

The mirror didn’t lie. But it didn’t offer clarity either.

It just held her image while the minutes slipped past her like wind through fingers.

By the time she made it downstairs, the Bentley was already idling at the curb. Emil didn’t speak when she approached. He didn’t need to. He simply opened the back door, and she stepped into the hush of leather and dark-tinted glass.

The drive was quiet.

Streetlights painted golden streaks across the windows. The city was still alive in its own way — shadows moving inside restaurants, laughter echoing from late-night bars, the soft pulse of traffic far off. But none of it reached her. In that backseat, the world existed in suspension.

When they arrived at the building, Emil didn’t follow her up. He didn’t ask if she needed anything. He simply gave a short nod and stayed behind, like he understood that what happened above this floor was not meant to be witnessed.

She stepped into the private elevator and pressed the code Harry had left in her inbox — five digits, clean, symmetrical. It felt like unlocking something more than a floor.

The ride up was smooth, silent. Her heart beat louder than the motor.

When the doors opened, the apartment looked different.

There were no lights on this time. Only the soft glow of something burning — a candle, maybe — near the far end of the living room. The air was low-lit and warm, wrapped in shadows, everything painted in tones of smoke and dusk.

She stepped inside.

Her boots made no sound on the polished floors. The hush swallowed her whole.

He was standing by the window.

Not sitting, not lounging — just standing. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of something amber. The rain had stopped, but the windows were still damp, streaked with thin trails of water. Beyond them, the skyline shimmered — distant, jeweled, untouchable.

Harry didn’t turn when she entered.

He must’ve heard the elevator, the door, the breath she took just to steady herself — but he didn’t react. His body stayed still, carved out of the silence like part of the room itself.

She didn’t speak either.

Not yet.

Instead, she moved slowly, closing the door behind her, letting her eyes adjust to the dim. The scent in the room was faint but deliberate — something musky, layered, dark. Not floral. Not fresh. More like time and earth and something burning low.

When she reached the edge of the living room, he finally spoke.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

His voice was quiet, deeper than usual. It slipped into the room like it had always belonged there.

Y/n took a breath.

“I wasn’t either.”

He turned then.

Not fast. Just enough for the light to touch his face.

His hair was messier tonight. Less perfect. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. He didn’t look polished the way he had before — not like a man presenting an image. He looked… tired. Real. Like someone who hadn’t slept, but hadn’t wanted to.

His eyes met hers, and for a long moment, neither of them moved.

Then he lifted the glass toward her slightly, not offering it, just acknowledging it.

“Drink?”

She shook her head gently. “Not yet.”

He gave a small nod, as though he’d expected that answer, and turned back toward the window.

“You know,” he said after a while, “most people take the money and disappear.”

She stepped closer, not enough to touch, but enough to see the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders were drawn back like he was trying to stay composed.

“I’m not most people,” she said quietly.

He glanced at her, something unreadable flickering across his face. “No. You’re not.”

The silence after that was full — not awkward, not strained. Just full. Like a room with no furniture but still somehow crowded.

He looked away again.

“I thought if I gave you something,” he said slowly, “you’d take it. Use it. Go live easier. I didn’t expect to think about whether you would come back.”

Her voice was softer now, almost fragile. “Why does it matter?”

He didn’t answer right away.

When he did, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“Because I don’t invite people twice.”

Y/n felt something cold and sharp twist deep inside her.

Not fear.

Recognition.

The way he spoke — not like a man playing a role, not like a seducer — but like someone who had forgotten how to let people stay. Who’d drawn too many boundaries and now didn’t remember where he kept the key.

She took another step forward.

Close enough now to see the fine lines near his eyes. The curve of his wrist where the light caught his veins. The flicker in his throat when he swallowed too hard.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” she said.

That made him look at her fully.

And for the first time, something inside his eyes flickered — not guarded, not curated. Just a quiet, slow-breaking kind of truth.

“I’m not pretending,” he said.

And she believed him.

Because in that moment, he looked more haunted than powerful.

And she…

She didn’t feel small anymore.

She felt like the only person in the room who could see him clearly.

And that was the most terrifying part.

Because beneath the designer clothing and immaculate self-control — beneath the fine bone structure and that unreadable gaze — Harry Styles was empty.

Not broken. Not sad. Not even cruel.

Just… hollow.

Like someone had scraped the center out of him a long time ago and he'd decided to decorate the shell instead — fill it with silence and money and expensive things that never asked questions. It was the kind of emptiness that didn't beg to be filled. It thrives in the void. Learned to shape it into a weapon.

But still, she stayed where she was.

Not because she trusted him.

But because he hadn’t lied yet.

He hadn’t promised her safety.

He hadn’t offered love.

He hadn’t used his money like a leash — not yet.

He had only told her the truth. Cold and clean.

And the truth was, that truth… felt better than all the fake kindness the world had ever thrown her way.

She didn’t move.

Neither did he.

He just watched her. Like he was waiting to see if she’d flinch. Waiting to see if the version of her standing there — unsmiling, uncertain, unarmed — was brave enough to stay.

“I’ve lived in rooms full of people for years,” he said finally, his voice calm and even, like he was reading something off a page only he could see. “But most of them couldn’t even see me.”

He stepped closer again — but not to touch. Just to speak. Just to fill the space between them with something quieter than breath.

“They saw the money. The name. The house. They saw what they wanted.”

His eyes flicked across her face, slow and deliberate.

“But you... You didn't flinch when I showed you what's underneath.”

She didn’t respond.

She couldn't.

Because in that moment — she realized she wasn't afraid of him.

She was afraid of what he saw in her.

Something hungry.

Something she thought she’d buried.

Something lonely.

“I don’t want you to pretend you’re okay,” he said. “Not here. Not with me.”

And then, with a voice so soft it barely touched the air:

"I want the part of you you don't show anyone. I want to watch it breathe."

It sounded like a threat.

Or maybe an invitation dressed as one.

But Y/n didn’t step back.

She looked at him — truly looked — and whispered,

“And what do I get in return?”

A pause.

His smile was slight. But not cruel.

“You get to be seen.”

The words hit her like a match to dry leaves.

Because it wasn’t about sex. It wasn’t even about power.

It was about intimacy that felt almost surgical. About being studied, yes — but not for amusement. For understanding. For ownership, maybe. But not in the way most men wanted to own.

He didn’t want her to belong to him.

He wanted to belong inside the parts of her no one else had reached.

And that… that was far more terrifying.

He turned then, slow and smooth, and walked to the low chair across the room — a sleek velvet thing the color of blood. He sat without looking back.

The silence stretched.

When he finally spoke again, it was without command. Just expectation.

“Take off your shoes,” he said. “Then come sit at my feet.”

Not a demand. Not a bark.

Just an offering.

A door left open.

She looked at him — really looked — and for the first time, she saw something crack behind his eyes.

He wasn’t playing a game.

He didn’t want her body.

He wanted her obedience.

Or maybe just her presence. Undistracted. Stripped of performance.

The stillest part of herself.

She stood there for a moment longer. The weight of her choices hanging in the space between them like smoke.

Then she reached down — quietly — and untied the laces of her shoes.

One.

Then the other.

She stepped out of them with bare, careful feet.

And walked toward him.

Not because she wanted to be possessed.

But because something in her — the part she’d never fed — was already starving.

But because something in her — the part she’d never fed — was already starving.

So she moved without fully understanding why. Her feet sank soundlessly into the velvet rug as she walked toward him. Step by step. Slow. Measured. Eyes on his.

He didn’t move.

He just sat there, in that chair that looked like it had been carved from shadow, legs spread slightly, one ringed hand resting on his knee. He didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Just waited.

Her breath tightened in her chest.

She thought — this is it.

This is where the price is paid.

She lowered herself to the floor in front of him. Every motion precise. Intentional. She tucked her legs beneath her, her bare knees kissing the rug. Her hands shook slightly as they came to rest on her thighs.

He watched her. Still. Quiet. Unreadable.

The silence stretched. Became almost unbearable.

And that’s when she moved.

Slowly, she shifted forward on her knees. Her palms braced against the floor. Her eyes dipped downward, deliberately avoiding his. She was close enough now that her breath grazed the edge of his knee. Her hands moved to his thighs, tentative. Testing.

If this is what he wanted, she’d give it.

She wasn’t afraid of sex.

She was afraid of not being enough.

She started to lean in — inch by inch — mouth parting, ready to unzip his pants. Her heart beating like a drum inside a cage.

And then—

His hand closed around her wrist.

Not rough. But final. Like the slam of a heavy door.

Her breath caught.

He didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t need to.

“Don’t.”

The word cracked across her spine like icewater.

She looked up.

His face was carved in stone. No heat. No confusion. No desire.

Only quiet disappointment.

He let go of her wrist slowly, like setting down something fragile.

“You think I paid for this?”

She didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

His voice dropped — lower, darker. A silk rope around her throat.

“I could have any girl on her knees. That costs nothing. That means nothing.”

The shame bloomed behind her ribs like something feral.

But it wasn’t shame at offering.

It was shame at misunderstanding him.

He stood up suddenly — fluid, controlled — and walked away from her like she’d never touched him. Poured himself a drink at the bar. Ice cracked in the glass like something splitting beneath the surface.

She still knelt where he left her.

“I’m not interested in bodies,” he said finally, back still turned. “I’m interested in truth.”

He took a slow sip.

“And you thought I was like them. All the others. You thought you’d buy your place in my world with sex.”

He turned, then.

His eyes met hers. And this time, there was something dangerous there.

Not anger. Not cruelty.

Disappointment.

It cut deeper than any insult.

“If that’s all you think you have to offer,” he said coldly, “you’re not ready to stay.”

The words knocked the breath from her chest.

And yet—she didn’t move.

She sat still on her knees, frozen by something deeper than shame.

Because she realized something awful in that moment.

She had offered sex. Because she thought it was all she was allowed to give.

And for the first time in her life…

Someone looked at that, and said: No.

Not because they didn’t want her.

But because they wanted something more.

She stayed kneeling, not out of obedience, but because she didn’t know how to move anymore without pretending. Her body felt unfamiliar now, her breath shallow and uneven, caught between confusion and something more dangerous — revelation. It spread through her like slow heat, not from humiliation, but from the slow realization that she had built herself around an idea of survival that didn’t work in this room. Not with him.

He sat back in the chair with unshaken stillness, like he had all the time in the world to watch her come undone. His fingers tapped once against the armrest, the only sign that he was aware of the tension crackling beneath her skin.

When she finally spoke, her voice barely rose above the silence. “Then what do you want from me?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked at her as though he were studying a reflection in dark water — something distorted, something deeper than the surface allowed. And then, after a long pause that made her doubt whether he would speak at all, he leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, his voice low and even.

“I want the parts of you no one’s ever touched. The ones that don’t have names yet. The parts you hide, even from yourself. Your silence, your resistance, the tension behind your smile. I want the version of you that doesn’t perform — not for attention, not for love, not even for safety.”

His gaze didn’t waver, and there was no cruelty in his tone, only that same cold precision that made everything he said sound like a blueprint rather than a threat.

“I don’t need your body. I can buy flesh anywhere, and it never satisfies. What I want is something you don’t even realize you’ve been guarding with your life. And when you hand it to me — not because I ask, but because you choose — that’s when I’ll decide what you’re worth.”

She wanted to look away, but his words held her in place, sharp and steady. Her heartbeat pulsed behind her ribs like a second clock, ticking louder with every breath. The floor felt colder beneath her knees now, or maybe she was just becoming aware of how exposed she truly was — not in skin, but in intention.

He reached for his glass again, took a measured sip, and then set it back down with a soft click that seemed deafening in the stillness between them. His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter, almost thoughtful.

“I’m not going to touch you tonight. Not because I don’t want to. But because if I did now, I’d just be confirming everything you’ve ever believed about yourself — that you’re only valuable when you’re giving something. But the truth is, Y/n, what I want from you has nothing to do with what you give.”

Her throat tightened, and she looked down for a moment, trying to collect the pieces of herself that had splintered on the way here. She had walked into his world thinking she understood the rules, thinking she could play the game like everyone else — with submission, with sex, with quiet performance dressed up as power. But now, stripped of that illusion, she realized how naked she truly was.

He leaned back again, slow and unfazed. “If you’re only here to be used,” he said, “you can leave.”

But then he paused, and something flickered across his face — not emotion exactly, but interest. Curiosity, sharpened like the edge of a blade.

“But if you stay,” he continued, “you don’t speak unless I ask you to. You don’t perform. You don’t give me anything. You just exist in this space with me. As you are. However messy, however silent, however still. That’s what I want.”

The silence that followed was louder than any demand.

She didn’t move.

Not because she was afraid of him, but because she wasn’t ready to face what staying meant. Not ready to see herself through his eyes, stripped of control, of rehearsed charm, of the gentle lies she told herself just to get through each day.

But she didn’t leave either.

Because somewhere deep inside, in the place where her hunger lived, she knew: she hadn’t come here looking for money. Not really. Not in the way she’d told herself.

She had come here to be seen.

And for the first time in her life — someone was looking.

He watched her kneel there, a fragile, unsteady silhouette against the sharp angles of the room. The way she moved, the way her breath hitched when she realized what she thought this was — it made something inside him tighten, a slow coil of frustration and something like longing he hadn’t named in years.

He’d seen the kind of girls who threw themselves at him before he even asked, who treated his money and his touch like a transaction, a means to an end. And those girls were easy. They wanted nothing but the surface — the skin, the promises, the cheap escape from whatever broke them.

But Y/n was different. Not because she was proud or distant. Because she wasn’t pretending. Because when she lowered herself at his feet, it wasn’t lust or calculation driving her — it was something raw and ragged, like a silent scream buried beneath years of quiet.

He didn’t want her body. He never had. He wanted what no one else dared to ask for — the truth she kept locked away, the parts she herself hadn’t fully faced.

That was the currency he craved.

And that was why he stopped her the moment she crossed that line. Not because he was cruel, but because he needed to know if she understood the game she’d stepped into.

He drank slowly, savoring the burn, letting the silence stretch between them. Watching her unravel — not out of cruelty, but because she was the first person who didn’t try to mask the fracture lines.

He wanted to tear down the walls she’d built. Not with force, but with presence. With the weight of his gaze. With the demand that she simply be — stripped of pretense, stripped of performance.

He wasn’t a man who believed in easy pleasures. The fleeting touch of skin wasn’t enough to fill the hollow inside him.

What he wanted was deeper. Darker. More dangerous.

He wanted her to confront the parts of herself she’d been running from — to meet the emptiness in him, and in herself, without flinching.

That was why he told her she could leave if she wanted.

Because staying meant vulnerability she wasn’t used to.

Because he wasn’t a savior, or a predator.

He was something else entirely.

A man who had lost the language of love, but who understood the hunger for truth.

And maybe, in her silence, in her stillness, he found a mirror.

He sat back in the chair, his eyes never leaving her as she knelt there, quiet and unguarded. There was an honesty in her that unsettled him, like staring into a mirror cracked but refusing to break apart. It wasn’t just that she hadn’t flinched when he’d denied her, but the way she stayed — despite not knowing what she was staying for. It was reckless and raw, and it unsettled the careful control he’d wrapped around himself for years.

He wanted to reach out, to close the distance and pull her into some kind of clarity. But that was never how it worked. He didn’t want to save her. He didn’t want to claim her. He wanted her to see him — really see him — without all the usual masks and walls. And to stay, not because he told her to, but because she chose to. Because she could face the quiet darkness inside both of them and not turn away.

Her breath hitched again, soft and uneven. When she looked up, her eyes held questions he couldn’t answer — not with words, but maybe with time. Maybe with presence. Maybe with the slow unraveling of everything that had ever been taught, promised, or demanded.

She was still kneeling, silent, and for the first time in a long while, he felt something like anticipation — not for lust, not for possession, but for a connection untainted by expectation.

The room held its breath with them. And for a moment, the hollow inside him felt less empty.

He watched her silently, the quiet between them thick like smoke curling in the dim light. Her breathing, uneven yet steady, was the only sound breaking the stillness. She remained on her knees, unspoken and raw, as if waiting for him to decide her fate—though he had no intention of rushing, no script to follow, no rehearsed role to assign.

There was no seduction here, no promises wrapped in whispered lies. Just a fragile surrender to something neither fully understood yet, a shared solitude that neither had invited but both recognized. He felt the weight of her presence, heavy and fragile all at once, and it unsettled the calculated calm he wore like armor.

His mind drifted to the years spent behind walls built of silence and solitude, to the emptiness he’d tried to fill with fleeting pleasures and hollow companionships. But she—Y/n—was different. She did not seek to escape, nor to conquer. She simply existed, bare and unguarded, and that terrified him in a way no lust or power ever could.

Slowly, he rose from the chair, his movements deliberate, closing the small distance between them. Not to touch, but to be nearer, to let her feel the weight of him without words.

“Kneel,” he said quietly, his voice steady but firm.

She obeyed without hesitation.

He sat on the floor beside her, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. The room felt smaller, the silence less oppressive.

“I’m not here to break you,” he said after a moment, “but I want you to see what’s already fractured.” His eyes searched hers, fierce and unyielding. “No more masks. No more pretending.”

She nodded slowly, the vulnerability in her gaze reflecting his own.

In that suspended night, two haunted souls sat side by side, neither offering comfort nor cruelty, but something far more dangerous—truth.

The space between them felt smaller, as if the walls themselves were closing in, folding around the two of them like a fragile secret. Y/n’s breath was steady but hesitant, a silent rhythm that matched the tension thickening the air. He didn’t reach out to touch her—not yet—but he could feel the weight of her presence, heavy and raw, a quiet defiance wrapped in vulnerability.

He broke the silence first, his voice low and rough. “This isn’t going to be easy.”

She looked up, eyes searching his face, flickering with uncertainty. “I’m not asking for easy.”

He let out a short, humorless laugh. “Good. Because it’s not about comfort or pleasure. It’s about what happens when you stop hiding. When the cracks you’ve been burying start bleeding through.”

She swallowed, biting her lip. “What if I’m afraid?”

He leaned closer, eyes sharp but steady. “Then that’s exactly why you need to stay.”

Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Why do you want me to stay? I don’t understand.”

He studied her like a book he wanted to read but was afraid to open. “Because I see you. Not the version you show the world, but the parts you try to keep hidden—even from yourself. And I want to be there when those parts come undone.”

She blinked, a tremor running through her. “That sounds… dangerous.”

“It is.” His gaze didn’t waver. “But nothing worth having ever came without risk.”

She shifted slightly, the weight of his words settling over her. “I’m not sure I’m ready.”

“Maybe you never will be,” he admitted, voice softer now. “But I’m here anyway. And I’m not going anywhere.”

For a long moment, neither spoke. The silence wasn’t empty—it was charged, filled with possibilities and unspoken truths.

Finally, she whispered, “Then show me. Show me what it means to stop hiding.”

He nodded, a slow, deliberate motion. “I will. But only if you promise to be honest. With me, and with yourself.”

Her eyes met his, steady now, no longer afraid to be seen. “I promise.”

The room held its breath, and for the first time, the hollow between them felt like the beginning of something real.

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put me in a movie [sugar daddy au]

There were nights when Y/n sat in the bathtub long after the water had gone cold, knees pulled up to her chest, eyes on the ceiling. She’d count the cracks in the paint and pretend they meant something. Every line had a story, a direction, a place it was leading. It helped, somehow—imagining that even broken things had a path.

She was twenty-one and exhausted. Not in the theatrical, college-student way where tiredness came from parties or procrastination, but in a quieter, more insidious sense. The kind of fatigue that came from watching your bank account sit at three digits while your inbox overflowed with late notices and final warnings. The kind of fatigue that came from choosing between paying for groceries or your mother’s heart medication. Every day she felt like she was standing at the edge of a deep pool, staring down, wondering how long she could keep pretending she wasn’t already underwater.

She worked two jobs—one at a used bookstore that smelled like mildew and loneliness, and another as a library assistant on campus, where she mostly shelved books no one read anymore. Her fingers were always stained with ink and dust, her shoes always a little damp from the cracked ceiling in her apartment stairwell. Nothing she did was glamorous. She was tired of calling it character-building. Tired of pretending it was enough.

It was late on a Thursday when the email arrived. She had been sitting on the floor, knees raw against the tile, flipping through the notes for a class she could barely afford to attend. The subject line on the screen stopped her mid-sentence.

“OFFER.”

There was no greeting. No introduction. The message was short. Clean. It read like something written in a single breath and sent without a second thought.

You don’t know me. That’s intentional. Your name was passed to me through someone I trust. I am not searching for love, and I’m not interested in unnecessary attachment. I am, quite frankly, bored. I spend money easily. And recently, I’ve been wondering what it might feel like to spend it on a person, instead of things. I’m offering something simple. Clean. Private. No strings. No false promises. Just a transaction with soft edges. If this is something you understand, reply. If not—delete this, and pretend you never saw it.

There was no name, only a single initial. H.

Y/n didn’t move. She sat there with her knees still folded, the hum of the fridge loud in the silence. Her first instinct was suspicion. Her second was something closer to shame. But beneath both, thick and dark and dangerous, was interest. The kind she didn’t want to name out loud.

She told herself she wouldn’t answer. She let the message sit for a full day. She went to class. Worked. Ate one dry granola bar over twelve hours. And then, at 2:37 a.m., with no makeup, no dignity, and her laptop balanced on her thighs, she typed two words into the reply box.

I understand.

No name. No questions.

She didn’t sleep that night.

The next day, a reply came. An address. A time. A car would be sent. She wasn’t told who he was. There were no attachments. No contracts. Just a message that felt like it had teeth, and silence behind it that pulled like a current.

She almost backed out. But the next night, when the car came—sleek and black and soundless—she stepped inside.

The driver didn’t speak. The seats were too soft. The world outside the window grew more surreal with every mile—graffiti fading into marble, neon signs replaced by warm yellow lights that looked like candle flames behind floor-to-ceiling glass. They were going up, not down. Higher into something. Somewhere money lived.

She hadn’t brought anything. He’d told her not to.

She had showered in the dark. Worn her cleanest dress, the one that clung a little too tightly now, but made her look like she belonged to something expensive. Her heartbeat didn’t settle once. Not even when the elevator doors opened and she stepped into a space that was so quiet, it made her feel like she was being watched by the furniture.

The penthouse wasn’t warm. It was beautiful, but it was a cold kind of beauty. Stone and glass. Dark woods and soft rugs under bare feet. There were no personal touches. No clutter. The space didn’t look lived in. It looked arranged.

He was standing by the window with a drink in his hand, but it took her a moment to see him. He didn’t move when she entered. Just watched. Calm. Unblinking. The kind of stillness that wasn’t about hesitation—it was control.

She knew who he was before he turned fully toward her.

Harry Styles.

Not the man on the stage, the one in glitter and smiles. This version was stripped down to the bone—barefoot, in a black silk shirt, top buttons undone, hair a little messy like he’d run his fingers through it and then stopped halfway. He looked bored, not in the impatient way of a man waiting too long, but in the way of someone who had everything and didn’t know what to do with it anymore.

He didn’t offer a smile. Or a drink. Or his name.

She didn’t speak either.

There was something eerie about the way he looked at her, like he was memorizing her in slow motion. His gaze wasn’t hungry. It was observant. Detached. But there was something else under it, too—like he was looking for proof that she was real, not just another acquisition that would lose its shine after a few weeks.

He gestured toward a chair without words. She sat.

He leaned against the edge of the low table, glass still in hand, and studied her for what felt like hours.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Quiet. The kind of tone that settled behind your ribs and stayed there.

“I’m not here to play games, Y/n.”

And she knew, instantly, that he meant it.

Not just this arrangement. Not just tonight.

But everything.

He wasn’t offering affection. Or comfort. Or care. He wasn’t looking for someone to love or be loved by. He was a man who had spent too long inside rooms that echoed. A man who had gone numb from excess. And now he wanted to spend his money on something human.

He had chosen her.

And for the first time in months, maybe years, Y/n let herself want to be chosen.

The quiet stretched, long and heavy, filling the corners of the room like smoke. Y/n kept her spine straight in the chair, her hands resting in her lap the way she’d been taught in some etiquette class years ago that she’d barely passed, more out of luck than skill. It was the only armor she had now. Stillness. Stillness and silence.

Harry hadn’t moved much. He was a study in restraint—one hand on his glass, the other casually tucked into the pocket of his black trousers. His shirt clung to his frame just enough to remind her he was real. The top of his chest, faintly visible beneath the undone buttons, rose and fell like clockwork. Controlled. Everything about him seemed designed to reveal nothing and make you want everything.

She wondered if that was the point.

His voice came again, smooth as a poured drink and just as dangerous.

“You don’t have to talk,” he said, not as a suggestion, but a fact. “In fact, I’d prefer if you didn’t. At least not yet.”

She didn’t flinch. She only blinked once and nodded. She was good at not speaking. Good at not taking up space. Good at swallowing whole the ache of being unseen, then pretending it never tasted like anything at all.

The corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly. Not a smile—something quieter. Pleased.

He pushed off from the table slowly, the kind of slow that people used when they weren’t rushed by time because they owned it. His feet were silent on the floor as he moved toward her. Not predatory, not looming. Just deliberate.

When he reached her, he didn’t touch her. He didn’t sit. He simply stood in front of her, his eyes scanning her face, then drifting lower. Not hungry. Just… curious. Like she was a question he hadn’t decided how to answer yet.

“I don’t want to own you,” he said, more softly now. “I’m not interested in pretending this is something it’s not. But if we’re going to do this, I expect you to keep your word. To stay quiet. To be clean. To be on time.”

There was no contract, no paper. But the weight of his words was heavier than any ink.

“And in return,” he continued, “you won’t worry about rent. You won’t walk to work in the rain. You won’t think about bills or debt or whatever it is that’s been pulling your shoulders down since you walked in here.”

Her throat felt tight. He was close enough now that she could smell his cologne—earthy, expensive, spiced like something meant for darker hours of the night. Everything about him was designed for the night, she realized. His voice. His silence. His rules.

He reached into his pocket and held out a slim black card. It wasn’t flashy—no bright logos, no embossed name. Just a sleek, matte finish and a thin strip of gold along the side. The kind of card that didn’t have a limit. The kind that didn’t need explanation.

“This is yours,” he said, watching her. “For as long as I want it to be.”

Her fingers didn’t move at first. She wasn’t sure if it was fear or something else—something older and deeper than fear, maybe. That feeling you get standing on the edge of something high, knowing you might fall, but more afraid of what it might mean if you jumped on purpose.

But she reached out.

Her skin brushed his.

And the second she closed her fingers around the card, everything changed.

The card was warm from his pocket. Y/n hadn’t expected that. She thought it would feel colder—like metal, like warning. But it pulsed slightly in her palm, quiet and expensive, a promise dressed up like permission.

Harry didn’t say anything else. He simply turned away, walking back toward the window like nothing had changed, like she hadn’t just handed over a part of herself without speaking a word. His bare feet made no sound across the stone floor. He moved like someone who was always moving away from something, even when he was standing still.

Y/n sat there for a moment longer, unsure if she was meant to follow or remain, but too proud to ask. The silence in the room was thick with intention. It wasn’t awkward. It was purposeful. Designed. Like everything in here.

When she finally rose to her feet, the card still clutched lightly between her fingers, she felt it again—that shift in her spine, the one that came from being looked at like a sculpture instead of a girl. His gaze slid over her as she walked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. She stopped at a polite distance. There was no reflection of herself in the glass, only the city far below, lights like scattered bones in the dark.

Harry’s voice, when it came again, was softer. Not gentle, but quieter, like he was speaking to a memory, or maybe to himself.

“I chose you because you looked like you wouldn’t beg.”

Y/n didn’t look at him. Her eyes stayed on the skyline. Her chest felt strange—tight, then hollow, then tight again.

“I won’t,” she said. Not because she was proud, but because she didn’t know how to anymore.

He took a sip from his glass. The ice had melted.

The moment stretched again. She wondered how many women had stood where she was now. How many had spoken less and meant more. How many had taken his money, his rules, his silence—and still been haunted by the sound of his voice.

She felt like a body being studied, not a person being touched. He hadn’t laid a single finger on her. And yet, she felt marked.

“Do you live alone?” he asked suddenly, eyes still on the glass.

“Yes.”

“Anyone who’ll come looking for you if you don’t go home tonight?”

“No.”

He nodded, slowly, as if that was a relief—not because he planned to keep her, but because it meant fewer questions. Fewer strings.

“I want you to stay,” he said after a moment. “Not for me. For you.”

That surprised her.

“For me?” she asked, turning to look at him. Really look.

He was still beautiful in that clean, unreal way—sharp jawline, half-lidded eyes, hair that fell in disobedient waves. But there was something behind it, too. Something hollowed-out and old. Like he’d lost the ability to be surprised by beauty. Like he was tired of it.

“You don’t rest,” he said simply. “Not the real kind. I can see it in your hands. Your mouth. The way you never let your shoulders drop.”

She wanted to tell him he was wrong. That she didn’t have time to rest. That she didn’t have space. That her rest was never restful, only an ache delayed.

But he was already walking toward a hallway off the main room. He didn’t wait to see if she’d follow.

She did.

The bedroom was large, quiet, shadowed. Nothing too ornate—no gold, no glitter. Just dark walls, smooth floors, and soft bedding that looked untouched. A window open just slightly, letting in the hum of the city below.

He motioned toward the bed without looking at her. Not sexual. Not possessive. Just… direct.

“Lie down.”

Y/n stood there a beat too long, unsure if this was a command or something more complicated. But she obeyed. Carefully. Slowly. She laid down on the side closest to the window, the card still between her fingers, resting it on the bedside table like a talisman she wasn’t ready to let go of completely.

Harry didn’t follow her into the bed. He stayed near the door, watching, silent again. Then, almost absently, he reached out and turned off the light.

Darkness bloomed around her. Not suffocating, but deep.

She waited for his touch. For his breath on her neck. For the weight of a body beside her.

But nothing came.

The door closed with the softest click.

She was alone.

For a long time, Y/n lay there, blinking into the dark, unsure whether what had happened tonight was the beginning of something… or the end of her.

She didn’t expect to sleep. She thought the sheets would be too smooth, the pillows too soft, the room too quiet. That her body would stay alert, eyes wide open in the dark like they always were in unfamiliar places. But something about the way the room held her—dim and still and untouched—let her sink.

Maybe it was the first time in too long she didn’t feel watched by the world.

She drifted in and out. No dreams. Just a thick kind of unconsciousness. Heavy. Deep. She woke once in the middle of the night, unsure what time it was. The room hadn’t changed. But something in it had.

There was a sound.

Soft. Barely there. The creak of a door, the shift of weight on the floorboards. She turned her head, slow and quiet, eyes adjusting.

Harry.

He stood just inside the room. The door was open behind him now, the hallway casting a faint glow against his frame. He wasn’t dressed for sleep—still in the same black silk shirt, though it looked looser now, like he’d unbuttoned another few without noticing. His hair had been pushed back, but it was already falling forward again, curling slightly at the ends.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move.

She thought maybe he’d just come to look. To remind himself she was real. That he’d actually done this—that she was here, in his bed, under his roof, breathing in the same silence.

Y/n didn’t speak either.

She could feel her own breath now. Slow and full. Her limbs were warm under the sheets, her fingers curled lightly where they rested near her collarbone. She wondered what she looked like to him in that moment—if she seemed fragile, or false, or dangerously calm.

He took a few steps in. Barefoot again, like always. The quiet made it feel like she was watching a dream instead of a man. She didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare blink too fast. She thought if she did, the spell might break.

He stopped at the edge of the bed.

Still, he didn’t touch her.

His voice came then, low and quiet and rougher now—like it had been scraped raw by sleep or thought.

“I thought I wouldn’t care.”

He said it like a confession. Like he wasn’t used to saying things out loud unless they were orders.

Y/n didn’t ask what he meant. She didn’t need to.

He looked down at her for a long time, his eyes unreadable in the dim light. Then—finally—he sat down. Not beside her, but in the chair near the window. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together. His eyes didn’t leave her face.

“I thought you’d be like the others,” he said, still quiet. “Polished. Practiced. Hungry.”

Y/n swallowed, the sound too loud in her own ears.

“But you looked tired,” he continued. “Not the kind of tired you fake. The kind that never leaves.”

She didn’t speak. She let him fill the silence, unsure what it meant that he was giving her pieces of himself when he hadn’t even asked her favorite color.

“I think I wanted that,” he said. “Someone who wouldn’t try to impress me. Someone who’d take what I gave and leave the rest.”

A pause.

“You’re not what I expected.”

Neither are you, she thought.

Harry leaned back in the chair slowly, one hand raised to brush the back of his neck. The shirt slid farther open, exposing the lines of his collarbone, the soft skin just beneath his throat. He looked… human. Not cold. Not untouchable.

“I don’t sleep much,” he said, almost as an afterthought.

“Why?” Her voice was a whisper. It felt wrong to speak louder, like she might wake the room.

His eyes flicked to hers.

“I don’t like the things I dream about.”

Y/n stared at him. The confession came with no elaboration. No apology. And he didn’t explain. He didn’t need to.

Because she understood.

There was a kind of closeness that didn’t require touch. And right now, in the hush of the night, something passed between them that was quieter than desire. Deeper than hunger. Lonelier, too.

“I’ll stay quiet,” she said softly, echoing his words from earlier.

He looked at her for a long moment.

Then, without saying another word, he stood. He crossed the room slowly, stepping to the side of the bed where she lay. He didn’t climb under the covers. He didn’t brush her skin.

Instead, he sat down on the edge of the mattress, eyes lowered. One hand reached for hers. Not to hold it—just to rest his fingers gently over her knuckles.

The weight was barely there. But it was real.

And for the rest of the night, they didn’t speak again.

She fell asleep with his hand on hers, the card still lying like a shadow on the bedside table.

The morning came in shades of pale gold.

Sunlight slipped past the curtains in thin ribbons, casting faint lines across the bedsheets and pooling softly on the floor. It was the kind of light that didn’t demand to be noticed—it simply was. Gentle. Patient. The kind that took its time waking a room.

Y/n stirred first.

Her body woke before her mind did, blinking away the fog of sleep like dust shaken from a coat. Her eyes opened to the unfamiliar ceiling—smooth, pale grey, with a barely visible seam that ran through the plaster. There was a hush in the room, one so quiet it made her heart beat louder in her ears.

Then she remembered.

The bed wasn’t hers.

The room wasn’t hers.

But the air was still warm. And the silence wasn’t empty.

She turned her head, slowly, the sheet whispering against her bare shoulder.

Harry was sitting in the same chair as before.

He hadn’t moved much. Just shifted—one leg crossed over the other now, his arms resting loose on the armrests. His head tilted toward her, chin slightly down, mouth soft in a way she hadn’t seen last night.

He was watching her.

Not like a man watching something he owned.

More like a man who had surprised himself. Who didn’t know what came next.

Their eyes met. And something about the stillness held.

He looked different in the light. Less shadowed. Less sculpted. The edges of his face were no longer carved in contrast—they were softer now, almost delicate in places. He had faint creases under his eyes, the kind that only showed up in the morning, when someone had thought too much during the night.

She didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

For a long time, they just watched each other—two strangers sharing the kind of quiet that usually took years to earn.

Then, gently, Harry stood.

He moved like the silence had weight, like sound would break something fragile between them. As he crossed the room toward the bed, she sat up slowly, the sheet slipping down to her lap. Her hair fell over her shoulder, unbrushed, undone. She didn’t reach to fix it.

He stopped just in front of her, his eyes flicking across her face like he was trying to read something written there.

“Do you drink coffee?” he asked.

The question startled her.

It wasn’t what she expected. Not from him. Not after last night. Not after the card and the stillness and the invisible lines she’d just started learning how to walk.

But it was the most human thing he could have said.

She nodded once. “Black.”

His mouth curled at one corner. The smallest smile. Barely visible, but real.

“Come downstairs.”

He turned without waiting for her reply.

This time, she followed immediately.

The hallway was longer than she’d noticed before, the walls a deep blue-grey that caught the morning light like stone after rain. There were no paintings. No decorations. Just quiet.

When they reached the kitchen—if it could be called that—Y/n had to stop for a second.

It was unlike anything she’d seen. Sleek and modern, almost surgical. A long marble island stretched across the center, its surface spotless. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city skyline in perfect stillness. The world looked far away. Too far to matter.

Harry moved with precision. He reached for a small silver kettle, filled it without asking, and began to prepare the coffee the way a pianist might prepare their hands before playing—deliberately, patiently. She watched him grind the beans himself. Watched the way his fingers moved. He didn’t speak while he worked. He didn’t offer her a seat, and she didn’t ask for one. She stood across from him at the island, like this was some sort of ritual neither of them wanted to disturb.

When he finally placed the cup in front of her, she was surprised to see he’d remembered. No sugar. No cream.

“Thank you,” she said, quietly.

Harry didn’t answer. He poured a cup for himself and leaned against the counter, watching her over the rim as he took a sip.

They drank in silence.

And somehow, it wasn’t awkward. It was easy. Strange. Like the hush between them had grown roots overnight.

After a few minutes, he set his cup down and spoke without looking at her.

“There’s an account in your name now. Linked to the card. You’ll find it has more than you need.”

Her chest tightened.

He didn’t say how much. Didn’t list rules again. Didn’t remind her of what this arrangement was.

He didn’t have to.

But before she could respond, he added, voice lower now, eyes still on the city beyond the glass:

“I don’t expect you to pretend this is love.”

The words landed hard. But not cruelly.

It was a warning. Maybe even protection.

She stared at him for a long time, then said the only thing that made sense in that moment.

“I know.”

Another silence.

Then, almost too soft to hear:

“But I also don’t think I know what love would look like… if it ever walked in.”

Harry finally looked at her.

And something in his eyes—something older than either of them—shifted.

He didn’t touch her.

But this time, it wasn’t because he didn’t want to.

She finished her coffee slowly.

It was stronger than what she usually drank. More bitter. But smooth. Expensive in a way she couldn’t describe. Not in taste, but in the way it lingered on her tongue like something meant to be remembered.

Harry didn’t push the conversation further. He didn’t explain more about the account, or how this was going to work, or what she owed. He simply drank his own in quiet, watching the skyline like he was looking for something he’d long stopped expecting to find.

Y/n didn’t ask questions.

She didn’t know which ones she was allowed to ask yet.

He finally glanced at the time—an old Cartier on his wrist, sleek and quiet, not flashy—and murmured, more to himself than to her, “I have a meeting at ten.”

She nodded.

He didn’t say you can stay.

He didn’t say you should go.

He just walked toward the hall, then paused near the threshold. His back to her.

“There’s a driver downstairs. He’ll take you wherever you need to go. His name is Emil.”

That was all. No offer to see her out. No smile. But no dismissal either.

She didn’t know why it felt like… a kind of intimacy. The sort that didn’t ask for anything in return.

She waited until he disappeared down the hallway before moving.

The apartment felt even larger now in the daylight. The quiet wasn’t eerie—it was curated. Like every inch of space had been carved to serve its own silence. As she walked back through the main room, she passed the chair he’d sat in the night before. The impression of his body still lived in the cushion.

She hesitated at the side table.

The card was still there.

Black. Heavy. Her name engraved so faintly in gold it almost disappeared in the light. She ran her fingers across the surface once, just to feel it.

Then she picked it up and slipped it into her coat pocket.

She didn’t know what it meant yet—what carrying this would cost her.

But she also knew she couldn’t leave it behind.

The elevator was empty, encased in mirrors. As it slid downward, she caught glimpses of herself from every angle. Her hair slightly messy. Her lips bare. Her eyes… different.

She looked like someone in the middle of something she hadn’t decided was right or wrong yet.

The doors opened to the quiet hum of the building’s private lobby. Emil was already waiting by the car. A black Bentley, sleek and polished like it had never known dirt. He opened the door without a word.

She slid in.

The leather seats felt cool against her legs.

“Where to, miss?” he asked, voice low, respectful.

She blinked. It was the first moment she’d had to think of the outside world since stepping into Harry’s last night.

Her apartment?

School?

Work?

Each option felt suddenly… small. Distant. Like they belonged to someone else.

She cleared her throat. “Home. Please.”

He nodded and pulled away from the curb.

The city blurred past the windows, but she didn’t watch it. She stared down at her hands instead, folded gently in her lap.

Her fingers still remembered the weight of his, from when he’d sat beside her in the dark. Just a touch. A ghost of one.

She wasn’t sure what she was now.

Not a girlfriend. Not a secret. Not a possession, exactly.

But not free, either.

When she reached her apartment, Emil handed her a small envelope along with the keys. No words. Just a look.

Inside, there was a note. Typed. Plain white paper. No letterhead.

“You’ll find the first payment deposited. Use what you need. No calls. No begging. No lies. Keep quiet. — H”

She stood in the doorway of her tiny kitchen, reading it three times before folding it neatly and tucking it into the drawer next to the matches and loose change.

Y/n sat down at her table.

It still smelled faintly of instant noodles and last night’s rain.

The card was warm in her hand again.

And this time…

it didn’t feel strange.

It felt inevitable.

Three days passed.

They didn’t speak.

No messages. No late-night calls. No little check-ins, no emojis, no “thinking of you.”

Harry Styles didn’t do that kind of presence.

Instead, the silence hung like an expensive coat — weighty, deliberate, and somehow still flattering. Y/n didn’t question it. Or maybe she did, once, while brushing her teeth, her eyes catching her reflection mid-thought. But she didn’t say it aloud. She wasn’t owed his attention, and she didn’t pretend to be.

Still, the money was real.

Rent was paid for six months ahead. She opened her fridge and found it full. Her phone—upgraded, quietly. Her tuition? A notice came: “Balance cleared. Pending zero.” No message. No sender.

Just done.

It didn’t feel like sugar.

It felt like… power. Unspoken. Watching.

She went about her days mostly the same: lectures, part-time shifts at the library, nights in bed with her laptop open and unanswered texts from friends blinking like reminders that she hadn’t been herself.

And then, on a Thursday, everything shifted.

She was working at the front desk of the university’s library. It was late—almost closing. The rain outside had turned the windows into mirrors, and most students had already gone. She was restocking returns in the drop bin, earbuds in, half-listening to something soft and instrumental, when the bell above the door chimed.

She didn’t look up right away.

It was probably some last-minute student begging for one more hour of study space or a forgotten charger. She tapped the return key lazily, eyes still on the screen.

“Hi,” said a voice.

Low. Familiar. Real.

She froze.

Not dramatically—but something in her body pulled tight, like a string suddenly caught.

She turned.

He was standing just inside the door.

Harry.

He wasn’t wearing anything like that night—no silk, no black-on-black elegance. He had on a dark wool coat, damp from rain. His curls looked heavier. He wasn’t clean-shaven. And yet he looked more expensive now than he did that first night—like he hadn’t tried at all, and still the air bent around him.

Y/n pulled out one earbud, blinking as if unsure he was real.

“What are you—” her voice cracked. She swallowed. “Why are you here?”

Harry took a step forward.

“I had a meeting near campus. Walked past. Saw the lights.”

She just stared.

“You don’t believe in coincidences,” she said, voice quieter now.

He gave the smallest shrug. “Not usually.”

He walked to the desk, slow and deliberate. Every step felt heavier than it should’ve.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” she said softly, her hands tightening around the edge of the desk.

“Didn’t think I’d want to.”

That made her blink.

His eyes didn’t move from her face. Even in the bright, unflattering overhead lights of a university library, he looked at her like she was art hung wrong. Something too rare to belong here.

“Are you—” she started, but stopped.

“Am I what?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

They stood like that for a moment. Him on one side of the desk. Her on the other. No soft sheets. No low lights. Just reality.

And still, it felt like something was bending between them.

He glanced toward the window, the glass streaked with rain.

“You haven’t used the car,” he said.

She hesitated.

“No.”

“Why?”

She didn’t answer at first.

Then: “Because I like walking.”

He gave her a look, something unreadable but knowing.

Then his voice dropped lower. “You could’ve come back.”

The silence that followed felt heavier than any word.

She looked down. Her hands. Her name badge. Her chipped nail polish.

“I didn’t know if I should,” she admitted.

He didn’t speak right away.

Then, voice like velvet drawn over a blade:

“Next time… don’t wait for permission.”

That hung in the air between them. Soft. Sharp. Inviting. Dangerous.

A beat passed.

Then two.

“Are you going to check out a book?” she asked, almost smiling.

He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Should I?”

She shrugged. “It’s a library.”

Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter like he was about to tell her a secret.

“I don’t read fiction.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“Because I spend enough time pretending,” he said, gaze unmoving.

Her breath caught.

And then—just like that—he stepped back.

Didn’t touch her. Didn’t linger.

But he left something behind.

A folded square of paper on the counter. Blank on the outside.

She waited until he left to open it.

Inside, written in clean, elegant script:

“Come over tomorrow. Midnight. I’ll be awake. — H.”

She read it once.

Then again.

And felt the weight of her own heartbeat in her mouth.

part 2 >>>

also you can join my patreon for early access! btw i posted a new blurb to this fic :)

[grapejuicebrat]

beast

inspired by mia martina “beast”

You swore you were done with him.

You swore it with your teeth clenched and your suitcase half-zipped, swore it when your heart was still cracked and your throat still raw from shouting things you didn’t mean — or maybe you did. It was supposed to be the final time. The real goodbye. Not the kind where you storm out and wait for him to follow. The kind where you never look back.

But the city never learned how to forget him.

And neither did you.

You weren’t even sure what brought you here tonight. It wasn’t the music — you hated clubs. And it wasn’t the company — you came alone. Maybe it was the part of you that still burned. The part that missed how he looked at you like you were both art and ammunition. Like touching you was a risk worth taking every time.

The bass rattled your chest. Sweat and shadows clung to the air. Lights blinked red and gold and bruised violet as you moved through the crowd, breathing in heat and memory.

And then you saw him.

He was exactly where he shouldn’t be — lounging in the back of the club like the night bent itself around him. A lowball glass dangled from his fingers, half-empty. His sleeves were rolled, tattoos curling over his arms like smoke, collar open enough to show the edge of that familiar swallow inked near his heart. He wasn’t looking at anyone.

Except you.

His gaze met yours with the force of a fist. He didn’t smile. Didn’t move. But something inside you shifted. You felt it under your ribs — that raw, dangerous gravity that only he could conjure. That wordless promise of things you couldn’t resist, even though you’d tried.

Especially because you’d tried.

You shouldn’t have walked to him.

But your legs weren’t interested in logic.

As you approached, your pulse ticking fast in your throat, he finally spoke — low and sharp, like the edge of a knife wrapped in velvet.

“I thought you were done with me.”

You met his eyes — those impossible green eyes that had once memorized every inch of your skin — and shrugged, not trusting yourself to answer. Because the truth was simple.

You weren’t.

“I thought I was, too,” you said, voice barely audible above the music.

He watched you for a beat too long. Then he leaned in slowly, brushing his lips close to your ear, his breath warm and soft against your skin.

“But you missed the monster,” he murmured. “Didn’t you?”

You exhaled shakily, the words tasting too much like truth. Because that’s what he was — your monster. Your addiction. Your beautiful disaster. And maybe you never really wanted to be saved from him.

His hand found your waist, fingers digging in with just enough pressure to remind you who he was. Who you were — when you were with him.

He pulled you closer, mouth brushing your temple.

“Come with me.”

⸻

He led you out the back of the club, down a narrow hallway lit by a single flickering bulb. The door slammed shut behind you, muffling the noise of the party and leaving only silence and his footsteps echoing against concrete.

You followed him. No questions. Just instinct.

The room he brought you to wasn’t part of the club — it felt older. Hidden. Like something he wasn’t supposed to have access to, but of course he did. It was dimly lit, the walls lined with red velvet and dark paneling, a bottle of Scotch already uncorked on the table.

It wasn’t a bedroom.

But it felt like a confession booth.

He turned to you slowly, taking you in the way he always did — like he was trying to remember and forget you at the same time.

“You look like you’ve been dreaming of running,” he said, tilting his head. “But not fast enough.”

“I didn’t come here for you,” you lied.

He chuckled. “You never do. But somehow, you always end up at my door.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the words died when he stepped closer, his voice dropping lower.

“I heard about what happened,” he said, and there was a shift — something darker sliding into his tone. “With that man. The one with the expensive smile and the trembling hands.”

You froze.

You hadn’t told anyone. Not really. Not the truth.

“How—”

“I have my ways.” He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with careful fingers. “You think I stopped watching just because you left?”

You didn’t know whether to be afraid or flattered. Maybe both.

“He hurt you, didn’t he?” Harry asked softly, and it wasn’t a question.

Your chest tightened.

You hated that he knew.

Hated that he saw you clearer than anyone else ever had — even when you wished he wouldn’t.

He stepped closer again, until your back met the wall. He didn’t touch you yet — he didn’t need to. The air between you was electric, buzzing with want and war and all the things left unsaid.

“He treated you like glass,” Harry said. “But I never did.”

“No,” you breathed. “You shattered me.”

He nodded slowly. “Because I knew you could bleed and still come back stronger.”

His lips hovered inches from yours. His hand braced against the wall beside your head, his eyes locking into yours.

“I was never meant to be gentle with you,” he whispered. “And you never wanted gentle.”

You hated that he was right.

You hated how much you wanted him to be right again.

⸻

The kiss, when it came, wasn’t soft. It was heat and hunger, teeth and tongue. It was his hands gripping your waist, dragging you closer. It was months of silence burning into something filthy and beautiful and desperate.

But underneath it all… there was something else.

Something quieter.

Something waiting.

When he pulled away, just barely, his breath hitched against your mouth.

“There are people looking for me tonight,” he said suddenly, voice low and sharp. “I shouldn’t be here. With you.”

You blinked, stunned. “What do you mean?”

He studied your face, like he was deciding whether you deserved the truth. Then he stepped back, pacing slightly, jaw tight.

“There’s something I got mixed up in,” he admitted, pouring himself another drink. “Something I didn’t think would follow me this far.”

You stared. “What kind of something?”

His gaze flicked to yours, dark and unreadable.

“The dangerous kind.”

The room spun just slightly — or maybe it was just your heartbeat, unsteady in your chest.

“So why are you here?” you asked. “Why not stay away?”

He set the glass down with a soft clink, and his voice was quieter now. Tired. Real.

“Because I wanted to see you one last time.”

You swallowed hard. “Is this a goodbye?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just walked toward you again, slower this time, like he was memorizing the way you looked.

“No,” he said finally, pressing his hand to your cheek. “This is a warning.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You should’ve left. You should’ve demanded answers, turned and walked out and never looked back.

But you didn’t.

Because monsters don’t just hunt.

Sometimes, they love.

And sometimes, you love them back — even when you shouldn’t.

TO BE CONTINUED

[grapejuicebrat]

i’m no good without you [epilogue]

PREVIOUS PART <<<

You saw him again on a Tuesday.

The kind of rainy, unremarkable Tuesday where you wouldn’t expect your life to turn sideways. You were standing in the back of a small independent bookstore tucked between a florist and a locksmith on a quiet London street, reaching for a worn copy of Letters to a Young Poet. You already owned it. But you liked collecting different editions. Different fonts. Margins where someone else might have underlined a sentence you forgot to notice.

Your fingers were just grazing the spine when someone else reached for the same book. You looked up, half-ready to smile and make a polite comment. And there he was.

Harry.

You hadn’t seen him in over four years. Not in person, at least. Sometimes you caught his voice by accident — in a passing car, in a café, on the soundtrack of a show you didn’t know he scored. You always froze when it happened. And you always told yourself you were over it.

You weren’t prepared to be this close to him again. Not like this. Not when he looked so… real. Not like a memory. Not like a song. But a man. With slightly longer hair and tired eyes and a softness in his face that hadn’t been there before. And when your eyes met his, there was no crash. No explosion. Just something slow and deep and undeniable.

He blinked. A small smile pulled at his lips. “Hey.”

You stared at him for a beat too long. “Hi.”

That was all it took.

You ended up at the little café next door, the one that smelled like orange zest and old books. You sat across from each other, hands around warm mugs, both pretending you weren’t wondering how much had changed.

He asked how you were. Where you lived now. What you were working on. You asked about his time off, about his music, about whether he ever fixed the roof of that old countryside house he once said he’d retire in.

He laughed — quieter than you remembered, but genuine. “Tried to. Gave up. Hired someone in the end. I’m learning to let go of the things I can’t fix.”

You didn’t answer. But you looked down at your coffee, and your smile was telling.

When you finally stepped back out into the street, the rain had stopped. He walked with you in comfortable silence, and just before the corner where you were meant to part ways, he paused.

“I thought I saw you in Rome once,” he said, looking straight ahead. “Two years ago. But it wasn’t you. I think I just wanted it to be.”

You looked over at him. “Why?”

He hesitated. “Because I wanted to believe I hadn’t ruined it forever.”

There was no bitterness in his voice. Just a quiet, tired kind of hope.

You hadn’t expected it to feel like this. To be this gentle. This safe.

And suddenly, all the anger and grief you once carried—like lead in your chest—felt lighter than ever. Not gone. But manageable. Like it had finally settled into something that didn’t burn anymore.

You took a breath. “Do you want to walk a little longer?”

He looked at you. “Yeah. I do.”

That’s how it started.

You didn’t fall back into each other the way people in stories do. It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t easy. It was cautious. Intentional. You both had scars, and neither of you tried to hide them. You didn’t pretend to be the same people. You weren’t. You were better now — not perfect, but kinder. Calmer. Clear-eyed and bruised and real.

You started texting. Sometimes just a photo of the sky or a book or a lyric with no explanation. He sent you voice notes — little stories, a laugh, the sound of his boots on gravel. You saw him at a charity event a month later, and this time, you didn’t hesitate to sit beside him.

He asked if he could call you sometimes. You said yes.

He asked if he could see you when you were in town. You said yes.

And one day, over dinner at your apartment — the one with mismatched chairs and three dying plants and your paintings covering every inch of wall space — he looked at you for a long time.

You’d been talking about something ridiculous. Nothing meaningful. Something about your neighbors and the fox that kept stealing their shoes. But he was watching you like it was the first time he’d ever seen you laugh.

“What?” you asked, smiling.

He shook his head. His voice was soft when he spoke. “I never stopped loving you. I just didn’t know how to do it right back then.”

You didn’t speak right away. Your throat closed up for a moment, and all the versions of yourself that had loved him before — the hopeful version, the heartbroken one, the one who stood outside a gallery in the cold and said goodbye — they all went quiet.

You reached across the table. Took his hand.

“I know,” you said. “But I think maybe now… we could figure it out.”

He didn’t say anything.

He just squeezed your hand once, and that was enough.

Because sometimes love comes back.

Not because it’s unfinished.

But because it’s ready now.

And this time — you are too.

———

You knew what it meant when your phone lit up with his name at 2:03 AM.

He never called that late unless something had happened — something real, something heavy, something he didn’t know how to carry alone.

You let it ring twice before answering.

“Hey,” you whispered into the dark, your voice already soft, already breaking.

“Hey,” Harry said back. His voice was quiet. Tight. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” you lied. “Not really.”

There was silence. But not the kind that asked you to fill it. The kind that just needed to exist.

Then he breathed out slowly. “It’s coming out tomorrow.”

You didn’t need to ask what. You already knew.

The song.

He’d been working on it in pieces for weeks. Always vague about it. “Just something raw,” he’d said. “Something I need to get out.”

You never asked for details. You didn’t need to. You could feel it in his bones every time he came over late and sat on your couch like he was still choosing his words carefully around you. You could feel it in the way his fingers hovered over yours but didn’t always touch. You were getting closer, yes — healing together, yes — but some wounds had their own timelines.

“Do you want me to hear it before it goes out?” you asked.

He was quiet for a second. Then: “No. I want you to hear it when everyone else does.”

You didn’t say anything.

And he added, almost a whisper, “It’s always been for you. But I think now… I needed to write it for me too.”

Your throat burned. “Okay.”

“I just wanted you to know,” he said, softer now. “It’s not a goodbye song. But it’s what I couldn’t say back then. What I couldn’t admit.”

Your eyes welled. You blinked into the dark, even though there was no one there to see.

“I’ll listen,” you said. “Tomorrow.”

“I know,” he replied.

And then he hung up.

The next morning, the song dropped at midnight.

You didn’t press play right away.

You waited until the sun came up, until the world was quiet again, and you were sitting on your fire escape with tea gone cold beside you. You opened the app. Found his name. Pressed play.

And the first chords started.

It was just his voice at first — raw, low, aching.

The kind of sound that didn’t need anything but truth to carry it.

And then it began.

I deleted all the pictures but I still see your face

In the corner of my mirror, in the quiet of this place

I burned the sweater that you left, but it still holds your scent

God, I wish that moving on could mean forgetting what you meant

Everyone says I’m better now,

I laugh a little louder now

But in the dark, it’s still your name

I whisper when I’m breaking down

If I could hate you, maybe I could sleep

Maybe I could walk these streets without my knees getting weak

If I could hate you, maybe I could breathe

Without choking on the memory of what you were to me

But I loved you too much

To turn that into dust

So I’ll lie and say I’m fine,

Pretend I’ve made it through

And tell the world I hate you…

When the truth is I don’t know how to

You said we weren’t meant to last, but I replay every line

As if there’s still a version where we made it out in time

I see your shadow in the crowd, hear your laugh in someone else

And every time, I flinch — like I’m still losing you myself

I keep your number in my phone

Though I’ll never call, I know

Still waiting for that one mistake

To justify letting you go

If I could hate you, maybe I’d be free

Maybe I could write a song that doesn’t bleed when it repeats

If I could hate you, maybe I could leave

Every version of us buried underneath the grief

But I loved you too much

To throw it all away

So I’ll smile and say I’m done

When I’m still breaking every day

And tell the world I hate you…

But I’m the one who stayed

And I know you’re out there

Probably sleeping fine

While I’m still wide awake

Tracing every “what if” line

You’re living like I never loved you

And I’m stuck where we fell

You walked out like it was easy

And I stayed to hate myself

If I could hate you, maybe I’d let go

Of the nights we almost made it and the things you’ll never know

If I could hate you, maybe I could grow

Into someone who forgets you, someone you don’t own

But I loved you too much

And I still wear that scar

So I’ll say it like I mean it

Though I know it’s not the truth

I’ll tell the world I hate you…

Because I still love you too

By the time the song ended, your hands were shaking.

Not because it hurt. Not really. But because it was real. And because you could hear every version of yourself inside it — the girl who waited. The one who left. The one who loved him, and the one who still did.

You didn’t call him.

You didn’t text.

Instead, you opened your notes app. Typed something short. Something quiet.

“Thank you for saying it. I never hated you either.”

You hit send.

And maybe that was enough.

Not for closure — because love like this never really closes.

But for understanding.

For peace.

And for something new.

Not a beginning.

Not an ending.

Just… them.

At last.

This is it. Thanks for all the good comments, ily

[grapejuicebrat]

i’m no good without you [sequel]

part 1 read here

It’s strange, the way your body remembers someone before your mind does.

The moment you step into the gallery, you feel it.

Like a warning. A shift in the air pressure. Like your skin knows before your eyes can catch up.

You glance over your shoulder.

And there he is.

Harry.

Standing beneath a painting he doesn’t recognize as yours.

His profile is sharp. He looks older. Thinner. He’s wearing black, simple and understated — but there’s still something about him that draws people in. You can see it even now. The magnetism. The gravity of him.

He’s still beautiful.

But there’s a shadow in his posture.

Like he’s carrying something heavy beneath his skin.

You almost turn around and leave.

Almost.

⸻

When he sees you, it takes him a moment.

You expect him to smile.

He doesn’t.

He just… looks. Like his heart has been knocked out of rhythm. Like this is the moment he’s rehearsed a hundred times but hoped would never come.

“Hi,” he says eventually. His voice is lower than you remember. Rough around the edges.

You nod. “Hi.”

You stand beside him in silence for a while, staring at the painting.

It’s one of yours — oil on canvas, abstract but sharp.

All in shades of rust, wine, charcoal. A swirl of grief and tenderness. The caption reads:

“The Space Between Us.”

He doesn’t ask.

You don’t offer.

But you can tell he knows now.

That he was the space.

That you painted your heartbreak in public because it was the only place he’d see it.

⸻

You end up sitting together outside on the stone steps.

The city hums behind you. Cars pass. A breeze picks at your coat. You keep your hands in your lap so you won’t be tempted to reach for him.

He smokes quietly. His fingers tremble just enough to notice.

He offers you one. You shake your head.

“It’s been a while,” he finally says.

You nod. “A year.”

“I thought about calling.”

“You did.”

He winces, looking down.

You stare at a crack in the pavement. “Why now, Harry?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t plan to be here.”

“But you came.”

He exhales smoke. “I guess I hoped… that if I saw you again, I’d finally get to say what I couldn’t before.”

You wait.

He swallows hard. His voice dips low, almost inaudible. “I was drowning. And I didn’t want you to watch me die.”

Your jaw clenches. “So instead, I watched you leave.”

He nods slowly. “I know.”

You look away.

⸻

“I thought letting you go was mercy,” he says. “I told myself it was noble. That I was sparing you.”

“And in the end?”

He finally meets your eyes.

“I spared myself. From watching the damage. But I caused it anyway.”

You don’t answer. Not because there’s nothing to say — but because if you say anything, you might cry.

And crying in front of him would feel like starting over. Like opening a door that must stay closed.

You ask, “Are you still in love with me?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

You nod. “But I’m not her anymore.”

“I know,” he whispers. “And I don’t deserve her. Or you.”

Silence again. Thick. Too loud for words.

⸻

After a while, you say:

“I waited. I waited for you to come back. To say this. To be this. But you didn’t. And somewhere between the waiting and the silence… I stopped hoping.”

He flinches like it physically hurts.

“And now?” he asks.

You glance at him. There’s desperation in his face. But not manipulation. Just loss. Quiet, honest loss.

“Now…” you exhale, “Now I’m tired.”

He nods slowly. “So this is the part where it ends.”

You look at him for a long time. Memorize his face. The way his eyelashes catch the streetlight. The way his lips press together like they’re holding in all the words he won’t let out.

“This is the part where it ends,” you echo.

⸻

He walks you to your car.

There’s a moment when your fingers brush as he opens the door for you. And it feels exactly like it used to — like the start of something.

But it isn’t.

It’s the echo of something that’s already gone.

You sit down. Close the door. But you roll the window down.

“I loved you more than I’ve ever loved anything,” you say softly.

“I know,” he whispers. “And I’ll never stop carrying it.”

You give him a sad smile. “Don’t let it drown you again.”

“I’m already deep,” he says. “But this time I know — you’re not coming in after me.”

You nod. “I’m not.”

⸻

You drive away.

You don’t look back.

And he stands there, long after the red lights fade.

Because the truth is, love isn’t always enough.

Sometimes, it’s just the memory of what could have been.

And even that — when held too tightly — can pull you under.

Just like the abyss.

———

NEXT PART >>>

[grapejuicebrat]

i’m no good without you

be ready for double angst

⸻

There are three unread messages from him on your phone.

You don’t open them.

You don’t even look at them too long. You just let the notification sit there, like a wound you’re trying not to touch. Like a reminder that he’s trying now — when it’s already too late.

Funny how that works.

All the words you waited to hear are coming in now, after the silence already took your place in his bed.

⸻

The last time he came home, he was quieter than usual.

It was raining. You remember because he used to love the rain — said it made him feel like he could breathe, like the noise of the world dulled for just a second. But that night, he walked in, drenched and shaking, and didn’t say a word.

He dropped his bag on the floor and looked at you like he didn’t recognize the shape of your face anymore.

You said, “Hi.” Soft. Careful.

He nodded. Walked past you. Straight to the bedroom.

You stood in the hallway, clutching a mug of tea gone cold.

That was two months ago. The beginning of the end never looks like an explosion. It’s a slow unraveling. A thread slipping out of a sleeve. A room going quiet.

⸻

He still called it home. But you could feel it — he was already half packed in his mind.

The Harry who used to crawl into bed at 2 a.m. and whisper about the songs in his head, the dreams he had about running away with you — he wasn’t here anymore.

This Harry was distant.

Kind.

But distant.

Like he was always on his way out.

⸻

You tried.

God, you tried.

You waited up. You asked him questions, even when his answers were one-word murmurs. You learned how to cook his favorite pasta just right. You left handwritten notes in his luggage, tucked between his socks. You wore his shirts like armor when the loneliness got sharp.

You sat in the front row of his show and smiled like it didn’t hurt to hear him thank everyone else.

You clapped with the crowd.

You stood there, watching him shine, and you felt so small.

So invisible.

⸻

And he’d find you backstage, glowing with sweat and adrenaline, and pull you close and whisper, “Missed you.”

And you’d whisper back, “No, you didn’t.”

He never replied to that.

He just kissed you harder, as if maybe if he pressed hard enough, he could force you to believe it.

⸻

The real end came on a Tuesday.

You were sitting at the kitchen table, wearing the cardigan he gave you last winter, your hands wrapped around a chipped mug. There were eggs cooking on the stove — too long, now, probably burned. You didn’t care.

He walked in, still jet-lagged, sunglasses on despite the clouds outside. You looked up. Waited. Hoped.

He said, “Hey.”

You said, “Can we talk?”

He paused. Took off the sunglasses. His eyes were tired.

“Yeah,” he said. But it came out more like a sigh.

And that’s when you knew.

Really knew.

Because you’ve loved him for so long, you know what his real voice sounds like. And that wasn’t it.

⸻

You sat down across from him.

There was no fight. No screaming. No accusations.

Just… air thick with history.

You said, “Do you still love me?”

He didn’t lie.

He didn’t look away.

He just nodded, slow. “I do.”

You swallowed. Your hands were shaking.

“But not enough to choose me.”

And that silence — the one that followed — hurt more than any betrayal ever could

Because it was true.

And you both knew it.

⸻

He reached for your hand, but you pulled away.

Not because you didn’t want him to hold you.

But because you knew if he did, you’d never leave.

And you had to leave.

Because staying was killing you quietly.

⸻

You packed while he sat on the bed and watched.

He didn’t ask you to stop.

Not once.

Just sat there. His elbows on his knees, head in his hands, eyes never leaving yours.

You said, “You’re not a bad person, Harry.”

And he said, “But I was bad for you.”

You wanted to say no.

You wanted to argue.

But all you could do was zip the suitcase.

⸻

He walked you to the door.

It was still raining.

You didn’t kiss goodbye.

You didn’t say I love you.

Because you had said it a thousand times before. And he hadn’t heard you.

So this time, you left him with silence.

And for once, it echoed.

⸻

It’s been weeks now.

And he’s texting you more than he did when you were still together.

He says, I miss you.

He says, Please answer.

He says, You were right.

And the last message, the one you haven’t opened yet, just says:

Don’t forget about me. Even when I doubt you.

Even when I forgot how to show it.

Even when I lost you.

I never stopped loving you.

You don’t respond.

You cry.

You lie awake at night, fingers hovering over his name. But you don’t write back.

Because he loved you in pieces.

And you need someone who won’t make you beg for the whole thing.

sequel >>>

[grapejuicebrat]

stillness in your storm [angst]

You learned to love Harry in silence.

You learned it in waiting rooms and hotel lobbies, behind velvet ropes and backstage doors. In the spaces where his hand would squeeze yours for a second before he stepped into the lights. Where your voice became a whisper because his life was already too loud.

And you told yourself you could live with that.

Because you loved him.

Because he loved you.

Didn’t he?

⸻

He came home at 3 a.m. again.

You were curled up on the couch in one of his old sweaters, your eyes barely open, your body already aching from pretending not to care.

The door clicked softly. He didn’t expect you to be awake.

When he saw you, his whole face lit up. “You waited up for me?”

You didn’t answer. You just watched him. Taking in the wild curls pushed back with his hand, the collar of his shirt slightly wrinkled, lipstick smudged on his neck — not yours. Probably just a fan or a stylist. Something innocent. You hoped.

“I missed you,” he said, walking toward you like nothing was wrong. Like he wasn’t always disappearing lately.

You blinked slowly, words stuck in your throat. “You said you’d be back by midnight.”

“I know, m’sorry,” he murmured, sitting next to you, reaching for your hand. “Things just ran over. Paparazzi were mad. Jeff needed me to—”

“Stop.”

He did.

You looked at him — really looked — and for a second, you hated how beautiful he was. How the world bent to him. How millions of people felt like they owned a piece of him, while you… you were just the shadow beside him. The girl in the background of blurry photos, always unnamed.

“I don’t know who I am with you anymore,” you whispered. “Or maybe I do, and I just hate her.”

“Hey—” he moved closer, but you pulled away. You couldn’t handle his hands on you right now. Not when your heart felt like a cracked glass one gust away from shattering.

“You know what it’s like?” you said, your voice trembling. “It’s like you’re the sun. And I’m just standing too close. I’m burning alive and you don’t even notice.”

Harry’s jaw tensed. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” you said. “It’s not. But it’s real.”

⸻

You remembered the first time you met.

He wasn’t Harry Styles to you yet. Just a boy with sleepy eyes and dimples who asked if he could sit next to you on a flight to London. You talked the whole way. He wrote your number on a napkin. And you — foolishly, hopelessly — thought he was something soft.

But he was made of gold and glass and noise.

You couldn’t keep holding him without dropping yourself.

⸻

That night, you cried in the bathroom with the water running.

He knocked once. Didn’t push.

You could hear him pacing outside the door, murmuring your name like it was a song only he remembered.

“Please,” he said finally. “Let me in.”

You opened the door with red eyes, wet cheeks, and every part of you screaming to be held and left alone all at once.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you choked. “I can’t keep pretending I don’t care when you miss our anniversaries. When you cancel our weekends. When I see you smiling with someone else in photos before you even tell me you’re gone.”

Harry stepped forward, arms wrapping around you despite your protests.

“I’m not good at this,” he whispered against your hair. “I know I’m not. But I swear to you, I love you. You’re my quiet in all the chaos. You’re my home.”

You sobbed into his chest because how could love feel this heavy?

How could home feel so cold?

⸻

You stayed.

Of course, you did.

You made up. He kissed your collarbone like it would erase the pain. He promised to try harder. To call more. To bring you next time. He whispered that he needed you.

And for a while, you believed him again.

You clung to the good days — the mornings he made pancakes, the nights he read poetry to you, the way he held you like you were sacred.

But then the world came calling again.

And this time, when he left, he didn’t even say goodbye.

⸻

The silence stretched for three days. Three. You didn’t even fight. There was no screaming match, no tearful plea to stay. Just… nothing.

When the phone rang on the fourth night, you didn’t answer. You stared at the screen until it stopped flashing.

When he finally showed up at your door, soaked from rain, eyes wild, you stood still.

“Don’t,” you said softly. “Not this time.”

He stepped forward anyway. “I’m falling apart without you.”

“I’ve been falling apart with you,” you said. “And you didn’t notice.”

He broke then. Right in front of you. Voice hoarse. Knees weak. Tears — real, raw — on his cheeks.

“Then let me gather you,” he begged. “Let me fix this. I’ll quit everything. I’ll stay. I’ll—”

“No,” you interrupted. “You were never meant to stop being the sun. But I was never meant to live in your shadow.”

He opened his mouth, but there was nothing left to say.

You pressed your palm to his chest, right where his heart was breaking, and whispered:

“I love you. But I love myself now, too.”

And you closed the door.

⸻

Harry stood outside in the rain for a long time.

You watched him through the curtains.

Just like you always had.

Except this time, you didn’t go after him.

And maybe that was the bravest thing you’d ever done.

You break, I gather. You go quiet, I understand. You’re alone, I disappear. You leave, and I miss you.