harryshouseenthusiast

[harryshouseenthusiast]

This is one of my fav one shots of all time. I ALWAYS find myself coming back to it, sooo perfect in so many ways ❤️❤️❤️

Can you do an imagine where y/n and harry are at Harry's business party. Harry is that kind of person who only spoke when needed, quite strict and never shows affection towards y/n and her friends ask how is she even living with him when he's so boring and strict. but they don't know how caring he is behind the closed doors and how hot he is in bed. When they go home after the party y/n tells harry about her friends and things get hot after that.😛

i’ve been struggling with writing smut :( so instead of that, i introduced to you harry’s love boner… I HOPE THAT IS OKAY

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Keep reading

[harryshouseenthusiast]

IM IN LOVE WITH THIS I CANT DESCRIBE IT

Table 11 (H.S One Shot)

General Masterlist ceo!harry x fem!reader

Summary: based on this request.  An encounter at a restaurant brings together Y/N, a hardworking waitress with little time for love, and Harry, a successful yet guarded man who fears opening up. Both hesitant to risk their hearts, they find themselves drawn to each other, their bond growing through late-night conversations, stolen moments, and quiet acts of understanding.

A/n: Hi again!! my second one shot out there! i’m so excited! i hope you all enjoy it and thanks to @panini for sending the request i enjoyed writing this sooo much. And as always thanks to @eileenrry for hyping me up always. If you wish to be tagged in other works please comment, or dm me.

Word count: 8k

Warnings: A tiny bit of angst, use of y/n, casual alcohol consumption over dinner, 700 words of SMUT at the end, use of puppy and daddy, unprotected sex. (If i missed something please do not hesitate to tell me)

“Can you grab table 6 for me?” you asked Mandy while balancing three cocktails on a tray, your fingers trembling slightly from the weight. It was Valentine’s season, and Velours et Flamme was packed to the brim. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses echoed through the gilded dining room, where even the flickering candlelight seemed to exude wealth.

It didn’t matter that it wasn’t Valentine’s Day yet—everyone wanted their moment under the chandeliers. For them, it was romance; for you, it was a chaotic shift.

You’d been working at Velours et Flamme for a year now, and you knew the drill: smug diners with wallets thicker than your rent, checks that could pay off your student loans, and that absurd scotch on the menu—£1,500 a pour. To this day, you were waiting for the kind of client who would actually order it. 

“Sure thing,” Mandy said with a wink, swooping past you with practiced ease. She had a knack for smoothing things over, whether it was with a picky customer or a stressed coworker. If Mandy wasn’t here, you weren’t sure how you’d survive these shifts.

London was unforgiving, and the pay barely covered the essentials—your rent, your transit card, and the occasional discount coffee from the café down the street. Your shoes, now with a small but growing hole near the toe, told the story of just how tight things had become. God forbid you needed to replace anything.

As Mandy headed for table 6, you stole a moment to glance around the room. The scent of truffle oil and roasted lamb was in the air, mingling with the sharper scent of overpriced cologne. Couples leaned in close at every table, champagne glasses raised, their conversations drowning in the clinking cutlery and soft piano music. Mandy, as usual, glided effortlessly between the chaos. She was stunning—like she belonged on the cover of Vogue instead of weaving through tables at Velours. The way she carried herself, you wouldn’t guess she was struggling just as much as you were. But you knew better. Beneath her flawless smile and the perfectly knotted apron, she was just like you: one bad week away from disaster.

You adjusted the tray in your hands and sighed. This was your life now. Maybe someday you’d climb out of this rut, but for now, it was all about surviving one shift at a time.

Just as you turned to deliver the drinks to table 9, the heavy oak doors of the restaurant creaked open, and the cold London air swept in. You glanced toward the entrance, catching sight of a man walking in. His tailored coat was with some raindrops, and his dark hair was just long enough to curl at the edges.

He was greeted by the host, and you caught his name—Harry Styles. You watched as the host confirmed his reservation.

Harry was alone, which was odd for this time of year. Valentine’s season practically demanded companionship at a place like this. But maybe his date was running late. Or his wife? You glanced at his left hand, but from this distance, it was impossible to tell.

He looked about 33, though it was hard to pin down exactly—youthful yet mature, effortlessly put-together in a way that suggested his wardrobe cost more than your yearly salary. His tailored black coat hung perfectly over broad shoulders, and when he ran a hand through his hair, the movement seemed practiced, like he was used to being observed.

And worth a million dollars? That part wasn’t in question. Everything about him screamed money—the subtle watch peeking out from his cuff, the polished leather boots, the way he carried himself like the room was his even though he’d just walked in.

The host gestured for him to follow, leading him straight to a table in your section. Your section.

You felt a flicker of something—nerves? Annoyance? You couldn’t quite put your finger on it. All you knew was that your curiosity had been piqued. You adjusted your apron and reached for the notepad tucked into your pocket, readying yourself to take his order.

Before you could take a step, Mandy appeared at your side, her lips curving into a sly smile.

“Think that’s the guy who’s finally ordering the scotch?” she teased, nudging you with her elbow.

You snorted softly, shaking your head. “If he does, I’ll frame the receipt,” you muttered.

Mandy’s grin widened, and she winked before sashaying off toward table 6.

You took a steadying breath and made your way toward his table. As you approached, you couldn’t help but notice how his gaze briefly flicked up from the menu he’d been scanning

“Good evening,” you said, forcing your voice to steady as you reached his table. “Welcome to Velours et Flamme. Can I start you off with something to drink?”

He looked towards his phone on the table “Just water for now, thanks,” he said, his voice rich and smooth, but maybe with a tired undertone

Not the scotch, then.

“Of course,” you replied, scribbling it down. You walked towards the bar and Mandy was there patiently waiting

“The scotch??” she asked, her smile mischievous as her eyes flicked over your shoulder in the direction of his table.

“Water,” you said, your voice tinged with mock defeat as you plopped your notepad on the counter.

Mandy looked at you for a moment before the bartender slid the glass of water across the counter. She grabbed it and handed it to you with a knowing smile. “C’mon don’t be so sad, we will find that scotch guy”

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you headed back to his table. As you approached, you couldn’t help but glance at him again—his fingers tapping idly against the edge of the table, his eyes scanning the room but never settling on anything. There was something about him, something you couldn’t quite place.

“Here you go,” you said, placing the glass of water on the table.

“Thanks,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “Can I get the smoked salmon, the asparagus salad, and…” He paused, finally looking at you. The pause lingered longer than you expected. “A Blackthorn Reserve. Neat,” he finished, his gaze still fixed on you.

“Smoked salmon, asparagus salad, and Blackthorn Reserve,” you repeated, trying to read him, but his expression gave nothing away.

“Thanks…” he said going back to his phone No date, no wife—just him, casually dining in an absurdly expensive restaurant while everyone else was tangled in whispered conversations and candlelit stares. He was the only one alone, a stark contrast to the Valentine’s frenzy buzzing around.

Something about him tugged at your curiosity. Why was he here, of all places? Who was he? How much was his coat, and why did it cost more than your rent? Rich men came and went every day, dripping with smugness and entitlement, but he was different. There was no show, no pretense. He treated this place like it was McDonald’s—calm, unbothered, as if the exclusivity and extravagance meant nothing to him. That nonchalance only added to the mystery, making it impossible not to wonder what his story was.

The bar hummed with activity, a low symphony of clinking glasses, muted laughter, and the occasional scrape of chairs against polished wood. You navigated the crowd, the weight of the tray in your hand feeling oddly grounding amidst the chaos.

“Can I get a Blackthorne Reserve, neat?” you said to the bartender on call. He barely glanced up, focused on shaking a cocktail for the group at the other end of the counter. The momentary wait was a blessing—giving you a second to steal a glance at him again. He sat at the corner table, the one slightly shrouded in shadow. His posture was relaxed, one hand tracing the rim of the empty glass in front of him.

When his drink was ready, you balanced the tray carefully and made your way over. The coaster slid neatly onto the table before you placed the drink on top.

“Blackthorne Reserve, neat,” you said softly, your voice steadier than you felt.

He looked up, his expression calm yet unreadable. “Thanks... Can I get your name, please?” His tone was casual, but his words carried a strange weight that made your heart stutter.

“Y/N, sir,” you replied, meeting his gaze for a second longer than you intended.

“Thanks, Y/N.” He smiled then—a small, soft smile that you could feel, inexplicably, in your chest.

You nodded and turned away, heading to the next table, though you were suddenly more aware of the way you moved. You kept busy—taking orders, clearing plates, laughing politely at some table’s joke. Yet, every so often, your gaze wandered back to him. He wasn’t demanding, not like some of the regulars who snapped fingers or tapped glasses. No, he sat with an air of quiet patience, occasionally checking his phone, occasionally glancing around the room. You wondered what had brought him here tonight. A celebration? A distraction?

When his dinner order was ready, you rushed to the kitchen pass, grabbing the plate with a precision born of habit. You steadied your breathing as you approached his table, placing the dish down with care.

“Smoked salmon and asparagus salad,” you announced.

“Perfect, Y/N. Thank you so much,” he said, and there it was again—the faint curve of his lips, his voice as soft as it was warm.

The evening rush began to taper off, leaving the restaurant quieter but no less busy. You caught sight of him still at his table, the remnants of his meal neatly pushed to the side. His glass sat empty now, save for the last amber droplet at the bottom, and you found yourself wondering if he was ready to leave.

Before you could approach, he raised his hand slightly—a small, deliberate gesture that seemed to summon only you.

“Another Blackthorne Reserve?” he asked when you were close enough to hear.

“Of course, sir.”

“Drop the ‘sir,’ please,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching into a barely-there smile. “Harry, my name it’s Harry”

You felt a flush of warmth creep up your neck but nodded. “Coming right up, Harry”

At the bar, you relayed the order, watching out of the corner of your eye as he leaned back in his chair, gaze drifting lazily around the room. By the time his drink was ready, you were certain he had no intention of rushing out. You placed the glass in front of him with the same careful precision. “Blackthorne Reserve,” you said softly.

“Thank you, Y/N,” he said, his voice quieter now, as though the dimming energy of the restaurant had reached him too. “Anything else?” you said softly

He didn’t immediately answered instead, he cradled the glass in his hands, staring down at the dark liquid for a moment before lifting his gaze again. His eyes roamed the room, landing briefly on each table. Couples sat scattered around the restaurant—some leaning close, sharing quiet conversations; others laughing over shared plates. A few tables sat in comfortable silence, the kind that came from years of companionship. And then at you.

“Busy night,” he murmured, catching you lingering nearby.

You looked around as if you didn’t knew it ws a busy night, then nodded. “Always is, especially with so many couples out. Valentine’s coming up”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice carrying a wistful note. He swirled the drink in his glass before taking a slow sip. “Guess I picked the wrong night to dine alone.”

The words caught you off guard, but you managed a polite smile. “Some people prefer it. A quiet drink, good food—it’s not a bad way to spend an evening.”

He looked at you then, a glint of curiosity in his eyes. “What about you? Do you get much time for quiet evenings like this?”

The question was unexpected, and you faltered. “Not much,” you admitted. “Work keeps me busy.”

He nodded, as if that answer satisfied him, but there was something in his gaze that lingered. It felt like he wanted to say more but didn’t. As the evening wore on, he stayed longer than most, nursing his second drink and watching the world around him with a quiet attentiveness. You found yourself glancing his way more often than you meant to, wondering what kept him there—and whether he might ask for something else before the night was over. The restaurant was nearly empty now, the hum of conversation replaced by the clatter of plates being cleared and the occasional murmur of the remaining people. You passed by his table one last time, noting the way he stared into the near-empty glass, lost in thought.

As if sensing your presence, he looked up and offered a faint smile. “Can I get the check, please?”

You nodded, quickly retrieving the bill and placing it on the table. “Here you go.”

He glanced at it, pulled out a sleek black card, and handed it back to you. “Thanks, Y/N.”

The transaction was quick, and when you returned with the receipt, he stood, slipping the signed copy back into your hands.

“Have a good night,” he said softly, pausing just long enough to meet your eyes before heading toward the door.You watched him leave, his figure disappearing into the cool night air. The faint sound of the door closing behind him was a strange punctuation mark to the evening—unremarkable, yet lingering all the same.

And then, the rhythm of work pulled you back, but you couldn’t quite shake the weight of his presence. “Y/N? C’mon there’s a lot of mess here” you heard Mandy and glanced at her, plates, glasses, napkins. It was going to be a long week.

-----

Valentine’s day arrived and the soft murmur of conversations filled the elegant space of Velours et Flamme. You were just adjusting a neatly folded napkin at your station. It was already late, just 2 hours before closing, couples were coming and going, but this was the last shift of reservations

“Good evening, welcome to Velours et Flamme. Do you have a reservation?” the host asked.

“Yes, Styles. Harry Styles,” came the reply. His voice was smooth, distinct, and enough to draw your eyes toward him. Standing tall in a sleek coat.

“Table 11, if possible,” he added with a polite nod, his gaze drifting briefly over the dining area.

“Table 11 is currently busy, but I can offer you 19. It’s a lovely table by the window.”

There was a brief pause “19 it is,” he said, his voice tinged with reluctance.

The host gestured toward the far side of the room, leading him past softly glowing tables and couples lost in intimate conversations. He sat down, still looking for you but his perspective was interrupted by Mandy, the epitome of calm under pressure, She greeted him warmly, placing a menu on the table. “Good evening, sir. Welcome to Velours et Flamme. Can I start you off with a drink tonight?”

He looked up from the menu, his polite smile softening as he spoke. “Thanks, but before I order… Is Y/N working tonight?” 

Mandy blinked, caught off guard, but quickly recovered. “Y/N? Oh, yes, she’s here tonight. She’s been covering the other section.”

He leaned back slightly in his chair, his expression unreadable “Do you think she could take my table instead?”

Mandy’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “Of course. Let me check with her, and I’ll be right back.”

As Mandy walked toward you, you noticed her smirking like she was holding onto some juicy secret. “You’ve got a request,” she said, her tone teasing.

Your brows furrowed. “A request? For what?”

“For you,” she said, nodding toward table 19. “Mr. Styles wants you to take his table. Any idea what that’s about?”

Your stomach flipped at the mention of his name. You clearly remembered him from two nights ago. You wiped your hands on your apron, trying to steady yourself. “I’ll take it and you can take table 10 for me” you said, as you headed toward his table.

When you arrived, he looked up, his expression softening into a warm smile. “Y/N,” he said, your name sounding effortless on his lips. “Good to see you.”

“Good evening, Mr. Styles,” you replied, your voice steady despite the quickening beat of your heart. “I’ll be taking care of your table tonight. Can I start you off with something to drink?” “Wine, Soléne Blanc, Truffle-infused Fettuccine and sparkling water” he said not even looking at the menu “Coming right up” you said smiling, you somehow felt happy, you had your usuals clients, but they were cold, smug, mostly annoying, him? totally different vibe. You kept serving him with a small smile, always checking in case he needed something, but he didn’t ask for much. He ate quietly, sipping his wine and enjoying his pasta like it was just another evening out. Like if the restaurant wasn’t all decorated with heart balloons and cupid stuff.

The night went on, and the restaurant slowly emptied. Couples left hand in hand, tables were cleared, and the soft hum of conversation faded away. Eventually, it was just one other customer in the far corner—and him. You busied yourself wiping down tables and resetting for the next day, glancing at his table now and then. He didn’t look like he was in a rush, finishing his wine and leaning back slightly in his chair.

Finally, he raised his hand, and you walked over, thinking he was ready to leave.

“Would you like the check, Mr. Styles?” you asked politely, ready to grab it for him.

But instead of nodding, he looked up at you, his expression calm but curious. “Not just yet,” he said. “Are you allowed to sit down for a bit?”

The question caught you off guard. “Yes, of course,” you said, glancing around. The manager and the host had gone home early that day to be with their SOs, but you? Along with the servers, chefs, and cleaning staff? Yeah, no such luck.

You sat down across from him, feeling a bit nervous, not sure what this was all about.

“You know,” he started, his tone hesitant, “I don’t know if this is weird at all—and you can tell me to fuck off if it is—but...” He paused, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t have many friends, and tonight... I just need to vent.”

“Well, I’m a good listener,” you replied, suddenly way more curious than before.

He exhaled deeply, his hand still resting on the base of his glass. “It’s Valentine’s Day, you know?” he started, glancing out the window. “Supposed to be about love, connection... all that.” He let out a dry laugh. “But here I am, eating dinner alone, wondering if I’ve got it all wrong.”

You tilted your head slightly, encouraging him to go on.

“My love life?” he said, leaning back in his chair. “It’s... nonexistent. And it’s not like I haven’t tried. But most people don’t stick around. They see me, and they assume—‘CEO,’ right? So they’re either intimidated or they expect me to be some larger-than-life, perfect version of myself. I end up pushing people away because... what’s the point? I’ll never be what they want me to be. And even if I could... it wouldn’t feel real.”

He paused, his expression softening. “It’s stupid, isn’t it? A room full of people earlier tonight, and I’ve never felt lonelier. Sometimes, it feels like there’s this... wall between me and the rest of the world. Like I’ll never find someone who’s really... my person.”

Your heart ached a little at his words. “I don’t think that’s stupid at all,” you said softly. “I mean, I get it... in a way. Maybe not from a CEO perspective,” you added with a small laugh, “but... I get it.”

You leaned forward, your fingers lightly tracing the edge of the table. “I’ve been working as a waitress for years now. Just trying to make ends meet, you know? And between shifts and side jobs, there’s no time for... anything else. No time for dating or even dreaming about a real future.

“The few boyfriends I’ve had?” you continued, shaking your head. “They never got it. They’d complain about me working too much or not spending enough time with them. But they never thought about my goals—what I wanted. And let’s be real,” you added with a small shrug, “it’s not like my paycheck could make those dreams happen anyway. So, yeah, I guess I’ve given up on that, too. What’s the point, right?”

You let out a short laugh, trying to lighten the moment, but he didn’t laugh with you. Instead, he studied you, his expression softening even more.

“It’s different,” you said quickly, “but... I think I understand. Feeling like you’re giving so much of yourself but never really... being seen.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on yours. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Exactly that.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The sounds of the kitchen winding down and the soft hum of the music filled the space between you.

“Thanks” “Anytime”

-----

After that first night, when he opened up to you, something shifted. He became a regular, showing up more often than you expected. Always in your section. Always polite, Always Harry. with that soft smile that somehow made your stomach flip no matter how much you tried to ignore it. And yet, every time he walked through the door, you felt a tiny pang of dread mixed with curiosity.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t kind—he was. He never made you feel uncomfortable, never crossed a line. But that was exactly the problem. It was too easy to talk to him, to laugh at his dry jokes or share fleeting glimpses of yourself you hadn’t meant to reveal. You’d been down this road before, or so you told yourself. You knew what happened when you let someone in. It started with little things—a laugh, a smile, a shared moment. And before you knew it, your heart was tied up in something messy, something that always felt like it demanded too much of you.

Your exes had taught you that love wasn’t about equal footing, at least not for someone like you. Love had been another job, another place where you had to prove yourself, where your dreams took a backseat because someone else needed more—more time, more attention, more of you.

And now, here he was. Harry. A man who, on the surface, seemed worlds apart from you but had a way of making you feel like he truly saw you. And that terrified you.

Because what if he didn’t? What if, like everyone else, he was drawn to an idea of you—someone kind, patient, maybe even a little mysterious—but not the real you? The one who worked double shifts just to keep the lights on, who barely had time to think about her own dreams, let alone share them with someone else?

So, you kept your walls up. You kept things professional, polite. You smiled, laughed when it felt safe, but you never let yourself think too much about why his visits mattered or why your heart raced when you saw him.

Until that night.

You brought the check over as you always did, a practiced smile on your face. He signed it, handed it back, and thanked you like he always did. But rushed to go out.

When you glanced down at the receipt, your breath caught.

“123-456-7890 Call me? - Harry”

The number scrawled below it was neat, confident, like he hadn’t hesitated for a second. But you did.

You gripped the paper tightly, your mind spinning. This was the moment you dreaded—the moment where things teetered on the edge of something more. And with it came all the fears you’d been trying to bury.

Because what if he meant it? What if he actually wanted something real? What if he saw more in you than you could see in yourself? And maybe worst of all... what if you let yourself hope, only to have it all fall apart again?

You froze for a moment, staring at the slip of paper, your mind racing. He had just walked out the door, and you glanced after him through the window, catching the faintest glimpse of his silhouette.

----- A few nights passed, and you convinced yourself that ignoring the receipt was the right thing to do. The thought of calling him felt too big, too real. You’d gotten good at guarding your heart, at keeping things simple. But deep down, you felt the faint sting of regret every time you thought about it.

Then, on a quiet evening, as the rush died down, there he was.

You saw him before he saw you, his figure familiar now, confident but approachable. He made his way to the host stand, scanning the room until his eyes landed on you. His smile was soft, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t entirely sure he’d made the right decision coming back.

“Table 11 again?” he asked the host.

---

You approached, trying to steady your nerves. “Good evening,” you said, your voice quieter than usual.

“Hi,” he replied, leaning slightly forward. His expression wasn’t upset, but there was something thoughtful in his eyes. “I hope you don’t mind me stopping by.”

You shook your head, unsure what to say. “Why would i?” 

“I just wanted to check in,” he said. “About the number. I wasn’t sure if I crossed a line leaving it. If I did, I’m really sorry. That wasn’t my intention.”

You blinked, surprised. The last thing you expected was for him to apologize. God you expected an angry response, even pretentious but you even scolded yourself in your mind just thinking Harry was capable of that. “No, you didn’t cross a line,” you said quickly. “Not at all. It’s just...” You hesitated, feeling your walls crack ever so slightly. “It’s complicated.”

“I get that,” he said softly, leaning back in his chair. “I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. That’s the last thing I’d want.” The sincerity in his voice made something shift in you. For all your fears about opening up, he was here, not pushing, not demanding, just... waiting. The crack on your walls was now getting bigger.

“Thank you,” you murmured. “For saying that. And for... being patient.”

He nodded, smiling faintly. “I figured it was worth it. You seem worth it.”

The words hung between you, and for a moment, you couldn’t speak. Your chest felt tight, like you were standing at the edge of something unknown. And then, before you could overthink it, you made a decision. 

One wall completely down.

You reached into your apron pocket, your fingers brushing against the scrap of paper you’d tucked away days ago. Slowly, you slid it out, unfolding it carefully before placing it on the table in front of him.

He glanced down, his brows lifting slightly as he recognized the paper.

“I didn’t call i did save the number in my phone but..i didn’t call…” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Because I was scared. I’ve always been scared. But maybe...” You took a shaky breath. “Maybe I’m tired of being scared.”

His eyes softened, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of something you hadn’t let yourself hope for—understanding, warmth, maybe even relief.

“So,” you continued, your voice steadying as you looked him in the eye. “If the offer’s still open, I’d like to start over.”

His smile widened, and he picked up the slip of paper, tucking it into his jacket pocket like it was something precious.

“The offer’s still open,” he said, his tone light but full of meaning.

For the first time in a long time, you let yourself smile back. “Can I start you off with something to drink?” you said going back to your waitress self, but this time with a big smile on your face.

The rest of the night carried an air of something new, something unspoken. You noticed it in the way his gaze lingered as you brought over his glass of wine—a different one tonight, a crisp Sauvignon Blanc.

“You’re not sticking to a favorite?” you teased lightly as you set the glass down.

He smirked, his fingers brushing the stem. “I like variety. Keeps things interesting.”

“Does that apply to everything or just wine?” you asked, surprising yourself with the boldness.

He chuckled “Guess you’ll have to find out.”

The banter flowed easily after that, your interactions feeling more relaxed, almost playful. When you brought out his dinner—tonight, a wild mushroom risotto—you couldn’t help but make a small quip.

“Risotto,” you said, placing the plate down. “Trying to impress someone tonight?”

“Just my server,” he replied smoothly, making you glance away with a shy smile.

As the evening wore on and the restaurant began to empty, you found yourself gravitating toward his table more often. He didn’t seem to mind; in fact, he welcomed your presence with a smile each time. When he finally asked for the check you came quickly and handed it over.

“Thanks,” he said, glancing up as he pulled out his card. “Should i leave another note on the receipt or should i ask right away?”

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “About what?” 

He handed back the signed receipt, a sly grin on his face. “Well, if we are skipping the middleman. Have dinner with me—somewhere that isn’t here. I promise I won’t make you serve me.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how casually he’d said it. “You’re asking me out?”

“Too fast?” he teased.

“A little,” you admitted, but your heart was pounding. “But i like it this time”

He stood, shrugging on his jacket. “Well, think about it. No pressure. Just... somewhere nice, where we can talk and you don’t have to carry plates around.”

You couldn’t stop the smile spreading across your face. “Okay,” you said softly. “But only if I get to pick the place, no fancy Michelin-star restaurants.”

“Deal,” he said, standing and shrugging on his coat. “But just so you know, I’m good with street tacos or diner burgers.”

The laugh that bubbled out of you was genuine, and as he waved goodnight and walked out into the night, you realized you were already looking forward to whatever came next.

-----

The dates started slow, testing the waters of this new, fragile connection. Their first was at a cozy, family-owned pizzeria, far removed from the polished dining spaces Harry was used to frequenting. They sat in a corner booth, sharing stories over thin-crust slices and soda. You learned that his laugh came easily when he was truly comfortable, and also learned or imagined how wealthy he was. Him telling you about his company didn’t compared how one of your ex-boyfriends talked about a new crypto. He was passionate, honest, not even mentioning how much money he makes in a year, it was pure. As pure as corporate can get.

After that, there was a second date at an indie bookstore. Harry had smiled as you danced from shelf to shelf, excitedly recommending titles, while he kept his hands tucked in his pockets, quietly absorbing your passion. You ended up leaving with two novels you insisted he had to read and a poetry collection he bought, saying, “I thought of you when I saw this.”

Then came the late-night phone calls. You both quickly learned that your lives rarely aligned, but you made the most of the small pockets of time you shared. He’d call after a long day at work, his voice a little tired but steady as he asked about your day. You’d talk quietly from your bed, recounting the chaos of the dinner rush and sharing little anecdotes about your coworkers. sometimes until you fell asleep and he heard your steady breathing through the call.

“Do you ever get a day off?” he joked one night, his voice warm through the receiver.

“Not often,” you admitted. “But I’m used to it. And hey, at least I’m not running a company.”

“Touché,” he replied, laughing softly. “But don’t think for a second I’m not impressed by what you do.”

The weeks passed in a flurry of mismatched schedules and stolen moments. When aligning your off-days seemed impossible, Harry started stopping by the restaurant on his way home from work, not to eat but just to see you.

“Table for one?” you teased the first time he showed up unexpectedly.

“Not quite,” he said with a smile, taking a seat at the bar instead. “Just water, please. I didn’t want to add to your workload. i just wanted to see you” 

You brought him the water, leaning against the counter for a brief moment when the restaurant was quiet. “You didn’t have to come all this way,” you said softly.

“I wanted to,” he replied, his gaze steady. “You’re the best part of my day.” ---

The first kiss came on a rainy night after one of those visits. The restaurant was closing, and he had waited outside under the awning as you locked up. When you stepped out into the night, he was there with an umbrella, holding it out for you.

“Need a ride home?” he asked.

You nodded, and he quickly arrived to your place. At your door, there was a brief pause as you turned to thank him.

Before you could speak, he leaned in, his movements precise, as though giving you time to pull away. But you didn’t. When his lips met yours, it was soft and sure, his hand coming up to cradle your cheek.

It wasn’t hurried or frantic—it was the kind of kiss that made you feel like you had all the time in the world. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe you deserved this. When he pulled back, his forehead resting lightly against yours, he whispered, “Finally.”

You laughed softly, your cheeks warm despite the cool rain. “Took you long enough.”

And with that, the lines between your busy lives blurred a little more, the moments you carved out for each other feeling less like an interruption and more like a necessity.

----

It happened on an unusually quiet night. You were sitting across from him at his place, a cozy loft that felt miles away from the chaos of the restaurant. The table was littered with the remnants of takeout boxes, and you were laughing at a story he had told about a disastrous business trip. The laughter faded into a comfortable silence, he leaned back in his chair, his eyes scanning your face as if trying to figure out the best way to say something.

“I’ve been thinking,” he started, his tone casual but his expression serious.

“That sounds dangerous,” you teased, though the look on his face made your heart flutter with curiosity.

“I’m serious,” he said with a small smile, leaning forward now, his elbows resting on the table. “I’ve been watching how hard you work. You’re on your feet all day, running around, dealing with difficult customers. And then you come home and somehow still have the energy to take care of everything else in your life.”

“That’s just life,” you said, shrugging. “You know how it is. You make it work.”

“I know,” he said, his voice softening. “But it doesn’t have to be like that. Not for you.”

You frowned slightly, unsure of where this was going. “What do you mean?”

He hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath. “I’m saying I could offer you something different. A way to work that doesn’t involve twelve-hour shifts and aching feet. Something where you’d have more time for yourself, for your dreams, and…”—his voice faltered just slightly—“for us.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you leaned back in your chair, trying to process his words. “Harry, are you asking me to quit my job?”

“Not asking,” he clarified quickly. “Just… suggesting. If you wanted to. I could offer you a job. Something in my company, but nothing high-pressure. Maybe in admin, or operations, or whatever you’d like. You’d have a flexible schedule, a good paycheck, and, most importantly, time to breathe.” Of course he wasn’t asking, he’s Harry, ALWAYS making sure it was purely your decision.

The weight of his offer hung in the air, and you felt a tangle of emotions—gratitude, doubt, and an overwhelming sense of being cared for in a way you hadn’t expected.

“I don’t know,” you said slowly, trying to find the right words. “I’ve always worked for everything I have. I wouldn’t want you to think I’m just…”

“Stop,” he said gently, cutting you off. “This isn’t about charity. It’s about giving someone I care about a chance to live their life differently. You deserve that. And it’s not just for you—it’s for me too. I want to see you happy. I want to see us happy.”

You looked at him, his eyes earnest and unwavering. “And you think this would make me happy?”

“I do,” he said simply. “But it’s your choice. If you’re not ready, or if you want to keep things as they are, that’s okay. I’ll still come to the restaurant and order my overpriced water just to see you.”

That last comment made you laugh, easing the tension in the room. You stared down at the table, tracing the edge of a takeout container with your finger. “What would I even do at your company?” you asked softly.

His expression brightened slightly, and he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Anything you want. Admin, scheduling, planning events—whatever feels right to you. And we can figure it out together. No pressure.”

You bit your lip, considering his words. “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?”

“Dead serious,” he said, his tone firm but gentle. “You deserve more than what you’ve been settling for. And selfishly…I’d love to have more time with you.”

His honesty warmed you in a way you hadn’t expected. For so long, you’d carried everything alone, convinced that leaning on someone else meant weakness. But Harry wasn’t asking you to lean on him; he was offering to walk beside you.

“Okay,” you said finally, the word barely audible.

His brows lifted in surprise. “Okay?”

You nodded, a nervous laugh escaping. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll work for you.”

The grin that spread across his face was enough to make your heart skip a beat. “You won’t regret it, I promise.”

“I better not,” you teased, though the smile on your face betrayed your nervousness. “But just so you know, I’m not going to be some pushover employee. If you’re a terrible boss, I’ll quit.”

He chuckled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Fair enough. But I think you’ll find I’m quite charming.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing despite yourself. “We’ll see about that.”

In that moment, the fear you’d been carrying felt lighter. You weren’t just throwing yourself off a cliff—you were trusting that Harry would catch you, and for the first time in a long time, you felt like maybe that was okay.

----

Life had changed in ways neither of you could have imagined. The small apartment you'd once called home was now replaced by a shared space filled with light, laughter, and little touches of each other everywhere—his collection of vinyl records stacked neatly in the corner, your books scattered on the coffee table, and the scent of fresh flowers he insisted on buying for you every week.

You had found a rhythm together, a balance between his busy days running his company and your own work, which had evolved into a role that allowed your creativity to shine. You weren’t just an employee at his company—you were a partner, bringing ideas and energy to projects in ways you never thought possible. And at the heart of it all, there was love. Open, unapologetic, and boundless love.

Mornings were filled with teasing banter over breakfast, and nights ended with shared dreams and whispered promises under the covers. On weekends, you’d go on adventures—sometimes exploring new cities, other times simply enjoying lazy days at home. There was no hesitation in showing how much you adored each other, whether it was in the way he’d kiss your forehead absentmindedly or the way you’d hold his hand tightly in crowded rooms.

One evening, after a particularly exciting day of work, Harry had an idea. “Let’s go out for dinner,” he said, tossing his jacket onto the back of the couch.

“Sure,” you replied, grabbing your shoes. “Where to?”

He paused, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Velours et Flamme.”

You froze for a second, then burst out laughing. “You’re kidding.”

“Not at all,” he said, his grin widening. “It’s been a while. I think it’s time we revisit the place where it all started.”

Despite your initial hesitance, you found yourself walking into the restaurant hand-in-hand with him that evening. The familiar scent of wine and spices filled the air, and the decor, though slightly updated, still held the charm you remembered.

The host greeted you with a polite smile “Welcome to Velours et Flamme. Do you have a reservation?”

“Styles,” Harry said smoothly, squeezing your hand.

You were led to a table by the window, the same spot you’d served him on that Valentine’s Day when everything began. As you sat down, you couldn’t help but feel a wave of nostalgia wash over you.

“This feels surreal,” you admitted, glancing around.

“Good surreal?” he asked, his eyes twinkling as he leaned forward.

“Very good surreal,” you said, smiling and carefully looking at the menu, when an idea quickly popped into your mind. You bit your lip, hesitating for a brief moment before speaking up. “Can I splurge a little? Or maybe… a lot?”

Harry tilted his head, intrigued. “What’s on your mind?” he asked, glancing at the menu with a playful smile.

You took a deep breath, letting your finger trace over the menu’s edges before landing on the words you’d been eyeing. “Cairnburn 18,” you said firmly, looking at him with a small, determined smile.

“Scotch?” he asked, raising an eyebrow but not even glancing at the price.

“It’s something I need to do. Please,” you said softly, a touch of vulnerability in your tone.

He didn’t question it, didn’t protest or ask for a reason. Instead, his expression softened, and he reached for your hand, cradling it gently before bringing it to his lips. The kiss he pressed to the top of your hand was tender, a silent reassurance. “Anything you want,” he said, his voice calm and sincere.

The waiter arrived, and Harry placed the order without hesitation, his gaze never leaving yours. You couldn’t help but feel a swell of gratitude for him in that moment—not just for agreeing, but for understanding without needing an explanation.

As the Cairnburn 18 arrived, the rich, £1,500 a pour, amber liquid catching the light, you smiled and raised your glass to him. “To us,” you said simply.

“To us,” he echoed, clinking his glass gently against yours. ----

You both knew how the rest of the night would go the minute you left the restaurant. Back home, he helped you undress, kissing every inch of exposed skin as he did. When you were bare, he pressed his lips to yours, the heat between you building as his hands roamed over your body.

The way he touched you everytime was unhurried, like he was memorizing every curve. His fingers teased along your collarbone, traced your hips, and softly grabbed your breasts. His hands were everywhere, But nowhere near the place you needed him most.

Finally, he pulled back, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with desire. You let him guide you to the bed, watching as he stripped off his clothes and joined you. The heat of his body was intoxicating, and you found yourself craving more—more contact, more skin, more of him.

He sensed your need because he moved closer, the length of his body pressed against yours, his cock hard and thick against your thigh. You ached for him, the anticipation coiling in you, but he didn't rush.

Instead, he trailed kisses along your neck, his stubble rough against your sensitive skin. His fingers danced along your inner thigh, teasing closer and closer to your folds. When he finally touched you, it was with a firm, confident stroke, his thumb brushing against your clit and making you gasp. "Harry..." you moaned breathless

"Yes puppy?" He asked with an innocent tone and used that nickname that made you weak, and kept up the torturous pace, working you higher and higher until you were a trembling mess beneath him. You moaned, begging him for more, and he finally relented, easing a finger inside of you and setting a relentless rhythm. “More” Your pleasure built quickly, the intensity making you cry out, but just as you were about to tip over the edge, he pulled away. Before you could protest, he positioned himself between your legs, his cock hard and glistening at the tip.

He leaned forward, bracing his forearms on either side of your head and gazing down at you with a look of pure devotion. "I love you," he whispered, the words sending a thrill through your entire body. "And I'm gonna take care of you, puppy. Always."

With that, he thrust into you, filling you completely and stealing the breath from your lungs. The feeling of him inside you was almost too much, and you clung to him, desperate for more.

"Fuck, Harry," you breathed. He didn't respond, instead burying his face in your neck and moving slowly, deeply, as if he was savoring every moment. His hands roamed your body, teasing and caressing as his hips continued their torturous rhythm.

"Do you like it puppy? me being so deep inside you?"

You could only nod, too overwhelmed to form words. The sensations were overwhelming, the pleasure building and building until it threatened to consume you.

Suddenly, he shifted, changing the angle and hitting a spot deep inside you that made you see stars. "it's so....big" you barely said in a moan

"That's right puppy. Take all of it. Just like that"

You writhed beneath him, unable to hold back the moans spilling from your lips. Your release was within reach, and when he finally slid a hand between your bodies, stroking your clit, it was enough to send you tumbling over the edge. "Come on daddy's cock puppy, don't be shy" he murmured

His words were enough to push you over the edge, your body tensing and trembling as pleasure washed over you. You felt him pulse inside you, and he followed soon after, his breath hot on your neck as he came with a groan filling you with his hot cum.

When the last waves of your orgasm faded, you collapsed against him, completely spent. You both stayed there for a moment, tangled in each other's arms, neither of you willing to break the spell.

Eventually, he pulled out and gathered you into his arms, holding you close. You nuzzled into his chest, breathing in the scent of his skin and the faint trace of his cologne.

Both of you were now cuddled in bed, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting warm light across the room. Harry’s arm was wrapped securely around you, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your shoulder as you rested your head against his chest, listening to the now steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Your eyes drifted to the two frames hung just above the bed. The first one held the receipt from the night that had changed everything—the receipt where he’d written his number, sparking a connection that had grown into the life you shared now.

The second frame hung beside it, empty but not forgotten. Its purpose was clear—it was waiting for tonight’s receipt, the one with the Cairnburn 18 scribbled on it. The night where everything had come full circle.

Taglist: @hermionelove

[harryshouseenthusiast]

I want to make a list of my favorite writers on here! This will be the author’s whose writing speaks to me the most! To add, just because I didn’t add someone doesn’t mean I don't like them, I will try my best to update this because i haven't used Tumblr as much recently so I'm still finding all the pages. And i want to write something about each author so I'll take time <3

@jawllines - I’ve read her writing for YEARS and subbed to her Patreon, I love all her tropes so much, especially Grumpy Harry! She is definitely and Og for me, I haven't read fanfics as long as I've been a fan, and I've read like the 1D preferences, but my first full out one-shot was the one where Harry and Y/N pick berries as a summer job.

@moonchildstyles - I love all the AU she chooses to write Harry in, I found her a bit more recently 2022, which now writing that looks so long ago but feels recently 😭 I love how she has so many blurbs/checkups too! i am subbed to her patron as well! I love the gentleness of how she writes harry, especially in citrine, he is so soft and i love it

@jarofstyles - Not only do they have mouthwatering smut, but I love how they have a bunch a shorter AU blurbs, sometimes I don't want to read a full one shot, and they have so many blurbs. One writing love in particular is Braking plates, I love some good angst to fluff. I am also subbed to their Patreon

@erodasfishtacos -I absolutely love her work and it's so upsetting how she was treated on this app. I'm glad she was able to move over to patron to continue her passion, I have subbed, and her work is phenomenal. She introduced me to one of my favorite underrated tropes, Deaf!H. I love how she writes her ABO tropes, that's another one of my favorites.

@harrysbabycherry - The first fic I read from her was the one when Y/N was a vampire and the was a kinda unique topic for me because I've always read Fics of Vampire!H, one of my fav tropes, But I loved the switch up. And I've just really e njoyed her following works. I also love the few Halloween writings she did, i love spooky H.

@gurugirl - The first thing I read of hers was the Stepdad!H, and I was hooked her smut is divine, absolutely amazing. I love how she portrays dark harry and forbidden/taboo relationships. I would love to sub to her patron, but unfortunately, I can't fit it into my budget as of now, but I will be subscribing one day. I love how she specifically says no sad endings because i also get too attached and cannot handle it.

@harryforvogue - It's been a bit since I've read her work, so I'm excited to catch up. She is actually the account that got me into reading books with OC. I previously only read reader insert Fics, but her writing was so good, and I noticed that OC writings give me different emotions than Y/N Fics. if that makes sense.

@watermelonlovershigh - I absolutely love how she writes soft Harry. She writes him so gentle and caring. It’s a nice contrast for the mafia stuff I read😭. She was also the first person ive read a sickfic from and I don’t see many of those, so it was different than what I’ve normally read and I loved it! She’s an amazing writer.

@atlafan - I love love their work!! Office neighbors is *chef’s kiss* I love the variety of the one shots, and all the aus!! But back to office neighbors, it’s been a while since I’ve read it but i got sooo hooked on it, I love single parent tropes and anything where Harry is a teacher/professor. Andy has my ❤️. I’m going to be rereading some of their series soon because it’s been so long !!(sorry if you got like 20 notifications when I was making this I’m ass at using this app😭)

@rrysbabydoll - I recently found her page and let me tell you she’s amazing at writing dom Harry! The way she depicts aftercare is so soft and comforting. I’ve just been sitting here reading through her masterlist because everything is so good. I really like the one where Harry comforts her after a bad visit with her family, it’s extremely sweet 😭❤️. But as I said something about her dom Harry is hitting so good I can’t describe it🙂‍↕️

As i said i will be adding to this as time goes on! If anyone has someone the want me to check out lmk!

(Sorry for typos)

[harryshouseenthusiast]

HARRY STYLES FICRECS

ANGST

FLUFF

SERIES

SMUT

AU’S

OTHERS

WATTPAD FICS

requested fic lists

[harryshouseenthusiast]

AMAZING 💕❤️

Summary: You’re moving into your first apartment after graduating college and you use a moving service your friend recommended. Not really expecting much of the company with a name like “College Hunks Hauling Junk” you take extra care to box your things up really well. But no amount of bubble wrap can keep the cocky, snarky, semi retired frat bro Harry Styles from damaging a few of your boxes which leads to him learning the hard way that sometimes he’s going to have to handle things with a little more care than he’s used to. 📦✨

Pairing: frat!Harry x fem!reader

Trope: Grumpy x sunshine

CW: Frat Harry (some people really aren’t into this lol), language, tiny bit of angst, one drunken moment

Story Type: Mini Series (5 parts)

A/N: This is gonna be a whirlwind of an emotional roller coaster for Harry from the very start so if you’re into that then this is the story for you! ✨

Status: Completed ✨

Tag List: Open

Extras: here

Highly Recommended

This Can’t Be Happening

Are You Okay?

Sunshine and Citrus

What Have You Heard?

Extras:

Did you wanna do it? (Run in with your ex)

Take My Time

[harryshouseenthusiast]

This was so cute 😭

operation: make her laugh - harry styles ── .✦

content: fluff, established relationship, playful!harry, grumpy!reader, domestic setting, mentions of cuddling and tickling

---

You don’t even know why you’re grumpy. You just are. Some mix of a bad dream, the weather being weird, and someone at work replying “per my last email” like they were about to wage war.

And now, here you are. Wrapped in a hoodie that smells like Harry, curled up on the couch with your legs tucked under you, expression blank and stubborn, remote in one hand and a snack bowl in the other.

Harry walks into the room like a man on a mission. He sees you. He sees the frown. And he stops in his tracks. Dramatic. Over-the-top.

“Ah,” he announces, pointing at you. “The Grump has returned.”

You ignore him. Munch a chip. He takes that as a challenge.

“What’s got your knickers in a twist, then?” he teases, already walking over and dropping to the floor in front of the couch like a golden retriever in human form. His green hoodie is sliding off one shoulder, his curls a mess, dimples flashing with every word.

You raise an eyebrow. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting, I’m investigating,” he corrects, scooting closer, nudging your knee with his. “Grumpiness doesn’t suit you. You look far too pretty to pout like that.”

You give him a deadpan stare. “Flattery won’t work.”

“No?” He fake gasps. “Not even if I say you’re the most ravishing grump I’ve ever seen?”

You shake your head. He leans forward. “Not even if I do... this?”

Suddenly he grabs your ankle and tickles the bottom of your foot.

You shriek. Fling the snack bowl. Chips go flying. “HARRY!”

He’s laughing so hard he nearly falls over, arms up in surrender. “I’d do it again. I would. I’m not afraid to get violent with the giggles.”

You’re glaring. Trying to stay angry. But your lips twitch. And he sees it.

“There it is,” he grins. “The corner of the mouth… it’s turning... don’t fight it.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Absolutely.” He crawls up beside you on the couch and nestles into your side, warm and stupid and smug. “But I’m also successful.”

You sigh, finally letting your head drop against his shoulder. “Maybe I’ll forgive you if you go get the chips I dropped.”

“Deal,” he says, already standing again. “But only if you admit I’m your favorite emotional support clown.”

You roll your eyes. “Fine. You’re my favorite idiot.”

He salutes. “Mission accomplished.”

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

[harryshouseenthusiast]

LOVED THIS!!!!!

sugar, baby series masterlist

Summary: He pays in cash. You pay in obedience. a sugardaddy!harry styles x reader au series

Status: Main storyline completed, bonus parts and check-ins likely still coming.

Warnings: lots and lots of smut, please read the warnings for every part of this series accordingly! also i have to admit i know jack shit about business transactions and such so if these titles make zero sense don't call me out okay i was trying to be clever. enjoy x

...

sugar, baby

He pays in cash. You pay in obedience.

terms of service

Before he can break you in, he needs to know exactly where you break.

possession agreement

Jealousy brought him to the bar. Possession dragged you into his lap.

incidental charges

He takes what he wants. You give what's left.

liquid assets

You left the boxes, but you never really leave.

breach of contract

You give him silence. He gives you the truth.

final clause

Rules are made to be broken.

more coming soon?

...

[harryshouseenthusiast]

THIS IS AMAZING

I feel like I say this for every trope but I love forgotten birthdays ❤️❤️❤️

Birthday Girl | H.S

Friendrry | Fluff | One shot | Fine line Harry | Masterlist

a/n: It's my birthday, therefore, it's also Y/N's birthday. Hopefully I'm not stood up like her

· · ─────────── ·H.S· ────────── · ·

The restaurant is upscale without being pretentious, exactly the type of place where a group of twenty-somethings might gather for a special occasion without completely emptying their bank accounts. Soft lighting casts a warm glow over polished wood tables and leather booths, while ambient music plays at a volume that allows for easy conversation.

Y/N sits alone at a large table set for twelve, feeling increasingly conspicuous as the minutes tick by. The birthday headband she'd bought on a whim, silver with "Birthday Girl" spelled out in glittering letters, is stuffed into her bag, her initial enthusiasm for wearing it having evaporated around the fifteen-minute mark of sitting alone.

She checks her phone again, scrolling through the mounting collection of last-minute cancellations and excuses. Work emergencies, sudden illnesses, family obligations, all perfectly reasonable individually, but collectively forming a pattern that's impossible to ignore. A few haven't even bothered to text, their silence speaking volumes.

The waitress approaches for the third time, her sympathetic smile barely masking her pity.

"Are you still waiting for the rest of your party?" she asks gently.

Y/N forces a smile, though it feels brittle on her face. "Just a few more minutes, if that's okay. I'm sure they're just running late."

The waitress nods, clearly not believing it any more than Y/N does, but kindly playing along. "No problem. Can I get you another drink while you wait?"

"Please," Y/N agrees, sliding her half-empty cocktail glass toward the edge of the table. "A stronger one this time, if you don't mind."

As the waitress retreats, Y/N slumps slightly in her chair, the carefully applied makeup and styled hair suddenly feeling like wasted effort. She'd been so excited about tonight, her twenty-fifth birthday, surrounded by friends in a nice restaurant, maybe even making a better impression on Harry Styles if he actually showed up (which he clearly wasn't going to).

It had been impulsive, adding him to the invite list. They weren't really friends, more like friendly acquaintances who shared a social circle. They'd met a handful of times at parties and gatherings, exchanged pleasant conversation, laughed at the same jokes. Nothing special, except for the way her heart seemed to beat a little faster whenever he walked into a room, or how she found herself paying more attention when he spoke.

But that was normal, wasn't it? He was Harry Styles, after all. Harry Styles. Everyone reacted that way to him.

Still, she'd sent the text invitation, trying to sound casual: Having a birthday dinner on Friday. Nothing fancy, just food and friends. You're welcome to join if you're around.

He hadn't responded, which wasn't surprising. He was probably on tour, or in a studio, or on a yacht somewhere with a supermodel. The invitation had been a shot in the dark, nothing more.

The waitress returns with a significantly stronger cocktail, setting it down with another sympathetic smile. Y/N thanks her and takes a long sip, the alcohol burning pleasantly down her throat.

Thirty-five minutes now. This is officially pathetic.

She reaches for her bag, ready to settle the bill for her drinks and slink home to salvage what remains of her dignity, when the restaurant's front door bursts open with enough force to draw every eye in the place.

Harry Styles stands in the doorway, slightly out of breath, his hair wild as if he's been running his hands through it repeatedly. He's wearing black jeans and a partially unbuttoned silky shirt in a shade of blue that makes his eyes look even more vibrant than usual. Most strikingly, his face is covered in what appears to be remnants of glitter and stage makeup, as if he's come straight from some kind of photoshoot or performance without taking time to clean up.

For a moment, Y/N thinks she must be hallucinating, perhaps the second, stronger drink was a mistake on an empty stomach. But then Harry's eyes lock with hers across the restaurant, and his face breaks into a relieved smile that sends her heart into an irregular rhythm.

"Y/N!" he calls out, loud enough to draw more stares as he weaves through tables toward her. "Thank god you're still here. I'm so, so sorry I'm late."

He reaches her table, slightly breathless, and Y/N can only stare up at him in shock, her planned departure forgotten.

"Harry?" she manages, her voice embarrassingly small. "You...came?"

"Of course I came," he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. He pulls out the chair next to hers and sits down, leaning toward her with an earnest expression. "I'm really sorry I didn't respond to your text. I wasn’t sure what time the photoshoot was and didn’t want to say yes and then bail the day of." 

Y/N is still trying to process the fact that Harry Styles is sitting at her birthday dinner, apologizing to her as if his presence was expected, even guaranteed.

"But...how did you know where to come? And when?" she asks, confusion evident in her voice.

Harry's expression softens, a slight blush coloring his cheeks beneath the remnants of makeup. "I, uh, asked Mia for the details when I saw her last week. After I got your text." He runs a hand through his already disheveled hair, looking uncharacteristically nervous. "I meant to reply, I really did. But then I got busy with work, and...well, I'm here now."

He glances around the table, his brow furrowing as he takes in the empty chairs and untouched place settings.

"Where is everyone else? Mia, Zack, the others?"

Y/N feels a fresh wave of humiliation wash over her. It's one thing to be stood up by all her friends; it's another to have Harry Styles witness it.

"They, um, couldn't make it," she says, aiming for casual but landing somewhere closer to mortified. "Last-minute things came up."

Harry's expression shifts, confusion giving way to understanding and then, surprisingly, anger. His jaw tightens, a muscle working in his cheek as he glances around the empty table again.

"All of them?" he asks, his voice low and controlled. "Every single person had something 'come up' on the same night?"

Y/N shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant despite the lump forming in her throat. "It happens. People are busy."

"No," Harry says firmly, a hardness in his tone that Y/N has never heard from him before. "No, that's not okay. It's your birthday, Y/N. They RSVP'd, yeah? They committed to being here?"

Y/N nods reluctantly, not meeting his eyes. "Most of them, yeah. But honestly, it's fine. I was just about to head home anyway."

"Absolutely not," Harry declares, his tone brooking no argument as he settles more firmly into his chair. "It's your birthday dinner, and we're going to have a proper celebration."

Before Y/N can protest, Harry flags down the waitress who's been hovering nearby, clearly curious about the unexpected arrival of a pop star at her station.

"Hi there," Harry greets her with his signature charm, his earlier anger carefully masked behind a warm smile. "We're ready to order now. Just the two of us."

The waitress, whose nametag reads 'Sophie', blinks rapidly, visibly star-struck but maintaining her professionalism. "Of course, sir. Would you like to hear the specials?"

As Sophie recites the day's offerings, Harry turns to Y/N with a conspiratorial smile. "What are you hungry for, birthday girl? Order anything you want. It's on me tonight."

Y/N shakes her head, embarrassment coloring her cheeks. "Harry, you don't have to do this. Really, I understand if you want to leave."

Harry's expression softens, his green eyes holding hers steadily. "I don't want to leave, Y/N. I want to celebrate your birthday with you. If you'll let me."

There's something in his gaze, a sincerity, a warmth, that makes Y/N's protests die on her lips. She nods slowly, a small, genuine smile finally finding its way to her face.

"Okay," she agrees softly. "Thank you."

Harry's answering smile is brilliant, lighting up his entire face. "Brilliant. Now, what shall we order? I'm starving."

They place their orders, Y/N choosing her favorite pasta dish, Harry opting for the steak, and settle into conversation that starts slightly awkward but quickly becomes surprisingly easy. Harry asks about her job , her family, her plans for the future, listening with genuine interest to her answers. In turn, he shares stories from his recent tour and the photoshoot he just came from.

"That explains the..." Y/N gestures vaguely at his face, where flecks of glitter still catch the light when he moves.

Harry laughs, rubbing at his cheek and examining the sparkly residue on his fingers. "Yeah, sorry about that. They had me in full makeup and glitter for this avant-garde fashion spread. I tried to clean up before leaving, but they were taking forever, and I was already so late..."

He trails off, looking suddenly shy. "I didn't want to miss your birthday entirely."

The simple admission sends a flutter through Y/N's chest that she tries desperately to ignore.

"Well, you look good with glitter," she offers, then immediately feels her cheeks heat at the compliment. "I mean, it suits you. The whole rock star aesthetic."

Harry's dimple appears as he grins at her, clearly pleased by her flustered state. "Thanks. Though I'm more partial to a classic suit these days."

Their food arrives, momentarily pausing the conversation as they arrange plates and napkins. As Y/N reaches for her water glass, Harry suddenly snaps his fingers, as if remembering something.

"Oh! I almost forgot." He reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket, which he'd draped over the back of his chair, and pulls out a small, neatly wrapped package. "Happy birthday, Y/N."

Y/N stares at the gift, surprised and touched that he'd thought to bring something. "Harry, you didn't have to get me anything."

"I wanted to," he says simply, pushing the package toward her. "It's nothing fancy, just something small I thought you might like."

With slightly trembling fingers, Y/N unwraps the package to reveal a delicate silver bookmark. The top of it is shaped like a crescent moon, with tiny stars dangling from fine chains attached to it. It's beautiful in its simplicity, clearly chosen with thought rather than expense in mind.

"I remembered you mentioning how much you love reading," Harry explains, watching her face carefully for her reaction. "And how you hate dog-earing pages. Thought this might be useful."

Y/N runs her finger over the smooth silver, deeply touched by the thoughtfulness of the gift. It shows that he's actually paid attention to things she's said in their brief interactions, that he's remembered details about her that most people wouldn't.

"It's perfect," she says softly, looking up to meet his eyes with a genuine smile. "Thank you, Harry. I love it."

His answering smile is warm, relief evident in his expression. "I'm glad. Now, " he glances toward her bag, his eyes twinkling with mischief, "I’m pretty sure that is supposed to go on your head. What’s it doing in your bag?"

Y/N groans, covering her face with her hands. "No way. I'm not wearing that thing. It was silly enough when I thought I'd be with a group of friends, but in public, with just us? Absolutely not."

"Come on," Harry coaxes, his voice taking on a playful wheedling quality. "It's your birthday! You should wear the headband. I bet it's sparkly and fabulous."

"It's ridiculous," Y/N counters, though she can feel her resolve weakening under his charming insistence.

Harry leans forward, his expression suddenly serious. "Y/N, as someone who has worn some truly outrageous things on stage, feather boas, sequined jumpsuits, that one unfortunate experiment with leather chaps, I can assure you that a birthday headband is extremely tame by comparison."

A laugh escapes her despite her best efforts. "Leather chaps?"

"We don't talk about the chaps," Harry says gravely, though his eyes are dancing with humor. "The point is, you should embrace the birthday spirit. Wear the headband."

With an exaggerated sigh of surrender, Y/N reaches into her bag and pulls out the sparkly "Birthday Girl" headband. Before she can change her mind, Harry gently takes it from her fingers and stands up, moving behind her chair. With surprising tenderness, he carefully places the headband on her head, adjusting it so that the glittering letters are centered.

"Perfect," he declares as he returns to his seat, his voice softer than before, his eyes lingering on her face in a way that makes her stomach flip. "Beautiful birthday girl."

The compliment, delivered with such quiet sincerity, sends a wave of heat to Y/N's cheeks. She drops her gaze to her plate, suddenly finding it difficult to meet his eyes.

"Thank you," she murmurs, not just for the compliment but for everything, for showing up, for staying, for making what could have been a humiliating disaster into something unexpectedly special.

Harry seems to understand the multiple layers of her gratitude, his expression softening as he raises his glass in a toast.

"To Y/N," he says, his voice warm with genuine affection. "Happy 25th birthday. May it be the beginning of your best year yet."

Y/N raises her own glass, clinking it gently against his. "Thank you for salvaging it."

"The night's still young," Harry points out with a grin. "We haven't even had dessert yet. I heard the waitress mention something about a chocolate lava cake that sounds absolutely sinful."

As they continue their meal, Y/N finds herself relaxing more and more in Harry's company. There's something about him that puts her at ease, the way he listens intently when she speaks, the genuine interest in his questions, the complete lack of pretense despite his fame. By the time they're sharing the aforementioned chocolate lava cake (which is indeed sinful), Y/N has almost forgotten the initial heartache of being stood up by her friends.

Harry, however, has not forgotten. As they near the end of their meal, he brings the subject up again, his tone careful but firm.

"I still can't believe none of them showed up," he says, stirring his drink thoughtfully. "That's really not okay, Y/N. Friends don't do that to each other."

Y/N sighs, the hurt she'd been successfully ignoring for the past couple of hours resurfacing. "I know. It's just...I don't think I'm a priority for any of them. Not really."

Harry frowns, clearly troubled by her words. "Then they're idiots. All of them."

The vehemence in his voice surprises Y/N. "You don't even know them all that well."

"I know enough," Harry counters. "I know that anyone who would bail on your birthday dinner without a genuinely emergency-level reason is not someone who deserves your friendship."

He hesitates, then adds more gently, "You deserve better friends, Y/N. People who show up for you the way you'd show up for them."

Y/N nods, a lump forming in her throat at his kindness. "Maybe you're right."

"I know I'm right," Harry says with a confidence that would sound arrogant from anyone else but somehow just sounds caring coming from him. "And for what it's worth, I'm really glad I got to be here tonight. Even if the circumstances aren't what either of us expected."

There's something in his tone, a hint of something more than friendly concern, that makes Y/N look up sharply, catching an expression on his face that she can't quite decipher before it's replaced by his usual easy smile.

"Me too," she admits quietly. "It's been...nice. Really nice."

Harry's smile widens, his dimple deepening in that way that makes her heart skip. "Good. That was the goal."

When the check comes, Harry smoothly intercepts it before Y/N can even reach for it.

"Harry, no," she protests. "You've already done so much. Let me at least pay for my part."

"Not a chance," Harry says firmly, already sliding his credit card into the leather folder. "It's your birthday dinner. Besides, I didn’t even RSVP, remember? Technically, I'm crashing your party."

"Some crash," Y/N retorts with a small laugh. "You're literally the only guest who showed up."

Something flickers in Harry's eyes, a brief shadow that's gone almost as quickly as it appeared. "Their loss," he says softly. "Truly."

As they prepare to leave, Y/N carefully placing her new bookmark in her bag and reluctantly removing the birthday headband (at Harry's insistence, she'd worn it through the entire meal, even when the waitstaff brought out a complimentary slice of cake with a candle and sang to her), she finds herself not wanting the evening to end.

"So," Harry says as they step out into the cool evening air, standing awkwardly on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. "Can I call you a car? Or are you close enough to walk home?"

Y/N hesitates, torn between not wanting to impose further and not wanting to say goodbye just yet. "I'm not far. Just a few blocks."

Harry nods, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Right. Well, I could walk you? If you want. Just to make sure you get home safe."

There's an uncharacteristic uncertainty in his voice, as if he's genuinely unsure whether she'll want to prolong their time together. It's this hint of vulnerability that gives Y/N the courage to be honest.

"I'd like that," she says with a small smile. "If you don't mind."

Relief crosses Harry's face, followed by a warm smile. "I don't mind at all."

They fall into step beside each other, walking in comfortable silence for a few moments before Harry speaks again, his voice casual, almost too casual.

"So, this might be a bit forward, but...would you maybe want to do this again sometime? Without the birthday headband, I mean. Just...dinner. Or coffee. Or whatever you like, really."

He's rambling slightly, which Y/N finds endearing coming from someone usually so composed and confident. It takes her a moment to process what he's actually asking.

"Are you...asking me out?" she clarifies, unable to keep the surprise from her voice. "Like, on a date?"

Harry stops walking, turning to face her directly. In the soft glow of the streetlights, with flecks of glitter still catching the light on his cheekbones, he looks almost otherworldly, a fairy tale prince somehow transported to a London sidewalk.

"Yes," he says simply, his green eyes steady on hers. "I am."

"But..." Y/N struggles to make sense of this unexpected turn. "Why? I mean, you're you, and I'm...just me."

Harry's brow furrows slightly, a flash of frustration crossing his features. "Do you really not know?"

When Y/N just stares at him blankly, he runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even further.

"Y/N, I've wanted to ask you out since the first time we met, at Tom's birthday thing last year. You were wearing that green dress, and you were arguing with someone about books, and you were so passionate and smart and beautiful that I couldn't take my eyes off you."

Y/N's mouth falls open slightly in shock. She remembers that night, remembers being introduced to Harry Styles and trying desperately to act normal while her heart threatened to beat out of her chest. She remembers getting into a heated debate with Tom's pretentious cousin about the literary merits of contemporary fiction, completely forgetting about Harry's presence until she looked up to find him watching her with an amused smile.

"But you never said anything," she manages finally.

Harry shrugs, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. "I tried. Several times, actually. But something always got in the way, you'd leave early, or someone would interrupt, or I'd lose my nerve." He laughs softly, shaking his head at himself. "Not very rock star of me, I know."

"So when I texted you about tonight..." Y/N begins, pieces starting to fall into place.

"I nearly dropped my phone in excitement," Harry admits with a self-deprecating grin. "Asked Mia immediately for all the details, made sure I'd be in London, even rescheduled some studio time."

He reaches up, rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture that seems almost shy. "I was planning to play it cool, you know? Just show up with the group, maybe sit next to you if I could manage it, see if we hit it off properly."

His expression darkens slightly as he continues, "Then I show up and find that all of our so-called friends have bailed on your birthday. Which, by the way, made me want to call each of them personally and give them a piece of my mind. But it also gave me the chance to spend time with just you, which was...well, it was perfect, actually."

Y/N stares at him, trying to process everything he's saying. Harry Styles has had a crush on her for a year. Harry Styles rearranged his schedule to attend her birthday dinner. Harry Styles wants to date her.

It's too much to take in all at once.

"You don't have to answer now," Harry says quickly, misinterpreting her silence. "I know it's a lot, and you've had a weird night, and I'm probably not making it any less weird by dumping all this on you. We can just–"

"Yes," Y/N interrupts, surprising herself with the firmness of her answer. "Yes, I'd like to go on a date with you."

Harry's face lights up with a smile so bright it could rival the streetlamps illuminating the sidewalk around them. "Yeah? You're sure?"

Y/N nods, a matching smile spreading across her own face. "I'm sure. Although I have to warn you, it'll be hard to top tonight. Not many first dates involve a birthday headband and abandoned dinner reservations."

Harry laughs, the sound warm and genuine in the quiet of the evening. "I'll do my best to make it memorable in other ways."

They stand there for a moment, smiling at each other like idiots beneath the streetlight, before Harry offers his arm in an old-fashioned gesture that somehow doesn't feel out of place coming from him.

"Shall we continue, birthday girl? I believe I promised to see you safely home."

Y/N slips her arm through his, feeling a warmth that has nothing to do with the mild evening air and everything to do with the man beside her.

"Lead on, Styles," she says with a teasing smile. "And for the record, I'm glad you were the only one who showed up tonight."

Harry's answering smile is soft and intimate, just for her. "Me too, Y/N. More than you know."

As they continue down the sidewalk, arms linked and conversation flowing easily between them, Y/N thinks that perhaps being stood up on her birthday wasn't such a disaster after all. In fact, it might just be the best thing that's ever happened to her.

Taglist: @triski73 @angeldavis777 @ivegotthecinemaa @bethiegurl19 @sstylezzz @spargelhund @myfavefanficsever @spinnic @catmomstyles3 @mads3502

[harryshouseenthusiast]

This was so cute 🥹 I like sunshine h and grumpy reader ❤️❤️❤️

Mr. Sunshine - Masterlist (finished)

“Harry is a chipper guy with a dimpled smile, amazing coffee, and a need for a tutor. You are a smart girl with an obsession with caffeine and a distaste for people. Harry has been infatuated with you from the day he met you, and now he’s determined to spend more time with you, even if that means bribing you with coffee.”

WARNINGS: smut, angst, mention of SA (not by Harry!!!)

Keep me awake, buy me a coffee ;)

• Part One

• Part Two

• Part Three

• Part Four*

[harryshouseenthusiast]

SOO ADORABLE 🥹

I love tatto artist Harry🥰

TRACED a harry styles x original character one shot word count: 22k (!!!!) cw: m/f intercourse, dirty talk, humiliation kink, talking her through it, marking kink, the slowest burn I've ever written, angst, praise kink,

summary: lily and harry go to a dinner party, harry wants to talk her through it, & harry seemingly loses chess to let her take control.

read part 1 before part 2.

this is one of the longest one shots I've ever written - over 20k WOW - I've also never written a part two so this just solidifies that this was needed & I hope you loooove the continuation of harry and lily <3

enjoy!

_________________

Harry had his feet up on her coffee table like he lived there – that wasn’t a new thing, he had been like that with her since day one.

Lily stirred the simmering pasta sauce and watched him from the corner of her eye—one leg crossed over the other, fingers absently flipping through a book he definitely hadn’t asked to borrow, curls damp from a recent shower before he had left his apartment, leaving little wet patches on the collar of his faded t-shirt. He scrunched his nose, almost in a move to push his glasses up on his face.

“You’re looking very comfortable,” she stated, staring at the sauce as she began lifting the wooden spoon to taste her work. Needed salt, she thought.

Harry looked up, deadpan from the book he had been reading as if he caught only the end of her sentence. But, to Lily’s surprise, Harry always listened to every little word.

“You say that like it's a bad thing.”

“It’s just… you know. You didn’t even knock.” Lily bit her lip; she didn’t want him to feel like it was a bad thing, but she always had never… experienced this kind of relationship before.

Harry not only didn’t knock, he left his jacket on the ground next to his shoes and grabbed himself a can of Diet Coke from her fridge.

She didn’t just love that he was making himself comfortable – she reveled in the way that he truly was just himself around her.

“I brought the wine for dinner,” he said, holding up the bottle beside him so that they could enjoy it with their dinner. “That’s basically knocking.”

Lily rolled her eyes but smiled, which only seemed to encourage him and all of his antics. She knew that he lived off of the energy that she fed him, which only made him want to push further.

“Also,” he continued, placing the book face-down on his chest as he let his head rest on the back of the sofa, “your neighbor already thinks I live here. He asked me to move my car. Called me ‘buddy.’ I didn’t correct him – said, ‘Hey buddy, can’t usually get out in the mornings, mind parking a bit closer on that side?’”

She flushed a little and turned back to the stove, hiding the way her cheeks from him or she knew that he would react to it. Harry had this effect of slipping past defenses without trying, of filling a room without forcing it; of being comfortable in a space she still sometimes tiptoed through.

She poured the pasta into a strainer and hesitated as she thought of her next question. She knew that there was another question on the tip of her tongue, and she wasn’t sure how to entirely bring it up to him.

It was something that she was a bit self-conscious on, considering she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to partake, but she knew that Harry would be all in the moment she asked.

“There’s, um… a thing on Saturday,” she said, nonchalantly, not wanting to make it a big deal.

Behind her, the couch creaked as Harry sat up, setting his book down again.

“A thing,” he echoed, amused. “That sounds incredibly specific, please don’t tell me anything more – I’m overwhelmed with information.”

She rolled her eyes at his wittiness, “It’s just…  it’s friends, a dinner party,” she said quickly. “We do it every few months. Potluck style. It’s – I mean, it’s nothing fancy. You don’t have to come. I just thought maybe—”

He was already walking toward her when she went to pour the noodles back into the pot.

“Lily,” he said, soft but certain; standing next to her now, he looked down at her. The way that this hand caressed the side of her wrist, he bit his lip at the hot touch. “I’d love to come.”

She met his eyes, those maddeningly open, green-flecked eyes that sat behind those glasses, and tried not to let her breath catch.

“I, uh… I get weird. Around a lot of people. You know that – I mean, even friends. It’s just… that’s actually overwhelming to me. And then having to tell them about you,” Her eyes widened at the way it sounded, “Not that I don’t want to introduce you! I do! It’s –“

“I know.” He reached past her to grab two plates, brushing her shoulder just enough to make her heart race. “But I also know you’re not weird, and that you’re just a bit socially aware to a higher degree than most. I live to be the life of the party, ergo, why we work together.”

“That’s because you’re… not normal,” she muttered with a slightly sly tongue.

Harry grinned at her response. “Normal is deeply overrated. You’re charmingly mysterious. I’m outrageously good-looking and have very talented hands in one way or another. We make a balanced pair.”

Lily scoffed, dishing pasta onto both plates, grateful for something to do with her hands.

“Besides,” he added, tone light but sincere, “I would enjoy seeing you in your world. I’ve already conquered the tattoo shop. Your apartment. That bakery you pretend not to like but always take me to.”

“I don’t always—”

“And now,” he said, stealing a forkful of pasta from her plate before she could stop him, “it’s time to infiltrate the friend group. Win hearts. Win stomachs. Probably win you all over again, but that’s a given.”

She looked at him then, really looked—at the ease in his smile, the affection under all the teasing. He wasn’t just saying yes to a dinner party. He was saying yes to her – he was saying yes to being seen with her, which was the most encouraging part of the entire thing.

Once both of them had their plates, Lily making sure that Harry got his own garlic bread, since he always liked to steal bites of hers, they took a seat at the small table that sat in the nook in Lily’s tiny apartment.

Only two seats; practically on top of one another. But, Harry wouldn’t have had it any other way.

A tiny candle flickered between them—not lit for ambience, really, just left over from the power outage two weeks ago, but it cast enough glow to soften the shadows and make everything feel vaguely more intimate than Lily had intended.

She twirled her fork through the pasta, hyper-aware of every clink of metal against ceramic. Harry ate like he always did—unapologetically, making sounds of appreciation like it was the best thing he’d tasted all week.

“You know,” he said between bites, “if I’d known you were capable of this level of culinary magic, I’d have made you cook for me on day one. Now I know why everyone always wants to kiss the chef.”

“You would’ve scared me off on day one if you told me you wanted to kiss me,” Lily muttered, biting at her lip before looking up with large eyes. The large doe-like eyes that drew Harry in so quickly and effortlessly that day in the shop.

He paused, then smiled like he knew exactly how right she was.

“Probably,” he agreed. “But you’d have come back, obviously. I have that effect on people.”

She glanced up at him, cautious as she took a bite of her pasta. “You’re very confident.”

“I’m also very observant,” he said, nudging her plate slightly closer when she paused too long without eating. “You’re still here, aren’t you? Haven’t left yet?”

She blushed and dropped her gaze, taking another small bite. Harry leaned back in his chair, watching her over the rim of his freshly poured wine glass.

“You ever just want to flirt back?” he asked casually, like he just wanted to rile her up.

Lily cleared her throat, eyes going anywhere but up to the man in front of her. She could feel his grin; could feel his cockiness radiating from across the table.

“I-,” she managed after wiping the side of her mouth with her napkin. “I- I don’t know - ”

“Don’t what?” He coaxed, leaning forward a bit on the table; his lopsided grin was just teasing her now. It was such a small table she felt that he was practically in her lap. “Say it.”

She shook her head, lips twitching, but she couldn’t look at him directly. There was something disarming about the way he looked at her—like he saw every flinch, every half-formed thought behind her eyes, and still wanted in.

“I’m not good at that stuff,” she said quietly. “Flirting. Saying the right thing. I always second-guess it. Myself, all the time.”

Harry’s grin softened, just slightly. Enough to let the joking drop into something real.

“That’s the thing, though,” he told her. “You don’t have to be good at it. You just have to mean it.” He stopped for a moment, letting the façade drop before he shrugged. “You already have me; you don’t have to work that hard to keep me.”

She hesitated, toying with the edge of her napkin. “What if I don’t know how to mean it the right way? Or you take it the wrong way?”

“You don’t need a script, Lily,” he said gently. “You just need to stop trying to edit yourself so much.”

The silence between them hummed. Not heavy—just charged, like air right before lightning struck down. It felt like they were waiting for the ball to dorp.

She finally looked at him, and when she did, he wasn’t smiling anymore. Just watching her with a quiet, impossible patience.

So she said the first honest thing that came to her mind: “I like when you’re over here,” She tilted her head, finally letting her eyes lay on his, “You fill the space, and it’s nice.”

Harry’s mouth twitched – he couldn’t help how, in her own way, that was one of the nicest things she could have said.

“See?” he said, taking another sip of his wine. “You’re a natural.”

Harry leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table, his fork dangling from his fingers as he studied her for a moment. The way that her hair sat on her shoulders, her make-up was soft but in a dewy way. It made her look alive; made her look like she was glowing from the inside out.

“I like when I come over, too,” he said, quieter this time, trying to match her energy even though he could scream it from the rooftops, if he was asked. “Kind of feels like I’m being let into this secret little world of yours. Even if you pretend it’s nothing.”

Lily blinked at him, unsure what to do with the way his voice lowered like that—gentle, teasing, but edged with something honest. She could barely hold eye contact without her pulse jumping out of her chest.

“I don’t pretend it’s nothing,” she said, almost defensively, shaking her head a little bit.

“No?” His eyes softened. “Then what is it? The bit of nonchalance.”

She floundered, not because she didn’t have an answer, but because all the ones she did have felt too vulnerable. Too true. She swallowed and looked down at her plate. They ate with such purpose, letting their meal be an invited guest in their conversations.

“It’s... it just feels safe,” she said finally, voice barely above a whisper as she pushed her pasta around on the plate. “You being here. It’s … different than my quiet. I like quiet, don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to make a big deal of it, because then maybe it’ll start being a big deal. It just feels new, and I like the energy that you bring.”

Harry was silent for a beat. Then, with a quiet response that made her feel bad for even allowing his glow to dim: “You know I can be quiet, right?”

She let out a soft laugh. “You’re never quiet.”

“Sure I am. When you’re reading. Or cooking. Or when I’m trying not to scare you away by saying dumb things like I really like the way your voice drops when you’re unsure of something.”

Her breath caught.

“I—what?”

“Exactly like that,” he said, tilting his head as if examining her, gentle and warm and utterly infuriating.

Lily’s fingers tightened around her fork, licking the edge of her lip before feeling the heat of her cheeks rising rapidly. “You do this to me on purpose.”

“What, tell you the truth?” he asked. “Yeah, I do. Relationships are based on truth, aren’t they?”

She shook her head, looking away, cheeks burning at that. “You’re too much sometimes.”

“And yet,” he said, reaching for his wine again, “you still invite me over.”

He didn’t say it like a challenge. He said it like a fact. And maybe that was the thing about Harry—he didn’t demand anything from her. He just let her react, unravel, exist. And somehow, that made her want to give him more.

She reached for her own wine, took a long sip, and when she set the glass down, her hand brushed against his on the table. It wasn’t an accident, though, even though she made it seem that way. Harry stilled, just for a second, as if giving her the choice to move away.

She didn’t.

Instead, she stared at their hands, fingers only barely touching, and said, “I don’t really do this.”

He didn’t move. “Do what?”

“This," She gestured between then, "People. Letting them in.”

His thumb ghosted over the edge of her pinky, the smallest touch. “I know.”

Her chest felt like it might cave in as she took in his words, knowing that he meant them. But not in a bad way. Not in the way she used to associate with being seen.

“I’m trying,” she whispered; and she had been.

She had been trying so hard to compartmentalize this feeling – it was so new. Dating, this whole thing. Harry was so forward, so ready to give affection at any given moment. And then there was Lily, so shy, so meek. So unsure of herself at times.

Harry’s voice was steady, warm. “You don’t have to rush it. I’m not going anywhere.” After another moment, he shrugged, “I don’t have to go with you on Saturday, if you feel that’s rushing it.”

She looked up then, answering quicker than she could have imagined herself, “No, I want you there.”

And maybe it was something about the candlelight, or the way he was still watching her like she was worth waiting for—but she leaned forward, slowly, unsure, until he met her halfway. There was hesitance on his end, knowing it was so unlike her to initiate something that could have possibly lead to rejection.

The kiss was soft. Barely there. Not because of hesitation, but because it didn’t need to prove anything. The taste of red wine on his lips, the taste of the creamy tomato sauce on hers.

When she pulled back, she felt like she’d exhaled something she’d been holding in for years.

Harry smiled, lazy and lopsided like he had been completed overwhelmed with affection. “You’re absolutely ruining me, you know that?”

The way that his voice lowered told her everything she needed to know but would be too afraid to admit. He was absolutely wrecked with her. It was a feeling that could not be described, a feeling that was heavily influenced by the pure attraction and cadence that Lily showed him. Every ounce of her was shifting; her ideas, her thoughts, her wants and needs.

All she could think about was him. It felt too good to be true, it always felt that way no matter what she was thinking. But, sitting here with him in her small apartment on the east side had been more than enough to swell her heart a few sizes larger.

It was enough to calm her; to allow her the dignity to hold her shoulders back and feel that her confidence was there, that she couldn’t have dream this life if she slept for a hundred years.

And she hoped that same confidence would push her through introducing him to her friends – she hoped that her friends found the same intrigue in him that she had. It was all she could do; hope.

***

Saturday.

Lily had a thing for being extremely early, and Harry had a thing for showing up when he was told, but usually fifteen minutes late. So, by the time Harry had arrived at Lily’s apartment like they had agreed, the dinner party was already in full swing.

When Lily and Harry arrived—warm laughter spilling out through the slightly cracked apartment door, the hum of music and clinking glasses weaving a comforting kind of chaos.

Lily shifted the lemon bars in her hands and looked up at him. “We can still turn around.”

Harry, carrying the wine under one arm like a casual afterthought, gave her a look that was both amused and gentle as he looked at the front door. “We’re already here.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I brought wine – again,” he said, like that solved everything. “You made lemon bars. That means we’re the best guests here by default.”

She gave him a look, nerves fluttering in her chest. “Just… don’t be too charming, okay?”

Harry’s grin went wide, delighted but also a bit slated by the way that she said it. “You say that like I have control over it.”

Before she could roll her eyes, the door swung open with surprise even though they had knocked—Ava, already barefoot, hair up in a messy bun, holding a wine glass and looking thrilled at seeing the two of them. Her eyes went from Lily to Harry, a bit shocked that there were two of them standing there.

“Finally,” Ava said, stepping back, allowing the two to come in the foyer. “I was starting to think you two were imaginary.”

Lily smiled shyly, gesturing towards the lemon bars that sat in her arms. “These are lemon bars. They’re still a little warm—”

“She made them,” Harry added quickly, shrugging.

Ava took the lemon bars in her arms, smirking at the two of them, “Of course you did, Lily – I’m sure they’re divine, like always,” Her eyes trailed back to Harry as he gave her a warm smile, “You must be Harry, then. We’ve all heard so much about you. I’m Ava.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Ava – hope they were good things.” Harry greeted, nodding her head at her. He held a bottle of wine, showing it to her, “Table for this?”

Ava turned to bring them into the room where everyone had been sitting, “Yes, we can put everything over here."

The two of them followed her into the living room and dining space; it looked like mostly everyone was there, which gave Lily already a burst of annoyance that they were semi-late, but it seemed that everyone still hadn’t eaten yet, so that made her feel better.

“Sorry we were late,” Lily offered, feeling Harry’s hand on her back.

“It’s my fault,” Harry shook his head, “Lily would never be late.”

Ava set the lemon bars on the table, taking a sip of her wine before smiling, “Oh, we were worried about her! She’s never late to anything, so I was worried something happened.”

“Gotta’ keep her on her toes a bit.” Harry charmed, “Take her out of her comfort zone once in a while. Not every day you meet a girl who’s just perfect in everything.”

The look on Ava’s face was one of surprise as she noticed Lily’s blush creeping on her face, she gave Lily a small look before she said, “She is quite perfect, I agree,” Ava cleared her throat, “Uh, please help yourselves to something to drink – we have wine, liquor, beer,” She looked at the table, “Stuff in the fridge, whatever you want. I think we are still waiting on a few other people.”

Ava placed her hand on Lily’s shoulder as she moved around her, whispering in her ear, “You said cute, not a fucking art-house stud.”

Lily turned her head as she watched Ava walk away with a devilish smirk on her face, wine being brought to her lips.

Harry turned to Lily with a triumphant look. “See? Easy. I’ll get you something to drink to wash away those nerves.”

Inside, the apartment buzzed with easy energy: twinkling string lights, a mismatched table set with dishes people had clearly brought from home, the comforting smell of baked brie and roasted vegetables wafting from the kitchen where Ava and her partner, Landon, had been standing as they tried to get everything together. It wasn’t fancy, but it was theirs—and Lily was suddenly very aware of how much it meant to bring Harry into it.

Her friends greeted her with grins, hugs, and raised eyebrows as they noticed Harry standing beside her. Most of them had heard something about Harry, but seeing him there—tall, casually dressed in a dark button-down with his sleeves pushed up and his tattoos peeking out from the unbuttoned collar, curls slightly unruly, charm dialed all the way up to a level past one-hundred—made it real.

“So,” said Danika, one of Ava’s friends who Lily had met a few other times, “You must be the tattoo guy.”

“That might be me,” Harry said, sliding into a seat on the couch with a bottle of beer, like he’d always belonged there. That was the thing about Harry – he didn’t need to be babysat by Lily, he just moved around and talked to whomever. It didn’t take effort, so Lily just watched from afar. “But I answer to many titles. Lemon bar connoisseur. Bad influence. Harry, mostly.”

“Professional bullshitter, Lily added under her breath, settling beside him. Harry moved to make room for her, even pulling her into his lap a bit.

He bumped her shoulder, playful. “She likes it, though, so I have to keep that image up.”

Danika bit her lip as she stared between them, “You are so not what expected for Lily,” She gave Lily a look, and then back to Harry, “But I think that’s what makes dating fun, isn’t it?”

Harry turned his head to see Lily blink over at him, “Chance is a funny game, but it’s cool when it works out in your favor.”

The small black skirt, the flowing white top with bell-bottom sleeves, her hair pulled back into a half-up with a clip. The way that her lips were pink and flushed, her eyes mesmerizing with long lashes and a flurry of freckles that danced along her skin.

Every part of Lily reminded Harry of what he saw in her the very first day, and how lucky he had been to have her walk in the tattoo shop that day. 

They fell into an easy rhythm as the evening unfolded. Lily didn’t talk much, but when she did, it was with that soft, deliberate thoughtfulness her friends had always loved—and Harry made space for it, never talking over her, but always giving her room to speak if she wanted to. It was subtle, but she noticed.

She also noticed how quickly he won everyone over. The jokes, the way he remembered names immediately and would say them back as if to engrain them, the way he complimented Ava’s vintage glassware and meant it. He teased, but kindly. Told stories with the kind of easy confidence she envied.

When the group started sharing their worst first-date stories, Harry leaned in like he’d been waiting for this exact opportunity.

“I once took a girl out who told me—mid-bite of my club sandwich, mind you—that she thought tattoos were a cry for attention and that insecure people got them as a shout for help.”

“Oh no,” Ava gasped, covering her mouth. “That’s so crazy.”

“She said marking your skin was a sin of God as he had made you the way he wanted to,” he added. “I told her my parole officer was calling to schedule my court date so I could leave.”

Laughter broke around the table, and even Lily couldn’t hold back her smile at his ridiculous way of trying to make people laugh.

But what made her heart ache—just a little—wasn’t the way everyone liked him. It was the way he kept glancing at her, like she was the one he was trying to impress. Like she was the reason he was being funny. Like none of it mattered without her eyes on him.

“So, how’d you two meet?” Cynthia asked, one of her other friends, chin propped in her hand, eyes bright with curiosity as she stared at the two of them. “And please say it was some cool, grungy bar or a chance encounter at a bookstore where Lily was probably holding way too many books, so you offered to help her carry them home.”

“Not exactly,” Lily’s stomach fluttered, but before she could open her mouth to say any else, Harry leaned forward with an exaggeratedly serious expression; he’d had a few drinks that that point, so his usual chattiness had just upped.

“She walked into the shop like she was going to pass out,” he said, grinning, from the memory and the alcohol mixed together. “Wanted a tattoo but looked like she’d rather die.”

Lily groaned, covering her face with her hands. “Harry—”

“She was really adorable,” he continued, undeterred by her groans. “Kept second-guessing everything. I offered her water like three times. Thought she’d bolt when I turned my back or something.”

“I almost did,” Lily mumbled into her hands.

“But she didn’t,” Harry said, glancing sideways at her. “She sat there and took it like a champ.”

“And the rest is history?” Ava asked, grinning, leaning into Landon.

Harry’s voice softened, just slightly, his hand finding her thigh under the table as they sat next to one another. He looked over at her, a small bait of confidence hopefully.

“I- uh,” Harry, without much to say for the first time ever, found himself trying to hold back the large smile that was trying to break on his face, “Yeah. Something like that.”

Lily peeked at him through her fingers, heart thudding.

It wasn’t the story, really. It was how he told it with the sense warmth, like he had been waiting for her to step into that tattoo shop forever. With just enough truth to make it funny, and just enough fondness to make it feel like a memory worth keeping, even if his version was dramatized a bit.

“And then I asked her to get coffee with me, and I just – I don’t know, I didn’t want to live a life that didn’t have her in it anymore. Really weird how life can do that sometimes.”

At that, Lily turned to look at him – really look at him. His usually goofy, overwhelming self made her shy and want to let him shine. But the comment sat with her for a moment as she felt her radiance for just a small moment; he wanted to live in a world where she shone. He wanted to uplift her, show her off, show her how much she meant to him, and that made her feel as high as she could get.

Danika took a large sip of wine, shaking her head, “We’ve been waiting for Lily to find someone that understood her sparkle.”

Ava added, “She’s quiet, but she’s got unbelievable layers.”

“Guys,” Lily shook her head, letting her hand travel over Harry’s larger one that held on her thigh. “You’re too much.”

Later, while people passed around homemade brownies and Lily’s lemon bars and refilled their drinks with more laughter and drunken smiles involved as the night had gone on, Ava leaned in as they sat on the sofa together and whispered, “He’s a keeper.”

Lily nodded, cheeks warm as she took her own sip of wine. “I know.”

And she did. For the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel like she was playing catch-up in her own life. She had someone who moved at her pace—someone who never asked her to be louder, or bolder, or someone she wasn’t.

Harry caught her looking at him just then, across the table from where he was sitting, listening to a story. He gave her the smallest wink of an acknowledgement. He didn’t need to be sitting near her to let her know he was thinking of her.

The last of the wine had gone warm. Someone queued a playlist that drifted into soft jazz, and the light hum of conversation settled into the quiet, comfortable lull that came when the night had peaked and begun its slow descent. People were sitting around, enjoying conversations with one another.

Lily sat on the sofa, legs crossed as she took in the conversations around her, her glass empty in her hands, watching the soft chaos of her friends—legs tucked under them on couches, laughter now more breath than sound, plates empty except for brownie crumbs and lemon bar sugar dust.

Harry was leaned back in a mismatched dining chair, his arms crossed, ankles kicked out, the kind of relaxed posture that didn’t try to impress but still managed to. He was in the middle of a story—one of the tamer ones—and she watched as her friends fell into his rhythm easily, drawn in by his dry humor, the wry twist of his mouth when he delivered a punchline without raising his voice.

She watched with intent, watching the way that people were drawn to him in a way that made her jealous, proud, and rigorously enticed in so many ways.

She had noticed that Ava wasn’t around, and moved towards the kitchen to help with some clean-up.

The kitchen was a mess in the way all good parties left it—crumb-speckled plates stacked in the sink, wine-stained glasses balanced precariously on the counter, and serving spoons abandoned in half-empty casserole dishes. Lily stood barefoot in front of the sink, sleeves rolled to her elbows, warm water running over her hands as she scrubbed a baking dish that had once held mac and cheese.

Ava dried a wine glass beside her, hip bumped against the counter, her bun unraveling slowly over the course of the night.

“I really like him,” she said, not bothering to pretend it was a casual remark.

Lily didn’t look up, focusing on getting the dried cheese off the pan instead. “You’ve said that three times.”

Ava shook her head, trying to read Lily as best as she could. “I know, I know. I just keep saying it in case you forget.”

Lily smiled faintly with the thought of her friends loving Harry, rinsing suds from the dish before handing them to her friend who held the drying towel, “He was good tonight.”

“He was,” Ava agreed. “And not in a ‘look at me, I’m impressive’ way. Just... easy. Like, charismatic and fun and… what you need.”

“Yeah,” Lily said softly, acknowledging her friend with a few nods and biting her lip as she continued to focus her hands in the sink, “He makes things feel easy.”

There was a pause as Ava handed her a towel and leaned back against the counter, watching her with the quiet knowing that only came from years of friendship, and for Ava to actually see Lily the way that Harry did. Lily had tried so hard in friendship, wanting to be seen and wanting to be heard. It was something she needed to work at, but she knew that Ava had been that person for her.

Ava had met Landon, they had been together for years and Lily had seen how easy it could be. She knew it was possible – but Ava was beautiful, and charming, and had everything working in her favor.

Lily, on the other hand, worked hard to make all of those things true.

“You’ve never brought someone into this part of your life before,” Ava acknowledges, “Around us, around your friends.”

Lily paused, drying her hands as she nodded, with a knowingness, “I know.”

Ava bumped her shoulder, smiling at her friend. “I’m glad it’s him.”

Just then, the sound of someone walking into the kitchen archway took them out of their conversation to stare at the individuals, already shedding the faint chill of the night air, a leftover lemon bar in hand, half-wrapped in foil like he’d just raided the fridge.

“Thought I lost you,” Harry said, voice low and playful. “I was gonna have to just leave with the lemon bars and never speak to anyone again.”

Lily turned, drying her hands on a dishtowel. “I’m just helping clean up.”

“I figured that’s what you would be doing,” he said, stepping further into the kitchen. He glanced toward Ava and lifted the foil like a peace offering. “Permission to steal her?”

Ava raised her hands, throwing the towel she had on the counter. “By all means. She’s yours.”

Lily gave her a quick look—soft, grateful—and then followed Harry to the door, the two of them slipping on their coats in the hallway. After a quick goodbye, some hugs and thanks given, Harry held the door open for her with a crooked grin.

The air outside was cooler than Lily expected when they made their way out of the apartment building, brushing over her skin in little bursts as she stepped out onto the front stoop. The last remnants of laughter and music echoed faintly behind them like a memory—dull through the walls, yet still lingering in her chest like a hum. The warmth of the wine, the soft buzzing of the evening’s attention still wrapped around her like an oversized sweater.

They walked through the quiet city streets under a pale wash of streetlights, close enough that their arms brushed now and then. The air was cool, the kind that snuck under your jacket and made your skin remember how to feel.

Harry was quiet for once—not in a moody way, but in the way that people get when they’re letting something settle. Lily felt it too, his usually bubbly-self had become quite dim. The party had been loud in the best way, but she was glad for the quiet now, for the sound of his sneakers on the pavement and the occasional soft laugh when he brought up something Ava had said.

Harry walked beside her, one hand tucked into the pocket of his jacket, the other carrying the half-eaten tray of lemon bars. His strides were loose, unhurried, like he had nowhere to be but next to her.

“You know,” he said as they passed under the golden haze of a streetlight, “I think I won.”

Lily blinked up at him, pulling her jacket closed around her. “Won what?”

“Dinner party MVP. Best guest. Most charming presence. Take your pick.”

She huffed out a laugh, cheeks feeling the hurt from smiling all night. “You made one joke about parole and complimented someone’s playlist because they were playing the Pixies. That’s a low bar.”

“Flawlessly executed, ten out of ten,” he said. “I rest my case.”

The streets were quiet at this hour, the occasional hum of a distant car passing, but not too many people past them. Lily pulled her jacket tighter around herself and fell into step just a little closer to him. He made it known that he wanted her close, letting his arm hug over her shoulder to pull her into him as they walked.

Lily heard Harry take a deep breath before he cleared his throat, slowing their walk as they approached an intersection.

“Uh, so,” he started, turning to face the opposite way from her apartment, “My place is actually closer to here than yours is.”

The way he said it wasn’t an invitation, really, but more of an observation that he wanted to introduce to her. It was clear that he may have wanted to give some hints, but didn’t want her to feel that he was pressuring her to do anything she didn’t want to.

It had only been four months – three months of this. It felt that every move they made could be new if they allowed it to be, but the feeling of nerves was there occasionally when they wanted it to be. Harry felt nervous thinking of what she would say, how she would react.

“Five blocks that way, actually,” he said. “You wanna come over? If you’re too tired, you don’t have to, but yours is thirty minutes and two trains. I was just thinking – “

“I’ve never been,” she said before she could stop herself. It came out smaller than she intended, but the intrigue was there.

He glanced over at her, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then: “I know.”

The way he said it wasn’t loaded. It was just true.

“Okay,” she said, nodding against his arm, her voice steadier now, with decisiveness. “Let’s go to yours.”

Harry didn’t say anything at first. He just smiled. The kind of smile that said thank you and finally and I won’t mess this up all at once.

So, they turned towards Harry’s apartment instead. Lily moved first, taking a few steps in the direction Harry had initiated and he felt a ping in his heart as he felt her want, her draw for something new. It took a lot out of her to do something like that, so he appreciated the enthusiasm for the invite.

Harry’s building was one of those old, converted warehouse spaces—tall windows, exposed brick, creaky floors. The kind of place that felt a little like a movie set if the movie was about someone who collected too many books and didn’t own matching chairs.

Ivy was curling along its edges like the veins of something alive. Inside, the stairwell creaked beneath their feet, wooden banisters worn smooth by time. He unlocked the door on the third floor and pushed it open with a sweep of his hand.

The apartment smelled faintly of cedar and ink and paper. The walls were cluttered with framed sketches—some in color, some in pencil. Books stacked in towers against the wall. A vintage record player. A dying plant he kept insisting was “in recovery.” A collection of mismatched mugs on open shelves in the kitchen caught her attention, too.

As soon as Lily stepped inside behind him, she felt her breath catch—not in awe exactly, but in recognition. The space was... him. Every inch of it radiated intention in a messy, artful kind of way. The floors were hardwood and scuffed, a rug with curling edges stretched beneath a low coffee table cluttered with sketchbooks, candles, and what looked like a half-assembled model of a ship that she wasn’t sure he had started, or if he had bought it like that. She wouldn’t have put it past him.

The walls were gallery-like—framed ink drawings, messy charcoal sketches pinned directly to the plaster, a few Polaroids tacked up among them with friends and memories he undoubtedly wanted to keep. There were books stacked in teetering piles by the windows, next to old records and mismatched furniture that somehow didn’t clash but harmonized, like an accidental symphony.

It was a mess, but in the kind of way that told a story. Like everything had been touched, chosen, kept.

“Sorry it’s not minimalist and beige,” he said, throwing his keys into a bowl shaped like a skull. “I was going for eccentric artist with emotional depth.”

“I don’t know what I expected,” Lily murmured, turning in place, arms crossed over her body.

“Boring? Empty?” Harry offered, shedding his jacket and tossing it on a hook by the door. He offered his hand for hers, “Wrong place.”

She shed her jacket, handing it to him with a thanks, “No. It’s... layered.”

He grinned. “I'll take that as a compliment.”

She wandered to the windowsill, where a cracked clay dish held a mess of rings, paperclips, and what looked like a tiny glass vial of gold flakes. A small, battered lamp cast a pool of warm amber over the couch, worn in the cushions and draped in a navy throw that had clearly seen better days.

“This just feels like someone lives here,” she said, staring out the view of his apartment, down onto the street that they were just walking on.

Harry raised a brow, maneuvering into the kitchen. “Good. I do. Every day.”

She looked over her shoulder, catching the way he was watching her—not impatient, not expectant. Just there, fully present, as he always seemed to be. He stood in the kitchen, pouring them each a glass of water, and returned to hand her one.

"You’re nervous,” he said softly, observing her as they stood awkwardly in the corner of his living room.

“I’m not—” She stopped, exhaled as she looked at the glass he handed her. “Okay, maybe a little.”

Harry didn’t press her, of course. He simply sat on the edge of the couch and let her move at her own pace. No rush. No demand.

“You know,” he said, swirling his glass a little, “for someone who gets nervous, you’re surprisingly bold.”

She glanced over at him, confused, she moved to sit next to him but just kept still for a moment. “What do you mean?”

“You walked into a tattoo shop alone. You let me talk you through your first ink, even though I could see you were ready to bolt.”

“I didn’t bolt. I usually do."

“Exactly.” He smiled at her over the rim of his glass. “Takes guts.”

She rolled her eyes, but her heart fluttered. “I get overwhelmed easily. You know that.”

“I do,” he said. “And I like it.”

Lily turned slowly toward him, cautious. “You like that I get overwhelmed?”

“I like watching you work through it,” he said, voice low and warm like honey moving over. “I like the way you get quiet, like your whole world shrinks to one thought. I like how deliberate you are—how you don’t give anything away until you mean it.”

She swallowed, feeling that the way he said it meant something more as if it had a double meaning as they sat there next to one another. “That’s not how most people feel about me.”

“I’m not most people.”

He set his glass down and leaned back, one arm draped across the back of the couch, like he’d carved out a space for her without needing to ask.

Lily took a step closer, biting her lip as she felt that boldness he had talked about.

“Do you," She swallowed thickly, feeling her skin tingle at the thought of looking up to see him staring at her. When she did, it was all she saw.

"Do you bring girls here often?” she asked quietly, feeling embarrassed for asking the question at all, or prying enough.

“Nope.”

“Not even for—” She gestured vaguely, face flushing as she crossed her arms. “You know.”

He chuckled, deep and low, but feeling entirely too warm from watching her stand in front of him - the fact that she would even insinuate that made him feel a laugh in his throat.

“Nope. Not for that, either.”

She shifted on her feet, flustered. “I guess – I mean, we haven’t even…”

“No,” he said, lips quirking at her suggestion, but finishing her thought for her so she wouldn't have to. “We haven’t.”

The pause hung between them. Not tense. Just thick with awareness. She started to notice the more noticeable things about him; the way his nose ring fit snug, the way his mustache was perfectly groomed, the glasses on the bridge of his nose eventuated the sparkle in his eye, the mess of curls that fell onto his forehead that were a bit windswept as you walked back to his place.

“You never tried,” she said, almost barely making it past her lips.

“I could tell you weren’t ready. And it’s more fun this way.”

Her brow lifted at his choice of words. “Fun?”

He sat forward slightly, his voice dipping as he reached for her hand.

“Yeah. You’re like this beautiful, intricate lock, and I like figuring you out piece by piece. What makes you laugh. What makes you blush. What makes you look at me like you’re doing right now,” He made himself comfortable on the couch, leaning back a bit as he looked back at her, “I like when you look at me like that.”

She hadn’t realized she was looking at him like that—like she wanted to kiss him and also hide from him at the same time.

Harry stood slowly, hand still holding hers, and closed the space between them until she could feel the heat of him, the slow, steady rhythm of his breath. Such a different side, such a welcoming side.

“If you put the wrong key in the lock, you can break it real easy. I don’t need all of you tonight,” he said gently, his fingers running along the side of her face, pushing hair off her shoulder. “Not until you want to."

She didn’t pull away, all she could do was lean in.

And when he kissed her, it was slow, and patient, and made her forget every careful thing she’d rehearsed in her head. She didn’t think - it was all by feeling.

Harry bent his head and touched his mouth to hers like he was learning something—pressing in, pulling back, giving her a beat to catch up. His lips were soft but firm, coaxing her open little by little, his thumb brushing her jaw as if grounding her there.

She responded this time. Surer of herself than she had been before. She knew that Harry liked kissing her; it was something she felt confident on by the way that he held her tightly like he wanted more, more, more. Her hand slid up to his chest, fingers resting lightly against the beat of his heart, and she kissed him back with a quiet kind of hunger that surprised even her.

He made a sound in the back of his throat that was low and revenant and deepened the kiss.

His hand slipped from her jaw to the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair, tilting her just enough to draw another sigh from her lips. She stepped into him, the front of her body brushing his, and he instinctively pulled her closer. His other hand splayed along her lower back—guiding, not pushing.

The tension shifted quickly—gentle heat started turning into something sharp, more urgent.

Lily’s breath hitched when his teeth grazed her bottom lip, and that tiny sound, which was barely more than a gasp, nearly undid him.

Harry’s fingers flexed at her waist in an attempt to keep himself sane. He wanted her. God, he wanted her.

Every part of her—shy and fierce and uncertain—was undoing him, piece by piece. The softness of her mouth, the way she clung to his shirt like she didn’t know what else to hold onto, the slight tremble of her breath. He could feel the heat building in his body, the ache of wanting to press her against the nearest wall and kiss her until she forgot her own name.

But he didn’t. He pulled his hips back when she went to press herself against him even more. Just slightly, so she wouldn’t make a huge deal of it.

But, then her eyes opened with a lidded daze and her lips were swollen with a maroon color so obnoxiously addictive, her breath uneven. Harry practically screwed his eyes shut to try and not think about how she looked right now.

Instead, he kissed the corner of her mouth, then her cheek, then her jaw. Slower now, softer. Trying to calm the fire roaring beneath his skin. She fell into his touch, a small giggle escaping her breath as he tickled his way down her neck.

“Harry,” she breathed, her hand fisting in the front of his shirt.

“Shh,” he murmured, kissing the hollow just beneath her ear. “I just… I just need a second.”

She pulled back, blinking at him at him as if something was off. “Did I do something—?”

“No.” He was firm, steady with his response. “No. You didn’t do anything wrong. You did everything right.”

Her brows drew together.

“I mean, I’m not exactly thinking gentleman-esque thoughts at the moment,” he admitted with a hint of humor, his voice raw now as he drew back. “But I want to make sure you know how much I want you. Not just when it’s hot and dizzy and hard to think. I don’t want you thinking that’s why I brought you here, or what I’m trying to get."

She stared at him for a long moment. Then, with a trembling exhale, she nodded as if to understand. And in that nod was something he hadn’t truly seen from her since on that table at the shop— undoubtably trust.

He kissed her again, just once. Slow. Thoughtless. Instinctively.

Then, without letting her go, he pulled her toward the couch, collapsing gently into it and guiding her down with him, cradling her against his side. She curled into him like she’d done it a hundred times, her body pressed to his, her hand resting on his shoulder as he held her close.

His chest rose and fell beneath her, slow and steady, but Lily could feel the tension in him still—just below the surface. That aching restraint felt so coiled up. The way his hand moved slowly along her back in comforting strokes, even though his jaw was clenched and his thighs were still coiled tight beneath her.

The apartment had gone still, the kind of stillness that came only after hours of slow conversation and soft touches, not the heated moment that settled between them.

The lamp was still glowing nearby, casting gold along the edges of the bookshelf and outlining Harry’s profile in warm light. They were curled together on the couch, Lily tucked into his side, her cheek resting against his shoulder, one of his hands stroking gently along her spine in slow, absent motions.

She hadn’t spoken for a while. Harry didn’t push either way. But then her voice broke the silence—barely above a whisper.

“I used to move too fast.”

His fingers paused, then continued—no rush, no shift in weight. Just presence, like he was acknowledging he heard her but didn’t need to say anything and break her thought.

Lily swallowed before she continued, finding her footing. “With guys. I’d just… go along with things. Let things happen. And I don’t think they meant to take advantage of that – I-I mean, not all of them. But it was like… once things started, I didn’t feel like I could say no. Or stop. Or even slow down.”

Harry didn’t speak but he bit the inside of his cheek as he listened, his hand moved to the back of her head, gently threading through her hair, grounding her there with him.

“They liked me more when I didn’t object,” she said, her voice shaking now, almost in disbelief she was continuing down this path. “When I didn’t ask for space. Or softness. Or… time.”

She felt her words catch as she kept speaking, so she stopped for a moment. His comfort didn’t stop, only intensified as they sat.

“I think for a while I thought I had to be that version of myself. Or no one would stay.”

She felt the shift in his breathing before he even spoke.

“You're in good hands here,” Harry said quietly, he kissed the top of her head as he let his fingers dive through her hair.

“I know.” She looked up at him, eyes shining, lashes damp. “That’s why this scares me more.”

Harry’s jaw tensed, like it physically hurt him to hear her say that and to watch her get teary over memories that she felt were difficult. He cupped the side of her face, his thumb brushing gently along her under eyes to the tears she felt ashamed of.

“I’m not here because I’m waiting for you to give me something,” he said to her directly, sitting up a bit. He had to tell her so she knew his truth. “I’m here because I see you. And I like you exactly as you are. Not in spite of how careful you are. Because of it.”

She blinked, and he leaned forward to press a kiss to her forehead—light, like a promise rather than a confirmation.

Lily let out a shaky breath and let her hand rest over his heart again, feeling its steady rhythm beneath her fingertips. “I’m not used to being allowed to take my time.”

“I'm sorry they weren't patient with you, and I’m sorry you didn’t feel you could be patient.” Harry said, eyes on her like she was the only thing in the world. “I don't want you to sit here and feel like I'm pressuring you, because I'm not."

Harry smirked for a moment as he shifted his legs, "It's just biology, really – you should feel good to know you turn me on, but I don’t need you to accommodate me."

Lily sat with her head on his chest, letting the silence fill the air as she listened to the sounds below them on the streets. Like it was the soundtrack that narrated their moment here on the small sofa in the unfamiliar apartment that had started to feel like her favorite book. Something she would revisit, something that would bring comfort every time she opened it.

They were still curled together on the couch, a blanket soft and bunched around their legs. The vulnerability in the room lingered like the last notes of a song—quiet, resonant, humming beneath their skin.

Harry let out a breath, long and low. “You know, I wasn’t expecting tonight to feel like this.”

“Like what?” Lily asked, voice muffled against the fabric of his shirt as she pulled at one of the buttons.

He tilted his head, eyes drifting toward the ceiling as he pushed his feet up on the coffee table, out in front of him. “Like I’m… not even thinking about what I can’t do with you right now. Just… what I get to do someday. Which, at this point, right now, is lie on this couch and stare at your cute little nose while you breathe on my collarbone.”

Lily huffed a small laugh and turned her face further into his chest, trying to hide the heat that rushed to her cheeks. “That’s romantic.”

“It is. Very romantic,” he said, mock-serious. “It’s taking everything in me not to climb on top of you and wreck you, but really all I can think about is your damn button nose.”

Lily blinked, caught completely off-guard—and then she laughed. Really laughed. That kind of soft, surprised laugh that left her glowing.

“You can’t say things like that when I’m emotionally vulnerable.”

Harry looked down at her, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Why not? You’re very cute when you blush, which is why I keep trying to make it happen.”

She tried to hide her smile but failed as she dug her face into his neck. “You’re such a menace.”

“I’m a patient menace,” he said, his voice dipping just enough to make her pulse quicken, looking at him this closely had made her think differently of him. The way that his skin was perfect; small moles and dimples and the scent of cedar and ash had coated her memory. “Which is far more dangerous, if you really think about it.”

Lily shifted beside him, trying to ignore the way his words settled low in her stomach. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Course I am.” His hand moved idly along the side of her thigh, fingertips trailing to help pull over the blanket. “You’re curled up against me, making these tiny sounds when I talk too close to your ear. I live for this.”

“I don’t make—”

“You do, trust me,” he interrupted, his mouth now just inches from her ear, his breath warm against her sensitive skin. “Especially when I say certain things.”

She stilled, feeling her heart beat faster. He didn’t move, either.

“Like what?” she asked, quieter now, pushing for an answer. She was playing a dangerous game, but Harry was down to push her further; make her squirm, make her blush so bad she would have to take a cold shower later.

He smiled back at her, thinking about what he could say to do just that. He almost didn’t know how to reply, opening his mouth before he shut it to rethink his answer. “You want me to prove it?”

“I want to know what you’d say,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

His hand moved again—slow, gentle, deliberate on top of her thigh. Her skirt was moving up her thighs, and he tried not to think about that. “I’d tell you how long I’ve been thinking about your mouth. Everywhere. How every time you bite your lip when you’re nervous, it makes me want to push you up a wall you just a little.”

Lily’s breath hitched at the boldness of his words; she could tell he had a filthy mouth when he wanted to. The cockiness oozed from him; she fluttered her eyes shut at the thought.

“I’d tell you I notice the way your thighs press together when I say something filthy, even if you pretend not to hear me.”

She swallowed, trying to be discreet at how her thighs pressed together just then. Of course he noticed.

“I’d tell you I think about you riding me, slow at first, real quiet like you can’t even manage a word,” he murmured, “until you get brave. And I think you're real brave, you know – I think you get in your own world."

Her eyes fluttered closed knowing he had completely won.

“And I’d tell you exactly what I’d do when you start to fall apart on top of me. How I’d hold you through it. How I’d talk you through it. How I'd–" He bit his tongue to keep from going.

Lily’s chest was rising and falling faster now, a slight tremor in her fingers where they rested near his ribs. But her voice—when she finally spoke—was steady. He flinched at the way that her fingertips felt hot against him, almost burning through the material of his shirt.

“And you wouldn’t push me?”

Harry’s hand stilled, then retreated, settling gently against her waist.

“Never,” he said. “This doesn’t work if it’s not yours too.”

She opened her eyes and looked up at him, her gaze unreadable. “You’d talk me through it?”

His mouth twitched into a smile as he stared at the ceiling then, huffing out a breath of laugh as he couldn’t believe she was teasing him like that. “Every word, baby. Every breath. Every goddamn second.”

A long pause stretched between them, thick with tension but not pressure. He waited—still, steady, letting her decide what came next. Lily’s lips parted. Her voice was soft, but certain.

“Okay.”

Harry didn’t know how to react, lifting his head to see where her thought process was.

“Not yet, though,” she said quickly when she realized that he had some concern written on his face. “But when I’m ready… I want that.”

He exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding that breath for hours. Then he smiled—soft and full of something deeper than hunger.

“Then that’s what you’ll have,” he said, almost simply, as if they hadn’t just been talking about something dirty but about something that he knew she needed, “Exactly how you want."

Harry didn’t say anything for a long moment. He just looked at her—really looked at her as if studying every freckle on her face—as if he could memorize the exact shape of her words, the way she said when I’m ready like it meant something sacred. And to him, it did. It was written in scripture.

She was still curled against him, her cheek against his shoulder, and his arm was resting lightly around her waist now. Not pulling her closer. Just there—like an anchor. Steady in the dark water to help make sure she didn’t float away.

His voice was low when it returned. Not playful this time, but with an earnest nature that fluttered the depths of his heart as he thought about his admissions.

“I think about you all the time,” he said, nodding into the universe. “Not just in the way you’re probably imagining. Though… those thoughts aren’t exactly rare. But,” He swallowed, “I just think you’re… really special.”

She smiled faintly, her eyes cast downward, heart beating faster now. The way he said it was unfiltered—blunt, but a hint of hesitancy that she barely saw from him. Like he liked wanting her but knew that he was human– he knew that she was just as capable as producing heartbreak as he was.

“I think about how you’d taste when you’re breathless,” he continued, voice sliding over her skin like velvet. “How your body would feel under me – not even just in a sexual way, but a personal way. How you’d look when you finally stop holding yourself back.”

A sharp inhale escaped her lips as she thought of the moments that Harry could have of her. Harry heard it. Felt it, but he didn’t pounce. Didn’t lean into it like a challenge. He waited, watching her closely.

“You can tell me to stop, and I will.” His voice was practically a breath – he wanted to give her the opportunity, the one that hadn’t been given to her prior. He wanted her to make the rules.

She didn’t – no, of course she didn’t. After a few more beats, he kept going, voice a little lower now, as if daring her to stay in the moment with him.

“I think about what your voice would sound like—messy and raw—saying my name when you’re close. Or when you want something but can’t say it out loud.”

Lily’s thighs pressed together. She didn’t even realize she’d done it until Harry’s eyes dropped—just briefly—to where her legs shifted beneath the blanket. His breath caught at the acknowledgement.

“And I think,” he said, pausing to brush her hair gently off her cheek, “about how good it’s going to feel when I finally get to have you. Not just your body, Lils. The way you trust. The way you unravel.”

She turned her face into his neck then, unable to hold his gaze, hiding in the space where his pulse beat steady just beneath his skin. Harry didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease her for getting shy in the middle of their own heat. He just smiled—something soft and wrecked and tilted his head so his lips brushed the crown of her head.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured into her, almost like to engrain it into her.

“I think I do,” she whispered, her breath trembling as she tried her best to maintain a steady voice.

His hand moved again, slow and lazy over her waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of her shirt—but only just. The pad of his thumb brushed bare skin there, and it was electrifying, practically shocking him.

“You want to tell me what you want?” The way that his voice asked made her tremble, so softly it was almost a plea.

Lily hesitated at the way that he asked her. Her throat was tight. Not from fear—but from the weight of the want. The newness of it being okay to speak it, almost like she felt drawn in.

“I want to stay here,” she said finally, after a few moments. Even though she loved the way he spoke out to her, she wanted the opportunity to think of it. “Just like this. For a while.”

Harry nodded, eyes heavy-lidded but calm as he let the thoughts swirl around them like a cloud of alchemy. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her temple like it was a ritual.

“Then we’ll stay here,” he said, simplicity hanging between them. “Exactly like this.”

His fingers didn’t wander further, because he didn’t feel invited. His mouth didn’t ask for more. But his body stayed close—warm and steady—and his desire never left the room. It simply curled around them, like a quiet storm waiting to break when she was ready to call the thunder down.

And she would. God, she would.

But tonight, she breathed him in, curled tighter against his chest, and let herself rest in the heat of what they hadn’t done yet. And the sweetness of knowing that when they did—it would be everything. It was almost addicting, the thoughts, rather than the action.

They hadn’t moved in minutes, but everything about the space between them felt alive. Lily was nestled into the curve of Harry’s chest, his fingers grazing lazy circles over the sliver of skin just above her waistband. It was nothing, but it made her skin hum, made her breath stutter every time he touched that one spot again, again, again.

He hadn’t said anything since she told him she wanted to stay like this. And he hadn’t asked for more.

But her body told the truth. The way his thumb paused when she shifted her hips, not knowing if she wanted more or was asking for space. The way his voice had grown quieter, rougher, when he said her name just moments before.

“Still okay?” he murmured now, his lips brushing against her temple.

She nodded but gave him a quiet yes to confirm.

“Good.” He kissed her hair again, breathing in the sweetness of the vanilla of her shampoo. “But I’ll have you know that if you keep squirming like that, I’m going to start taking it personally.”

Lily’s cheeks flushed in embarrassment, and she buried her face against his collarbone. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he teased gently, his voice a little heavier now. “And it’s kind of killing me.”

She smiled shyly, but didn’t deny it. He shifted just enough to look at her, his eyes scanning her face carefully. “Talk to me, I’m ready to hear your voice.”

Her lips parted, then closed again. Her pulse was wild beneath her skin; she bit her lip as she let their eyes investigate each other’s again. She didn’t know how this felt so right. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to get it perfect,” he said, brushing his knuckles along her jaw as if to coax her. “Just tell me what’s in your head. Anything.”

She hesitated for the slightest moment; her gaze flicking down to his lips and then back up to his eyes that held so much curiosity and a ferocity of intrigue. Her fingers gripped the hem of his shirt, like grounding herself to him would make the words come easier.

“I want…” She stopped, swallowing. “I want you to touch me more.”

Something flickered in his expression—something sharp, almost like he wasn’t expecting her to be vocal about her needs. He just wanted to hear her, to listen to her, to do as she asked.

“You want me to touch you,” he repeated softly, his hand still on her waist, waiting.

She nodded again, so sure of what she wanted, but so unsure of how it felt to be listened to. “Just… slow. I get overwhelmed.”

“I know.” His thumb traced the slope of her hip, the way that his thumb brushed against her skin tickled her softly, making her bristle at the touch. Harry stopped for a moment, letting them settle. “But you want it.”

Lily breathed outwards, nodded again, “Yes.”

“Where?” Harry’s voice was direct, wanting full consent of the direction.

She exhaled shakily, trembling under his gaze, and whispered, “Anywhere you want. As long as you don’t stop talking to me.”

That broke something in him—in the quietest, most sacred way.

Harry leaned in and kissed her jaw, slow and careful. “I’ll tell you everything, sweetheart,” he murmured. “What I want. What I’ll do. How good you make me feel.”

Her breath hitched. She was already shaking under his hand, not from fear, but from anticipation so deep it made her bones ache. There was an adrenaline that was building up in her; the same kind of adrenaline that she had felt the day she got the tattoo from him. A shaking feeling that gave her a wound-up energy.

“I want to feel you,” she said, voice almost breaking. “But I need you to help me go slow.”

His hand came up to cradle her face, his thumb brushing just beneath her eye.

“I’ve got you,” he said, firm and low. “You say stop, I stop. You say slower, I’ll move like fucking honey. And if all you want is my hands and my mouth and my words? Then that’s all you’ll get. For as long as you want.”

Her body relaxed against his then, something in her melting completely, and the way she looked at him—hopeful, wanting, a little scared—was the most devastating thing he’d ever seen. She leaned in first this time.

And when he kissed her, it was deeper than before, hungrier—but careful.

Every breath they shared from then on felt like a promise. Every word he whispered into her skin was one more brick laid in the foundation of trust. And every inch he touched was earned like a medal of honor. Harry kissed her like the whole world had gone quiet except for her breathing; it was the soundtrack that played in his brain.

Lily’s hands had slipped up beneath his shirt—tentative at first, resting against the warm, lean curve of his ribs—but as he kissed her deeper, her fingers curled, wanting to feel more. She could feel the way that his muscles contracted, the way that he held himself back from moving further. It was a slow, deep want. He groaned softly into her mouth at the contact, like even the lightest touch from her could undo him.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he breathed, lips brushing against hers as he spoke.

She looked at him then, wide-eyed and flushed, her chest rising fast beneath the soft cotton of her shirt. “I think I do.”

Harry’s eyes darkened just slightly, but his hands stayed gentle—one braced behind her back, the other slipping beneath the hem of her shirt to trace slow, reverent lines along her waist. He watched her carefully as he did, his gaze asking permission even when his body begged for more. Lily didn’t stop him.

Instead, she leaned into him, shifting closer until she was straddling his lap, her knees tucked on either side of his hips. The move surprised them both.

Her breath stuttered. “Is this okay?”

Harry’s fingers tightened just slightly where they rested against her bare skin.

“Fuck, Lily,” he murmured, his voice low and thick as he felt her hands against his chest, moving down to his hips so that she could stabilize herself. The question hanging on his breath was pushed back to her, to solidify that her actions were matching her words. “Is it okay?”

His hands slid up her back, dragging her closer, but he still held back. His whole body was tensed in restraint, like every nerve was screaming to move faster but he wouldn’t. Not until she asked.

“You can touch me more,” she said, voice breathless but certain now; her shyness was masked by the spark of electricity that hung in the air between them. “Please.”

He groaned at that, tilting his head back slightly so he could look at her—his hands now cradling her waist like she was something rare and opportunistic; like being with her was a prize.

“I’ll show you anything,” he said. “Everything, if you let me. Just tell me what you want and it’s yours.”

He kissed her again—this time with more heat, more hunger. And this time, when his tongue swept against hers, she met him halfway. Her hands moved to the base of his neck; she felt his head tilt up to meet hers in a fit of need and angst. With each pull of his hair, an elicited groan escaped from between his lips into hers, the vibration creating a sense of need.

Her hands moved to roam beneath his shirt, and he helped her pull it over his head without breaking the kiss, letting her touch him freely now—her palms mapping his chest, his stomach, the ink that curled down his ribs like secrets.

He exhaled hard, forehead pressed to hers. “Lily…”

“Please,” she whispered, and that one word—so soft, so open—was everything.

His hands skimmed beneath her shirt next, lifting the fabric inch by inch, waiting for her to stop him. She didn’t.

When he pulled it over her head and tossed it to the side, his breath caught—his hands hovering, his eyes reverent, like she was art. Like he wanted to memorize every inch.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, barely able to breathe it.

She shivered, nerves fluttering in her belly, but when he touched her again—his hands trailing slowly along the curve of her waist, up her sides, then gently over her ribs. He kissed down her neck, down to the space just above her heart, always slow, always waiting for her to say no. Instead, she leaned into him, leaned into his touch to let her mind wander at the true feeling of want.

Not only did he want her – he wanted to treasure her. His hands were warm where they skimmed her bare sides, fingers brushing along the gentle curve of her ribcage. And then he paused—just under the swell of her breast, where a faint shadow of ink curved along her skin.

Harry pulled back slightly, catching the breaths that he felt he only had a few left, his fingers hovering.

The small, delicate linework he’d drawn months ago sitting beneath the pads of his fingers as he rubbed over it gently. Her first tattoo.

“God,” he murmured against the heat of her skin, brushing the pad of his thumb over it. “This is mine.”

Lily’s breath hitched—not from possession, but from the way he said it. Like it meant something more than ink. Like it was sacred.

“I almost didn’t go through with it,” she said, her voice barely audible.

“I know,” he whispered, his eyes never leaving the spot. “But you did. You let me mark you.”

His hand stayed there, palm warm and flat against her ribcage, feeling the rise and fall of her breath as if it was his only lifeline now. Lily reached for the hem of his shirt, fingers trembling slightly. He didn’t stop her; he just lifted his arms so she could pull it over his head, baring his chest to her, skin golden in the low light, scattered with ink and soft shadows.

Her hands rested against him—curious, slow—exploring the tattoos she’d only glimpsed before. One on his shoulder, a pair of birds settling on his collarbone, a large butterfly under his ribs. A name near his heart in small, typewriter lettering.

“Do they all mean something?” she asked, tracing the edge of one with her finger.

A huffed out laugh came from his lips as he shook his head, “No, not at all.”

She looked up at him, face flushed, eyes wide and unguarded. And then she kissed him. This time, it wasn’t careful. It wasn’t tentative. She kissed him with want, with memory, with the understanding that this had always been building to something. Her hands slid over his shoulders, his chest, fingers flexing like she wanted to know him by feel. She pulled him in, and he felt like a sailor in a sea filled with siren songs.

Harry groaned softly, low in his throat, and gathered her closer, one hand slipping to the small of her back, the other threading into her hair as her mouth moved over his. His restraint frayed—she could feel it in the way his grip tightened, in the way his hips shifted beneath her.

But he still held the line. Every kiss, every touch was for her—measured by what she asked for, what she invited. When she rolled her hips gently against him—just once—his breath stuttered, and he pulled back, resting his forehead against hers.

“Lily,” he whispered, his voice tight. “I need to slow down. Or I’m going to forget how.”

She nodded, humming softly as if to protest, but knowing that she respected his boundaries as she should her own. She knew that she should stop – she didn’t want to move faster but she found it very hard to remember that when she could feel the way that he protected her, she could feel the way that he drew her in so heavenly.

“I want you so badly,” he admitted, his hands shaking slightly now as they cupped her hips to stop her from moving. “But I don’t want to take advantage of just… this moment.”

Lily’s lips brushed his jaw. “You make it hard to want to wait.”

He smiled—wrecked, tender, and completely enthralled with the way that her voice dripped with anticipation and need. “I think that’s the point.”

His hands moved back to her tattoo; his mark. And the only thing he wanted to leave on her that night.

They stayed tangled like that for a while—breathing each other in, heartbeat to heartbeat, the space between them simmering with unspoken want. Lily was still straddled in his lap, her chest against his, their skin pressed so close it felt like her nerves were tuned to his every breath.

Harry’s lips were at her jaw, then her temple, then the corner of her mouth again. Slow, dragging kisses that made her stomach twist with need and something more dangerous—safety. Her hips moved once more—subconsciously, involuntarily—and she felt the way his body tensed beneath her, how he froze mid-kiss, like his control was snapping at the seams.

Then, he pulled away. Not far. Just enough to look at her, chest rising and falling faster now.

“Lils,” he said, breathless and rough and with enough clarity in his head to know that he had to stop, “I’m going to stop thinking straight.”

He could tell that there was an internal struggle as he looked up at her. It was such a different portrait; she was so shy and flushed and reserved when he met her – this was such a different version of her. The darkness in her eyes, the want and need of satisfaction was controlling her now, but he wanted to respect her and understand that this was not the time and place.

“Come here,” he murmured, and kissed her again—slow and deep, like a promise instead of a goodbye.

When he pulled back again, he stroked her cheek with the back of his hand.

“I’m gonna get you something to change into, yeah? Then, I’m going to take the coldest shower of my entire life and try not to punch a hole through my own wall.”

Lily laughed softly at his comment, still breathless, her cheeks glowing with affection and embarrassment. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Oh, I do,” he muttered, moving to stand and gently lifting her off his lap, setting her on the couch with a tenderness that made her heart ache. “Because if I look at you like that for one more minute, this blanket’s not going to be the only thing I rip in half.”

She blushed a red that he hadn’t seen yet. He disappeared into the bedroom, leaving her sitting in the golden spill of lamplight, her body thrumming with sensation, her lips swollen and tingling from his kiss. She let her fingers play with them for a moment, knowing how they tingled. A minute later, he came back with a soft, oversized t-shirt and a pair of boxers.

“Boxers are clean,” he said, tossing them gently into her lap. “Shirt is… eh, probably fine.”

“Probably?” she teased, a ghost of a smile on her lips.

“Might have worn it without washing, hard to tell,” he replied, grabbing a towel from a hook by the door. “You can sleep in the bed. I’ll take the couch.”

Lily sat up straighter as she held the clothes between her fingers. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said, already heading toward the bathroom. “I, uh, probably need to just be alone.” He bit his lip thinking of what would happen if they fell asleep next to each other in the warmth of his bed after what he knew she was capable of.

He shook his head as he leaned against the bathroom doorframe. “Just leave a pillow out here for me?”

She watched him grab his own stuff, clothes and items in his hands before he turned back to her one last time, her heart tangled somewhere between longing and gratitude. Just before the bathroom door closed, he leaned back out, hair tousled, his eyes warm despite the fire still simmering just beneath the surface.

“Lily?”

She turned her head up, “Yeah?”

He smiled at the large eyes that stared back at him, “Tonight was perfect. Even if we didn’t finish what we started.”

She held his gaze for a long, humming beat. Then nodded, the shyness in her coming back, “Yeah. It was.”

Harry gave her one last smile before shutting the door softly, falling back into it as he let out the largest breath. His eyes shut as he tried to unravel every small feeling that he had ever felt for someone and tried to make sense of the way that he felt now.

He was doomed.

***

One Month Later

Rain pelted the tall windows in uneven rhythms, wind pressing against the glass in slow, heaving breaths with the scent of apples and blossoms from the wax candle that burned on top of the stack of books. The city outside was blurred—soft gold street lights smudged by the storm, like the whole world had decided to lean in, hush up, and listen.

Inside Harry’s apartment, the candle flickered in the corner, casting long shadows across the hardwood. The floor creaked faintly beneath them, the storm beyond the glass a steady hum beneath the stillness of the space.

They sat cross-legged on the rug in front of the low coffee table, a worn chessboard between them, the pieces already in mid-battle.

Lily was bundled in one of Harry’s hoodies, sleeves pushed up as if she had been getting serious about the game, bare legs tucked under her. Harry sat across from her in gray sweats and a loose black t-shirt, sleeves hugging the curve of his arms just right. His hair was still damp from the rain he’d run through earlier to grab the takeout from the corner store, curling around his temples in soft spirals.

“I hope you know you’re going to lose,” Lily said, flicking her rook across the board with precision; the way that her voice was soft and gentle was that much more enticing, as it didn’t have the edge of someone vicious.

Harry narrowed his eyes, thumb rubbing over the edge of his mouth in concentration. “You’ve gotten cocky.”

“I’ve been studying.” Lily answered with a bit of pride, taking a sip of her tea.

“Studying?” he repeated, eyes flickering up to her. “Oh, so that’s why you ignored me for half an hour the other night.”

With a bitten smile, Lily shrugged at him with nonchalance. “I wasn’t ignoring you. I was… strategizing.”

“You were watching tutorials on how to crush me at chess.”

“Same thing,” she said, smiling sweetly, innocently.

Harry leaned back on his hands, his legs stretched out long across the worn rug, spine curved just enough to show off the way his shirt clung across his chest. He was watching Lily the way he always did when he wanted to rattle her - calm, unreadable, mouth ticking up like he knew something she didn’t.

His eyes moved slowly across her face, cataloguing her as he studied the curve of her cheekbone, the soft flutter of lashes as she focused too hard on the board, the slight smirk she kept trying to swallow. His gaze lingered, like he was filing it all away for later.

“You know,” he said, pursing his lips with a low, teasing voice, “we never agreed on stakes.”

Lily looked up, raising an eyebrow, her bare thigh brushing against the edge of the table. “Stakes?”

“For the game.” Harry gestured lazily at the board, his fingers toying with a captured knight that sat on the edge nearest to him. “There should be consequences. And a clear winner.”

Her mouth twitched as she tilted her head, wondering how he could turn everything into a romantic gesture. “And what, exactly, do you have in mind?”

He grinned, devilish and slow. “If I win,” He threw his head back in thought before he turned it back up to look at her, “I get to choose exactly how I kiss you tonight.”

Lily blinked at him, and he didn’t miss the way her spine stiffened, the way her fingers fidgeted for half a second before stilling. Her throat bobbed as she moved her piece – a pawn this time.

He tilted his head, his voice dipping to a low murmur. “That includes where… how long… how soft—or how not soft.”

“You’re already kissing me whenever you want,” she managed, trying to sound bored but falling a bit short.

“True,” Harry said, shifting forward, his elbows resting on his knees now, gaze warm and steady. “But tonight, I want permission to be creative.”

Lily stared at him, her pulse starting to pick up speed. There was a curl of heat in her stomach that hadn’t been there a minute ago. She swallowed. “And if I win?”

Harry leaned in, closing some of the space between them. The warm glow from the nearby lamp threw soft shadows over his cheekbones. His voice came slower now, thicker. He moved another piece, a knight.

“Then you get to tell me how you want me.”

Thunder rumbled outside low and heavy, rolling through the walls like an echo of what was already building in her chest.

Lily nudged a pawn forward, fingers steady even if her breath wasn’t. “I think I’ll be keeping you on a leash.”

Harry’s smirk sharpened as he glanced at her legs, then up to her eyes. “God, that’s hot. Say more things like that.”

“Harry.” Eyes like darts hit him before she moved her own knight, to which he bit his lip. He hadn’t been pay attention, and that was clear before he needed to make a more strategic move.

He moved without hesitation, sliding his queen across the board until it landed with a soft click far too close for comfort.

“Check,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Lily stilled, her eyes flicking to the board, then back to him. “You're kidding. Shit.”

Harry’s fingers trailed around the rim of his water glass, slow and deliberate as she turned her eyes from the game to him then.

“Am I? Because if I win… I think I’ll start by kissing your thighs. Just above the hem of these little shorts you’re sporting.”

Her breath hitched at his words, almost like they were a kiss of breath. She glanced down at her lap as though realizing for the first time how much skin she’d shown.

When she looked back up, his gaze was already there.

“And then I’ll ask,” he continued, leaning in just a little closer – he was trying to get into her head so he could win, “if you want me to keep going. Or if you’d rather just watch me lose my mind because you’re being such a tease.”

“You’re cheating,” she said, breath catching as she shook her head to get into the game again. She had to win now; she couldn’t have him getting away with this.

He raised his brows, shaking his head. “Nope. Just thinking ahead. Like any good strategist would.”

Lily flushed but kept her composure. Her hand hovered over a knight, then moved it swiftly, landing with a firm, clean snap.

“Check,” she said, daring him with her eyes.

Harry blinked, leaned in like he didn’t quite believe it, then exhaled through his nose. “Well, well. You’ve got me in quite a pickle here, love.”

Inching forward on her knees, holding herself up on her elbows above the game, closing the distance between them. The tips of their noses were just inches apart now. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You just didn’t notice because you were too busy staring at my mouth.”

He stared at her lips for one second too long.

“Oh, I noticed,” he said, his voice rawer now. “I’m just trying to think ahead for when I win, what I’ll get for it, that’s all.”

She froze. Her cheeks turned crimson, her hands going still in her lap.

Then, she whispered, “But, what if I do?”

Harry stopped breathing for a moment. His eyes locked on hers, the air between them tight and electric. His hand reached out slowly, placing a piece before his eyes darted back to her.

Lightning flashed outside, illuminating her profile in pale silver as if in response to his daring move. The crack of thunder followed with a low, distant roar that shook the apartment windows.

Lily stared at the board like it could give her answers, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips.

“You’re stalling,” Harry said, his voice soft and amused.

“I’m thinking,” she replied, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her as she tried to give him the best poker face.

He leaned forward again, dragging his gaze across her throat, her collarbone, down to where her hoodie hung loose over one shoulder. “It’s part of my charm. Verbal misdirection. Seduction tactics. I have layers.”

“You’re insufferable.”

He shrugged, the shirt pulling on his biceps. “And yet you’re half a second from climbing over this board and proving me right.”

“I’m half a second from destroying you,” she said, moving another piece deliberately.

He looked. Then smiled slowly. “God, that’s also hot. You’re ruthless when you play dirty.”

Harry shifted again, slow and catlike, stretching his legs out with deliberate ease as he leaned back on his palms. His shirt clung across his chest, the motion flexing the line of muscle in his arms, veins visible beneath the skin. It was effortless and sharp at once, and Lily caught herself watching the way his fingers flexed against the rug like he was resisting the urge to move toward her.

His voice was low and teasing, but there was a new weight in it now—something thick, laced with want. “What happens if I win the next game?”

Lily’s eyes narrowed, but her pulse betrayed her, jumping hard in her throat. She tried to hold onto a thread of composure. “We haven’t finished this one.”

He didn’t blink. Just tilted his head and gave her a look that could’ve set the entire board between them on fire—steady, heated, and too-intimate. His gaze dropped, slowly, down to her bare knees folded beneath her and back up to her mouth. The air between them buzzed.

“Just planning ahead,” he murmured, tongue licking over his lips. “You’re the slow burn type.”

Her breath caught. She rolled her eyes, but the pink blooming beneath her cheeks gave her away instantly. She was glowing from the inside out. “Is that a compliment?”

Harry didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he shifted forward on his elbows, the dim lamp casting his jawline into shadow. He watched her like he was about to devour every inch of her quiet—then said, voice dropping to something barely above a rasp: “It’s the highest one I’ve got to give.”

“You’re all soft gasps,” he continued, each word dragging heat across her skin, “and coiled tension and the tiniest sounds when I touch you just right. You act like you’re not asking for it, but your body language says it all.”

Lily’s hands trembled. Her knees dug into the rug beneath her, but she barely noticed. Her breath came unevenly now, and she couldn’t bring herself to look away from him. His stare held her there like a magnet. Still trying to pretend at composure, she pushed a piece forward. The sound of it on the board felt too loud, too final.

“Your turn,” she managed out, wondering how the game of chess had turned into a game of cat and mouse.

Harry didn’t move right away. His eyes had shifted now—less teasing, more reverent. Something unguarded flickered in his expression, like he was fighting between the game and what was happening underneath it. He looked at the board, then at her.

His fingers twitched at his side, but he kept them still. Instead, he leaned closer, eyes scanning her like he was reading every sharp edge and soft corner. Then, with slow precision, he made his move. Lily didn’t speak; she didn’t have to.

She reached for her queen, the pads of her fingers brushing the carved edge like it was glass. She lifted it and placed it down with the quietest, most lethal sound she could make.

Tap.

“Checkmate.”

Harry didn’t move. He sat perfectly still as if her voice had frozen something inside him. The rain outside had softened to a hush, like even the sky was stunned into silence. His eyes flicked to the queen, then to her face—lips parted, breath shallow, gaze full of something unreadable.

“No,” he said, breathless and barely laughing. “That’s illegal. I’ve been seduced into defeat.”

Lily beamed, her smile slow and wicked as it overtook her flushed features. “Nope,” she said. “Just outplayed.”

Harry exhaled like he couldn’t take it. “You cheated,” he muttered, voice hoarse, eyes still locked on hers. “With your mouth. And your thighs.”

She leaned forward slowly, closing the final inches between them until their noses almost brushed. Her voice dropped to a whisper, “Someone’s a sore loser.”

“Christ, Lily,” he groaned. Harry let out a sharp, strangled laugh—half disbelief, half desperation—and dragged a hand through his curls, tipping his head back.

She crawled around the board slowly, carefully—not like she was teasing him, but like she was still figuring out whether her body could be that bold. Her knees nudged gently against his thighs before she eased herself into his lap, featherlight, like she didn’t quite believe she had permission to be there until his hands came to rest on her hips.

His thumbs traced absent, grounding circles over the fabric of her shorts as she settled, still and quiet, hands pressed gently to his chest. He was so solid beneath her, muscles coiled under skin, breath just a bit too slow like he was trying to keep himself from reacting too quickly.

Her heart thudded against her ribs, but she tilted her chin and looked at him, nervous, but not backing down.

“I believe…” The way that she murmured was barely above a whisper, “I won the right to tell you how I want you tonight.”

His hands gripped just a little tighter at her hips, like he was holding onto restraint by the thinnest thread. His eyes searched hers, begging her to volley with his wittiness and eagerness.

“And how’s that?”

Lily swallowed, her lashes fluttering as she dropped her gaze to his collarbone, her fingers tracing a slow, trembling line along the edge of his shirt.

“I don’t know exactly,” She was so sure but so unsure of how to ask. “But I want to… try. I want it to be slower this time. But not soft. Just… different.”

His chest rose sharply beneath her hands, and she dared a glance at his face again. Harry’s eyes were wide and burning, like her words had reached straight into his chest and cracked something open.

“M'kay,” He breathed out, biting his lip. “I can work with that.”

She smiled—small and shy and impossibly lovely—and leaned in to kiss the corner of his mouth. It was careful, unsure, but full of intent. When he didn’t move—just sat perfectly still beneath her—she kissed him again. Fuller this time. Her mouth brushing over his like she was testing how close she could get before she melted into him entirely. Her hands flattened over his chest, not searching this time, just feeling.

Heat pooled in her stomach as she adjusted in his lap, her hips shifting without thinking, slow and unsteady like they had before. This time, he didn’t stop her, he let her.

Harry let out a breath like he’d been holding it in all night.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he grumbled, voice ragged against her lips.

She hesitated for only a second before whispering, and narrowing her brows at him with blame, “You started it.”

That broke something loose in him—he laughed, soft and wrecked, and kissed her again, this time with just enough hunger to make her gasp. Her fingers slipped into his hair, tentative but needing. She rocked once more accidental, but very much not, and Harry pulled back with a low, guttural groan, his hands flying to her waist like a lifeline.

Instead of answering, she bent down and kissed his neck—slow, warm, her mouth brushing the sensitive skin beneath his ear. She nipped, then soothed the spot with her tongue, and he shuddered beneath her.

“I need to hear you say it,” he said, his voice wrecked now. “Tell me you want it.”

She leaned back, her lips swollen, her cheeks flushed, and looked him in the eye with her forehead pressed to his.

“I want this,” she said. “I want you.”

His exhale was audible—part disbelief, part reverence. But he still didn’t move.

“You’re sure?” he asked again, his hands frozen on her hips, like if he let them roam, he might lose all control. He flexed his fingers in almost an aching way. “Because I swear to God, the second I let go, I’m not going to be able to pretend I don’t want to keep you like this forever.”

Lily smiled softly, and then—without speaking—she lifted the hem of her hoodie and tugged it over her head, tossing it somewhere behind her to reveal that there had been nothing underneath. Harry’s breath punched out of him, his hands gripping her thighs now like he was trying not to fall apart right there on the rug.

“Jesus Christ, Lily.”

She just leaned in again, kissing him deeper, more insistent on what she really wanted. And when his mouth opened under hers, his restraint snapped—but only just. He kissed her like he meant to unravel her. Like she was the answer to every sharp edge he’d ever carried. His hands finally moved, up her sides, over the curve of her back, palms broad and reverent, holding her like she was both precious and powerful.

“You’re everything,” His breath was hot as he breathed into her mouth, nipping lightly at her lips as he did so, making her giggle, “You know that?”

She kissed him harder in response, pressing her chest to his as his hands slid beneath the waistband of her shorts, slow, testing the boundary line that neither of them had crossed before. She shifted in his lap again, letting out a quiet moan when she felt how hard he was beneath her.

“Fuck,” he breathed, head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut. “We need to slow down. I have to—”

She rocked against him again, firmer now, grounding herself there, and grabbed his face between her hands. He still didn’t move for a second as if feeling the internal struggle that she continued to test of him. Like he needed to feel her say it again with her body. And she did—reaching between them, helping him out of his shirt, kissing the ink over his heart, then his throat, then his mouth again like she couldn’t get enough of him.

“Please,” she whispered, mouth hot against his jaw. “No stopping this time.”

And with that, the game was over.

Harry held onto her tightly before throwing her around, her back hitting the rug as he turned them over. Her breath escaping her at his sudden roughness that made her back arch into softness of the rug.  The rug beneath them was rough but grounding, a scrape of texture against the softness of her thighs as she lay back, her body still buzzing from the way he’d kissed her.

Thunder grumbled outside, low and distant, like the sky was holding its breath.

Harry hovered over her, braced on one elbow, eyes raking slowly down her body like he didn’t know where to touch first – he felt like this was his first time and everything was new and exciting again. His free hand was spread across her stomach, warm and steady, thumb tracing over the faint line of her ribs. It was such a relief to have someone who wanted to listen to him; to keep it slow and to allow there to be such intimacy in a moment.

“You're so fucking beautiful,” His eyes drifted down her long torso that had practically opened for him; watching as her chest fill and emptied with every breath, “Lying here like this for me.”

Lily swallowed, cheeks flushed, her fingers curling into the fabric of the rug before she moved her right hand to pull at the hair on the nape of his neck.

“I’ve thought about this,” he went on, dragging his hand, dancing his fingers between her breasts, over her collarbone, to cradle her jaw. “Every night since you walked into my shop. I used to wonder what you'd sound like underneath me,” he whispered almost like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to speak out loud, “How you'd taste when you stop trying to be polite.”

She made a quiet, involuntary sound that she wasn’t even sure if she recognized, and Harry smiled—slow with the devilish feeling of sin, like he was unwrapping something delicate and unearthly.

“You like that?” Harry asked, his voice low and gravel-smooth, each word dragging along her skin like a slow flame that burned each inch of her. He nodded slightly, coaxing, his eyes locked on her face. “You like when I talk to you like this?”

Lily turned her head, her cheeks flushed so brightly it spread down her throat. She tried to hide in the crook of her arm, but he followed, chasing her retreat with his mouth—kissing her cheek, her jaw, the delicate spot just beneath her ear where her pulse thudded.

“You get so shy,” his voice was so soft, but set an electricity that made her ache.

“But you don’t stop me.” He kissed lower, the words barely a breath against her skin. “You don’t want me to stop.”

“No,” she whispered, the word barely a thread of sound. “No, no, no.”

He groaned into her neck, like her voice alone unraveled him. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Then his lips found hers again—hotter this time, deeper, slower. His hand slipped lower, between her thighs, fingers sliding deliberately beneath the waistband of her underwear, exploring with pressure instead of permission. Her breath caught, her body opening for him instinctively, hips tilting in invitation as she pushed herself into him. She was already soaked for him, dripping in anticipation, but he loved the long game.

Harry broke the kiss with a sharp exhale, dropping his head to her shoulder like he needed a second to breathe her in.

“Fuck, Lily,” he nipped at her neck, knowing he left a mark – God, he loved leaving her marked.

His fingers moved again—gentler now, more curious than greedy. He found her rhythm, learned it in seconds, and when he brushed right where she needed it, she gasped, her hips jolting in a need she had forgotten about. Her hands flew to the rug beside her, grasping for something solid.

“Look at me,” he said, and his voice was commanding now, but not harsh in any means.

Her eyes fluttered open. His face hovered just above hers so wrecked and beautiful, jaw tight, lips parted, but his eyes—his eyes were steady, dark with focus and want.

“I want to hear you when I do this,” His fingers circled her clit now, slow, devastating. “I want to know exactly how good I make you feel.”

She moaned—soft and sweet at first, her hand flying up to stifle it. Harry caught her wrist, gently but firm enough that made her gasp – almost choking a sob.

“No,” he said, tugging her hand away and pressing it above her head, stretching her out. “I want you loud for me, baby. So fucking loud when I touch you.”

She shuddered at the command, the praise, the sheer gravity of his attention. He wasn’t just touching her—he was watching her unravel, mouth parted like he was memorizing every sound, every twitch of her body beneath his hands.

“I’m gonna take my time with you,” he whispered, kissing down her shoulder, her collarbone as he watched the way that her nipples hardened as his mouth breathed cooly over them, “Gonna play with you until you’re begging for it. Gonna keep you on this floor until you forget how to say anything but my name, you understand?”

“Harry,” she gasped, hips rolling into his hand now, voice high and broken.

“I’ve got you,” he said, kissing her again, the heat of his voice was radiating through her, practically pumping the blood flow of her heart, “You just stay open for me. That’s it. Just like that. So fucking good.”

Her thighs trembled, the muscles in her stomach tightening as he slid her underwear down her thighs so slowly, kissing his way down her legs as he went. He pressed a soft kiss to the inside of her knee until she was breathless and shaking beneath him. His eyes tried to memorize the way that she laid along his floor, fully on display for him.

“Fuck,” he breathed out in a haze, pushing his hair on his forehead; the hunger in his made him feel ravished, practically growling as he pushed her knees apart. He could tell that she was tensing, waiting for him to come back to her.

His fingers found their way back to her, spreading her with two as he stared at the way that her head pushed to arch her back, gasping in a fit of need.

Harry moved down, his mouth attaching to hip as his eyes flew to her reaction. Shaking hands wrapped around his curls, almost like she was scared of his reaction to being touched as he let his fingers push inside of her – warm and tight. So tight.

When his mouth finally replaced his fingers, his tongue dragging slow, deliberate strokes against her, she cried out—a raw, desperate sound—and he groaned against her in response. His hands gripped her thighs like he needed to ground himself, to feel her coming apart in his arms. And still—he didn’t rush. Every time she got close, every time her breath caught, and her body tightened, he eased back just enough to draw it out.

It was never to tease or to play games. To worship her. To show her what it meant to be wanted with patience.

“You’re already falling apart for me,” he said against her skin, spitting directly on her as she gasped. Smearing his spit and her wetness together against his fingers, he practically came right then and there.

His eyes flew up to her, “You want more?”

“Yes,” she gasped, her voice trembling, shaking as she could feel herself starting to lose control but every time she started, he stopped and it only made her want to cry – she wanted it so bad.

Harry demanded more, “Say it.”

“I want more—please, Harry.”

“Mm,” He wanted to tease her – to embarrass her just a bit. “You don’t want my fingers, do you? You want more?” He nodded, trying to get her to push herself, “Tell me what you really want.”

Lily fidgeted on the rug, practically mewling at his words. Her face was flushed as she tried to cover herself, but his hands moved her arms again as he came face to face with her again.

“You want to be fucked, don’t you, angel?” He swallowed as he blinked a few times, wondering if he was pushing a boundary too hard, “I’ll give you my cock, but only if you say please.”

Lily gasped, her breath making the skin against her ribs tighten, “Please – God, Harry, please.”

The storm outside had quieted to a gentle patter against the windows, but inside, the air was thick with something louder than thunder—want, built slow and careful over weeks, finally breaking open between them like a held breath let go.

He kissed her deeply then, tasting every part of her mouth like he needed it to breathe. His body fit perfectly between her thighs, warm and heavy, the press of him against her core enough to draw a soft gasp from her lips. It made him groan—a quiet, wrecked sound, and he pressed his forehead to hers.

Lily arched into him, her hands skimming down his back, nails dragging lightly over skin, and he shivered from the contact. She’d never seen him like this—undone, desperate, but still so careful. Like holding himself back was the price of having her.

“You’re shaking,” she whispered.

“I’ve never wanted someone like this,” he shook his head. “It’s driving me out of my fucking mind, like I may need to be sent away after this.”

He worshiped her with his mouth and hands, slow and reverent, every sigh and gasp she gave him another thread snapping in his chest. Her thighs around his waist, her breath on his neck, the way she moaned his name like a secret—it nearly broke him.

Harry pushed his own sweats down, letting himself free of the practical torture. Lily’s thighs practically captured him, pulling him towards her as they fit together, Harry hovered above her, breath shallow, eyes dark and tender as he brushed a loose strand of hair from her forehead. His thumb lingered at her temple, like she was something delicate and precious—not because she was fragile, but because she was giving him something no one else had earned.

“What do you need?” He asked against her, “Condom?”

Shaking her head, she blinked at the ceiling, wondering if she was really on earth any longer.

“N-No,” She swallowed, “We don’t – we don’t need one, if you don’t – I mean.”

The stuttering made him smirk, shaking his head as he pulled his lips into his mouth.

“No,” he shook his head, “I mean, I’m clean – I just meant - ”

“IUD,” Lily breathed out, feeling the weight of the small conversation that hadn’t been had. Not that it killed the heat of the moment, but Harry just nodded with confirmation to ensure that she was taken care of.

“Oh, sick,” his lopsided smile made her heart flutter, “So, I mean, theoretically,” He licked his lips, holding himself over her, one arm bent and the other pushed up, “Should I pull out? Like… I mean, do you…”

Lily blinked at him, shaking her head as she thought of it, “I… I don’t think I mind. I’ve never had someone… like, inside.” She bit her lip, knowing that it was trembling as she used her shaking hand to move some hair from her face.

“Really?” Harry asked, biting the inside of his cheek, “I mean, I don’t know… if you realized, but I do have a thing. About like,” Lily noticed the faint hint of color that may have been spreading on his cheeks now, “Marking.”

Lily swallowed, breathing heavy before she cleared her throat, “Um, like, I’m yours?”

“You’re so fucking mine,” Harry stifled a breath of a laugh before he shook his head, letting his mouth fall back down onto hers, “Fucking love marking you, baby. Mine, all mine.”

His body aligned with hers, skin with skin, the space between them shrinking until there was nothing left untouched. Everything moved slowly, deliberately—like they were memorizing the moment, not just physically, but in every breath, every shared glance, every heartbeat echoing between their ribs.

When he began to move, there was no rush. Just a gentle give and take, a rhythm born from trust and quiet longing. Lily gasped, a sound caught between surprise and surrender, and Harry stilled as he pressed himself in, letting his cock take every inch of her.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, his forehead resting against hers. “Just feel me. That’s all I want.”

Her hands clutched at his back, and she nodded, her body adjusting to him, inviting him in piece by piece. Every movement from him was careful, attentive, like he was listening to her body as closely as her words. And when her hips moved to meet his, when her breath hitched in time with his, something unspoken passed between them—an understanding, a vow made in silence.

It had been a while for both of them - since either of them had been intimate like this. Lily couldn't remember a time that she had felt so worshipped, so looked at. Harry couldn't remember a time when he cared so much about the person underneath him; it made his heart spiral in a frenzy of haze.

“You feel so good,” he murmured, barely able to form the words. “So fucking soft, baby. Fuck.”

She pulled him back to her mouth with trembling fingers, her eyes wide and heavy with want.

Their bodies moved together in rhythm, matched breath for breath, sigh for sigh. And when she started to tremble beneath him, clutching at his shoulders, he talked her through it—whispering her name, telling her how beautiful she looked, how perfect she felt, how much he needed her.

The room had heat and breath and the sound of skin meeting skin in a fervent, terrifying need. Every inch of them slick with sweat and want, tangled in each other like they didn’t remember where he ended, and she began.

Harry was moving deeper now, slower, but harder—like every thrust was significant and laced with a drug so addicting that he couldn’t stop if the room was on fire, like he wanted to make her feel it days from now. His voice was wrecked in her ear, low and constant, a stream of words that curled around her spine like smoke.

“God, Lily—fuck, you feel like heaven,” He struggled to practically breath as he felt her hips meet his,; he sat up for a moment, pulling himself out of her where he heard a bit of a reaction from her. “This pussy could make me religious."

Her fingers clutched at his shoulders, nails dragging over his back in jagged little lines that only made him groan louder. She couldn’t speak, it was like someone had taken her sound and replaced it with breath.

"You... feel so good," Lily murmured out, practically no voice left in her. The small vocals made Harry's ear perk up, like it was enough to keep him going.

“You’re so—tight, baby, so fucking good—taking me so well. So sweet. So fucking sweet.”

She whimpered beneath him, body shaking in an adrenaline high, breath catching with every roll of his hips. And still, he kept talking, kept praising her like he couldn’t get enough.

“You were made for this. For me. You hear me? This perfect little body—fuck.”

Her thighs tightened around him, and her breath stuttered, the pressure building like a crescendo she couldn’t quite name. Harry saw it—felt it. His hands cradled her face, eyes locked on hers like he needed her to look at him when she broke.

“That’s it,” he whispered, lips brushing hers. “Let me see it. Let me hear it. Don’t hold back now, baby—give it to me.”

She gasped, high and desperate like she was about to cry, but Harry knew that it was just pushing her to the limit. “Harry—”

Her voice shattered into a cry as the wave crashed over her, her back arching, hips locking around him, her entire body burning and trembling and opening. It was an all-encompassing need that her body clung to him to stabilize her high to the tallest degree.

And he lost it. Harry groaned, deep and broken, his forehead pressed to hers, his rhythm stuttering as he chased the feeling of her falling apart beneath him.

“Jesus—Lily, I’m—fuck, I’m right there, baby—don’t stop looking at me—don’t stop—”

He came with a ragged moan, his entire body felt like he was flat-lining, chest heaving against hers like something sacred had broken loose inside him. His hands shook where they gripped her hips. His mouth found hers again, wild and uncoordinated, but desperate—hungry for her even now. Her hands wrapped around him tightly to keep him as close to her as physically possible.

They stilled together, bodies wrecked and breathing each other in like air. Lily blinked up at him through heavy lashes, her chest still rising and falling in shallow waves. Harry was staring at her like he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life, and the angels from heaven had come down to get him.

“God fucking damnit,” He breathed out without realization that his entire bodily pressure was laying and pressing Lily completely. She felt the safeness and the gratitude, wanting to be buried like this forever. “Are you okay?”

She nodded. Smiled—slow and dazed with a stare so lost in space that she could barely understand what was happening around her. “I’ve never been better.”

He exhaled, lifting up just a bit to get a better look at her underneath him. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Me either.”

Harry brushed his thumb along her cheek, watching her as if he still couldn’t believe she was real. Lily felt the urge to smile, but her candor was sleepy and wrecked and glowing.

“I feel like the rug might be embedded in my spine now.” She muttered out, laughing just a bit as she tucked some of Harry’s curls behind his ear.

Harry laughed, pulling her closer. “I’ll buy you a new spine, if that’s what you need.”

She closed her eyes and tucked her head under his chin, and for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel scared. She felt chosen.

Maneuvering themselves, Harry finally felt the need to reposition them, laying on his own back as he stared at the ceiling with her. Lily moved instantly to lay next to him, cuddling up to rest her head on his chest as he pulled her close.

They lay tangled on the rug, breaths slowing, bodies slick with the warm aftermath of what felt like a lifetime compressed into a few hours. Lily’s head rested against Harry’s chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat a quiet comfort against the storm still murmuring outside. Harry’s fingers traced lazy circles along her spine, his touch featherlight now, as if afraid to break the fragile bubble they’d built around themselves.

Eventually, he murmured out, “You know, I think I’m going to have rug burn.”

Lily lifted her head, blinking up at him with a tired smile. “Rug burn?”

He grinned, a crooked, breathless smile. “Yeah. This little rug? It’s seen more of us than any piece of furniture should.”

She laughed quietly, the sound light and warm in the hush. “You’re ridiculous.”

The room was dim and golden, all corners softened by the warm spill of the lamp and candle that had started to flicker with the burnt down wick. Rain still kissed the windows, quieter now, more like a lullaby than a storm. Their clothes were scattered in lazy pieces across the floor as Harry and Lily tried their best to redress themselves.

Lily started to stir first, her skin flushed, her hair damp with sweat and curling at her temples. He started to feel her shift a bit in the quietness, and as he looked over at her, she started to lift her head.

“I should go to clean up,” her voice hoarse and quiet, her fingertips brushing at his collarbone as she lifted on her arm.

Harry groaned softly, pressing a kiss to the hollow of her elbow. “Can’t believe you want to move. I was hoping we’d just fuse to the carpet.”

She laughed—sleep starting to become more of a need than just a want, still breathless. “I don’t think your back would survive it.”

“You’re not wrong,” he muttered, rolling onto his side with a sigh, carefully untangling their legs.

Lily sat up slowly, her body aching in that good, golden way. She reached for the shirt he’d discarded earlier and tugged it over her head before padding barefoot down towards the small bathroom, her silhouette briefly lit by the hallway light as she disappeared into the bathroom without another glance.

Harry watched her go, arms folded under his head, eyes soft and dazed. There was something in the way she moved—still a little shy, a little unsure, but comfortable now. Like she wasn’t afraid to take up space in his home anymore. He sat up with a groan, grabbed a blanket off the nearby chair, and tossed it over the rumpled rug before pushing himself up and stretching. His muscles ached in all the right ways, but his mind had already drifted to his bedroom.

He had put his sweatpants back on, starting to get ready for bed by making sure the door was locked, the windows were shut, the lights were off. He flicked off the last lamp on his way down the hall, the apartment falling into quiet shadows behind him.

By the time he reached the bedroom with two cups of tea, Lily was already there.

She stood near the window, back to him, gazing out at the rain-slicked city. She wore only his shirt—long on her frame, hem brushing the tops of her thighs—and a pair of pale cotton panties. Her damp hair clung to the back of her neck, and the faint curve of her bare legs were decently on display.

Harry stopped in the doorway. His breath caught as he just stared and admired.

It wasn’t because she was half-naked, but because she looked like she belonged there. In his shirt. In his space. Like a painting he wasn’t supposed to touch but he had somehow been invited into. Lily turned slightly, noticing him. Her lips curved, soft and self-conscious.

“What?” Was all she could muster to say as she bit on her lip in a way that made Harry’s eyes glow with significant admiration.

Harry blinked and shook his head, he could barely look anywhere but forward like he was afraid she’d disappear if he even looked to the side.

“Nothing,” He answered, “Nothing at all.”

She flushed, tugging at the hem of his shirt, suddenly bashful again. Harry crossed the room in a few slow steps and reached her to set her tea down on the bedside table then. She laughed as he tugged her gently onto the mattress, both of them sinking into the sheets in a tangle of tired limbs and lingering heat.

Wrapped in his shirt, tucked against his chest, Lily felt something settle inside her—a hum, a knowing, like she’d finally found where she was meant to land. Harry pressed a kiss to her temple, his fingers sliding into hers beneath the blanket.

“I was scared of this,” she whispered, her voice low and vulnerable in the hush.

“Of what?” Harry asked, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“This kind of closeness. Letting someone see everything. It’s... it used to feel dangerous.”

He was quiet for a moment, one hand stroking the soft skin at the small of her back.

Then, he opened up, a completely different thought coming acrossed him, “You ever read The Little Prince?”

Lily tried to think, shrugging a little bit as she thought, “Not since I was a kid, I don’t think.”

“Well, there’s a line in it that stayed with me,” he told her. “‘One sees clearly only with the heart. What is essential is invisible to the eye.’”

He went on, voice softer now. “I didn’t really understand it when I first read it. But now, I think it means that the things that matter most aren’t what people show you. It’s what they try to hide. And when someone lets you see that... it means everything,” He turned his head, eyes laying on her as she looked back at him. “Reminded me of you, I guess.”

She looked up at him then, eyes shining.

“That’s what you did,” he said. “You let me see you. And I’ll never take that lightly.”

She didn’t respond with words. She just kissed him—slow, deep, and filled with everything she didn’t know how to say, showing him that not only did she see him, she felt him – every inch of him with a certainty that made her scared to death and hopeful all at once.

***

A Few Weeks Later.

It was a Friday afternoon when Lily decided to walk back into the shop. The bell over the tattoo shop door gave a soft jingle as Lily stepped inside, her hands tucked into her jacket pockets, heart thudding despite the knowledge of who was inside and who she was there to see.

Harry looked up from behind the counter, caught mid-sketch of another project he had been asked to create, his curls tied up messily in a clip that he had been sporting for the longer hair, and another pencil tucked behind one ear. His glasses had started to slide down his nose before he lifted his eyes to look up at who had come in.

“Well, well, well,” he said, that lopsided grin, the one that always started in his eyes before it reached his mouth was on full display. “If it isn’t my favorite distraction.”

Lily shrugged, trying to play it cool, though her pulse betrayed her. “Thought I’d come in for something permanent.”

His brow arched at the confidence she wore; so different than she had looked when she previously stood there. “What – you here for another tattoo?”

She reached into the pocket of her coat and pulled out a small, carefully folded piece of paper, shaking it in front of him. It looked fragile somehow creased but smoothed out, like she'd been carrying it with intention. She held it out with quiet fingers.

Harry took it from her without a word, unfolding it slowly. His thumb traced the edge of the paper unconsciously as his eyes scanned the familiar handwriting. And then he felt himself start to chuckle, start to shake his head before he looked back up at her and then down at the paper.

The quote sat in the center of the page like something sacred.

One sees clearly only with the heart.

The room went quiet, except for the low hum of the shop lights and the rain sliding down the windows. Harry didn’t speak right away. His expression softened, all of his usual wit and casual confidence falling away, stripped bare in the span of a heartbeat.

He looked up at her, blinking like he was seeing her in a new light. “Lily…”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, shifting slightly under the weight of his gaze. “I want it here,” she said softly, reaching to touch the inside of her left arm—just below the bend of her elbow. “Just small. Simple. Just for me.”

She paused, then added, “But I want it to come from you, of course.”

Something flickered across his face—something deep and quiet and unspoken. He glanced down at the quote again, then back at her, as if trying to be sure he’d really heard her right.

“You know what this means, right?” he asked, voice hoarse with more than just surprise. She nodded, eyes steady despite the way her fingers curled in her coat pocket.

“Well, to me, it means I see you too.”

And just like that, all the air seemed to shift between them; thicker now, heavier with meaning. The kind of meaning that didn’t need to be spoken to be understood. Harry stepped around the counter, sleeves pushed up, falling into a space of pure obsession and completely on a different planet. There had always been a part of him that knew that he would find this, but when he looked at her, he realized how much of him had been waiting for someone like her all along.

No teasing. No smirk. Just his fingers sliding into hers—timid but foundational, warm but alive, and there.

“Let’s make it permanent, then.” he told her, nodding. Without another word, Harry gripped her hand into his, pulling her back to his work station – back to where it all began.

Back to where he knew he was in love. And to be loved, is to be seen.

[harryshouseenthusiast]

ABSOLUTELY LOVED THIS

ITS AMAZING

PATIENT | a harry styles x reader one-shot word count: 13,405 content warning: mentions of sickness, hospitals, mentions of surgery, pain, mentions of sex

summary: you’re stubborn; harry knows this, but it’s one of his favorite parts about you. his protectiveness goes into full panic mode when you start to inhibit symptoms of a serious medical emergency. as a medical professional himself, he helps you through the scary parts, the recovery, & the parts of life we fear the most: being vulnerable.

authors note: thank you to the anon who sent in the request for protective!doctorry x stubborn!reader <3 here's my take on it, hope you enjoy - sorry for the wait!

________________________________________

You’re sitting on Harry’s kitchen counter, legs swinging slightly, watching him stir something on the stove; it’s his favorite pasta sauce that he claims is made from scratch but is actually a hybrid or jarred and fresh, with a focused furrow in his brow.

There is a candle burning on the table behind you. It is something warm and woody that smells vaguely like cedar and oranges, and if you weren’t sweating through your shirt, you might actually enjoy the atmosphere.

He glances over his shoulder and offers you a small smile. “You alright?”

You nod, instantly, almost too quickly to think about it. “Fine. Just a bit hot in here,” you reassure him, “Must be the stove.”

He doesn’t push that, knowing the cooking could have been a bit much for the small apartment space. He just tilts his head in that knowing way of his and goes back to stirring.

But you can feel his eyes on you when he thinks you’re not looking

They are sharp and perceptive, like he’s filing something away in that trauma surgeon brain of his.

Truth is, you haven’t been feeling alright for days— days have turned into weeks by now.

It started as a weird heaviness in your stomach. You thought it was just something you ate. But then came the fatigue, the nausea, and the low fever that refused to budge that you tried to work through since it felt like you may just have something viral.

And now your entire lower abdomen feels like it’s trying to fold in on itself. But you hate fuss, and you hate the attention that something like this would bring. You hate being the reason anyone has to stop what they’re doing.

Especially Harry— a surgeon who has a lot more to process in his brain than your simplistic day to day life.

So, you just take a slow, deep breath, trying not to wince. Your fingers clench around the edge of the counter as another wave of sharp pain rolls through your side.

“Seriously,” Harry says again, concern is gracing his features as he tries to be a bit gentler this time, “you look a little pale.”

You roll your eyes and grin like it’s nothing. “I’m just a bit hungry.”

He huffs a soft laugh, scrunching his nose as he pushes his glasses up on his face. “Cheeky.”

There’s a pause as he turns the heat off and grabs two bowls from the cabinet. You shift your weight, but the movement sends another stab of pain through your lower abdomen, and your hand shoots out to grip the counter more tightly.

You don’t say anything, you just breathe through your nose and count backward from ten. Each number lasting longer than you anticipated.

When you open your eyes, Harry’s standing in front of you with a bowl of pasta with sauce and a raised brow.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again, tone still casual but layered with concern. “You’ve been quiet all day and your knuckles are white from gripping that counter a bit hard.”

You shrug, accepting the bowl with a shaky hand and trying not to let the fork rattle too obviously. “Tired. Work’s been a lot and maybe just a bit anxious for the week.”

He crouches slightly so he is eye-level with you, hands on either side of your hips as he stares and your stomach twists—not from pain this time, but because that look that he gives you is so damn gentle. It’s quite infuriating, if you were honest.

“I can check you out, you know,” he says carefully. “Just in case. I’m a doctor.”

You shake your head immediately. “Harry—"

He lifts his hands in surrender, still standing in front of you. “I’m not pushing. Just offering. Doesn’t have to be now.”

You take yourself off of the counter and move towards the small breakfast nook that you use in his apartment for eating meals together; it’s cozy, and it makes you feel domestic together. You take a large bite of the pasta and force it down even though your stomach lurches in protest. Tomato and roasted red pepper—your favorite. He always remembers.

“I’m fine,” you repeat. “Don’t want to waste your time.”

His jaw ticks. That’s the only sign that your words bother him, but he leans against the counter and takes his first bite of his pasta.

“You could never waste my time,” he says quietly, chewing around his words.

You don’t reply to that, and just look down at your pasta, the steam fogging up the lower half of your vision. Your hands are trembling a little, and Harry notices. Of course he does. But he doesn’t say anything else.

Instead, he sits down at the table near you, resting his forearms on the wood as he starts to eat his own bowl.

“So,” he says casually, giving you an out, “I had a guy come in today with a screwdriver embedded in his shoulder. Said it slipped while he was ‘fixing the shed.’” Harry makes air quotes with his spoon. “Pretty sure he was trying to pry open a beer fridge.”

You chuckle softly. “Sounds like a productive afternoon.”

“Oh, he was very committed to the fridge. Stabbed himself, passed out, then woke up and walked into the ER holding it like a party favor. Bleeding all over the floor.”

You smile in spite of yourself, the image absurd enough to cut through the pain. “Did he get to the beer, though?”

“Of course,” Harry says, mock-serious, shaking his head. “It was a matter of principle by then. I think he really just needed his ego to be met at that point.”

You chuckle a little bit, and Harry watches you with something soft in his expression—like the sound eases something tight in him.

“How about you?” he asks. “What chaos did your coworkers create today?”

“Oh God,” you say, perking up a little as you tried to think about your day. “Okay, so you know Ben from accounting—the one who always brings canned tuna in and eats it at his desk?”

Harry grimaces, stabbing another penne noodle. “Unfortunately.”

“Well, he walked into our morning meeting wearing—no lie—sunglasses and a cape. Just stood in the doorway like some kind of budget Dracula and said, ‘I am here to suck the inefficiency from this budget proposal.’”

Harry snorts, shaking his head as he looked back over at you with complete uncertainty that you’re actually telling the truth. “Please tell me you’re making that up.”

“I wish I were. He had charts.”

“Jesus Christ,” he laughs and wipes his mouth with a napkin before he presses his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “You attract the weirdest people.”

“I think it’s a gift,” you say solemnly, pursing your lips.

“Or a curse,” he mutters.

“You’re here, aren’t you?” you ask, tilting your head a bit as you stare at him and notice that his eyes blink up at you with a chilling smirk of his lips. The laughter was good, but your body is rebelling again—tired, hot, shaky. You try not to let it show.

Harry watches you for a beat, noticing that your laugh is cut short. “You sure you’re okay for a movie? We don’t have to do anything else tonight if you’re exhausted.”

“No, I want to.” Your eyes open slowly. “I need something stupid and funny. Something with explosions. Maybe a car chase.”

“Explosions, huh?” He leans back in his chair, considering a few options. “So, like, Fast & Furious stupid? Or actual quality stupid like The Nice Guys?”

“The Nice Guys, please. I have standards, and Ryan Gosling meets all of them.”

He grins, taking the last bite of his meal even though he started eating after you did. “Excellent choice. I’ll set it up after we clean up.”

You slide off the counter carefully, hoping he doesn’t notice how much you’re leaning on it. The pain hits sharper every now and then, like something inside you is straining, waiting for the moment it can give out completely.

But Harry’s eyes are already on the sink, rinsing bowls and talking about how Ryan Gosling in short-sleeved shirts is unfair to everyone involved. You hum your agreement and move toward the couch.

You hate this feeling— the feeling fragile, feeling like something’s breaking apart inside of you and you’re powerless to stop it. But you hate even more the idea of letting Harry see you weak.

That’s the thing about you and Harry: you’ve only been together for about ten months now. It’s hard to find that perfect medium of wanting to be taken care of and making sure you don’t feel like a victim to every situation. Harry has enough to deal with during the day, you don’t want to be a hassle.

You tell yourself that you will make a doctor’s appointment tomorrow if your symptoms don’t cease – Harry doesn’t have to be involved.

So, instead, you smile and say, “I’ll grab the blanket. You get the snacks.”

And you pretend that nothing’s wrong, because it’s easier than admitting your faults.

But now, you’ve curled up on Harry’s couch with a blanket over your lap, the faint blue light of the TV flickering against the windows. The Nice Guys is halfway through, and you haven’t laughed once since the first scene. You want to—Harry’s chuckling quietly beside you, quoting half the lines under his breath like he does in movies that he loves, but everything feels distant, like there’s a thick layer of static between you and the rest of the world.

You shift beneath the blanket and the movement sends a jolt through your right side, and you let out a breath through your nose. The pain has sharpened, localized, like someone has driven a hot poker just below your ribs.

You suck in a breath and try to play it off as a yawn. You lean into the corner of the couch, curling tighter, biting the inside of your cheek as your vision blurs for a second as you start to feel yourself sweating through the sweatshirt you had thrown on over yourself to get more comfortable.

“You cold?” Harry asks gently, his eyes not leaving the screen except for a small movement to glance over at you.

“Mhm,” you hum, swallowing hard. Your throat’s dry, scratchy and soft. “Just cozy.”

He throws a soft arm over the back of the couch and lets his hand settle lightly on your shoulder. He definitely knows you’re lying, but he doesn’t press.

The minutes start to pass, and you lose track of the plot of the movie even though you’ve seen it a million times. Your head starts to pound, and the nausea you had before eating dinner creeps back, stronger now, twisting your stomach with every second that ticks by. Your hands start trembling under the blanket, and your breaths come shorter, faster.

You press your fingers into your side hard, almost like it can cancel the pain. You’re jolted out of your head when you hear Harry’s voice instead of Ryan Gosling’s.

“Alright,” Harry says suddenly, pausing the movie and turning toward you, voice still calm but firmer now, “that’s enough pretending.”

You blink up at him, dazed at his comment, removing your hands to stop yourself from wincing. “What?”

“You’re not okay.” He shifts on the couch, eyes narrowing. “You haven’t been okay all day– all week, really. And I’ve been trying not to push, but… your skins clammy. You’re shaking. And you haven’t touched your tea in twenty minutes, which is your biggest red flag.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out wrong like your vocal cords are tight, cracked. “I’m fine.”

“You are not fine.” He presses the back of his hand to your forehead, and the way his jaw tightens says everything. “You’re burning up.”

“I probably just have a flu or something,” you mutter, shrinking under his touch.

“You’ve had abdominal pain for days,” he says, sharper now. “And a fever. And you keep pressing your side like it is the only thing keeping you from falling apart.”

You look away. He’s right, of course. But you hate this—the exposure, the vulnerability, the way he’s seeing through every wall you’ve built.

“I don’t want to go to the hospital,” you whisper to him, eyes beginning. “I promise I’ll just—”

Harry breathes in slowly, fighting to keep calm. “Let me check you out. Properly—just here, it will be quick and professional.”

You shake your head.

“Why?” he asks softly, voice laced with concern like he feels a bit unsure of your level of trust towards him. “Why won’t you let me help?”

At this point, you really just don’t have a good answer. It stems from the fear of being a burden, of needing too much from someone else. Of being someone whose pain rearranges other people’s lives because you had seen it so many times before, so you decide it’s better to leave him out of it.

“I’ll feel better tomorrow,” you lie— you know it's a lie the second it leaves your mouth.

Harry studies you for a long moment, then sighs, sitting back and running a hand through his hair as he stretches back out on the couch. “Alright. I’m not going to force you. But I need you to promise me—if it gets worse, even a little, you’ll tell me first.”

You nod way too fast and automatically that you feel like you don’t need to say anything else, so you just take a piece of popcorn and place it on your tongue. The salt causes a wave of nausea, but you smile back at him for reassurance.

He doesn’t believe you. But he lets it go, because you can tell that he really, really cares.

But then you only last another thirty minutes of the movie.

The pain turns cruel, truly cruel. It sinks deep, radiating outward, until you can’t focus on anything else. You’re sweating through your clothes and then shivering at the feeling of dampness on your skin under your sweatshirt.

Taking off the blanket, you throw it on the couch next to you, not making eye contact with Harry before you make your way into the kitchen. It may make you feel better to try to make it to the kitchen to splash water on your face, but the moment you stand, the floor tilts under you like a ship.

The wave is intentionally harmful to you as you try to level yourself against the wall in his apartment by the fridge, hanging onto it to keep your balance.

“Harry?” you croak, feeling your tongue slur before everything goes sideways.

You collapse to your knees, gasping, the pain in your abdomen stabbing so violently it knocks the air out of you. You barely register Harry flying upwards from the sofa, shouting your name before you hit the floor.

The last thing you see before the black creeps in is Harry’s face hovering over yours with a look that screams terrified and helpless. There may be some anger in there, but he doesn’t let it show yet.

When you come back to the world, your head is in his lap and you feel the sweat dripping down the side of your face. His fingers are on your neck, checking your pulse. His other hand is brushing hair away from your clammy face, but his voice is anything but soft.

“Jesus, I knew something was wrong,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “What the hell is going on with you?”

You groan, trying to sit up, but the motion tears through your core like glass. “Harry—”

“No.” He shakes his head, eyes flashing. “No more of this. You’re done hiding.”

“I didn’t want—”

“I don’t care what you want right now,” he lifts you with terrifying gentleness, cradling you against his chest like you weigh nothing. “We’re going to the ER. Right now.”

“I just need a minute— I got dizzy.”

“You collapsed, you didn’t just ‘get dizzy’.” His voice cracks at the end, and that’s when you stop arguing.

Because you’ve never heard Harry Styles sound scared before. You decide it’s not worth it to fight anymore, and that maybe it would be best to just allow this to happen – to allow him to have the pleasure of figuring out if something is wrong.

You decide to let your guard down for the moment, and take a deep breath before you concede to his request.

He moves like a man possessed—no fumbling, no hesitation this time. He sets you down, you lean against the kitchen cabinets just long enough to grab his keys, his phone, his ID badge for the ER. You try to speak again, but the pain cuts you off, so you just focus on your breathing instead.

Harry scoops you back into his arms without missing a beat and carries you down to the car, muttering under his breath the entire time—things you can’t make out, except for the way your name keeps slipping through like a prayer and a curse all at once.

In the car, you’re curled against him in the passenger seat, your body lurching with every bump in the road. He keeps one hand on the wheel, the other on your thigh, grounding you.

You’re half-conscious by the time the car pulls up to the hospital entrance, the world a blur of lights and color through half-lidded eyes, you feel yourself groan out. Harry doesn’t waste time; he pulls you from the passenger seat with practiced urgency and strides through the ER doors like he owns the place. Because, in some ways, he does.

“Patient presenting with acute abdominal pain, fever, and collapse,” Harry calls to the intake nurse. His voice is sharp, commanding, not loud, but nothing like the soft way he talks to you at home.

The nurse’s eyes widen as she recognizes him. “Dr. Styles—”

“Let’s do vitals first. Please page Dr. Carson for consult. I’ll stay with her until someone gets here.” He doesn’t wait for a response before steering you into the nearest exam bay, gently easing you onto the bed. You hiss in pain as your body curls inward, instinctively guarding your side.

Harry’s jaw tightens. “You’re okay,” he murmurs, brushing damp hair off your forehead. “I’ve got you.”

You try to speak, but your throat is dry, your lips cracked.

“Kinda hot how you act like you own the place,” you rasp, trying to make a joke before he rolls his eyes.

He lets out a humorless laugh, kneeling beside the bed to stay eye level with you. “Just try and take it easy, will you?”

“I didn’t want to—”

“I know.” His voice softens, nodding as he understood what you meant. “But I don’t care how tough you think you are. You scared the hell out of me.”

You blink up at him, and in the bright hospital lights, his worry is plain: the crease in his brow, the tight grip on your wrist where he’s still checking your pulse, the way his eyes won’t leave yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he looks away.

A nurse appears with a blood pressure cuff and thermometer, giving you a quiet smile as she looks between you and Harry. Harry steps back just enough to let her work, but stays close—hovering, watching every reading with clinical precision. You can see by the way that his fingers pinch his lower lip that he would do anything to be the one checking this – just to make sure you’re okay.  

“Your fever’s over 102,” The nurse states, writing down your vitals on the chart before she watches your blood pressure, “Heart rate’s through the roof. Blood pressure is low.”

You look back at Harry to get his reaction before you take a deep breath. Your body lays on the small bed, feeling the weight of your body now.

“Any chance of pregnancy?” the nurse asks casually, more out of habit than suspicion.

“No,” you both say in unison. Harry’s voice is firm, yours is barely audible before you catch his glimpse.

The nurse jots it down, unbothered by the speed. “Pain on palpation?”

Harry’s eyes meet yours. “I’m going to press on your abdomen, okay?”

You nod weakly, as you look back at the nurse who watches for a moment. His fingers are careful but methodical as he moves across your stomach. When he reaches your right lower side, you jolt violently, a strangled sound escaping your throat.

“Rebound tenderness,” he mutters; the nurse writes down his notes as you take in a breath. Then louder: “We need an ultrasound. Maybe a CT, but let’s start there.”

“Harry—” you manage, a whisper, barely audible as he starts to move away to allow the nurses to take more charge on the case.

“I’m here,” he says immediately, stepping closer, one hand steady on your arm as he moves to squat next to you. “You’re okay, in good hands. I’ve got you.”

The nurse has found a vein and starts drawing blood. You hate needles, always have which may be a subconscious reason you didn’t make your way here on your own earlier, but you don’t flinch. You’re too far gone to care, and you just keep your eyes on Harry.

Someone is speaking to you, asking for your name, your birth date, the onset of symptoms. Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

“She’s had intermittent lower abdominal pain for days,” Harry says, voice even but clipped, like he’s trying to stay calm and professional. “Fever, nausea, and then collapsed at home tonight. RLQ tenderness on palpation. I would suspect probable appendicitis with high risk of rupture.”

“Has she eaten anything in the last few hours?” a nurse asks while sliding an IV catheter into the crook of your arm.

“Yes, we made dinner tonight, but I don’t think she’s eaten or had an appetite for a few days.”

You feel the IV thread into your skin, a deep ache blooming up your arm, and instinctively try to pull away. Harry presses his hand over yours, firm but reassuring.

“Sorry, sweetie,” The nurse tells your gently; her hands are light, and you can tell that she doesn’t like making your uncomfortable.

“Easy, love,” he says gently, his thumb brushing over your wrist. “It’s just fluids. They’re trying to help.”

He doesn’t let go, either. One nurse places a cool hand on your forehead while another adjusts the monitors. The pulse oximeter beeps on your finger before the curtain rustles again, and a technician wheels in the portable ultrasound machine.

Harry steps aside just enough to give them access to your abdomen, but his hand lingers at the edge of the gurney, eyes locked on the screen as gel is applied to your stomach and the wand begins to sweep over your skin. You feel like everything is happening so quickly, but you let yourself breathe.

Your hand starts to tremble, and he takes note of it quickly before taking it in his.

You don’t remember what they say, or how they say it. You just remember the sound of your name spoken in Harry’s voice—soft, steady, anchoring you through the white noise.

“Why didn’t you bring her in sooner?” someone asks, not unkindly.

Harry doesn’t answer right away, but just glances at you.

“Because she’s stubborn,” he finally says. “And I didn’t want to push her.”

You want to apologize, but your body won’t let you. You’re too tired, too sick.

The next hour passes in flashes: the cold gel of the ultrasound wand against your skin, the dim blue light of the imaging room, the sharp sting of the IV drip as fluids rush in. You think you hear someone say “rupture risk” again, but your brain is floating too far away to make sense of it.

As time passes, you let your eyes close for a moment as you try and calm yourself down. Everything feels very overwhelming, but Harry is by your side, arms crossed, talking in low tones with another doctor. You recognize Dr. Carson—she’s senior, good, calm under pressure. She had always talked so highly of Harry and his skill, and you trust that you’re in excellent hands.

“She has acute appendicitis,” Dr. Carson says gently, confirming what Harry already knew. “Looks like it’s close to rupturing which is causing all of the severe pain and fever symptoms. We’ll need to take her in immediately.”

Harry nods once, sure of his choice. “I’ll assist.”

“Are you sure?” Dr. Carson asks, lowering her voice. “You’re close to her.”

“I won’t cut into her,” he replies, steel in his voice. “You can lead. I’ll assist. But I want to go in.”

You watch as Dr. Carson nods and steps away, her arm resting on Harry’s shoulder as he moves to turn back to you. You’re more alert now, the fluids helping, but your stomach still feels like a war zone and every breath sends new pain radiating through your side.

“I have to go scrub in,” he says softly, brushing your cheek. “Dr. Carson’s the best. You’re in good hands. But I’ll be there and get all of the information I need, alright?”

You nod, tears threatening at the corners of your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, feeling yourself sink into the gurney. Everything seems to be slipping away from you as you shake your head and feel like a complete fool for not allowing Harry to help sooner.

His brows furrow, thumb brushing against your cheek. “What for?”

“For hiding it. For making you—”

“Don’t,” He leans down and presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there for a second longer than he should. “You’re the most infuriating person I’ve ever loved.”

You freeze; he doesn’t take it back, but you watch as the smile creeps on his face and lingers. You swallow back the words before you watch as he moves out of the room, leaving you with the nurses and the words floating around you.

+++

It had been a while since Harry had left you – not super long, but long enough. You tried to take a small nap, maybe allowing your body to catch up with how exhausted you really felt besides all the pain.

They wheeled you through the wide corridors of the hospital with purposeful ease, the fluorescent lights above blinking in rhythm as your bed glides beneath them. You try to keep your breathing steady, to focus on the clatter of wheels or the gentle murmur of nurses beside you, but every nerve in your body feels exposed, raw.

Your mouth is dry; your fingers twitch restlessly on the starched sheet draped over you and your new hospital gown that they had helped you change into.

Then, through the hum of motion and soft beeps and antiseptic air, you see him.

Harry.

He’s just outside the surgical suite, standing tall beside Dr. Carson, already dressed in surgical scrubs. The navy-blue fabric clings to his frame in all the right places—familiar, but different now, clinical and commanding. His hair is tucked beneath a surgical cap, a few curls escaping at the nape. A mask hangs loose around his neck, not yet covering his face, and his eyes—those bright, sharp, impossibly expressive eyes are now locked onto yours the moment he sees you through his wire framed glasses.

His spine straightens against the wall; his face softens. And then he’s moving toward you.

You try to sit up but don’t make it far—pain curls hot and fast through your side and steals the breath from your lungs. You flinch, and instantly, Harry is there, crouched beside the gurney, reaching for your hand.

“Hey,” he says quietly, but his voice trembles at the edges. “Looks like you’re still here on Earth with us, huh?”

“You look… unfairly hot right now when I have to look like this,” you murmur, feeling the drugs working through your system.

He lets out a laugh—sharp and short, surprised, but it cracks something in the tight line of his shoulders.

You scan him again, head to toe, trying to take it all in. The sleeves stretched over his forearms. The pale green ID badge clipped to his chest. The way his scrubs hang slightly loose on his hips, the stethoscope still slung around his neck even though someone else will be listening to your heart soon.

Harry raises an eyebrow, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’re drugged.”

“No,” you breathe, letting out a smaller laugh, “Well – yes, but I’m also scared. And you look like you could fight death itself and win.”

He shakes his head softly, eyes glinting in the light as he blinks back at you. “That’s not the part that scares me.”

“What is?”

“That I can’t protect you from this the way I want to – I’m not in charge of this, so that’s difficult for me.”

You lift a hand slowly to brush the backs of your fingers over his jaw. He leans into the touch, just a little.

“You’re here and you made sure I was here,” you tell him. “That’s enough.”

Dr. Carson approaches then, calm and capable in her own scrubs to match his. “I think we’re ready to bring you back, we have a plan of action and we’re going to make sure that everything goes smoothly.”

Harry’s hand lingers on yours before he stands up and moves closer to Dr. Carson.

“I’ll be with you the whole time,” he promises, nodding back at you for assurance. “You won’t be alone for a second.”

You blink up at him, throat tight as you try your best to keep it together. “And you won’t be distracted thinking about how good I think you look in those scrubs?”

He huffs out a broken laugh. “Not a chance.”

The gurney starts to move again, and Harry squeezes your hand once more before letting go—slowly, like he’s reluctant to release you.

The last thing you see before the operating room doors swing open is him, and you think, just before the anesthetic clouds your thoughts: if he’s in the room, you’ll make it out.

+++

The first inkling that you’re awake is the sound of the soft beeping and the distinct chill of a hospital room.

Your mouth is drier than it was before, your throat aches. There’s an oxygen cannula nestled beneath your nose and an IV in your arm, but none of that bothers you half as much as the tight throb in your side, wrapped in bandages and freshly stitched.

You blink slowly. The lights are dim. Outside the window, the sky is a deep indigo, early morning maybe. Everything’s quiet, except the small sounds of the hospital that feel at peace. It almost feels hard to breathe with the tightness at your side.

“You’re awake.”

Harry’s voice is a whisper, hoarse and laced with relief. He’s seated beside your bed, still in his scrubs, hair a mess, exhaustion etched deep into his face. His hand is already on yours, thumb stroking your knuckles.

“You scared me,” he says. Not accusatory. Just honest.

You try to speak, but your voice barely comes out. “Didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” He squeezes your hand, grabbing the ginger ale that sits by the bedside and hands it to you. “Surgery went perfectly well. It was a textbook appendectomy. No rupture, but it was close—maybe another hour and we’d be having a very different conversation.”

Your heart stutters as you look at him, really look at him, and the façade he always wears in his scrubs is gone—no cool detachment, no clinical efficiency. It’s just Harry – the guy you met on Hinge on a random Thursday night, went to dinner with after his long 12-hour shift, and he’s looking at you tired and worried and still so soft.

You take a sip of the ginger ale, gently, through the straw and blink a few times before your throat starts to ease.

“You said you loved me.”

The words hang in the room, and he goes still. You feel the way that his fingers brush over your hand, softly allowing there to be a moment between you.

“I did,” he says, voice barely audible. “And I meant it.”

You stare at him, searching his face. The room feels incredibly intimate, and you wonder if you want to stop talking about this until you’re in a better state of mind, but you continue to joke, “You’re not just saying that because I almost died?”

A weak smile tugs at his lips. “No. I promise I’ve loved you through much less dramatic situations.”

You want to laugh, but it hurts too much; you can feel how tight your stomach feels. So instead, you let the silence settle between you again. You don’t say it back, not yet, but the way your fingers curl tighter into his says enough.

A nurse enters with fresh fluids and checks your vitals, taking notes about your coming out of anesthesia. Harry steps back just enough to let her work, but stays in your peripheral, arms folded, eyes locked on every number on the screen.

“She’ll be in overnight,” the nurse says. “Barring any complications, you should be able to go home tomorrow.”

Harry nods at the direction. “Thank you.”

Once the nurse leaves, you glance at him again starting to get comfortable against the leather sofa in the room, the one direction next to your bed. “You’re really not going home?”

He shakes his head, kicking off his shoes. “Not a chance.”

“You need to sleep.”

“I’ll sleep when you’re back in your own bed.” Harry curls into the chair, letting his head rest against the side of the chair before he throws his legs over the side of the armrest. It’s like he’s done this before, multiple times, so you don’t feel as bad.

You sigh, your heart full and aching all at once. “You’re impossible.”

“Takes one to know one.”

+++

Later, when you drift back awake in the early morning, Harry’s still there. He’s kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the chair beside your bed, legs slung over the armrest, head tilted back. His neck looks like it’s going to regret that nap.

You shift slightly, and it’s enough to wake him. He jolts upright, instantly alert.

“You okay?” he asks, voice very raspy from the momentary nap he's taken.

You nod, because that doesn't hurt as bad as the rest of your body. “Just sore.”

He moves to your side, throwing his legs back over the chair and wiping at his eyes to wake himself up. “You need anything? Ice chips? Pain meds? I can call the nurse.”

“I’m fine.”

He raises an eyebrow, licking his lips as he shakes his head at you. “That phrase is banned until further notice.”

You roll your eyes, but a smile cracks your lips. “Okay. Maybe a little water would be good.”

“See? Progress," Harry smirks, grabbing a cup of water with a straw.

He helps you sip slowly from a cup with a straw, holding it for you like you’re made of glass. You hate how helpless you feel—but you also love that it’s him willing to help.

“How long till I can leave?” you ask after you swallow, wiping at your lips.

“Tomorrow morning, maybe,” he says. “They want to monitor you overnight tonight. Make sure there’s no fever, no signs of infection.”

“And then?”

“Then I’m taking you home.” His tone is final, nodding at you as he sat next to you. “You’re not lifting a finger for at least a week. I already put in leave. My schedule’s clear.”

You shake your head, sighing at his sudden need to protect you, “Harry, you don’t have to—”

“I want to, and I will."

You swallow thickly. “But—”

“You took care of me after that car accident last year. Remember? You didn’t sleep for two nights. You made that weird soup that had the broccoli puree.”

You groan, remembering it well. “That soup was delicious.”

“It was awful,” he says with a grin, which only makes you grin back in response. “But I drank every bowl of it. Because I love you.”

Your eyes sting when you blink; taking in a breath when you hear him say it again. You still haven't said it— but you feel it. You know what it feels like, and you just don’t know when you're going to feel it.

“Let me return the favor,” he says gently, taking your hand in his. “Please.”

You nod, finally. And he kisses your hand again, this time without hesitation. This time, with solidity that he won't hurt you.

+++

You had spent the night in the hospital again— much to your dismay, as you really didn't get too much sleep when you were there. You didn’t show any negative symptoms and seemed to be doing fine walking on your own to the bathroom and back to your bed.

So, it meant that Harry could bring you home to care for you. Harry was happy that all of you seemed to check out, leaving him with a proud look on his face as he kept you company and took care of you when the nurses weren’t available.

You barely make it to the couch back in his apartment before you’re ready to collapse.

Harry has one arm around your back holding you up as you took many little steps, ignoring every protest you’ve muttered since you left the hospital. He practically carries you across the threshold like it’s a wedding night instead of post-op day one and gently helps you settle down on the plush cushions, adjusting the pillows behind you with absurd precision.

“I could’ve walked on my own,” you grumble when you're finally settled.

He raises a brow, settling your items down on the counter. “You nearly passed out getting into the car.”

“I stood up too fast,” you tell him, defensively, “Blood pressure dropped.”

He points at you with the same finger he uses when lecturing interns. “You had surgery less than thirty-six hours ago. You’re not standing at all unless I say so," He furrows, biting on his lip, "Or you need to use the bathroom, then we can figure it out."

You open your mouth to argue again, but he’s already moving to start to figure out your recovery plan. He folds a blanket over your legs, checks your temperature with a forehead scanner, fluffs your pillow one last time, and disappears into the kitchen to start getting food together for you.

From the couch, you hear cabinets opening and the soft sound of a kettle clicking on.

“What are you doing now?” You call back, licking your lips as you pull the blanket over you a little bit. Harry’s kept the cooling temperature of the apartment to ensure that you don’t get too hot.

“Making tea and heating up your broth,” he calls back. “You’re not getting solids for another day, and you need some useful fluids.”

You roll your eyes, but a small smile tugs at your lips. He’s in full-on doctor mode—bossy, precise, focused on the end goal of making you feel better. But there’s something else underneath it; it’s something that’s been only meant for you.

When he returns to the living room, it’s with a tray: a warm mug of peppermint tea, a bowl of steaming broth, a water bottle with a straw, and a little notepad where he’s apparently tracking your medication times and vitals. He’s written your most recent temperature and a log of medication times.

“You’re actually keeping a chart?” you ask, incredulous as you take the cup of tea in her hands.

“I trust myself more than your memory right now,” he says smoothly, sitting at the end of the sofa where your feet lie. “Now, some small sips. Ten minutes between liquids and meds. And if you so much as try to get up alone, I will have to personally tie you to the couch.”

You snort, holding the warm tea between your hands as you bring it to your lips. “Kinky.”

He grins, but the look in his eyes is anything but playful.

“I mean it,” he says, more softly now. “You were really sick. You need rest. Let me take care of you, yeah?"

The gentle edge in his voice pulls the air from your lungs. You nod, pressing your lips together. Something about this feel so safe; it’s such a different situation than you’ve ever been in, and you feel so lucky that he has taken charge.

He gives you a quiet smile, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you in the quiet room. There’s no more sounds of the hospital, no more beeping or interruptions, or squeamish sounds and feelings. You, half-draped in blankets, are just recovering. Him, sitting on the edge of the sofa like he can’t afford to lean back until he’s sure you’re 100 percent out of the woods.

You glance at the notepad again. Temperature log. Pain rating. Medications. Everything lined up in neat rows with Harry’s sharp, slightly slanted handwriting like he did a million times in med school, you’re sure.

It’s the kind of personality that made you fall from him; it’s so different, but it’s so him.

“You’re kind of amazing, you know that?” you murmur, nodding a few times. You want to express your attention to his detail, and want him to know that he’s made it beyond all expectations.

He shrugs, eyes flicking down at his lap like he’s almost embarrassed. “I’m just… really relieved you’re okay.”

There’s something about the way he says it—quiet, tightly reined in—that makes your chest pull.

“You were scared.” Your words are barely a whisper.

He doesn’t deny it, shaking his head. “Terrified.”

You reach out, hand trembling a little, and rest your fingers lightly over his wrist. “I’m sorry I let it get that bad.”

His eyes lift to yours again, hidden behind the glasses. “Just promise me you’ll never do that again. I don’t care how stubborn you are or how much you hate hospitals—if something feels wrong, you tell me. No toughing it out, no hiding it. Not from me, at least.”

You nod, slowly, taking in every word. “I promise.”

“Good,” he says, but there’s something thick in his voice, like he doesn’t quite trust his emotions to behave if he says anything else.

You let the silence settle, because it feels natural. It never felt natural before; only replacing the feeling of awkwardness.

Eventually, when the mug of broth is nearly empty and your eyelids are getting heavy again, he sets the tray aside and helps you shift further into the cushions.

“You okay to sleep for a bit?” he asks, already reaching to smooth your hair away from your face.

You nod, throat tight with a kind of gratitude you don’t have words for, so you just nod.

“I’ll be right here,” he says, settling beside you, hand resting gently on your leg through the blanket. “Just rest. You’re safe.”

+++

Over the next few days, your body slows to the rhythm of recovery—and Harry is always two steps ahead of it.

He sets alarms for every pain med dose, checks your incision daily with the careful precision of someone who’s done this a hundred times but never with this much worry in his chest. He monitors for signs of infection like he’s preparing for rounds. But it’s the little things that get you that you can’t imagine without him there.

The way he practically carried you to the bathroom the first night because your legs were too shaky, so he stayed and was so patient. The way he set up a mirror in the living room so you can brush your hair from the couch, even taking the brush a few times himself to help you with the back. The way he sits beside you during every meal, making sure if you need help, he's right there.

At one point you say, “You know, I can do somethings myself.”

He lifts an eyebrow, almost like you had said something so absurd. “You want to re-open your incision over pride?”

You glare back him, biting the inside of your cheek. He kisses your forehead, and you feel the way that he wants to linger. "Thought so.”

That night, he sleeps in the recliner beside you, one hand always within reach almost like you would disappear if he didn’t reach out. The third evening, you wake from a nap to find him checking your temperature, thinking you’re asleep.

“You’re still running a little warm,” he murmurs in the darkness. “But you’re okay. You’re okay.”

You pretend to stay asleep, just so you can hear him say it again; just so you can hear him in your dreams.

+++

By the fourth day, you feel marginally more like a human being. So much so, that you actually convince Harry to let you walk to the kitchen – of course, with him hovering behind like a bodyguard, and you even manage to sit upright for breakfast.

“I will need a shower,” you announce at the table, “Desperately.”

He puts down his spoon from his yogurt bowl that he’s constructed. “You’re not cleared for that yet.”

“Harry—” you argue, glaring up at him with a huff.

“Nope. Not arguing. Sponge bath or nothing.”

You blink at him, taking a bite of apple slice that he’s cut – in extremely small pieces so you don’t choke. “Are you offering?”

He smirks, shrugging like he knew exactly what you were asking, but didn’t want to say. “Are you asking?”

You throw an apple slice at him. He catches it with a cackle, and you feel the blood in your veins starting to heat with anticipation for the way that he looks at you.

It had only been ten months together, but this past week had felt like a year alone.

He sets the apple slice on the table and leans forward just enough to narrow the distance between you, elbows braced on the wood. His grin is lazy, knowing, but there's a softness behind it—something warmer than teasing, something quieter than lust.

“You know,” he says, voice low and slow, “if you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to forget you’ve got stitches and make a very poor medical decision.”

You lean your back on the chair, the ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. “I’m not doing anything.”

His eyes flick down to your mouth, then slowly trace their way back up. “You don’t have to.”

Your pulse jumps at his words, soft and subtle and full of extraordinary remarks that blow you away each time. He sees it in the way your breath stutters, in the way your fingers curl a little tighter around your spoon.

He leans back a bit, giving you room to breathe but not taking his eyes off you. “You’re healing,” he says gently, knowing, “I know that. But don’t think for a second I haven’t been thinking about you every night I slept in that recliner next to you.”

You smile—soft, surprised at his statement. “Every night?”

He nods, acknowledging with certainty. “You’d shift in your sleep, make these little noises when your incision tugged. And I’d want nothing more than to crawl over with you and make it all better.”

Your throat goes dry, shaking your head with a serious flush on your cheeks that is definitely not a fever. “Harry…”

“But I couldn’t,” he continues. “Because the only thing I wanted more than to hold you was to make sure you didn’t break open again.”

That shuts you up. The moment hangs—sweet and aching. Then he clears his throat and smiles again, something lighter this time.

“So unless you’re asking for a very awkward sponge bath with medical-grade wipes and an extremely flustered nurse—”

You laugh a little at that, owning the surrender. “Okay, okay! Message received, thank you.”

“Good.” He pops the last apple slice in his mouth, smirking. “Because when you’re better, I won’t be this restrained.”

You swallow hard, thinking of the last time he spoke to you this way and knowing that it may have only been this one time. “And if I said I’m already feeling better?”

He grins, licking juice from his thumb, the flush now on his face. “Then I’d just tell you to prove it. But only after a full abdominal check, clear vitals, and a signed-off discharge from your primary care provider. Which is me, by the way.”

You groan, rolling your eyes as you take another bite of oatmeal. “You’re impossible.”

However, much to your dismay and utter begging, he doesn’t let you shower.

In fact, he actually pushes for the sponge bath more than you wanted, but in a clinical way that allows him to check on the incision and make sure that infection won’t happen. When he does help you clean up with warm cloths and gentle hands, it’s quieter. More tender than he originally stated, which makes your muscles loosen.

His fingers move carefully over your skin, like he’s afraid you’ll break again or make you think otherwise of him. You don’t speak much, just look at him while he works, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Stop huffing,” you murmur eventually.

“I’m not huffing,” he states defensively, shaking his head as he wipes away a bit of water on your skin, “I’m being thorough.”

You smile, biting on your lip. “You’re a good doctor.”

His hand stills on your arm. “I wasn’t scared like this with patients before,” he says. “Not like this.”

You look at him, heart thudding slow and deep. “Because it was me?”

He meets your gaze for a moment before pulling away. “Yes, because it was you.”

After your sponge bath, he dresses you back into another set of pajamas that aren’t tight and that feel comfortable. You feel clean and like you can breathe again, and it makes you feel better that he’s satisfied with how the recovery is going.

It was finally time that you were allowed to sleep in a bed rather than on a sofa with him next to you. He helps, but you finally make it back into your bed and under the covers, and for the first time in nearly a week, he lies beside you.

“You can sleep in your bed again,” you murmur as he slides under the covers. “I’m not a fragile porcelain doll anymore.”

“No, you’re always a fragile porcelain doll, but now I know how easy it is to break you,” he says, pulling you in close without jostling your sore side. “But I’ll keep you from breaking again, don’t worry.”

You lean your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. It feels nice to be close to him again, knowing that the pain is getting further away and you’re feeling stronger each day.

“Still love me even though I’m gross and stitched together?”

He laughs, the sound vibrating through you as he held you close, not hard. “I loved you when you were hiding a fever and yelling at me for fluffing pillows wrong. I’ll love you until you’re ninety and yelling at me for taking your walker away.”

You grin, the smell of cologne lingering on the t-shirt he wore to bed so now it’s just a remedy of essential scents by him. “Sounds romantic.”

“It is,” he whispers, brushing a kiss to your temple. “You just don’t see it yet.”

+++

You wake up without pain.

It’s the first time in over a week that your body doesn’t feel like it’s on fire or stitched together with barbed wire. You’re still tender, still moving carefully, but you can breathe without flinching, stretch your legs without feeling like you’ll crack open.

Harry’s already up; he’s not next to you anymore, which is shocking. The past few days, he hadn’t let you leave his sight. But now you lay there in the bed, alone, and let your mind wander for a moment – thinking about how he’s in the kitchen, just a few feet away.

You hear him puttering around with pots and pans—eggs, probably, or toast, and that god-awful green smoothie he insists is “medicinal.”

You find that you can finally get up from the bed on your own. So, you shuffle out, dressed in the sweatpants and a t-shirt that you realize is his. He’s standing at the stove in his joggers and a hoodie, hair damp from a shower that morning, flipping something in a pan, listening to it as it sizzles. The Eagles play softly next to him, he whistles along to the soothing sounds of Life in the Fast Lane play out of his Spotify.

He turns and sees you leaning on the counter; your breath halts when he looks at you because it’s almost atrocious how beautiful he is in the mornings. “Morning, love.”

“I think I’ve overcome – I’m alive again,” you cross your arms, “Though I do feel like a troll.”

The smile on his face is a big and proud one, and he crosses to you in three steps, his hand ghosting over your waist like he’s still afraid to touch too hard. Instead, he just kisses your forehead and lifts your jaw to look up at him.

“You do look good,” his voice is soft as he pushes some of your bedhead out of the way, “Color’s back in your face.”

You rest your forehead against his chest. “I feel less like a Victorian orphan.”

“You smell better, too.”

You slap his chest weakly. He kisses the top of your head as he walks back to the breakfast on the stove.

He feeds you eggs and toast and you sit at the table like a real human, even though he still insists on giving you your pills with a full glass of water and checking the incision before you’re allowed to stand back up. But you catch him watching you differently now—less like a patient, more like a person he wants to wrap in his arms and keep forever.

“You’re gonna go back to work soon,” you ask softly, “Aren’t you?”

He nods, reluctantly. “Tomorrow, supposedly. Just a night shift. But I’ll be close, if you need me.”

You try to act nonchalant, like you wouldn’t be calling him right if you admitted you were quite scared to be on your own for a moment. “I’m sure the hospital has struggled without your dramatic hand-flourishes and bossy clipboard routine.”

He smirks, laughing a bit at your joke. “I’m sure they have.”

The next day, Harry had his first shift back at the hospital – you had your first night at home without any issues. It felt like you were on top of the world when he got back in the morning; you felt like a human being.

So, you don’t want to say anything at first, at the onset of the symptoms.

You’ve come so far—out of the woods, out of the hospital, out of Harry’s eagle-eyed surveillance every time you so much as sigh too heavily. You’ve had three full days now of sitting on the balcony of his flat with tea, of laughing without wincing, of Harry letting you walk to the kitchen unsupervised.

Everything had started to go back to normal – you were preparing to go back to work.

But tonight, you’re cold. Freezing, even under two blankets.

And there’s a low throb in your belly again—familiar and nauseating, not painful like the incision but just a low roar that you wished would go away. You brush it off as too much movement, maybe something you ate. You don’t want to alarm him. But, of course, Harry notices.

You’re curled on the couch with your knees tucked up, a movie flickering on the screen in front of you that afternoon, when he turns from the kitchen mid-sentence and freezes. “Hey,” his voice is a bit low; his scrubs sat on his body as he prepared to get himself back to work that night, “You doing okay?”

You try to nod, watching the TV without another thought. “Just tired.”

He’s already moving toward you, crouching by your side, palm to your forehead before you can stop him from touching you altogether.

“You’re clammy,” he murmurs, his voice already tight as you watch the expression on his face start to get a bit frustrated. “You’re shaking. When did this start?”

“I don’t know,” you say quietly, almost ashamed of your quietness to the matter that obviously is important – your health is important, but you promised him you would speak up. “An hour ago? I thought it would pass.”

“God damnit,” He scoffs, breathing out with his hands on his hips. “You should’ve said something.”

You bite your lip and didn’t know what else to say, “I didn’t want to worry you.”

He’s already halfway across the room, grabbing the thermometer, checking your pulse. His fingers move fast, methodical—but there’s a tremble in his jaw that he can’t hide, and you aren’t sure if it’s anger or terror.

“Your temp’s up to 101.6,” he shakes his head, setting the thermometer down, almost like he can’t believe you would just let this go. And you can’t either, but you stay quiet. “How’s the pain? Tell me exactly.”

“It’s dull,” you tell him honestly, “Just kind of… tight? I don’t know – not as painful as before.”

“Any nausea?”

You nod, reluctantly this time.

That’s all it takes. Harry’s voice goes clipped, firm, the way he gets during trauma intake.

“Okay. No more moving until I know what we’re dealing with.”

He stands back up, and you watch him pace the room, phone in hand, dialing the on-call nurse he trusts most. He rattles off the symptoms you’ve given with a clear urgency, asks to schedule back-up labs, then glances back at you.

He disappears into the hallway with the phone pressed against his ear. You start to hear cabinets opening, something dropping onto the floor, a sharp curse under his breath.

When he returns, he’s already in motion—wrapping the blood pressure cuff around your arm with quick, practiced hands, stethoscope slung around his neck. His movements are efficient and quiet, and you don’t question him because you feel like you’ve disappointed him. But you can feel the tension rolling off him in waves.

“Harry, I—” you state quietly, but are cut off firmly.

“Don’t,” he says, not harshly, but with finality. “Just let me check you.”

You do. Because even your stubbornness can’t compete with the shift in his voice. He listens to your heart. Counts your breaths. Watches the clock. Then checks your temperature again and exhales through his nose like it takes effort to stay composed.

“Blood pressure’s low,” he mutters. “Pulse is elevated, mostly due to the fever, but fever would indicate an infection or illness.”

You start to sit up, pushing yourself against the sides of the sofa. “Let me just—”

“No.” He looks at you then, level and serious, and you back down for a moment. “You’re not getting up. We’re not waiting this out. You need to be seen.”

You hesitate, chewing on your lip as you shake your head and start to feel like you made a huge mistake by just letting it go. “I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

He straightens up, hands on his hips, staring at a spot on the floor like he’s trying to keep his temper in check. “You passed out in my apartment less than a week ago. Do you really think I give a shit about you ‘making a big deal’? Your appendix almost ruptured on my kitchen floor, I sew people up for a living and you think you’re making a big deal?”

You flinch slightly, but not because he’s raised his voice—because he hasn’t. That flat tone is worse, you think.

“I’m sorry,” you say, quietly, the apology hanging in the air as you dare to look up at him.

He looks over at you, jaw tight. Then softer since he knows that you are just as scared and annoyed at the way that your body is reacting, “You promised you’d say something.”

“I know.” You nod, licking your lips.

“Then why didn’t you?”

You don’t answer, because there’s nothing good to say – you really don’t have a good answer to give him. He doesn’t push, either. Just crouches in front of you, pulling the blanket tighter around your legs as you start to shiver again.

The way that his voice sounds like velvet even when he’s angry is something that you can’t understand, but you appreciate. “I’ll grab your shoes. Don’t move. I’ll drive you in.”

You nod, finally.

He doesn’t say anything more. He just moves with purpose—grabs your bag, your coat, his keys. He helps you into your shoes, lifting your leg when you struggle to bend. He’s calm, efficient, but you see it now—he’s pissed. And maybe rightfully so.

When he comes back over, he places a hand at the back of your neck and steadies you, lowering you into the passenger seat before strapping you in himself. You don’t argue, because you just want to appease him, want to make him feel like he’s doing the right things.

The car ride to the hospital is quiet – no music plays, you don’t talk. Just the sound of the road, the heater blasting warm air against your cheeks, and his hand flexing once in a while on the gearshift like he’s holding something back.

He doesn’t say I told you so. He doesn’t ask why again. He just drives faster than usual, eyes flicking to you at every red light, jaw set the whole way. And somehow, that quiet says more than anything.

At the hospital, everything moves fast. You’re ushered into a room immediately, which you think is due to Harry’s reputation at the hospital. Harry hands off the chart after completing it to the best of his knowledge to a nurse but stays in the room with you. Always at your side.

Your fever’s climbing; 102.3 now. Your head starts to feel murky as you lay against the gurney and feel your eyes start to shut at just how bad you feel, emotionally and physically.

He sits at your bedside, holding your wrist in both hands, silently counting your pulse again like he doesn’t trust the monitor.

“You’re scaring me,” you whisper.

He looks up, eyes glassy but locked on yours. “I’m just being thorough.”

“Harry.”

You can see the look on his face shift from pissed to annoyed to an unrecognizable one; your tongue glides over your lips as you study him.

“You scared me the first time,” he tells you honestly, quiet murmurs from his accent. “But this? This is worse. I let myself breathe – I was going to go to work, I thought you were okay. And now –”

“I’ll be okay again.”

And you say that to yourself because it makes you feel better, but you can see that he’s just shaking his head. He can’t tell himself you’ll be okay, because if you’re not, then everything he’s ever known has fallen to pieces.

Harry’s stepped out to talk to one of the attending physicians; you don’t know if it’s about you, or just a friendly face to keep him occupied while you wait. You didn’t ask him to—you didn’t have to. He knows this routine better than you do. And while part of you is grateful, the other part is… embarrassed.

You told him you’d speak up next time. You meant it – you really did, at the time. And yet here you are, laying back in a gurney and listening to the sounds of the heart rate monitors.

You pick at a thread on the blanket and try to figure out what exactly is broken in you that makes it so hard to ask for help. It’s not pride, not really. It’s more like… you’ve spent so long pretending everything’s manageable that the idea of saying “I need you” still feels like a kind of failure. Like admitting weakness will confirm every fear you’ve worked so hard to outrun.

And in some ways, you feel guilty for needing Harry. He’s needed constantly – every move he makes at work is because he’s needed, and in some subconscious way, you feel like that makes you the burden. You’re the one that’s supposed to be his go-to when he gets home from work.

You don’t want to be the reason someone worries, you don’t want to be the weight someone else has to carry. Especially not him. But the truth is, Harry isn’t just carrying it. He’s choosing to. Over and over.

It’s Harry’s love language.

And maybe the real weakness is pretending you can do this alone when you don’t actually have to anymore.

The labs come back quickly, which is a relief to all of you. Dr. Carson informs you and Harry that it’s a post-op infection. Thankfully, it’s mild, but enough to flare your fever and irritate the healing site. Nothing that IV fluids, antibiotics, and a couple more days of close monitoring won’t fix, she tells you.

Still, Harry insists on doing every damn thing himself. He helps place the IV, reviews the bloodwork three times, checks in with the infectious disease team to confirm the antibiotic regimen for the next few days.

He never leaves the room, not even once.

+++

Three days later, your fever finally breaks without the need of medications. Of course, you’re still on antibiotics and will continue the dosages that Harry maintains for you.

You wake up bathed in sweat but feeling lighter, alive again. And Harry’s beaming so wide it’s like someone let the sun back into the room.

“You’re okay,” he whispers, kissing your forehead, your temple, your hair. “You’re really okay.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” you say groggily.

“Yeah,” he says, voice breaking a little. “But it’s nice to know.”

+++

A few days later, back at home, he’s gentle in a different way. Less clinical, more personal. Less doctor, more man who is just caring for his sick girlfriend.

He still checks your chart, yes. Still times your pills to the second. But there are longer hugs now, more forehead kisses, more moments where he just looks at you like he can’t believe you’re real.

You recover slower this time, but you never feel alone. You’re on the couch, you must’ve fallen asleep there in the middle of the night when Harry had made his way to work, when the door clicks open.

It’s early—barely past dawn—but you’ve been awake for a while. The house is still, quiet except for the soft hum of the kettle warming in the kitchen. The air smells like lemon balm tea and the faint remnants of lavender from your blanket.

You hear footsteps. Heavy. Slow.

Then, “Hey, sweetheart,” comes Harry’s voice, low and rough with exhaustion.

You turn—and your breath catches.

He’s still in his scrubs. The navy ones. A bit wrinkled from hours of wear. The top clings to his chest in the best way, the drawstring of his pants tied in a loose knot that dips low on his hips. His hair is mussed from the surgical cap, and his eyes—though heavy with fatigue—light up the second he sees you blinking at him with flushed cheeks and your own clear eyes.

“Well, don’t you look snug,” he murmurs, dropping his bag by the door, toeing his sneakers off.

“I made it to the couch on my own last night and stood up to make myself a can of soup for dinner,” you say proudly, stretching your arms above your head.

He grins and walks over to you then, “That deserves a medal.”

You open your arms, and he doesn’t hesitate. He sinks to the couch beside you and pulls you into him like gravity’s in charge, one arm curling protectively around your waist, the other smoothing over your thigh. His lips find yours instantly, letting himself fall into your touch almost like you’re there to revive him.

“You okay?” he murmurs into your hair once you pull apart. “No more fever?”

“Not since yesterday morning. And I kept my breakfast down.”

He pulls back just enough to press his palm to your forehead. Not because he doubts you—because he needs the confirmation on his own.

“Have I ever told you my thoughts of you in scrubs?” you say softly, looking at him to break him away from his fixation on your fever.

He raises a brow, quick-witted. “No, tell me again.”

“It’s an absolute fantasy,” you shake her head, “Truly an eight wonder.”

His lips twitch into a smile. “You saying I look good right now?”

You shrug—noncommittal, teasing. But your eyes drop again, flicking over his chest, down to where his sleeves stretch a little over his biceps, then back up to the cut of his jawline still dusted with stubble.

Harry notices. Of course he does – he never misses anything, the eyes of an eagle.

You shift slightly in his lap, just a little, just enough that his eyes darken.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “You’re still healing.”

“Are you going to medically restrain me to the couch?” You ask, nose nuzzling into his jaw before he lets his head lean back.

“Don’t tempt me,” he bites his lip as he lets you tease him, “I’m trained in medical sedation and restraint.”

Your fingers trail over the fabric at his collar, the small v-neck below your fingertips. You look up through your lashes, tucking your hair behind your ear. “I’m just saying. M.D. or not, you look really hot right now.”

He groans softly, tilts his head back before he looks at you again. “You’re killing me.”

You grin, feeling bold, feeling like yourself again. “You’ve seen me puking, unconscious, stitched up – you’ve literally seen my organs, and sweating through a fever, and now you’re the one blushing?”

Harry draws in a breath and lets his hand slide slowly around your waist—not pulling, not rushing, just grounding you there. It’s like he’s testing the waters, but he doesn’t test very well – not when he knows what’s on the line and how he can hurt you.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks quietly, nose nuzzling into your temple as you kiss along his jaw. “You don’t have to prove anything. Not tonight.”

“I’m not trying to,” you tell him, biting the inside of your cheek. “I just… when I look at you now, I don’t see just my hot doctor boyfriend. I see the Harry who drove me to the ER, who didn’t sleep, who tracked my meds like he was prepping for boards.”

You pause, your voice going softer.

“The Harry who spoon-fed me broth, and held my hair when I was sick, and made sure my shows were queued up on Netflix so when I woke up, they’d already be there,” you smile at that small tidbit and brush some hair off of his forehead, “The Harry who still looked at me like I was whole when I didn’t feel like it.”

His eyes are glassy when they meet yours again. You rest your forehead against his, and his hands slide up your back, holding you close, steady.

“I’m in love with that Harry,” you whisper, letting your words dance across his skin like you only want him to hear it, not the whole universe. “All of him.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for days, most likely because he has. “You always manage to say things when I’ve got no good response lined up, and my brain is complete mush from setting a kid’s broken collarbone from a ski accident.”

You smile, shaking your head with a laugh. “I know. It’s one of my more dangerous talents.”

“You’ve got terrible timing,” he mutters, brushing his nose against yours. “You know that?”

You smirk, letting your lips pucker to meet his in a quick peck. “You’re the one kissing your patient.”

He huffs a soft laugh and kisses you anyway—slow, deliberate, and entirely unhurried because it makes more sense to let things sit in this world for a moment. It’s the kind of kiss that says finally, and carefully, and I meant it. You press your fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck and lean into him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And it is because you haven’t felt this good in a long time, it feels like.

When you break apart, his lips hover near yours.

“Let’s just stay like this a while,” he says. “Until you’re steady.”

You smile, tracing your finger along his jaw as you catch yourself staring at his lips. “And when I am?”

His grin curves against your cheek into one like the cheshire cat. “Then I’ll show you why surgeons are very, very good with their hands. Steady, some may say.”

Your laugh bubbles out of you before you can help it, and he just kisses your smile like he wants to memorize it – and good news for you, he’s got a photographic memory.

Somewhere, between the tea he puts in the kettle after you snuggle on your couch, and the medicine and the kiss and the way your heartbeat skips every time he walks into a room, you realize something: you almost broke trying to keep things to yourself.

But Harry? He put you back together—with feverish nights, sponge bathes, and stitches, sure. But also with care, presence, and love so patient it hurts.

And you think… you just might let him do it forever.

+++

The scar is barely visible now. It sits low, a thin pink line just above your hipbone—quiet proof of everything you’ve survived.

You’re standing at the bathroom mirror when you hear Harry call from the kitchen, “Do you want almond milk or oat milk in your coffee?”

You smile, pulling your oversized sweatshirt back down over your bare legs. Your body feels a sense of liberation from the morning that the two of you had. “Surprise me.”

He hums something tuneless from the other room, and you hear the soft clink of mugs and the whir of the coffee grinder. The scent drifts down the hallway like something holy.

When you pad into the kitchen, he’s already got everything waiting on the little breakfast table: coffee, toast, fruit. The sunlight catches the edge of his glasses—he’s been wearing them in the mornings now, before he has to squint at patient charts all day.

That smirk you know too well curls across his face. “Struggling to walk?”

You shrug, as you watch him start to watch as you make your way to the table, all faux-casual. “Someone decided this morning was the perfect time to test the limits of post-op clearance.”

He shuts the water off and turns toward you, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “I was being gentle, was I not?”

“You said, and I quote, ‘You better hold on to the headboard.’”

He steps closer, standing just in front of you now. “Which you did,” he licks his lips, kissing your forehead, “You’re very good at following directions.”

“Barely,” you laugh, and he smiles, but there’s something else behind his gaze—something warm and proud and a little possessive.

“I wasn’t allowed to touch you for weeks,” he murmurs, biting on his lip as he shrugged, buttering some bread. “I was trying to make up for lost time.”

“You did,” you say, looping your arms loosely around his waist as he stood by the counter. “My thighs are still shaking.”

He groans under his breath, ducking his head. “You can’t say stuff like that and expect me not to lose my mind.”

“You said you’d be good.” He turns in your hug, facing you now as he leans against the countertops.

“I said I’d be careful,” he corrects, brushing his lips just beneath your jaw. “Never said anything about being good.”

You tilt your head back slightly, letting him graze his nose along the edge of your collarbone, your skin still carrying the faint scent of his body wash from earlier. It would be so easy to pull him closer again, to let it start all over, but the laundry buzzes, and a pot simmers on the stove, and somehow you both feel… full. Satisfied.

Still, the way his hands rest on your hips, thumbs moving in soft circles, tells you he hasn’t stopped thinking about it. Neither have you.

You press your mouth to his ear. “Tonight, if I can still move…”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his own darker now as he likes where your promises are going. “Yeah?”

You nod. “I want you again. Slow this time. Less headboard, more…” You trail off, letting your smile finish the sentence.

His mouth curves with intent, and he leans in to kiss you, soft and slow. Just a taste. Just a promise.

“Done,” he whispers.

The memory from earlier is still humming low in your limbs—lazy and molten. His mouth trailing down your stomach just after sunrise, fingers splayed warm and reverent across your hips like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch you again. There had been no rush, no teasing—just need. Messy, sleepy, real, and quite nasty if you weren’t kidding yourself. Your legs wrapped around his waist, laughter muffled into the curve of his neck when the bed creaked too loud and neither of you cared.

He’d kissed your shoulder as he moved, breath hot against your skin, mumbling something about how he’d waited weeks to make you feel good again. And God, he had. The ways that his hands moved were no joke, and you couldn’t believe the weight of them on your lower abdomen as he pushed himself into you.

You could feel every inch of him.

You’d gone boneless beneath him by the end; sweaty, grinning, and completely undone.

“You’re spoiling me, you know,” you say, sitting down.

Harry glances over, grinning. “You got your stitches out. I figured that deserves strawberries.”

You sip your coffee. He got it right: oat milk, two sugars, just how you like it.

“Thanks,” you say softly, your tongue too quick, “But it also deserved the absolute nasty morning bone session, so I appreciate both.”

He leans over and kisses your temple. “I’d do it every day for the rest of my life.”

You blink. He freezes a little, realizing what he said. Then you both smile, slow and certain.

A month ago, you couldn’t stand up without help.

Now, you’re dancing in the kitchen to a song from the radio while Harry flips pancakes and sings off-key beside you. You’re sleeping tangled together. You’re holding hands at the grocery store. He has a photo of you on his desk at work. You’re kissing in public sometimes just because you can, because you need to know that he’s there.

Later, after breakfast, you water the plants while Harry reads the paper with his glasses slipping down his nose. There’s a new ease between you—a comfort that didn’t exist before the chaos. You’ve been through something sharp and ugly together and come out on the other side softer for it.

The scar on your skin has faded. But the love you hold for him, and he holds for you? It sat in the room with you, like a third character, just the beginning of it’s wonderous story.

[harryshouseenthusiast]

Do you have any harry fics you’d recommend on here and on wattpad?

you asked for fic recs and i took the assignment very seriously (maybe too seriously? lol) my friend so here's a list that i think you'll vibe with:

on wattpad:

duplicity by happydays1d (i know, i know i always talk about it but this one has me absolutely feral. 😭 it’s dark, dramatic, and addictive in a “just one more chapter at 2AM” kind of way lol. but what really got me? the character development. 🥹 like, watching these characters unravel and rebuild themselves is truly amazing. i’ve been thinking about them way more than is normal hehe - plus duplicity harry is my pookie 🥹)

complicity by happydays1d (it's sequel to duplicity - if duplicity wrecked me, complicity came back for the emotional leftovers lol)

*also bonus recs if you find yourself enjoying a julez (happydays1d) binge reading (like me):

malignant, hideaway, devotion (it's her earlier work and while they have more like a "chaotic fanfic energy" vibe, they’re a blast to read. also i think it's super fascinating to see her growth as an author - major props to her! 💞)

*moving on*

devil's due by petit_cerise (okay, so i didn’t connect with this one as deeply as the others - but that’s 100% a me thing. a ton of people love it, and i still had a great time reading it.🥰 it's beautifully written and the drama is like on fire.)

flower girl by @sushirrrry (my bestie laur @daydreaming-laur recommended it to me and it’s such a beautiful story: soft in some ways, gut-punching in others and the characters feel so real)

*also these are on my TBR and I’m dying to get to them, i just haven’t had the time (or emotional strength) yet lol:

aerial by peanutboyfriend (this one’s been haunting my TBR thanks to my friend dreea @fkinavocado , she has amazing taste and if she says it’s great, i believe her. 🙌)

nine blue signs by littledovedoll (someone recommended this to me on here a couple months ago and it’s been quietly sitting on my list ever since. i haven’t read it yet, but my friend laur @daydreaming-laur has and she loved it - and honestly, if laur’s into it, that’s all the endorsement i need 🥰)

stall by MysteryMixtapes (this one’s is also a classic but i haven’t read it yet - i know, i know - but it’s been on my radar forever. everyone who's read it seems obsessed, and the hype has me very curious.)

cherry by fuxkingharrry (everyone says it’s so well written and basically great. so yeah, i have to read it!)

on tumblr (a mix of old loves and new finds):

okay so some of these are like classics 💕 (the kind that stay with you forever and you come back to them every now and then) and others are more recent gems i’ve come across. they’re a mix of series, one shots and blurbs bc i didn't know what you'd preferred:

404 by @freedomfireflies (well obviously, this wouldn’t be a proper rec list if i didn’t mention @freedomfireflies 💖 her writing just hits! there’s always so much heart, tension, and ✨vibe✨ in her words. this one is one of my absolute favs - it’s sharp, emotional, and laced with just the right amount of angst. the writing is so atmospheric, and the tension? *chef’s kiss*.)

pillow talk, the playboy, the angel and the fae by @freedomfireflies as well. (well she has this uncanny ability to get inside her characters’ heads and make you feel everything right along with them and basically if she wrote it, I’m reading it. that's it.)

butterfly boy by @looselucy (okay, butterfly boy is everything. i’m talking laughing, crying, full-on emotional rollercoaster. it's just so well written with so much heart. amazing, truly!)

a toast to the future by @narryffdreaming (toast to the future is one of those fics that’s just.. wow 🤯 dani has this rare talent for making her characters feel so real, like you can practically hear their thoughts. it's actually mind-blowing how she can dive into those layers of complexity while still making it feel so natural.)

teach me by @jarofstyles (listen- teach me is so hot like really hot 🔥 the writing is so smooth and it really sets the mood.)

off limits by @harryslittlefreakk (fire. this one has that perfect mix of steamy tension and just a hint of angst that makes the whole thing like so hot.)

enigma by @heartateasee (the angst? top-tier. the misunderstandings? so deliciously painful. the tension? you could cut it with a knife. loved it.)

talk nerdy to me also by @heartateasee (what can i say? HOT, HOT, HOT.)

no loss by @adorebeaa (like, flirty banter? great. sexual tension? off the charts. would read it again in a heartbeat- she absolutely nailed the vibe✨)

hawthorn also by @adorebeaa (hawthorn is like watching a movie in your head like it's amazing)

truth or dare and sex tutor by @gurugirl (her writing feels always so effortless. she just knows exactly how to make every story hit just right.)

something old by @didhewinkback (i read it a while ago and i’m seriously thinking it might be time for a reread - that’s how much i loved it. honestly, it’s the kind of story that stays with you long after you’ve finished it, and i can’t wait to dive back into it again)

harry and Y/N are in the same ballet class, and they hate each other by @jawllines (let’s just say that this one had me feeling things. like, I’m over here blushing and squirming in my seat because that harry? holy hell.. 😩 he had me weak in the knees.)

oh also this one by @jarofstyles (it had me blushing and kicking my feet - loved it.)

press play by @cloudyluun (well, if you like your fics with a big dose of passion and intensity, this one will definitely leave you flushed in the best way hehe)

his angel by @ghstyles (it's the perfect mix of a little dark and a little soft hehe it keeps you totally hooked!)

player, do anything, make her regret it and valerie by @watchmegetobsessed (her writing is sharp, creative, and emotionally rich. every story feels fresh. she’s just so talented.)

it's you by @ijustmissyouraccenths (the writing is so good, the vibes were on point and now i’m super curious to check out more of her work. definitely keeping an eye on her stuff from now on.)

okay so… i definitely got carried away. like, hard. 🥲 i started this thinking i’d rec a few fics and i ended up here lol i had so much fun putting this together (shoutout to 1d for soundtracking the entire chaos and keeping me emotionally charged through it all lol) i know i forgot some amazing stories and authors, and for that i'm so sorry! seriously though, how lucky are we to have writers who pour so much talent into these stories? 🥹

anyway, hope you find something here that makes you feel things or just gives you a really good time! 😍 let me know what you think, and happy reading friend! ❤️

[harryshouseenthusiast]

I want to make a list of my favorite writers on here! This will be the author’s whose writing speaks to me the most! To add, just because I didn’t add someone doesn’t mean I don't like them, I will try my best to update this because i haven't used Tumblr as much recently so I'm still finding all the pages. And i want to write something about each author so I'll take time <3

@jawllines - I’ve read her writing for YEARS and subbed to her Patreon, I love all her tropes so much, especially Grumpy Harry! She is definitely and Og for me, I haven't read fanfics as long as I've been a fan, and I've read like the 1D preferences, but my first full out one-shot was the one where Harry and Y/N pick berries as a summer job.

@moonchildstyles - I love all the AU she chooses to write Harry in, I found her a bit more recently 2022, which now writing that looks so long ago but feels recently 😭 I love how she has so many blurbs/checkups too! i am subbed to her patron as well! I love the gentleness of how she writes harry, especially in citrine, he is so soft and i love it

@jarofstyles - Not only do they have mouthwatering smut, but I love how they have a bunch a shorter AU blurbs, sometimes I don't want to read a full one shot, and they have so many blurbs. One writing love in particular is Braking plates, I love some good angst to fluff. I am also subbed to their Patreon

@erodasfishtacos -I absolutely love her work and it's so upsetting how she was treated on this app. I'm glad she was able to move over to patron to continue her passion, I have subbed, and her work is phenomenal. She introduced me to one of my favorite underrated tropes, Deaf!H. I love how she writes her ABO tropes, that's another one of my favorites.

@harrysbabycherry - The first fic I read from her was the one when Y/N was a vampire and the was a kinda unique topic for me because I've always read Fics of Vampire!H, one of my fav tropes, But I loved the switch up. And I've just really e njoyed her following works. I also love the few Halloween writings she did, i love spooky H.

@gurugirl - The first thing I read of hers was the Stepdad!H, and I was hooked her smut is divine, absolutely amazing. I love how she portrays dark harry and forbidden/taboo relationships. I would love to sub to her patron, but unfortunately, I can't fit it into my budget as of now, but I will be subscribing one day. I love how she specifically says no sad endings because i also get too attached and cannot handle it.

@harryforvogue - It's been a bit since I've read her work, so I'm excited to catch up. She is actually the account that got me into reading books with OC. I previously only read reader insert Fics, but her writing was so good, and I noticed that OC writings give me different emotions than Y/N Fics. if that makes sense.

@watermelonlovershigh - I absolutely love how she writes soft Harry. She writes him so gentle and caring. It’s a nice contrast for the mafia stuff I read😭. She was also the first person ive read a sickfic from and I don’t see many of those, so it was different than what I’ve normally read and I loved it! She’s an amazing writer.

@atlafan - I love love their work!! Office neighbors is *chef’s kiss* I love the variety of the one shots, and all the aus!! But back to office neighbors, it’s been a while since I’ve read it but i got sooo hooked on it, I love single parent tropes and anything where Harry is a teacher/professor. Andy has my ❤️. I’m going to be rereading some of their series soon because it’s been so long !!(sorry if you got like 20 notifications when I was making this I’m ass at using this app😭)

As i said i will be adding to this as time goes on! If anyone has someone the want me to check out lmk!

(Sorry for typos)

[harryshouseenthusiast]

This might not make sense but tumblr can be overstimulating in a way. I don’t know I feel like there’s so much going on. I use wattpad and Patreon more!! But tumblr has more ones shots while wattpad has more books in my opinion so it really depends on what I’m looking for!! Tumblr is also easier to communicate with I feel like, like more interactive in a way. I feel closer to the writers on tumblr because I feel like it’s more expressive vs wattpad!

[harryshouseenthusiast]

Sooooo I was gonna post fic recs but I’ve barely used tumbler in months😭😭 my bad to the 66 of you 😞.

I haven’t been reading much since like January as well so I don’t have many recs anyways. Hopefully I’ll get in the mood to read again soon so I can share more!!!

I’m also welcome to being recommended any fics from you guys!!!

[harryshouseenthusiast]

I want to make a list of my favorite writers on here! This will be the author’s whose writing speaks to me the most! To add, just because I didn’t add someone doesn’t mean I don't like them, I will try my best to update this because i haven't used Tumblr as much recently so I'm still finding all the pages. And i want to write something about each author so I'll take time <3

@jawllines - I’ve read her writing for YEARS and subbed to her Patreon, I love all her tropes so much, especially Grumpy Harry! She is definitely and Og for me, I haven't read fanfics as long as I've been a fan, and I've read like the 1D preferences, but my first full out one-shot was the one where Harry and Y/N pick berries as a summer job.

@moonchildstyles - I love all the AU she chooses to write Harry in, I found her a bit more recently 2022, which now writing that looks so long ago but feels recently 😭 I love how she has so many blurbs/checkups too! i am subbed to her patron as well! I love the gentleness of how she writes harry, especially in citrine, he is so soft and i love it

@jarofstyles - Not only do they have mouthwatering smut, but I love how they have a bunch a shorter AU blurbs, sometimes I don't want to read a full one shot, and they have so many blurbs. One writing love in particular is Braking plates, I love some good angst to fluff. I am also subbed to their Patreon

@erodasfishtacos -I absolutely love her work and it's so upsetting how she was treated on this app. I'm glad she was able to move over to patron to continue her passion, I have subbed, and her work is phenomenal. She introduced me to one of my favorite underrated tropes, Deaf!H. I love how she writes her ABO tropes, that's another one of my favorites.

@harrysbabycherry - The first fic I read from her was the one when Y/N was a vampire and the was a kinda unique topic for me because I've always read Fics of Vampire!H, one of my fav tropes, But I loved the switch up. And I've just really e njoyed her following works. I also love the few Halloween writings she did, i love spooky H.

@gurugirl - The first thing I read of hers was the Stepdad!H, and I was hooked her smut is divine, absolutely amazing. I love how she portrays dark harry and forbidden/taboo relationships. I would love to sub to her patron, but unfortunately, I can't fit it into my budget as of now, but I will be subscribing one day. I love how she specifically says no sad endings because i also get too attached and cannot handle it.

@harryforvogue - It's been a bit since I've read her work, so I'm excited to catch up. She is actually the account that got me into reading books with OC. I previously only read reader insert Fics, but her writing was so good, and I noticed that OC writings give me different emotions than Y/N Fics. if that makes sense.

@watermelonlovershigh - I absolutely love how she writes soft Harry. She writes him so gentle and caring. It’s a nice contrast for the mafia stuff I read😭. She was also the first person ive read a sickfic from and I don’t see many of those, so it was different than what I’ve normally read and I loved it! She’s an amazing writer.

As i said i will be adding to this as time goes on! If anyone has someone the want me to check out lmk!

(Sorry for typos)

[harryshouseenthusiast]

Now I gotta reblog the same post multiple times 😐

Why can’t we pin more than one post 🙃