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Last Man Standing | H.S.

Title: "Last Man Standing" (One shot (most likely))

Word Count: ~3,000 words

Pairing: Harry Styles × Sophie (OFC)

POV: Harry, first person

Setting: A childhood friend’s wedding in rural Ireland, present day (August 2025)

Summary: Harry attends yet another wedding, watching friends and family settle into the lives he thought he’d have by now. At thirty-one, he feels like the last man standing—still single, still searching, still carrying the weight of everyone else’s questions. Enter Sophie, his unexpected plus one, steady and kind, who carries him through the day with quiet support. Amid laughter, longing, and the ache of comparison, Harry begins to realize it’s not about chasing love—it’s about being ready when it finally lands. And when Sophie catches the bouquet without even trying, Harry leaves the wedding not defeated, but hopeful.

The car bumps along the lane like a heartbeat—soft thuds over gravel, a hush of hedges pressing in on either side. Ireland looks rinsed and new after the morning rain: Stone walls dark as slate, fields cut into green squares, sheep like torn bits of cloud. Up ahead, the estate rises from the landscape as if it has always been here. Ivy crawls the old stone. White canvas peaks over the garden wall where a marquee is strung with fairy lights that won’t be needed until later, but I can already imagine them glowing—every tiny light a small insistence that joy is something you can plug in and keep warm.

I straighten my tie and watch my reflection flicker in the window. Thirty-one. I try the number on the inside of my mouth as if it were a seed, something I can roll with my tongue and either spit out or swallow. Thirty-one and on my way to watch someone else promise forever, again. The thought isn’t bitter, exactly. Just heavy, the way a coat is heavy when the sun decides to come out and you’ve already left the house.

Sophie rides beside me, one knee tucked over the other, calm in a lavender dress that suits the day. She doesn’t perform at silence, doesn’t fill it with words like packing peanuts. I like that about her. Jeff’s idea had come with a flourish—"You can’t keep showing up alone, mate. Bring someone easy. Bring Sophie. Everyone likes Sophie."—and I’d laughed because it sounded like a tagline for a cereal. But I’d texted her anyway, figuring I could survive with someone easy beside me.

She’d replied in three minutes.

Sophie:

Sure. Sounds nice.

Nice. Such a small word for the storm banked in my chest.

We turn under an arch of stone and lime trees, the driver rolling to a stop near the steps. I get out first, then hold the door for her. She steps onto the gravel and tips her face to the sky like she’s taking a photograph with her skin.

"Smells like wet leaves," she says.

"And beer," I add, hearing the roar of laughter from somewhere behind the marquee.

She grins. "Authentic, then."

People notice me the way people always do. A dart of attention. A quick smile that lands on the version of me they’ve already met in their heads. It’s kinder at weddings than in streets—softer, because love makes everyone gentle for a few hours. Still, I feel my shoulders go up like I’m bracing for a wave. A voice carries across the lawn—familiar, loud.

"Harry!"

I turn. A cluster of lads from home, cheeks bright with pre-ceremony pints, the same mischief in their eyes we wore at fifteen. I lift my hand and they surge toward me, a tide of navy suits and cologne.

"Look at you," one says, clapping my back. "Still the fittest one here, eh? When’s it your turn, then?" He winks at Sophie like I’ve brought proof of concept.

"This is Sophie," I say. "She saved my life many times on tour."

Sophie offers her hand, steady. "Hi."

They welcome her in with a chorus of lovely to meet you, and someone shouts for a photo, but the ushers corral everyone politely toward seats. Music starts—a string quartet, delicate as pastry—and we thread into rows of white chairs sunk an inch into the grass. The sky is the pale color of a pearl. If it rains, we’ll pretend it’s blessing.

I sit, Sophie beside me, and try to remember how to soften my face into the right kind of smile. I’ve been to so many weddings these past few years that each one adds a ring to me like a tree—the growth lines visible only if you cut me open. I’m a guest in all of them, a name on a place card, the well-wisher who leaves with his tie undone and his questions tucked into the pocket of his jacket.

The bride appears from behind a clipped hedge on her father’s arm, veil like a breath. Jonny sees her and folds; there’s never not a moment when someone folds. He’s a childhood friend. We used to skid down lanes on our bikes and try to spit like footballers and swear we’d never become men who cried at weddings. I watch his mouth tremble with love and feel something give in me that isn’t envy so much as longing with better posture.

The officiant speaks about home and choosing each other every day. I pretend not to hear how much it sounds like a song I’ve never written. When they say their vows, the wind lifts the veil like a hand and sets it down again, and I think of all the times I’ve said I love you in rooms where the windows were open and the door already knew it could swing. Sophie doesn’t fidget. She doesn’t whisper. She simply breathes beside me, a metronome for the part of me that still believes in keeping time. They kiss. The crowd erupts. Confetti arcs and falls. A string of whoops, the easy chorus of happiness. I clap, and my palms sting in a nice way, like I’ve applauded for something inside me too.

Cocktails spread across the lawn like small gold ponds in coupe glasses. Trays of miniature things—tarts that look like jokes, little toasts with a brave bit of salmon. I make circuits with Sophie, introducing her where it makes sense, letting her disappear when it doesn’t. She has the gift of being there without asking to be seen. Every so often, I notice her tilting her head toward the music, or watching the kids dart between tables, like she’s cataloguing every little detail. There’s something grounding about it, as if her attention is teaching me how to look closer.

A mate I haven’t hugged in years hooks an arm around my neck. "Styles! When are we flying to Italy for your big day, eh?"

"Don’t tempt fate," I say, and tip my glass into his.

Another friend leans in, mock-stern. "Mate, women would sell a kidney to marry you. You just need to pick one before they run out of organs."

The group roars. It is a joke wrapped in affection, but it lands like a coin at the bottom of a well. I laugh the way I’ve trained myself to laugh—open mouth, head slightly back, shoulders loose. The performance is old and practiced and rarely questioned.

Sophie touches my elbow once we drift away. "There’s water by the hydrangeas," she says. "Want one?"

"You read my mind."

She returns with two tall glasses beading cold. We stand near a stone wall furred with moss, the noise of the party softened as if we have ducked under a wave. The hydrangeas are the color of a bruise healing. "You okay?" she asks.

I roll the glass against my temple and nod. It’s automatic. It’s what people like me do. I’m okay. Even when you’re not. Especially when you’re not.

"You don’t have to be," she says, reading the lie in the nod.

I look at her, surprised into honesty. "It’s not that I don’t want what they have." I tip my chin toward the dance of couples forming already, hands brushing sleeves, someone carrying a baby with serious cheeks. "I do. There was a time I thought I’d have it by thirty."

"Me too," she says, a smile that isn’t sad so much as complicated. "I thought I’d at least have a dog that didn’t chew the furniture by now."

I laugh, for real. The sound feels unpracticed, like a new instrument. "Do you have a dog?"

"Not yet. I foster sometimes. I like giving them a place to land, even if it’s not forever."

Something in that sentence slides into my chest and hangs there like wind chimes. A place to land, even if it’s not forever. How many times have I asked that of people? How many times have I offered it and known, quietly, that I didn’t know how to be a house, only a well-lit room?

"Everyone thinks wanting something means you know how to find it," she says. "They don’t see that wanting is the easy part."

I study the condensation blooming under my thumb. "The wanting’s never been my problem."

She nods. "I know."

And I believe she does. She watched me from a safe distance during tour life, when days were noise and nights were noise and in between we pretended sleep was the quiet kind. She witnessed me in corridors and quick debriefs, in the dressings rooms where anyone could become a myth for a minute. She saw how I carried a gentle version of myself and put him down only in rooms with locked doors.

"Thanks for coming," I say, because gratitude is the closest thing I have to prayer. "I know it’s not really your Saturday dream."

"I like weddings," she says, tilting her head at the sky. "They’re the one place where everyone agrees the point of the day is love. It’s so… un-ironic."

I smile. "And you like that."

"I do. I like when people forget to be cool."

We stand long enough for the hydrangeas to dry into paper. Someone calls us to take our seats for dinner, and the tide pulls us in again.

The marquee is all white linen and soft edges, glass catching light like small miracles. Place cards shaped like leaves. Tiny bottles of something green at every table, probably local gin masquerading as favors. I find my name at Table Eight, the "miscellaneous artists and cousins" table, and Sophie slides into the chair to my left. Across from us, a toddler in a waistcoat is already sticky with chocolate and the night hasn’t even begun.

I lean toward Sophie. "We’re in the fun section."

She glances at the child gnawing a roll like a beaver. "We’re in the honest section."

The first course appears in whispering choreography. I try the soup and taste rosemary, lemon, something creamy; the kind of soup that believes in itself. Around us, the start-and-stop of conversation. People make small discoveries about one another and announce them like exotic birds. 'Oh, you lived in Madrid? My sister-in-law’s brother lives in Madrid. No way. Way.'

The father of the bride taps a glass with a knife and stands. His speech is a mix of jokes about broken curfews and the steady, grateful ache of a man who raised a person he would now entrust to the future. He cries at his own punchlines. We all clap like we’ve witnessed a magic trick.

Then Jonny stands—the groom—one hand in his pocket as if he needs to weigh himself down against the current. He thanks everyone for being here. He thanks her for being her. He looks at his new wife like she is a fact that rescued him from doubt. He says, "I knew the third time we had coffee and she corrected my maths," and the room laughs because we understand that love is often a practical mercy.

I feel the old tug of when did you know rise in me like a tide. I can list people I thought I might have known with, the almosts and nearlies, the strangers who became homes for a season. I have been loved well, and sometimes poorly, and I have loved back with all the softness I could find in my hands. But long before the headlines made a hobby of me, I had already started worrying that I didn’t know how to build a house that would still be standing when winter came.

I think about the two years I took and tried to be quiet inside my life. The way mornings opened like a new room. I cooked. I failed at cooking. I bought plants and whispered small apologies when they went yellow anyway. I called my mum more. I let my phone ring sometimes instead of catching it like a glass falling from a shelf. I learned that silence is not empty, it’s crowded with the things you’ve been ignoring. And nowhere in that was the part where love knocked and said, right, we’re doing this now.

Sophie rests her elbow on the table, chin in her hand, listening to the speeches with that alert softness of hers, like a cat watching rain. She glances at me once, eyes meeting mine, and it feels like a nod to a private song we’re both hearing.

Between courses I get pulled into photos. An aunt wants one "for her daughter who isn’t here but will die, she will DIE." A cousin tackles me into a hug that smells like citrus and nostalgia. A man I don’t recognize thanks me for a song that "got me through a thing," and I feel the quick, dizzy gratitude that something I made could sit beside someone in the dark and pass them a torch.

Over his shoulder I catch Sophie talking to an older woman with silver hair and a hat like a small ship. Sophie laughs, touching the woman’s forearm lightly, and the woman beams back as if she’s known her for years. When Sophie returns, she sets a folded napkin by my plate.

"What’s this?"

"A list," she says, amused. "That lady gave me her recommendations for books I should read before I’m thirty-one. I couldn’t tell her I turn thirty-one in three months, or she’d have given me half her library to meet the deadline."

"You could take it," I say. "Be an adventure."

"I like slow adventures," she says. "The kind that don’t look like adventures until years later."

I don’t know how to explain the way that sentence throws a rope around something in me. Maybe it’s because my adventures have been fireworks—noisy, bright, the kind everyone can see. Maybe it’s because the adventures I want now look quieter, and I’m embarrassed to admit it in rooms that expect dazzle.

Dessert arrives—a gooey cake that sighs under the fork—and then the band starts to tune under the far tent. The sun decides to be golden for an hour, the light making us all better-looking and kinder to one another. Couples peel onto the dance floor, finding each other with that shy relief that says, Here you are. There you are.

"You dance?" Sophie asks.

"Badly. Enthusiastically," I say. "A dangerous combo."

She laughs. "Same. Come on. That’s our genre."

We step into the mild throng. The band plays something with a grin in it, a song everyone knows even if they don’t know they know it. I put my hands where it’s safe—her shoulder blade, the place just above her elbow, the respectful geography of two people who did not step onto this floor to change their lives. We bob. We grin. We sing along to nothing in particular. I forget for three minutes that I’m an exhibit. I forget for three minutes that I’m the last unmarried man at half the tables.

During a slower number, we step out. We watch. A little girl stands on her father’s shoes and sways. The groom’s granddad nods off in his chair then jolts awake with a smile as if he’s been listening to the music in his sleep. Someone’s uncle attempts a lift that will be the story they tell at every family Christmas until the end of time. I feel the small ache sharpen again, not like a stab but like the pinch of a seam.

"You look far away," Sophie says.

"I’m just wondering if I’ve been running beside something for a very long time," I say. "And if it’s me that won’t slow down enough to catch it."

She considers this. "Maybe it’s not about slowing down. Maybe it’s about looking sideways instead of ahead."

"Philosopher," I tease, grateful for the lightness.

"Free with the hire," she says. "Jeff didn’t tell you that bit?"

"He undersold you," I say, and I mean it, and she reads that I mean it by the way she looks at the floor and smiles with one corner of her mouth.

The bouquet toss comes later in the evening, announced casually by the bride with a laugh. A crowd of women and cousins gathers, good-natured shoving and laughter filling the tent. Sophie is nudged forward against her will, rolling her eyes back at me as if to say she’s only doing this under protest. The bride throws, the bouquet arcs under the fairy lights, and against all odds it drops neatly into Sophie’s arms. She stares at it for a moment, then bursts out laughing, holding the flowers aloft like proof of a prank played by the universe. Guests cheer and whistle. Someone shouts, "Careful, Harry!" and I laugh too, but there’s a softness behind it that surprises me.

When she makes her way back to me, she’s still grinning, cheeks flushed. "Didn’t even try," she says, looking down at the bouquet like it’s a riddle.

"Maybe it tried for you," I answer, and mean it. The look she gives me in return lingers.

We walk back to the cottages after midnight. Shoes in hand, jacket over my shoulder, her bouquet a little wilted now but still bright. The path is quiet, the laughter from the tent fading behind us. I thank her—awkwardly, sincerely—for being there with me, for making the day lighter when it wanted to be heavy. She brushes it off but smiles like she knows it mattered. At the fork in the path, we pause. I nod toward the flowers. "So. You caught it."

She shrugs, playful. "Or it caught me."

We share a silence that feels like a promise rather than an absence. Then she says goodnight, and I do too, and we part.

Back in my room, I sit on the edge of the bed and think about the day: The vows, the teasing, the ache, the laughter, the way Sophie stood steady beside me. For once, I don’t feel like the last man standing at everyone else’s party. I feel like someone who might finally be ready—not for perfection, not for certainty, but for hope. And that is enough.

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