maudie-duan

[maudie-duan]

Summary: "It was everything, all at once, it was you, it was him, it was the broken girl inside you, crying to be healed, to be wanted, to be needed, to be loved, because you wanted to be loved, you wanted to be seen, you wanted someone to love you the way you deserved. You had always had so much love to give, but no one who could reciprocate, the world always taking, but never giving back."

Word Count: 11.6k

A/N: Plus-sized!reader x Trainerry based on this request <- To the Anon that requested this. I hope it's everything you wanted and more. I really had to pull at some feels for this one. Thanks you so much for this!!

Warning: Angsty self-hate with a happy ending, and a mild sweet smut scene at the end that you can skip if that's not your cup of tea. (Heavy themes centered around hatred of body-image/body shaming. All self-induced)

It wasn’t that you wanted to change yourself entirely. You just wanted to be able to look into the mirror and, for once, like what you saw. It wasn’t a size or a number you were after, you wanted the peace of mind, the relief, the weight of the stigma lifted for more than just the occasional, oh yeah, I look good kind of moments.

 Because let’s face it, we all know those moments were fleeting, but what if you could feel it for longer? What if your eyes could roam over your body, and maybe, just maybe, you could spend less time picking yourself apart. What if you could try on those jeans and this time they fit just perfectly—none of the excruciating cut of the waist digging into your belly while you sat, or the fear of not even being able to button them in the first place. 

You wanted freedom, you wanted joy, you wanted less days of the mental prison that your brain held you in every time you looked into the mirror, or binged on that food you knew you should avoid. That was what this would be, the journey you were ready to embark on—a journey to confidence, a journey to loving yourself, a journey back to you. These were the words you were filling your head with, the prep talk you had given yourself that morning as you got ready, and now that shit was laughable, you thought as you walked through the gym doors, eyes already darting around as a gust of cool air spread over your bare arms. 

This was the part you hated, the part you were dreading. It hadn’t even been two seconds and you were already tugging at the hem of your oversized tee, your gaze scanning over bodies in motion, most fit as fuck, some laughing and moving about, some focused forward in the zone, their eye on a prize that felt out of your reach, bending and flexing with an effortless ease you couldn’t even wrap your mind around, let alone even conceive the amount of energy you knew went into making each rep look like a walk in the park.

And now you felt crazy, because you were signing yourself up willingly, putting yourself out there for what? To fail? To be judged?

Was this really what you wanted? Did you really hate yourself this much? Was this even considered hate, or was this self-love? Because suddenly, the line was becoming blurred, and here you stood, waiting by the front desk on full display, following the instructions given via email, because you were too weirded out to set up everything in person. Hell, you didn’t even know where the bathroom was. It wasn’t like you could disappear until you were ready.

So maybe you couldn’t run and hide, but you could hide behind your phone, and wait for your trainer, god, what was his name again? Henry? Harris? Fuck, how could you be blanking, and as you took to searching for your welcome email, a deep voice sounded through your frantic thoughts:

“Hey there! ” a cheerful voice called out.

That’s when you turned to see a tall figure approaching you, his bright smile lighting up the room as he ran a hand through his tousled dark hair, green eyes reflecting the light, and holy shit, that physique, that body screamed fitness. And as you peered over your shoulder to see if he was signaling for someone else, your heart skipped a beat, cheeks flushing, because there was no way in hell this dude was going to be your trainer.

“Oh… were you talking to me?” you stammered, trying to maintain eye contact but failing miserably, hands already fidgeting with the him of your shirt.

“Yes, you have a training session at 9, correct?” he asked, extending his hand. His grip was firm yet gentle, and you felt a jolt of electricity the second your hands collided. “I’m Harry, it’s really nice to meet you. I can’t wait to help you on this journey.”

“Thanks,” you replied, trying not to drool over his British accent as your voice came out small. Your palms were sweaty, and you quickly wiped them on your pants, hoping he didn’t notice.

“So, what are your fitness goals?” Harry asked, his tone encouraging and friendly, and just by the way he was making eye contact, you could tell that he was genuinely curious, like it wasn’t just his job to know.

For a second, you hesitated, your mind racing. You had so many thoughts swirling around this very question. What was it that you wanted again? To lose weight? Feel healthier? Gain some kind of confidence? But the words felt stuck in your throat, your mind going blank as you said, “Um, I just want to… you know, get in shape and feel better about myself,” you finally managed to say, your voice trembling slightly.

Harry nodded, his expression holding a warmth you weren’t expecting, maybe an understanding, like he knew exactly what you meant to say, a sort of grace given that sent a flutter to the pit of your stomach.“That’s a great start! Remember, it’s all about progress, not perfection. I’d love to work together to set some goals that suit you and your lifestyle. I’m all about sustainability for the long-term, not the instantaneous results that rarely last long.”

And even though his words sent a flicker of hope through you. You could feel the self-doubt trying to creep back in. “I’m not really sure about all this,” you admitted, eyes moving around the room. “I’ve never been good at working out, and honestly, this place isn’t really my vibe. Like a place I feel like I belong... I guess.”

Yet as you said the words, Harry’s smile never wavered. “I get it. Change is always a little uncomfy at first, but you know everyone starts somewhere. The important thing is that you’re here, ready to take that first step, and as cheesy as it sounds, I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

For a moment, you looked at him, holding his gaze, and that’s when the nervousness seemed to fade. There was something about his confidence and the kindness he exuded that was infectious, and you felt a small spark of determination ignite within you. “Okay…” You breathed.

“I’ll try my best, but I can’t promise you anything,” you told him with a small smile, feeling a bit more resolute, like yeah, maybe you could actually do this, like there was hope for the self-loathing bitch within you, because fuck her, she couldn’t have it all, you deserved a little light, some time away from the shadows of your self that kept stealing tiny moments of joy you could never get back. 

At some point, you had to live, right?

“That’s the spirit!” Harry answered, his enthusiasm making your smile grow despite the lingering insecurities. “Shall we get started?”

And as he led you deeper into the gym, you couldn’t shake that feeling of awe, that mix of anxiety threatening the surface. You were about to do it, finally take that leap, about to be trained by this gorgeous guy, and while the thought made your heart race for maybe all the wrong reasons, you also felt a sense of possibility, like maybe, just maybe, this could be the beginning of something great, something to make you feel alive again. 

But it’s crazy how quickly excitement can fade.

The first week was pure torture, and the second week was no better. You wanted to quit, but you didn’t know what you wanted.

That was the problem, wasn’t it? You had walked through those gym doors with all these grand ideas about transformation, about becoming someone new, but now, three weeks in, you were just as sweaty, still a breathless mess who couldn’t even do a proper squat without Harry having to adjust your form for the millionth time. 

And god, those hands, always professional without a doubt, but there was something about the way they would ghost over your shoulders, the way they corrected your posture, or lightly pressed against your lower back to guide you, that had your skin burning from everything but the workout.

“Let’s try something different,” Harry said, and you could hear that patient tone, the one that never made you feel like the failure you knew you were. 

He grabbed a bench, positioning it behind you. “…Seated squats. They’re gentler on the knees, and the bonus is they’ll help you build the strength for the full movement.”

Your first instinct was to prove yourself, to convince him you were able to do a full fucking squat like every other person in this gym, but somehow the words died in your throat when you caught sight of yourself in the mirror—red-faced, sweat pooling in places you didn’t want to think about, your oversized shirt clinging to rolls you had been spending years trying to hide, and lets not even get started on your arms, fucking hell, your arms felt like they were made of jello, wobbling with each movement. Not to mention your thighs had already been chafing with every step, that familiar burn a reminder of exactly why you had been avoiding this place for years.

It was torture, pure fucking torture, but you sat anyway.

“Hey,” Harry called out, pulling you from your thoughts, and suddenly he was in front of you, those green eyes level with yours as he crouched down. “Where’d you go just then?”

“Nowhere… I’m fine,” you lied, because what were you supposed to say? That you were having a mental breakdown over a squat? That you could feel every pair of eyes in the gym judging the “chubby girl” who couldn’t even do basic exercises?

But Harry just nodded, like he knew exactly what you weren’t saying. “Right then, seated squats it is. And after that, we’ll work on some upper body stuff. Sound good?”—The thing about Harry was that he never seemed to push when you shut down. His superpower was to redirect, adapt, and move on to something else, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. 

Never an ounce of judgment.

You had noticed other things too, in these first three weeks—like how sometimes he shifted his weight to his left side during demonstrations, or how he would choose specific exercises over others without explanation. Once, when he was showing you how to do lunges, he distinctly favored his right leg, the change so evident that you almost asked about it, but something in his expression had stopped you.

One day, near the end of week three, the gym’s usual crowd of fitness models decided to make their appearance. You had recognized them by now, you know the type, the group of women who looked like they just stepped out of a Lululemon catalog, all tight abs and perfect ponytails, not a jiggle in sight. They were hard to miss, and even more apparent the way they gravitated toward Harry like moths to a flame, and why wouldn’t they? He was gorgeous, British, and had the kind of body that made you wonder what he looked like without a single scrap of clothing.

And these were the kind of thoughts that you had to shake from your head, because you didn’t want to go there.

Not when he was that close.

“Harry!” one of them shouted, her outfit like a latex glove, leaving little to the imagination as she bounded over. “Could you check my form on these hip thrusts?”

And fuck, you would have laughed if you weren’t trying to make yourself invisible, focusing on your water bottle like it held the secrets of the universe, but you couldn’t help watch them from the corner of your eye. Harry glanced at his watch and then back at the woman.

“Sorry, Melissa, I’m with a client right now,” he said, and was it your imagination or did he step slightly closer to you? “Maybe check with Tom at the front desk about booking a session.”

That was when the woman’s eyes flicked to you, and you could practically feel the onset of her assessment, knew the exact look she was giving, that up-and-down glance that was cataloguing every flaw, every roll, every reason you didn’t belong here. But Harry had already turned back to you, already demonstrating the next exercise like the interaction hadn’t even happened.

“Right, so for this one, you’ll want to keep your core engaged to protect your low back,” he was saying, but all you could think about was how he had just dismissed her, how he had chosen to stay focused on you when he could have just as easily given her five minutes of attention, and you chalked it up to professionalism without a second thought. He was getting paid to train you, after all.

This was his job.

But then why did your stupid heart skip when he smiled at you after you completed your set?

Week four started like any other, except it felt harder as you dragged yourself through the gym doors, already anticipating the torture ahead. You felt like shit... not good at all, more like death had warmed over you. Even though your body was starting to recognize the routine, your brain was still screaming at you to run every time you saw the weight rack.

“Morning!” Harry called out, and damn him for always being so cheerful at 9 in the morning. “How’re you feeling? Any soreness from last session?”

“Just my entire body,” you groaned, but there was less bite to it than before. “Who knew your ass muscles could be this sore.”

He laughed, that genuine sound that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Well, that means you’re doing it right, and that’s a win, ay? Today we’re going to work on some balance exercises, really activate those stabilizer muscles.”

You were halfway through a set of single-leg stands, wobbling like a baby giraffe and cursing Harry’s name in your mind when it happened. It was quick, you losing your balance—again—and you stumbled backward, your elbow connecting with Harry’s leg as he moved to steady you, and out of nowhere, he made a sharp, pained, involuntary sound that made your blood run cold.

“Oh my god, I’m so, so sorry!” and when you whirled around, he was gripping his knee, face tight with a pain that looked too familiar to be from your clumsy elbow. “Harry, I—”

“It’s fine,” he said quickly, but his voice was strained, and he was still holding his knee like it might shatter if he let go. “Just an old injury acting up. Nothing to do with you. I promise…”

But you had seen that kind of pain before, in your own mirror when your body would decide to remind you of all the ways it had been pushed too far. “Sit down,” you tell him, taking charge of the situation, surprising even yourself in the process. “Seriously, sit.”

For a second, he looked like he might protest, but something in your expression must have convinced him because he lowered himself onto the nearest bench, still favoring that right knee. The gym suddenly felt too quiet, too exposed, and without thinking, you positioned yourself between him and the rest of the room, like you could shield him from all the curious glances.

“It’s an old football injury,” he said finally, the words coming out reluctant, like he was still trying to hold them back. “Soccer… I mean—sorry, I know you Americans call it soccer. Tore my ACL completely about six years ago. Had surgery, did all the physio, but...” He shrugged, a gesture that looked too casual for the weight of what he was sharing. “Sometimes bodies don’t heal the way they’re supposed to.”

Startled by his words, you stared at him, this perfect-looking trainer with his perfect-looking body, and it was like something shifted inside your chest. “But you’re... you’re a trainer. I always pictured you all so—”

“Perfect?” He finished, looking up at you with a wry smile. “Yeah… that’s what everyone thinks. But the truth is, I can’t even run anymore. Can barely kick a ball without my knee giving out. Gosh, some days I wake up and have to spend like twenty minutes just trying to convince my knee to work properly.”

The words seemed to linger, weighted with an openness you hadn’t expected. Here was Harry, this beautiful, confident man, admitting to being broken, and somehow it finally made him real in a way that his encouraging words, or the professional distance he kept, never had, and that seemed to scare you.

“Is that why you became a trainer?” you asked, settling onto the bench beside him, your workout forgotten. “Because of the injury?”

He nodded, absently rubbing his knee. “Yeah… I guess in a way…I couldn’t play anymore, but I couldn’t stay away from fitness entirely… it was kind of my life, so I started learning about adaptive training, about working with bodies that don’t fit the typical mold. Turns out I’m better at helping people find their own path than I ever was at following mine.”

In that moment you wanted to say something, wanted to match the encouragement of his words, but all that came out was, “Well, that feels really fucking unfair.”

He laughed, surprised, but sincere. “Yeah, it really fucking is.”

And just like that, something changed. That professional distance he had been maintaining cracked just a little, and you saw him, not Harry the trainer, but Harry the person, a man who had his dreams ripped from under his feet, but still learned how to build new ones from the scraps.

“I should probably tell you,” he said, his voice lighter now, “this is why I modify so many exercises. It’s not just for you—half of them I can’t do the ‘proper’ way anymore. Those seated squats? I do them on my bad days, oh, and those knee-friendly lunges? Learned those during my physio.”

And fuck, there it was beating at your insides, that crush, that you had been desperately trying to ignore, suddenly felt less like a schoolgirl fantasy and more like... god dare you say it… Something else. Something deeper. Because now, when you looked at him, you didn’t just see the attractive trainer who was nice to the “fat girl”. You saw someone who maybe understood you more than you knew, who probably knew your body better, knew all the ways it betrayed you, the frustration of every limitation, and the slow, painful process of finding acceptance.

“Thank you,” you breathed, really wanting him to know you meant it. “For telling me.”

He stood to his feet then, eyes sweeping over your face, before offering you a hand up. “Come on, let’s finish your session. But maybe we’ll skip the jumping jacks today, yeah? My knee’s not the only one that needs babying.”

After that day, everything shifted, not just in your mind. Harry, of course, still maintained his professionalism, but there was a warmth now, an understanding that hadn’t existed before. Your workouts became less about pushing through pain and more about finding what worked for your body—and his.

“See, the thing about traditional training,” he explained during week five, while demonstrating a modified plank that didn’t make your wrists scream, “is that it assumes everyone’s working with the same equipment. But we’re not, are we? You’ve got your challenges, I’ve got mine… but the trick is finding what works for us.”

Us… 

And, damn it was such a small word, but boy did it seem to carry weight.

That’s when you started noticing more things, like how he would ice his knee between clients, or how he would shift positions during longer demonstrations, or how his jaw would tighten on particularly bad days. But you also noticed how he never let it stop him, how he moved through it, and adapted his entire life around this limitation without a trace of self-pity.

So why couldn’t you?

“After my surgery,” he told you one day while you struggled through a stupid resistance band exercise, “I spent months being angry. Angry at my body, at the universe… I guess at everyone… everyone who could still do what I couldn’t. It took me a long time to realize that anger was just fear wearing a different face.”

“Fear of what?” you asked, breathless from exertion but curious nonetheless.

“Fear that I’d never be enough again. That, without soccer, without that, I guess that identity, I was just... nothing.” He told you, adjusting your form gently, his hands warm through your shirt. “Sound familiar?”

He had you there; it was all too familiar. Because wasn’t that exactly what you felt every time you looked in the mirror? That without the body you thought you should have, you were somehow less than? And the parallel hit you like a ton of bricks, because was this not him basically telling you that he understood, that he had been where you were, just in a different way—that maybe not all trauma was the same, but it still hurt, even when the two weren’t comparable.

“So what changed?” you asked during a water break, after you finally digested the realization, watching him absently massage his knee.

“Perspective,” he said simply. “Started focusing on what my body could do instead of what it couldn’t. Yeah, I can’t play soccer anymore, but I can help people like you find their strength. That’s not nothing, is it?”

People like you… And maybe the phrase should have stung, but the way he said it, with such an honest warmth, made it feel more like a compliment.

“You know what I love about training you?” he asked suddenly, and your heart did a stupid flutter in your chest. “You’re honest. You don’t pretend like it’s easy or fun. You show up even when you hate it. Do you know how rare that is?”

This makes you laugh, wiping sweat from your face with a towel. “Yeah, I’m a real inspiration... The girl who nearly cried doing wall sits yesterday.”

“Maybe… but you still finished them, though,” he pointed out. “That’s what matters. Not how pretty it looks or how easy it is. Just that you don’t give up.”

With perfect timing, the gym hotties made another appearance, a new group this time, but technically the same, all giggling and hair-tossing as they tried to catch Harry’s attention. One of them even “accidentally” dropped her water bottle right by where he was spotting your chest press, and for a second you held your breath, waiting for him to look, to give them the attention they were so desperate for, but he just kicked the bottle gently out of the way and kept his focus on you.

“That’s it, three more,” he encouraged, and maybe it was your imagination, but his voice seemed a little louder than necessary, like he was making a point. “You’ve got this.”

Later, as you were packing up your things, you overheard one of them complaining to her friend: 

“He’s always with that girl. Like, what’s the deal? Is she paying him extra or something?”

It was one of those times you wished you could roll it off, but the words pricked at your skin, and before you could spiral into self-loathing, Harry appeared at your elbow. “Ready for the cool-down stretches?” he asked, and his hand touched your lower back, guiding you away from the women who were still whispering their gossip. 

“I’ve got a new routine I want to try—it’s specifically designed for people with knee issues, but I think it’ll help with your hip flexibility too.”

People with knee issues. 

Like him, like you, like your fucking body that creaked and fought you at every turn, but now what was once a negative connotation had shifted, had become a positive acknowledgment, a thing you both shared. All the modified movements, the limitations, yes, they were real, but gone was the judgment, and the monster you could make of them.

By week six, you had developed a routine. You still hated mornings, still wanted to die during cardio, but there was something else now, a sense of anticipation. Not for the workout itself, god no, but for the hour you got to spend with Harry. 

A growing anticipation for the way he would light up when you managed something you couldn’t do the week before. All the terrible jokes he would tell to distract you during the dreadful planks. The way he would casually touch your arm or back—always appropriate, always professional, but still, there was something that made your skin tingle, a curious wonder that had your mind reeling.

“You’re getting stronger,” he told you one morning, watching as you completed a set of squats—real ones this time, not the shitty seated ones. “Can you feel it?”

And honestly, you could. Not just in your muscles, but in the way you carried yourself. You still had times when you tugged at your shirt, still felt your thighs rub together, but it was different now. Maybe less shameful, more just... fact. Your body was what it was, but it was capable of more than you thought.

“My knee’s been acting up this week,” Harry had admitted during a demonstration of a new exercise. Mentally, you had already noticed that it was less fluid than usual, but you didn’t say anything. 

He cleared his throat, trying to hide the wince of pain, “Probably the weather change. But look—” Then, he showed you how to modify the movement, turning what should have been a jumping exercise into a step-touch pattern. “Same muscle activation, less impact. All of this to say we work with what we’ve got, yeah?”

We…

And there was something in the way he said it, like he was trying to bind you both together through all the tiny imperfections. That’s when you found yourself, starting to stay a few minutes after your sessions, helping him reset equipment or just chatting while he iced his knee. It was during one of these moments that he opened up a little more about his injury.

“The thing is… the pain wasn’t even the worst part…” he said, pressing a bag of ice into his finicky knee. “It was watching my mates continue on without me. I mean, of course, they would visit the hospital, tell me about matches, and I was grateful… really I was… and I would smile and nod, hit all my marks… but the truth was I was dying inside… Took me years to be able to watch soccer again without feeling bitter.”

“Do you still feel bitter?” you asked, organizing dumbbells to avoid looking at him directly.

“Sometimes,” he confessed. “On bad days, when my knee won’t cooperate and I see people running without thinking twice about it... Yeah, it stings. But then I remember that without this—” he gestured to his knee, “—I’d never have become a trainer. Never have met the people I’ve helped. Never have...” He paused, and when you looked up, he was staring at you with an expression you couldn’t quite read. “…Never have met you...”

You couldn’t help the heat creeping up your neck, your face burning with it, and like an idiot, you fumbled the dumbbell you were holding, completely giving yourself away. “I’m sure you say that to all your clients,” you muttered, trying to keep your voice from wobbling, but he shook his head.

“No,” he said simply. “I don’t.”

And as his words settled, the world around you seemed to pivot, the air now filling your lungs, charged with something that felt dangerously close to desire, but then someone dropped a weight plate across the gym with a thunderous clang, and the spell was broken, but you held onto that moment for as long as you could, because you felt it, felt the need beginning to ache in your bones.

But the one question that would always remain was:

Could he ever want a girl like me?

Week seven was when you nearly quit. It had been a bad week all around—work stress, family drama, and your fucking period decided to show up with a vengeance. You had barely slept, your body hurt in ways that had nothing to do with exercise, and the last thing you wanted was to squeeze into workout clothes and pretend like everything was fine, when it wasn’t.

“I’m sorry… But I don’t think I can do this today,” you told Harry the moment you walked in, not even bothering with a greeting. “I just... I can’t.” And there was shame in the way the words came out, like maybe this was your true self after all, and the rest was just an act.

He took one look at you, like, really looked at you. Not the quick bullshit assessment most people did, and nodded. “Okay. Tell me what you need?”

And his words nearly blindsided you. It wasn’t the “you have to push through” or “you’ll feel better after.” It was just a simple acceptance of where you were at, and you stood there trying to gather your words, feeling the burn at the back of your throat. 

“I don’t know,” you forced, feeling tears prick at your eyes. “I’m honestly so exhausted and everything hurts, and I looked in the mirror this morning… I don’t know… it’s just been a shitty week, and I’m just not sure what the point is anymore, and—”

“Hey,” he gently interrupts, steering you toward a quieter corner of the gym. “Breathe for me, yeah? Just breathe.”

And you did, gulping in air like you were drowning, and maybe it was his hand on your low back, but gradually the panic receded just enough for embarrassment to creep in. “Sorry. I’m being dramatic.”

“You’re just being human,” he corrected. “We all have these days. Hell, I had one last week—woke up and my knee was so stiff I could barely make it down the stairs. Wanted to throw things, and cry, and give up. You know what I did instead?”

“What?”

“Called in sick and spent the day on the couch watching terrible reality TV and eating biscuits.” Your brows shot up, and he grinned. “What? You thought I was going to say I powered through with positive thinking? Fuck that. Sometimes you need to just feel what you’re feeling.”

You felt overwhelmed. His answer was so unexpected, so honest, that you found yourself laughing despite the tears. “So what should I do?” You asked, wiping at your eyes.

“Today? If you want to stay, we can modify everything. Gentle movement only, nothing that makes you want to die. We can do some stretching, maybe some light resistance work if you’re up for it. And if at any point you need to stop, we stop. No judgment, no pushing. Just listening to what your body needs.”

And thank the heavens up above, because it was by far the easiest session you had ever had, physically speaking. But emotionally? God, emotionally, it was everything. Harry had adapted every single movement to match your energy level, never once making you feel weak or pathetic for needing the modifications. Everything was intuitive, even when the gym hotties walked by and gave you pitying looks, he shifted positions to block their view, talking louder about muscle groups to draw your attention away.

“You showed up,” he said at the end, as you were doing your final stretches. “On a day when everything in you said to stay home, you showed up. That’s a huge win.”

“It feels like nothing,” you muttered, but he shook his head.

“Six weeks ago, would you have come in feeling like this?”

And as you gazed into his green eyes, you thought about it. Six weeks ago, you would have used any excuse to avoid the gym. “No… I would have stayed home.”

“Then that’s progress. Not all progress looks like smaller jeans or bigger muscles. Sometimes it looks like showing up when you don’t want to.” His hand rested on your shoulder, warm and steady. “I’m proud of you.”

His words seemed to hit you harder than any physical exercise could ever touch the surface. When was the last time someone had said that to you? When was the last time you had given someone a reason to?

By week eight, something fundamental inside you had changed. Not just in your body, though you had to admit, you were feeling stronger, more capable, but in how you existed in your skin. You still had all the same insecurities, all the same soft places and jiggly bits, but they felt less like failures now and more like... just parts of you.

Which is why, when you got dressed that morning, you reached for the new workout outfit you had bought on impulse—fitted leggings and a tank top—there would be no hiding behind excess fabric, not today. Of course, your reflection still showed everything you usually hated—the belly that refused to lie flat, the arms that continued their gentle wobble, the thighs that would always touch. But for once, you didn’t want to reach for the oversized shirt.

“Fuck it,” you told your reflection. “Let’s see what happens.”

And what happened was Harry nearly dropped his water bottle when you walked in.

“You look—” He caught himself, his professionalism snapping back into place like a rubber band. “That’s a great color on you… It really brightens up your complexion.”

And try all he wanted, but you had seen that first reaction, the way his eyes had widened, tracked over your curves before he could even remember himself. It sent a thrill through you, gave you a sense of power that had you on cloud nine.

“Thanks,” you said, trying to sound casual even as your heart hammered. “Figured I would switch things up a bit…”

“Yeah… It’s a nice change for sure,” he said quietly, and there was something in his voice that made you look at him. I mean, really take in his expression, because it said it all. “Just... for what it’s worth, you should wear whatever makes you comfortable. But this—” He gestured vaguely, carefully not looking directly at your body. “This confidence suits you.”

He had you soaring, and the workout that followed ignited a new kind of tension growing between you. Harry had always been hands-on with corrections, but now each touch felt loaded with a new possibility. When he adjusted your hip position during bridges, his fingers seemed to linger a beat too long, and fuck, when he spotted your chest press, he stood closer than strictly necessary. And when he demonstrated proper form for a new exercise, you caught him glancing at you in the mirror, checking if you were watching.

You were. You always were.

“You know,” he said during a water break, his own face flushed from a particularly intense movement, “I’ve been training people for five years, and I’ve never seen someone transform the way you have.”

“I haven’t really transformed, though,” you told him, gesturing at yourself. “I mean, I’m maybe a size smaller? If that?”

“That’s not what I mean.” Then he sat on the bench beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his skin. “When you first walked in, you looked like you wanted to disappear. Moved like you were apologizing for taking up space. Now look at you—wearing what you want, taking up all the space you need, moving like you have a right to be here. Because you do.”

The sincerity in his voice made your throat tight. “It’s because of you,” you said quietly. “The way you teach, the way you... see me. Not as a project to fix, but as a person. Like I don’t have to fit into the mold I thought I did.”

“Fuck the mold. It’s boring,” he said, and his hand covered yours on the bench, just for a second. “Lifes too short to try and keep up with all the bullshit.”

That was when the gym hotties chose that moment to make their appearance, a trio of them this time, chest high, all sports bras a size too small, stretched across their fucking boobs with an obvious intention. You watched as the tallest one made a beeline for Harry, her trajectory as clear as a heat-seeking missile.

“Harry! I was hoping you could show me that lunge from the other day during our session… it seems to have totally slipped my mind.”

“I’m with a client, Bridgette,” Harry said, not even looking at her. His hand had left yours, but he shifted closer, his knee touching yours. “Like I tell the others, you can book a session at the front desk if you need personal instruction.”

Bridgette’s eyes flicked between you and Harry, taking in the minimal space between you, the way Harry’s body was angled toward yours like a plant seeking sun. “Right. Sure. I’ll do that.”

And just as she was about to turn to leave, she says, “Oh… and it’s Courtney, by the way…” then she stalks off, and you couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped. 

“You know, I think they’re all convinced I’m either paying you extra or sleeping with you.”

Harry’s amused expression fell. “Have they been saying things to you?”

“No… no more than I expected,” you confessed. “You know how it is.. heaven forbid the chubby girl get any personal attention from the hot trainer? It’s probably not realistic in their world… and I guess in mine either… but of course, they’re going to talk.”

“You’re not—” He stopped, jaw clenched, and when he continued, his voice held a careful control. “First of all, I don’t think your chubby… if that’s what you want to call it… so fuck them. Second, you’re not just nothing. You’re a client who works harder than anyone else in this gym, who shows up even when it’s hard, who—” He cut himself off again, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “And I’m not just giving you attention because... Christ, I’m making this worse.”

“Because what?” you urged, heart racing.

He looked at you then, and for a moment, you saw past the professional mask he was trying to hold, to something real and wanting underneath. “Because it’s my job,” he said finally, but the words sounded hollow. “Come on, let’s finish your session.”

The rest of the workout passed in tense silence, both of you overly aware of every accidental touch, every shared glance in the mirror. When he helped you stretch at the end, his hands on your calf as you lay on the mat, the tension was almost unbearable, and you bit the inside of your cheek to keep yourself grounded.

“Same time Thursday?” he asked when you were gathering your things, and there was something helpless in his expression, like maybe he was afraid you might say no.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Same time Thursday.”

As you left, you caught sight of yourself in the mirror by the exit, flushed and sweaty, curves on full display in your fitted outfit, looking like someone who belonged here. Not because your body had dramatically changed, but because maybe you were actually starting to believe you had a right to exist in places like this, exist in your own skin, like maybe it could be okay.

And just as your eyes were about to move forward, you caught sight of Harry watching you go, and the look on his face...

Yeah. You were definitely in trouble.

But for once, you didn’t want to run from it. You wanted to see where this path could take you, just as you were.

When week nine rolled around, you were back on track, your mind totally on board, and everything was going great. Even you were amazed by yourself, the way you were hitting every mark. Harry still kept a professional distance, but it wasn’t taking from the attraction you felt, now a low hum over your skin, signalling an obvious draw to him, that sent a pulse between your thighs every time his hands touched your body.

It was becoming a problem, actually. The way your body responded to him now—not just the flutter in the pit of your stomach, but it had turned into a full-body awareness every time he was near. When he corrected your form, his fingers grazing your hip or pressing against your back, you had to bite back sounds that had nothing to do with exertion. And you were pretty sure he knew it, too, from the way his jaw would tighten, the way he would step back a little quicker than necessary, like he needed the distance just as much as you.

One day, you were in the middle of box step-ups, feeling strong, feeling capable, feeling like maybe you were actually becoming the person you had wanted to be when you first walked through those doors. The fitted workout clothes were your new normal, and while your body hadn’t dramatically changed, the way you moved in it had. Confident. Taking up space. Belonging.

Because like Harry said “Fuck them all.” 

“That’s it, drive through your heel,” Harry encouraged, and god, his voice when he got all instructor-mode did things to you. “Really activate those glutes.”

You were focused, you were in the zone, you were—

And then your fucking ankle rolled.

One second you were stepping down, controlled and strong, and the next you were falling, your right ankle giving way beneath you with a sickening pop that you felt more than heard. The sound that tore from your throat was raw, primal, and suddenly, you were on the ground, hands clutching at your ankle as pain shot through it like lightning.

“Fuck!” The word came out high and sharp as a sob ripped from your throat, and then Harry was there, dropping to his knees beside you, his professional calm never wavering even as his hands hovered over you, not quite touching.

“Don’t move,” he demanded, his accent thicker with urgency. “Let me see—can you wiggle your toes?”

You tried, gasping at the pain that radiated up your leg. Around you, the gym had gone quiet, and you could feel every pair of eyes turning your way. The fat girl has fallen, was all you could think, because, of course, she had. Everyone was probably thinking you couldn’t handle the exercise, probably pushed too hard, probably—

“Hey, look at me,” Harry whispered, cutting through your thoughts. His hand cupped your face, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Just me, yeah? No one else matters right now.”

But they did matter. You could hear the whispers, feel the stares, and like another betrayal, the tears of frustration burned at your eyes, already threatening to spill over. Not just from the pain—though fuck, it hurt—but from the humiliation of it all. Nine weeks of progress, nine weeks of building yourself up, and here you were, crumpled on the gym floor like every stereotype you had been fighting against.

The stares felt like the harsh truth of ‘I told you so,’ feeding that inner monologue you had been trying to suppress.

“I need to check if it’s broken,” Harry said, his hands gentle as they ghosted over your ankle. You hissed at even the lightest touch, and he pulled back immediately. “Right, we’re going to the hospital. Can you stand at all?”

“I don’t—I can’t—” The tears came then, hot and angry. “Everyone’s watching.”

“Fuck them,” Harry said fiercely, and the sharpness startled you enough to look at him. His green eyes were blazing with something protective, something furious, something lighting a fire within him. “Marcus!” he called to another trainer. “I need you to clear this area. Now.”

Then, to you, his voice softer now: “I’m going to help you up, okay? We’ll go out the back exit. Can you put your arm around my neck?”

The next few minutes were a blur of pain and movement. At that point, Harry was essentially carrying you, your weight supported against his solid frame, and for a moment, you forgot about everyone else because all you could focus on was how strong he was, how easily he held you up despite his own bad knee. When he got you to his car, he helped you into the passenger seat with a gentleness that made your chest tighten.

“I need to cancel my appointments,” he muttered, pulling out his phone as he started the car. “Sarah? Yeah, it’s Harry. Let’s go ahead and cancel the rest of my appointments for the day...”

And you listened, dazed, as he gave her instructions. “You know you don’t have to—” you started, but he cut you off with a look.

“Yes, I do. You’re hurt, and you need to get to the hospital. End of story.”

The hospital was a whirlwind of X-rays and ice packs, and doctors with cold hands. Your ankle wasn’t broken, thank goodness, but a bad sprain that would have you off your feet for at least a week, and even though the news was disheartening. There was joy in the way Harry stayed the whole time. He even held your hand during the x-ray, kept you distracted with silly stories while you waited for results, and graciously helped you fill out paperwork when your hands were shaking too much from residual adrenaline.

“You know,” you said at one point, watching him charm the nurse into bringing you an extra ice pack, “most trainers would have just called an ambulance and been done with it.”

He looked offended at the proposal. “What kind of person would I be if I did that? Besides,” his expression softened, “I needed to make sure you were okay.”

The drive to your apartment was quiet, your ankle propped up in the backseat, wrapped in an ace bandage, throbbing with every heartbeat, or sudden bump in the road. Harry had insisted on driving you home, waving off your suggestion for an Uber, and now here you were, trying not to think about how normal this all felt, him driving you home, eyes flicking to yours in the rearview mirror, every time you stared too long.

“Third floor,” you said when he pulled up to your building, and then realized what that meant. “Shit. I’m on the third floor. With no elevator.”

“We’ll manage,” Harry said, already getting out to help you.

‘Managing’ turned out to be a slow, painstaking process. Harry’s arm was around your waist, taking most of your weight, and you had never been more aware of your body—not in the usual self-conscious way, but in how it pressed against his, how his fingers splayed across your hip to hold you steady. He smelled good, inviting even. You liked this proximity, enjoyed the feel of the muscles in his shoulders working as he nearly carried you up each step.

Halfway up the second flight, his knee buckled slightly, and you both had to stop, pressed against the wall, breathing hard.

“Your knee,” you gasped, guilt flooding through you. “Harry, I’m too heavy—”

“Don’t,” he said sharply, his arm tightening around you. “Don’t do that. You’re not too anything. My knee’s just being a bastard today. We’re both a bit broken, remember? We’ll make it work.”

And you did, step by careful step, stopping when his knee was cranky, adjusting when your ankle screamed, a quiet give and take, you both seemed to be savoring, and by the time you reached your door, you were both sweating and trembling, but something about doing it together, about both of you pushing through your limitations, made it feel like a victory rather than the anguish of a struggle.

Harry helped you inside, getting you settled on the couch with your ankle elevated, and for a moment, you just looked at each other, both breathless from more than just exertion. The silence felt weighted, thick in the air, heavy with the words unspoken, and you found yourself saying, “Do you want to stay? Like hang out, I mean? I could order food or—”

“I should get back,” he said too quickly, but he looked reluctant. “I probably need to get back. Sort out the schedule for tomorrow, since I canceled on everyone today. Figure out how to rearrange things…”

That’s when reality crashed back in. Right. Of course. This was his job; you were just a client, and he had definitely already gone above and beyond. The disappointment must have shown on your face because then he quickly added, “But we’ll need to talk soon, yeah? Go over modifying your workouts for your current situation. Once you’re healed enough to come back, I mean.”

Situation…

The word like a fucking knife to your gut… “Your situation,” he said, like you were some kind of problem to be solved, a complication to work around. Just like always, too much, too difficult, too... everything, and all at once, you felt the warmth of the last few hours evaporate, leaving you exposed, foolish in the way you thought there could be more, but silly you.

“Right,” you said, your voice coming out flat. “My situation.”

Harry’s brow furrowed, clearly sensing the shift but not understanding it. “I just mean with your ankle—”

“No, I get it.” And you forced a smile that felt like plastic. “Thanks for everything today. Really. It was... above and beyond.”

He stood there for a moment, looking like he wanted to say something else. Then he reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone. “Here, let me... I don’t normally do this, but...” He seemed to be fighting with himself. “Can I give you my number? Just in case you need anything or have questions about the ankle?”

Your heart sank. He was giving you his number out of pity. Poor chubby girl who hurt herself, better make sure she doesn’t feel completely abandoned, god, it was so obvious—it was charity, wrapped up in the typical nice guy package.

“Sure,” you said, typing it into your phone with numb fingers. “Got it.”

“Text me so I have yours,” he said, and you did, sending a simple “Hi, it’s me” that felt like swallowing coals.

The awkwardness stretched between you like taffy, both of you unsure how to move the moment forward. Harry shifted his weight, favoring his good knee, clearly wanting to leave but not knowing how. “So... rest, ice, elevation. Doctor said a week minimum before trying any weight-bearing exercises. We can work with that when you’re ready.”

“Yeah, definitely.” You told him, trying to keep that plastic smile in place. “I’ll let you know.”

After he left, you sat in the growing darkness of your apartment, ankle throbbing, and did what you always did when things got too real—you retreated. But you did send him a text that night: 

Y/N: I appreciate you shifting your day around. It was really kind. I’ll reach back out when I’m ready to come back. Thanks for everything.

Professional. Distant. Safe.

And his response came quickly: 

H: Of course. Rest up and let me know if you need anything. We’ll get you back on track in no time. 

But you didn’t reach back out. Days turned into a week, then two. Your ankle had healed, but your mind had spiraled back to old patterns. Every time you thought about the gym, you remembered falling, remembered everyone staring, remembered Harry having to literally carry you because you were too much for your own body to handle. 

To your surprise, his texts came sporadically:

H: Hey, how’s the ankle?

H: Just checking in. Doctor cleared you yet?

H: We got some new equipment that I really think you’ll like. Excited to try it when you’re back.

H: Hope you’re okay. Miss having you in sessions.

That last one even made you cry, but you still didn’t respond. It was easier to ghost him than to face the humiliation of going back. Easier to order takeout and binge Netflix than to deal with the messy feelings he seemed to stir up. You had been down that road with guys like him; it never works. Always the friend but never the lover. You were stupid to think there was something there, stupid to believe you were anything more than a client he felt sorry for.

Two and a half weeks after the ankle incident, you were deep in the trenches of doubt, sucked in by yet another self-loathing pity party, when the doorbell rang, but you ignored it at first. Then it rang again, followed by a knock.

“If that’s Mrs. Gladys about the rent, it’s in the mail!” you called, not moving from your cocoon of isolation.

“It’s not Mrs. Gladys.” You froze. That accent, that voice, fuck, it was Harry at your door. 

“I know you’re in there,” he continued. “I can see the TV light under the door. And... I brought Chinese.” He spoke up again.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

You hauled yourself up, catching sight of yourself in the hall mirror, and immediately regretted it. But it was too late, he already heard you moving, and it would be worse to leave him standing there, so you opened the door just a crack, trying to hide your body behind it.

“Harry, what are you doing here?”

He looked good. Of course, he looked good, in jeans and a worn tee that clung to his chest in ways that should be illegal, especially on a Tuesday night. He was holding a massive bag of takeout in one hand, and wait… were those flowers?

“I’m sorry,” he said, and the genuine worry in his eyes made your chest tight. “I know this is weird, but I wasn’t sure what I should do. You hadn’t answered any of my texts, and I was worried about you…”

“I thought it was just protocol,” you answered, your voice tight.

He shifted, looking uncomfortable. “Well, I mean I was asking from a trainer’s point of view, yes, but I was hoping that it would come across as... I don’t know... more?”

“More? What do you mean?” You asked, cracking the door open a bit more.

“I thought when I gave you my number, you were catching the vibe that I was trying to put out...” He laughed, looking down at his feet, and the bashfulness was so startling on him that you almost forgot to breathe as a strand of hair fell loose. “What I’m saying is I thought there was a vibe between us?”

“Mmm,” was all you could manage, stunned. “A vibe?”

“Honestly, I thought you gave everyone your number?”

This made him laugh, looking back up at you with those heartwrenching green eyes, and fucking hell, those dimples. “No, trust me, I’ve learned my lesson with that one... Have you seen some of those ladies at the gym? A little persistent, yeah? Trust me, they’re not my type. I’m not interested.”

“I see...” You were mesmerized. This guy, this gorgeous, sweet, amazing guy, was standing at your door with flowers and food, talking about vibes.

“I can go, though... if this is too weird... but I’d hate to eat all this Chinese takeaway by myself,” he said, holding up the bag, and it did indeed look like enough to feed a small country, and it took everything in you not to make a fat joke, but something in his expression stopped you. 

He was nervous. Harry was nervous.

“No. Please... come in... I never pass up... what did you call it? Chinese takeaway...”

When he came in, you shut the door and immediately examined the bag. The smell was incredible, and your stomach reminded you that depression meals of cereal and toast weren’t actually sustaining.

“I do think you bought enough to feed a small army, though...”

“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I ordered a little of everything...”

This got a laugh out of you, the first real laugh in weeks. “Well, lucky you, I like everything... You don’t get curves like these being a picky eater...”

“I see...” He said with a sexy smirk, that had you giddy as his eyes roamed your body with the same heated look you had seen that day in the gym mirror. He wasn’t hiding it now, wasn’t trying to be professional. He was just a man, looking at you like you were something to devour, pajamas and all.

“Yeah... there was definitely a vibe...” You teased, narrowing your eyes at him while taking the flowers from his hands and bringing them to your nose. They were simple, but the gesture made your heart flip.

“I’ll put these in water...” And as you moved toward the kitchen, you felt his eyes following you, suddenly aware of how small your apartment felt with him in it. 

The energy you guys had been dulling in the past was present, making itself known as it filled the space. Now you had a new hunger growing in your belly that had nothing to do with Chinese food and everything to do with the way Harry was looking at you like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing.

Fuck it you thought, and you set the flowers down in the sink for later, “I’m not usually this forward… but I’ve been dying to kiss you?” you asked pressing your back against the sink, and you said the words with an air of confidence that seemed to flee the second your eyes found his. Sending you right back to that place of self-doubt.

Harry didn’t answer, and you watched as he silently pushed himself away from the counter and closed the small space between you.

 It felt like every movement slowed, every breath hollow, as if the sight of him before you was a figment of your imagination, and you couldn’t quite bring your eyes to meet his, not yet. You just stared at his broad chest, his strong stature like stone before your gaze, unmoving except for the slow rise and fall of his breath, like maybe he was waiting for you to make the move.

But it was something about the way he stood there, that same gentle patience he had exuded all along. It was devastating, the kindness now an ache that deepened inside you, the second you pressed your palm flat to the center of his chest. 

Yet his stillness remained as you felt the warmth of his body, the beating of his heart, but you still couldn’t look, because here was the fear telling you that you couldn’t have it, that you weren’t worthy, that this wasn’t real, but god he was real, and the breath that left his body was real.

And it hurt, and you were scared, and when his hand moved to yours, pressing your palm into his chest, you felt yourself breaking. Then you braved a look, your eyes finding his, and it was like something cracked within you, a well of every insecurity you had ever had, came spilling from your chest with a gasp, as a sob rose, and it wasn’t even him that you were crying about.

It was everything, all at once, it was you, it was him, it was the broken girl inside you, crying to be healed, to be wanted, to be needed, to be loved, because you wanted to be loved, you wanted to be seen, you wanted someone to love you the way you deserved. You had always had so much love to give, but no one who could reciprocate, the world always taking, but never giving back.

Then his hand was cupping your face, his eyes on your mouth, and the second his lips pressed to yours, delicate and soft, he drew in a deep breath, like you were the air he needed to fill his lungs with, like suddenly here you were, and as your mouths begin to move, the chatter in your head began to fade away.

As the kiss deepened, hands roaming, you felt yourself letting go, slipping to a place of peace, to a place you had only ever felt with him, to those times when he had you in a room full of people, yet the world always seemed to narrow to just the two of you. This was that moment, a universe that belonged to you and Harry.

And for the first time, maybe ever in your life, you allowed yourself to just exist.

When you pulled away, your eyes met, making a silent exchange, and you grabbed his hand with a slow nod, ready to make sacred what you felt in your heart, give him the pieces that he had made whole with the kindness of his spirit. You wanted to give yourself in the only way you knew how to convey what words couldn’t say.

And when he laid you down on the bed, he was gentle, hands moving over your curves like they were the most sacred gift you could give, and maybe they were in that moment, and when he kissed your lips, you felt the passion and the need in the delicate balance of his control. It felt safe. Harry was taking his time to explore the plains of your body, no rush, just a tender embrace that had tears streaming down your face.

“Is this okay?” he whispered against your skin, and the care in his voice made your chest tight. Always checking, always making sure, like you were the most beloved artifact, instead of too much.

You nodded, but your hands were already moving to guide his away from your stomach, that soft place you had spent years hating, years hiding. He noticed, you knew he would, and he paused, his green eyes searching yours in the dim light of your bedroom.

“Talk to me,” he said softly, his hand stilling on your hips. “What’s going through that beautiful mind?”

“I just...” You said, turning away, and the look in his eyes was too much for the shame pricking at your skin. It wasn’t like you hadn’t had sex before, but there had never been this level of positive vulnerability on both parts. The feeling reminded you of your first time, and maybe almost every time, actually.

The good times, few and far between.

Yes, the fear was there, and so was the desperation, but that was the part you didn’t want to be there. You didn’t want that desperate feeling of doing, just to feel wanted. You knew this wasn’t the case now, but it was hard to shake that pattern of thinking when this was the only relationship you had to sex. “You’ve probably been with so many girls who are... who look...” And the words stuck in your throat. 

Skinny. Fit. Perfect. Everything you weren’t.

“Hey.” His finger gently turned your chin back to him. “I’m here with you. Only you. And I’ve wanted to be here, exactly here, for weeks.”

But when his hand moved again, you caught it, redirecting it away from your middle, and this time he didn’t let you. Instead, he slowly lowered down your body, holding your eyes as he did, and before you could stop him, his lips were pressing against the soft flesh of your stomach, right where you were trying to hide.

“Harry—”

But he was already kissing every inch, every delicate place, every roll and curve you had spent years despising, and as he continued, your body trembled with sobs beneath his lips, overwhelmed by the adoration in his touch.

“God,” he breathed against your skin, “Every inch of you is beautiful. I can’t believe how lucky I am.”

And just when you thought you couldn’t break anymore, here was another wall crumbling, and when he moved back up to kiss you, you could taste the mingling of your tears on his lips now, salt and beauty, a messy mix of his devotion and time.

“Can we just...” you start, then stop, embarrassed by what you wanted to ask. This was the part you wanted to skip, the lead up, you didn’t think you were strong enough for it, not right now, not in this moment, not when you were barely hanging by a thread, your emotions everywhere.

“What do you need?” He pulled back slightly, studying your face. “Tell me.”

“Can we just... be together? I want to feel you, to kiss you. Is that okay? I don’t need...” You gestured vaguely over your body, unable to say the words.

Then you watched as understanding dawned in his eyes. “If that’s what you want,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “But… hopefully you’ll let me take care of you another time—”

“Another time?” You repeated, a little too excited, because god, the hope in your voice was already embarrassing.

He smiled, that dimpled smile that had you out of your mind from the beginning. “Yeah, love, there’s no way this is a one-time act. I’m already hooked. You have me completely. Trust me.”

That was all you needed, because then you were reaching with a shaky hand to your nightstand, pulling out the condom you had optimistically kept there. He took it from your trembling fingers, and the care he took with everything—with you—made fresh tears spring to your eyes.

And it was like a light switch flipping on in your brain when he pushed inside you, like something waking. At first, you weren’t sure what to do, whether you should just lie there, and let him lead like you had usually done in the past with others, or if you should use your words. But everything in you wanted to take some kind of control, to show him that you weren’t just passive, that you could give as good as you got.

The feeling built slowly, his hands mapping your body like he was trying to memorize every curve, every response. And just as you felt yourself getting close, that familiar tightening, a surge of confidence unlike anything you had ever felt before, flooded through you like a line of fire.

That’s when you pushed your hands into his shoulders, trying to be smooth about the move, hoping he would get the hint, but then he stopped without hesitation, concern flashing across his face. “Do you want me to—”

But you were already moving, pushing him onto his back and climbing on top, not giving a fuck that your stomach was visible, or that your boobs would bounce, that hell, maybe everything would jiggle, but for once, you didn’t care, because the way he was looking at you, like the fucking goddess you were and felt, was everything. It made you feel powerful, turning what was already pleasure into a feast that fed the famished hunger within.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his hands gripping at the flesh of your hips, as he bucked up to meet you, and the awe in his voice was already pushing you to the edge. It didn’t take long until you came hard, crumbling forward, and his arms wrapped around you immediately, holding you tight against his chest as he followed you over.

Even though you were aware of everything, all the flaws, all the thoughts, the way your body felt pressed against his, you stayed like that for a long moment, giving your body time to meld with his, no matter how uncomfortable it was or if you felt like your body would crush him. You wanted to be with this man in every way, maybe even savor the way his hands still moved up and down your body, caressing over every curve as both of you caught your breath. When you finally lifted your head, he was looking at you with such tenderness, such wonderment that it made your chest ache.

“You’re incredible,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Absolutely incredible.”

Later, after he had cleaned you both up with a warm washcloth, yes, you let him, because he insisted on taking care of you despite any objections, and damn he was a sweet talker, you knew you couldn’t resist the power of his words. Because you knew he meant them. Afterward, when you lay curled against his chest, his bad knee elevated on a pillow, and you with all your insecurities knocking at your mind’s door. You knew in that moment that you were two broken people, but even two broken halves can make something whole together, and that was the devastating truth you held onto.

And as you drifted off to sleep, his arms around you, his heartbeat steady under your ear, you thought maybe the universe was finally giving you something good, giving you someone who saw you, saw the real you, not just as a project to fix or some kind of problem to solve, but as someone worth loving, exactly as you were.

You knew the journey to confidence wasn’t over. You knew that you would still have your bad days, still struggle with mirrors and fitted clothes, and that fucking voice in your head that said you were never enough. But for now, you had someone who wanted to be there for those days, too, someone you knew would remind you of your worth when you forgot it yourself.

Someone who would love every inch of you, especially the parts you’ve allowed yourself to hate. Someone who made you believe that maybe, just maybe, you deserved to take up space in this world—and in his heart.

And that was worth more than any number on a scale could ever be.

Taglist: @mads3502 @matildasatellite @likea-silhouette @lizsogolden @manna86 @chelseatpwk @aileen1237 @aglimpseofharry @olvsbee @bibltch @xnthld @cherrycolas-things @avas-daniel @mellamolayla @caroll-94 @montse1608 @hellohowareyouearthlings @bentley-119 @harrymatcha @girlslovejahseh 

@peach-x-petals

Other One-Shots<-

[maudie-duan]

Summary: "It was everything, all at once, it was you, it was him, it was the broken girl inside you, crying to be healed, to be wanted, to be needed, to be loved, because you wanted to be loved, you wanted to be seen, you wanted someone to love you the way you deserved. You had always had so much love to give, but no one who could reciprocate, the world always taking, but never giving back."

Word Count: 11.6k

A/N: Plus-sized!reader x Trainerry based on this request <- To the Anon that requested this. I hope it's everything you wanted and more. I really had to pull at some feels for this one. Thanks you so much for this!!

Warning: Angsty self-hate with a happy ending, and a mild sweet smut scene at the end that you can skip if that's not your cup of tea. (Heavy themes centered around hatred of body-image/body shaming. All self-induced)

It wasn’t that you wanted to change yourself entirely. You just wanted to be able to look into the mirror and, for once, like what you saw. It wasn’t a size or a number you were after, you wanted the peace of mind, the relief, the weight of the stigma lifted for more than just the occasional, oh yeah, I look good kind of moments.

 Because let’s face it, we all know those moments were fleeting, but what if you could feel it for longer? What if your eyes could roam over your body, and maybe, just maybe, you could spend less time picking yourself apart. What if you could try on those jeans and this time they fit just perfectly—none of the excruciating cut of the waist digging into your belly while you sat, or the fear of not even being able to button them in the first place. 

You wanted freedom, you wanted joy, you wanted less days of the mental prison that your brain held you in every time you looked into the mirror, or binged on that food you knew you should avoid. That was what this would be, the journey you were ready to embark on—a journey to confidence, a journey to loving yourself, a journey back to you. These were the words you were filling your head with, the prep talk you had given yourself that morning as you got ready, and now that shit was laughable, you thought as you walked through the gym doors, eyes already darting around as a gust of cool air spread over your bare arms. 

This was the part you hated, the part you were dreading. It hadn’t even been two seconds and you were already tugging at the hem of your oversized tee, your gaze scanning over bodies in motion, most fit as fuck, some laughing and moving about, some focused forward in the zone, their eye on a prize that felt out of your reach, bending and flexing with an effortless ease you couldn’t even wrap your mind around, let alone even conceive the amount of energy you knew went into making each rep look like a walk in the park.

And now you felt crazy, because you were signing yourself up willingly, putting yourself out there for what? To fail? To be judged?

Was this really what you wanted? Did you really hate yourself this much? Was this even considered hate, or was this self-love? Because suddenly, the line was becoming blurred, and here you stood, waiting by the front desk on full display, following the instructions given via email, because you were too weirded out to set up everything in person. Hell, you didn’t even know where the bathroom was. It wasn’t like you could disappear until you were ready.

So maybe you couldn’t run and hide, but you could hide behind your phone, and wait for your trainer, god, what was his name again? Henry? Harris? Fuck, how could you be blanking, and as you took to searching for your welcome email, a deep voice sounded through your frantic thoughts:

“Hey there! ” a cheerful voice called out.

That’s when you turned to see a tall figure approaching you, his bright smile lighting up the room as he ran a hand through his tousled dark hair, green eyes reflecting the light, and holy shit, that physique, that body screamed fitness. And as you peered over your shoulder to see if he was signaling for someone else, your heart skipped a beat, cheeks flushing, because there was no way in hell this dude was going to be your trainer.

“Oh… were you talking to me?” you stammered, trying to maintain eye contact but failing miserably, hands already fidgeting with the him of your shirt.

“Yes, you have a training session at 9, correct?” he asked, extending his hand. His grip was firm yet gentle, and you felt a jolt of electricity the second your hands collided. “I’m Harry, it’s really nice to meet you. I can’t wait to help you on this journey.”

“Thanks,” you replied, trying not to drool over his British accent as your voice came out small. Your palms were sweaty, and you quickly wiped them on your pants, hoping he didn’t notice.

“So, what are your fitness goals?” Harry asked, his tone encouraging and friendly, and just by the way he was making eye contact, you could tell that he was genuinely curious, like it wasn’t just his job to know.

For a second, you hesitated, your mind racing. You had so many thoughts swirling around this very question. What was it that you wanted again? To lose weight? Feel healthier? Gain some kind of confidence? But the words felt stuck in your throat, your mind going blank as you said, “Um, I just want to… you know, get in shape and feel better about myself,” you finally managed to say, your voice trembling slightly.

Harry nodded, his expression holding a warmth you weren’t expecting, maybe an understanding, like he knew exactly what you meant to say, a sort of grace given that sent a flutter to the pit of your stomach.“That’s a great start! Remember, it’s all about progress, not perfection. I’d love to work together to set some goals that suit you and your lifestyle. I’m all about sustainability for the long-term, not the instantaneous results that rarely last long.”

And even though his words sent a flicker of hope through you. You could feel the self-doubt trying to creep back in. “I’m not really sure about all this,” you admitted, eyes moving around the room. “I’ve never been good at working out, and honestly, this place isn’t really my vibe. Like a place I feel like I belong... I guess.”

Yet as you said the words, Harry’s smile never wavered. “I get it. Change is always a little uncomfy at first, but you know everyone starts somewhere. The important thing is that you’re here, ready to take that first step, and as cheesy as it sounds, I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

For a moment, you looked at him, holding his gaze, and that’s when the nervousness seemed to fade. There was something about his confidence and the kindness he exuded that was infectious, and you felt a small spark of determination ignite within you. “Okay…” You breathed.

“I’ll try my best, but I can’t promise you anything,” you told him with a small smile, feeling a bit more resolute, like yeah, maybe you could actually do this, like there was hope for the self-loathing bitch within you, because fuck her, she couldn’t have it all, you deserved a little light, some time away from the shadows of your self that kept stealing tiny moments of joy you could never get back. 

At some point, you had to live, right?

“That’s the spirit!” Harry answered, his enthusiasm making your smile grow despite the lingering insecurities. “Shall we get started?”

And as he led you deeper into the gym, you couldn’t shake that feeling of awe, that mix of anxiety threatening the surface. You were about to do it, finally take that leap, about to be trained by this gorgeous guy, and while the thought made your heart race for maybe all the wrong reasons, you also felt a sense of possibility, like maybe, just maybe, this could be the beginning of something great, something to make you feel alive again. 

But it’s crazy how quickly excitement can fade.

The first week was pure torture, and the second week was no better. You wanted to quit, but you didn’t know what you wanted.

That was the problem, wasn’t it? You had walked through those gym doors with all these grand ideas about transformation, about becoming someone new, but now, three weeks in, you were just as sweaty, still a breathless mess who couldn’t even do a proper squat without Harry having to adjust your form for the millionth time. 

And god, those hands, always professional without a doubt, but there was something about the way they would ghost over your shoulders, the way they corrected your posture, or lightly pressed against your lower back to guide you, that had your skin burning from everything but the workout.

“Let’s try something different,” Harry said, and you could hear that patient tone, the one that never made you feel like the failure you knew you were. 

He grabbed a bench, positioning it behind you. “…Seated squats. They’re gentler on the knees, and the bonus is they’ll help you build the strength for the full movement.”

Your first instinct was to prove yourself, to convince him you were able to do a full fucking squat like every other person in this gym, but somehow the words died in your throat when you caught sight of yourself in the mirror—red-faced, sweat pooling in places you didn’t want to think about, your oversized shirt clinging to rolls you had been spending years trying to hide, and lets not even get started on your arms, fucking hell, your arms felt like they were made of jello, wobbling with each movement. Not to mention your thighs had already been chafing with every step, that familiar burn a reminder of exactly why you had been avoiding this place for years.

It was torture, pure fucking torture, but you sat anyway.

“Hey,” Harry called out, pulling you from your thoughts, and suddenly he was in front of you, those green eyes level with yours as he crouched down. “Where’d you go just then?”

“Nowhere… I’m fine,” you lied, because what were you supposed to say? That you were having a mental breakdown over a squat? That you could feel every pair of eyes in the gym judging the “chubby girl” who couldn’t even do basic exercises?

But Harry just nodded, like he knew exactly what you weren’t saying. “Right then, seated squats it is. And after that, we’ll work on some upper body stuff. Sound good?”—The thing about Harry was that he never seemed to push when you shut down. His superpower was to redirect, adapt, and move on to something else, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. 

Never an ounce of judgment.

You had noticed other things too, in these first three weeks—like how sometimes he shifted his weight to his left side during demonstrations, or how he would choose specific exercises over others without explanation. Once, when he was showing you how to do lunges, he distinctly favored his right leg, the change so evident that you almost asked about it, but something in his expression had stopped you.

One day, near the end of week three, the gym’s usual crowd of fitness models decided to make their appearance. You had recognized them by now, you know the type, the group of women who looked like they just stepped out of a Lululemon catalog, all tight abs and perfect ponytails, not a jiggle in sight. They were hard to miss, and even more apparent the way they gravitated toward Harry like moths to a flame, and why wouldn’t they? He was gorgeous, British, and had the kind of body that made you wonder what he looked like without a single scrap of clothing.

And these were the kind of thoughts that you had to shake from your head, because you didn’t want to go there.

Not when he was that close.

“Harry!” one of them shouted, her outfit like a latex glove, leaving little to the imagination as she bounded over. “Could you check my form on these hip thrusts?”

And fuck, you would have laughed if you weren’t trying to make yourself invisible, focusing on your water bottle like it held the secrets of the universe, but you couldn’t help watch them from the corner of your eye. Harry glanced at his watch and then back at the woman.

“Sorry, Melissa, I’m with a client right now,” he said, and was it your imagination or did he step slightly closer to you? “Maybe check with Tom at the front desk about booking a session.”

That was when the woman’s eyes flicked to you, and you could practically feel the onset of her assessment, knew the exact look she was giving, that up-and-down glance that was cataloguing every flaw, every roll, every reason you didn’t belong here. But Harry had already turned back to you, already demonstrating the next exercise like the interaction hadn’t even happened.

“Right, so for this one, you’ll want to keep your core engaged to protect your low back,” he was saying, but all you could think about was how he had just dismissed her, how he had chosen to stay focused on you when he could have just as easily given her five minutes of attention, and you chalked it up to professionalism without a second thought. He was getting paid to train you, after all.

This was his job.

But then why did your stupid heart skip when he smiled at you after you completed your set?

Week four started like any other, except it felt harder as you dragged yourself through the gym doors, already anticipating the torture ahead. You felt like shit... not good at all, more like death had warmed over you. Even though your body was starting to recognize the routine, your brain was still screaming at you to run every time you saw the weight rack.

“Morning!” Harry called out, and damn him for always being so cheerful at 9 in the morning. “How’re you feeling? Any soreness from last session?”

“Just my entire body,” you groaned, but there was less bite to it than before. “Who knew your ass muscles could be this sore.”

He laughed, that genuine sound that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Well, that means you’re doing it right, and that’s a win, ay? Today we’re going to work on some balance exercises, really activate those stabilizer muscles.”

You were halfway through a set of single-leg stands, wobbling like a baby giraffe and cursing Harry’s name in your mind when it happened. It was quick, you losing your balance—again—and you stumbled backward, your elbow connecting with Harry’s leg as he moved to steady you, and out of nowhere, he made a sharp, pained, involuntary sound that made your blood run cold.

“Oh my god, I’m so, so sorry!” and when you whirled around, he was gripping his knee, face tight with a pain that looked too familiar to be from your clumsy elbow. “Harry, I—”

“It’s fine,” he said quickly, but his voice was strained, and he was still holding his knee like it might shatter if he let go. “Just an old injury acting up. Nothing to do with you. I promise…”

But you had seen that kind of pain before, in your own mirror when your body would decide to remind you of all the ways it had been pushed too far. “Sit down,” you tell him, taking charge of the situation, surprising even yourself in the process. “Seriously, sit.”

For a second, he looked like he might protest, but something in your expression must have convinced him because he lowered himself onto the nearest bench, still favoring that right knee. The gym suddenly felt too quiet, too exposed, and without thinking, you positioned yourself between him and the rest of the room, like you could shield him from all the curious glances.

“It’s an old football injury,” he said finally, the words coming out reluctant, like he was still trying to hold them back. “Soccer… I mean—sorry, I know you Americans call it soccer. Tore my ACL completely about six years ago. Had surgery, did all the physio, but...” He shrugged, a gesture that looked too casual for the weight of what he was sharing. “Sometimes bodies don’t heal the way they’re supposed to.”

Startled by his words, you stared at him, this perfect-looking trainer with his perfect-looking body, and it was like something shifted inside your chest. “But you’re... you’re a trainer. I always pictured you all so—”

“Perfect?” He finished, looking up at you with a wry smile. “Yeah… that’s what everyone thinks. But the truth is, I can’t even run anymore. Can barely kick a ball without my knee giving out. Gosh, some days I wake up and have to spend like twenty minutes just trying to convince my knee to work properly.”

The words seemed to linger, weighted with an openness you hadn’t expected. Here was Harry, this beautiful, confident man, admitting to being broken, and somehow it finally made him real in a way that his encouraging words, or the professional distance he kept, never had, and that seemed to scare you.

“Is that why you became a trainer?” you asked, settling onto the bench beside him, your workout forgotten. “Because of the injury?”

He nodded, absently rubbing his knee. “Yeah… I guess in a way…I couldn’t play anymore, but I couldn’t stay away from fitness entirely… it was kind of my life, so I started learning about adaptive training, about working with bodies that don’t fit the typical mold. Turns out I’m better at helping people find their own path than I ever was at following mine.”

In that moment you wanted to say something, wanted to match the encouragement of his words, but all that came out was, “Well, that feels really fucking unfair.”

He laughed, surprised, but sincere. “Yeah, it really fucking is.”

And just like that, something changed. That professional distance he had been maintaining cracked just a little, and you saw him, not Harry the trainer, but Harry the person, a man who had his dreams ripped from under his feet, but still learned how to build new ones from the scraps.

“I should probably tell you,” he said, his voice lighter now, “this is why I modify so many exercises. It’s not just for you—half of them I can’t do the ‘proper’ way anymore. Those seated squats? I do them on my bad days, oh, and those knee-friendly lunges? Learned those during my physio.”

And fuck, there it was beating at your insides, that crush, that you had been desperately trying to ignore, suddenly felt less like a schoolgirl fantasy and more like... god dare you say it… Something else. Something deeper. Because now, when you looked at him, you didn’t just see the attractive trainer who was nice to the “fat girl”. You saw someone who maybe understood you more than you knew, who probably knew your body better, knew all the ways it betrayed you, the frustration of every limitation, and the slow, painful process of finding acceptance.

“Thank you,” you breathed, really wanting him to know you meant it. “For telling me.”

He stood to his feet then, eyes sweeping over your face, before offering you a hand up. “Come on, let’s finish your session. But maybe we’ll skip the jumping jacks today, yeah? My knee’s not the only one that needs babying.”

After that day, everything shifted, not just in your mind. Harry, of course, still maintained his professionalism, but there was a warmth now, an understanding that hadn’t existed before. Your workouts became less about pushing through pain and more about finding what worked for your body—and his.

“See, the thing about traditional training,” he explained during week five, while demonstrating a modified plank that didn’t make your wrists scream, “is that it assumes everyone’s working with the same equipment. But we’re not, are we? You’ve got your challenges, I’ve got mine… but the trick is finding what works for us.”

Us… 

And, damn it was such a small word, but boy did it seem to carry weight.

That’s when you started noticing more things, like how he would ice his knee between clients, or how he would shift positions during longer demonstrations, or how his jaw would tighten on particularly bad days. But you also noticed how he never let it stop him, how he moved through it, and adapted his entire life around this limitation without a trace of self-pity.

So why couldn’t you?

“After my surgery,” he told you one day while you struggled through a stupid resistance band exercise, “I spent months being angry. Angry at my body, at the universe… I guess at everyone… everyone who could still do what I couldn’t. It took me a long time to realize that anger was just fear wearing a different face.”

“Fear of what?” you asked, breathless from exertion but curious nonetheless.

“Fear that I’d never be enough again. That, without soccer, without that, I guess that identity, I was just... nothing.” He told you, adjusting your form gently, his hands warm through your shirt. “Sound familiar?”

He had you there; it was all too familiar. Because wasn’t that exactly what you felt every time you looked in the mirror? That without the body you thought you should have, you were somehow less than? And the parallel hit you like a ton of bricks, because was this not him basically telling you that he understood, that he had been where you were, just in a different way—that maybe not all trauma was the same, but it still hurt, even when the two weren’t comparable.

“So what changed?” you asked during a water break, after you finally digested the realization, watching him absently massage his knee.

“Perspective,” he said simply. “Started focusing on what my body could do instead of what it couldn’t. Yeah, I can’t play soccer anymore, but I can help people like you find their strength. That’s not nothing, is it?”

People like you… And maybe the phrase should have stung, but the way he said it, with such an honest warmth, made it feel more like a compliment.

“You know what I love about training you?” he asked suddenly, and your heart did a stupid flutter in your chest. “You’re honest. You don’t pretend like it’s easy or fun. You show up even when you hate it. Do you know how rare that is?”

This makes you laugh, wiping sweat from your face with a towel. “Yeah, I’m a real inspiration... The girl who nearly cried doing wall sits yesterday.”

“Maybe… but you still finished them, though,” he pointed out. “That’s what matters. Not how pretty it looks or how easy it is. Just that you don’t give up.”

With perfect timing, the gym hotties made another appearance, a new group this time, but technically the same, all giggling and hair-tossing as they tried to catch Harry’s attention. One of them even “accidentally” dropped her water bottle right by where he was spotting your chest press, and for a second you held your breath, waiting for him to look, to give them the attention they were so desperate for, but he just kicked the bottle gently out of the way and kept his focus on you.

“That’s it, three more,” he encouraged, and maybe it was your imagination, but his voice seemed a little louder than necessary, like he was making a point. “You’ve got this.”

Later, as you were packing up your things, you overheard one of them complaining to her friend: 

“He’s always with that girl. Like, what’s the deal? Is she paying him extra or something?”

It was one of those times you wished you could roll it off, but the words pricked at your skin, and before you could spiral into self-loathing, Harry appeared at your elbow. “Ready for the cool-down stretches?” he asked, and his hand touched your lower back, guiding you away from the women who were still whispering their gossip. 

“I’ve got a new routine I want to try—it’s specifically designed for people with knee issues, but I think it’ll help with your hip flexibility too.”

People with knee issues. 

Like him, like you, like your fucking body that creaked and fought you at every turn, but now what was once a negative connotation had shifted, had become a positive acknowledgment, a thing you both shared. All the modified movements, the limitations, yes, they were real, but gone was the judgment, and the monster you could make of them.

By week six, you had developed a routine. You still hated mornings, still wanted to die during cardio, but there was something else now, a sense of anticipation. Not for the workout itself, god no, but for the hour you got to spend with Harry. 

A growing anticipation for the way he would light up when you managed something you couldn’t do the week before. All the terrible jokes he would tell to distract you during the dreadful planks. The way he would casually touch your arm or back—always appropriate, always professional, but still, there was something that made your skin tingle, a curious wonder that had your mind reeling.

“You’re getting stronger,” he told you one morning, watching as you completed a set of squats—real ones this time, not the shitty seated ones. “Can you feel it?”

And honestly, you could. Not just in your muscles, but in the way you carried yourself. You still had times when you tugged at your shirt, still felt your thighs rub together, but it was different now. Maybe less shameful, more just... fact. Your body was what it was, but it was capable of more than you thought.

“My knee’s been acting up this week,” Harry had admitted during a demonstration of a new exercise. Mentally, you had already noticed that it was less fluid than usual, but you didn’t say anything. 

He cleared his throat, trying to hide the wince of pain, “Probably the weather change. But look—” Then, he showed you how to modify the movement, turning what should have been a jumping exercise into a step-touch pattern. “Same muscle activation, less impact. All of this to say we work with what we’ve got, yeah?”

We…

And there was something in the way he said it, like he was trying to bind you both together through all the tiny imperfections. That’s when you found yourself, starting to stay a few minutes after your sessions, helping him reset equipment or just chatting while he iced his knee. It was during one of these moments that he opened up a little more about his injury.

“The thing is… the pain wasn’t even the worst part…” he said, pressing a bag of ice into his finicky knee. “It was watching my mates continue on without me. I mean, of course, they would visit the hospital, tell me about matches, and I was grateful… really I was… and I would smile and nod, hit all my marks… but the truth was I was dying inside… Took me years to be able to watch soccer again without feeling bitter.”

“Do you still feel bitter?” you asked, organizing dumbbells to avoid looking at him directly.

“Sometimes,” he confessed. “On bad days, when my knee won’t cooperate and I see people running without thinking twice about it... Yeah, it stings. But then I remember that without this—” he gestured to his knee, “—I’d never have become a trainer. Never have met the people I’ve helped. Never have...” He paused, and when you looked up, he was staring at you with an expression you couldn’t quite read. “…Never have met you...”

You couldn’t help the heat creeping up your neck, your face burning with it, and like an idiot, you fumbled the dumbbell you were holding, completely giving yourself away. “I’m sure you say that to all your clients,” you muttered, trying to keep your voice from wobbling, but he shook his head.

“No,” he said simply. “I don’t.”

And as his words settled, the world around you seemed to pivot, the air now filling your lungs, charged with something that felt dangerously close to desire, but then someone dropped a weight plate across the gym with a thunderous clang, and the spell was broken, but you held onto that moment for as long as you could, because you felt it, felt the need beginning to ache in your bones.

But the one question that would always remain was:

Could he ever want a girl like me?

Week seven was when you nearly quit. It had been a bad week all around—work stress, family drama, and your fucking period decided to show up with a vengeance. You had barely slept, your body hurt in ways that had nothing to do with exercise, and the last thing you wanted was to squeeze into workout clothes and pretend like everything was fine, when it wasn’t.

“I’m sorry… But I don’t think I can do this today,” you told Harry the moment you walked in, not even bothering with a greeting. “I just... I can’t.” And there was shame in the way the words came out, like maybe this was your true self after all, and the rest was just an act.

He took one look at you, like, really looked at you. Not the quick bullshit assessment most people did, and nodded. “Okay. Tell me what you need?”

And his words nearly blindsided you. It wasn’t the “you have to push through” or “you’ll feel better after.” It was just a simple acceptance of where you were at, and you stood there trying to gather your words, feeling the burn at the back of your throat. 

“I don’t know,” you forced, feeling tears prick at your eyes. “I’m honestly so exhausted and everything hurts, and I looked in the mirror this morning… I don’t know… it’s just been a shitty week, and I’m just not sure what the point is anymore, and—”

“Hey,” he gently interrupts, steering you toward a quieter corner of the gym. “Breathe for me, yeah? Just breathe.”

And you did, gulping in air like you were drowning, and maybe it was his hand on your low back, but gradually the panic receded just enough for embarrassment to creep in. “Sorry. I’m being dramatic.”

“You’re just being human,” he corrected. “We all have these days. Hell, I had one last week—woke up and my knee was so stiff I could barely make it down the stairs. Wanted to throw things, and cry, and give up. You know what I did instead?”

“What?”

“Called in sick and spent the day on the couch watching terrible reality TV and eating biscuits.” Your brows shot up, and he grinned. “What? You thought I was going to say I powered through with positive thinking? Fuck that. Sometimes you need to just feel what you’re feeling.”

You felt overwhelmed. His answer was so unexpected, so honest, that you found yourself laughing despite the tears. “So what should I do?” You asked, wiping at your eyes.

“Today? If you want to stay, we can modify everything. Gentle movement only, nothing that makes you want to die. We can do some stretching, maybe some light resistance work if you’re up for it. And if at any point you need to stop, we stop. No judgment, no pushing. Just listening to what your body needs.”

And thank the heavens up above, because it was by far the easiest session you had ever had, physically speaking. But emotionally? God, emotionally, it was everything. Harry had adapted every single movement to match your energy level, never once making you feel weak or pathetic for needing the modifications. Everything was intuitive, even when the gym hotties walked by and gave you pitying looks, he shifted positions to block their view, talking louder about muscle groups to draw your attention away.

“You showed up,” he said at the end, as you were doing your final stretches. “On a day when everything in you said to stay home, you showed up. That’s a huge win.”

“It feels like nothing,” you muttered, but he shook his head.

“Six weeks ago, would you have come in feeling like this?”

And as you gazed into his green eyes, you thought about it. Six weeks ago, you would have used any excuse to avoid the gym. “No… I would have stayed home.”

“Then that’s progress. Not all progress looks like smaller jeans or bigger muscles. Sometimes it looks like showing up when you don’t want to.” His hand rested on your shoulder, warm and steady. “I’m proud of you.”

His words seemed to hit you harder than any physical exercise could ever touch the surface. When was the last time someone had said that to you? When was the last time you had given someone a reason to?

By week eight, something fundamental inside you had changed. Not just in your body, though you had to admit, you were feeling stronger, more capable, but in how you existed in your skin. You still had all the same insecurities, all the same soft places and jiggly bits, but they felt less like failures now and more like... just parts of you.

Which is why, when you got dressed that morning, you reached for the new workout outfit you had bought on impulse—fitted leggings and a tank top—there would be no hiding behind excess fabric, not today. Of course, your reflection still showed everything you usually hated—the belly that refused to lie flat, the arms that continued their gentle wobble, the thighs that would always touch. But for once, you didn’t want to reach for the oversized shirt.

“Fuck it,” you told your reflection. “Let’s see what happens.”

And what happened was Harry nearly dropped his water bottle when you walked in.

“You look—” He caught himself, his professionalism snapping back into place like a rubber band. “That’s a great color on you… It really brightens up your complexion.”

And try all he wanted, but you had seen that first reaction, the way his eyes had widened, tracked over your curves before he could even remember himself. It sent a thrill through you, gave you a sense of power that had you on cloud nine.

“Thanks,” you said, trying to sound casual even as your heart hammered. “Figured I would switch things up a bit…”

“Yeah… It’s a nice change for sure,” he said quietly, and there was something in his voice that made you look at him. I mean, really take in his expression, because it said it all. “Just... for what it’s worth, you should wear whatever makes you comfortable. But this—” He gestured vaguely, carefully not looking directly at your body. “This confidence suits you.”

He had you soaring, and the workout that followed ignited a new kind of tension growing between you. Harry had always been hands-on with corrections, but now each touch felt loaded with a new possibility. When he adjusted your hip position during bridges, his fingers seemed to linger a beat too long, and fuck, when he spotted your chest press, he stood closer than strictly necessary. And when he demonstrated proper form for a new exercise, you caught him glancing at you in the mirror, checking if you were watching.

You were. You always were.

“You know,” he said during a water break, his own face flushed from a particularly intense movement, “I’ve been training people for five years, and I’ve never seen someone transform the way you have.”

“I haven’t really transformed, though,” you told him, gesturing at yourself. “I mean, I’m maybe a size smaller? If that?”

“That’s not what I mean.” Then he sat on the bench beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his skin. “When you first walked in, you looked like you wanted to disappear. Moved like you were apologizing for taking up space. Now look at you—wearing what you want, taking up all the space you need, moving like you have a right to be here. Because you do.”

The sincerity in his voice made your throat tight. “It’s because of you,” you said quietly. “The way you teach, the way you... see me. Not as a project to fix, but as a person. Like I don’t have to fit into the mold I thought I did.”

“Fuck the mold. It’s boring,” he said, and his hand covered yours on the bench, just for a second. “Lifes too short to try and keep up with all the bullshit.”

That was when the gym hotties chose that moment to make their appearance, a trio of them this time, chest high, all sports bras a size too small, stretched across their fucking boobs with an obvious intention. You watched as the tallest one made a beeline for Harry, her trajectory as clear as a heat-seeking missile.

“Harry! I was hoping you could show me that lunge from the other day during our session… it seems to have totally slipped my mind.”

“I’m with a client, Bridgette,” Harry said, not even looking at her. His hand had left yours, but he shifted closer, his knee touching yours. “Like I tell the others, you can book a session at the front desk if you need personal instruction.”

Bridgette’s eyes flicked between you and Harry, taking in the minimal space between you, the way Harry’s body was angled toward yours like a plant seeking sun. “Right. Sure. I’ll do that.”

And just as she was about to turn to leave, she says, “Oh… and it’s Courtney, by the way…” then she stalks off, and you couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped. 

“You know, I think they’re all convinced I’m either paying you extra or sleeping with you.”

Harry’s amused expression fell. “Have they been saying things to you?”

“No… no more than I expected,” you confessed. “You know how it is.. heaven forbid the chubby girl get any personal attention from the hot trainer? It’s probably not realistic in their world… and I guess in mine either… but of course, they’re going to talk.”

“You’re not—” He stopped, jaw clenched, and when he continued, his voice held a careful control. “First of all, I don’t think your chubby… if that’s what you want to call it… so fuck them. Second, you’re not just nothing. You’re a client who works harder than anyone else in this gym, who shows up even when it’s hard, who—” He cut himself off again, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “And I’m not just giving you attention because... Christ, I’m making this worse.”

“Because what?” you urged, heart racing.

He looked at you then, and for a moment, you saw past the professional mask he was trying to hold, to something real and wanting underneath. “Because it’s my job,” he said finally, but the words sounded hollow. “Come on, let’s finish your session.”

The rest of the workout passed in tense silence, both of you overly aware of every accidental touch, every shared glance in the mirror. When he helped you stretch at the end, his hands on your calf as you lay on the mat, the tension was almost unbearable, and you bit the inside of your cheek to keep yourself grounded.

“Same time Thursday?” he asked when you were gathering your things, and there was something helpless in his expression, like maybe he was afraid you might say no.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Same time Thursday.”

As you left, you caught sight of yourself in the mirror by the exit, flushed and sweaty, curves on full display in your fitted outfit, looking like someone who belonged here. Not because your body had dramatically changed, but because maybe you were actually starting to believe you had a right to exist in places like this, exist in your own skin, like maybe it could be okay.

And just as your eyes were about to move forward, you caught sight of Harry watching you go, and the look on his face...

Yeah. You were definitely in trouble.

But for once, you didn’t want to run from it. You wanted to see where this path could take you, just as you were.

When week nine rolled around, you were back on track, your mind totally on board, and everything was going great. Even you were amazed by yourself, the way you were hitting every mark. Harry still kept a professional distance, but it wasn’t taking from the attraction you felt, now a low hum over your skin, signalling an obvious draw to him, that sent a pulse between your thighs every time his hands touched your body.

It was becoming a problem, actually. The way your body responded to him now—not just the flutter in the pit of your stomach, but it had turned into a full-body awareness every time he was near. When he corrected your form, his fingers grazing your hip or pressing against your back, you had to bite back sounds that had nothing to do with exertion. And you were pretty sure he knew it, too, from the way his jaw would tighten, the way he would step back a little quicker than necessary, like he needed the distance just as much as you.

One day, you were in the middle of box step-ups, feeling strong, feeling capable, feeling like maybe you were actually becoming the person you had wanted to be when you first walked through those doors. The fitted workout clothes were your new normal, and while your body hadn’t dramatically changed, the way you moved in it had. Confident. Taking up space. Belonging.

Because like Harry said “Fuck them all.” 

“That’s it, drive through your heel,” Harry encouraged, and god, his voice when he got all instructor-mode did things to you. “Really activate those glutes.”

You were focused, you were in the zone, you were—

And then your fucking ankle rolled.

One second you were stepping down, controlled and strong, and the next you were falling, your right ankle giving way beneath you with a sickening pop that you felt more than heard. The sound that tore from your throat was raw, primal, and suddenly, you were on the ground, hands clutching at your ankle as pain shot through it like lightning.

“Fuck!” The word came out high and sharp as a sob ripped from your throat, and then Harry was there, dropping to his knees beside you, his professional calm never wavering even as his hands hovered over you, not quite touching.

“Don’t move,” he demanded, his accent thicker with urgency. “Let me see—can you wiggle your toes?”

You tried, gasping at the pain that radiated up your leg. Around you, the gym had gone quiet, and you could feel every pair of eyes turning your way. The fat girl has fallen, was all you could think, because, of course, she had. Everyone was probably thinking you couldn’t handle the exercise, probably pushed too hard, probably—

“Hey, look at me,” Harry whispered, cutting through your thoughts. His hand cupped your face, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Just me, yeah? No one else matters right now.”

But they did matter. You could hear the whispers, feel the stares, and like another betrayal, the tears of frustration burned at your eyes, already threatening to spill over. Not just from the pain—though fuck, it hurt—but from the humiliation of it all. Nine weeks of progress, nine weeks of building yourself up, and here you were, crumpled on the gym floor like every stereotype you had been fighting against.

The stares felt like the harsh truth of ‘I told you so,’ feeding that inner monologue you had been trying to suppress.

“I need to check if it’s broken,” Harry said, his hands gentle as they ghosted over your ankle. You hissed at even the lightest touch, and he pulled back immediately. “Right, we’re going to the hospital. Can you stand at all?”

“I don’t—I can’t—” The tears came then, hot and angry. “Everyone’s watching.”

“Fuck them,” Harry said fiercely, and the sharpness startled you enough to look at him. His green eyes were blazing with something protective, something furious, something lighting a fire within him. “Marcus!” he called to another trainer. “I need you to clear this area. Now.”

Then, to you, his voice softer now: “I’m going to help you up, okay? We’ll go out the back exit. Can you put your arm around my neck?”

The next few minutes were a blur of pain and movement. At that point, Harry was essentially carrying you, your weight supported against his solid frame, and for a moment, you forgot about everyone else because all you could focus on was how strong he was, how easily he held you up despite his own bad knee. When he got you to his car, he helped you into the passenger seat with a gentleness that made your chest tighten.

“I need to cancel my appointments,” he muttered, pulling out his phone as he started the car. “Sarah? Yeah, it’s Harry. Let’s go ahead and cancel the rest of my appointments for the day...”

And you listened, dazed, as he gave her instructions. “You know you don’t have to—” you started, but he cut you off with a look.

“Yes, I do. You’re hurt, and you need to get to the hospital. End of story.”

The hospital was a whirlwind of X-rays and ice packs, and doctors with cold hands. Your ankle wasn’t broken, thank goodness, but a bad sprain that would have you off your feet for at least a week, and even though the news was disheartening. There was joy in the way Harry stayed the whole time. He even held your hand during the x-ray, kept you distracted with silly stories while you waited for results, and graciously helped you fill out paperwork when your hands were shaking too much from residual adrenaline.

“You know,” you said at one point, watching him charm the nurse into bringing you an extra ice pack, “most trainers would have just called an ambulance and been done with it.”

He looked offended at the proposal. “What kind of person would I be if I did that? Besides,” his expression softened, “I needed to make sure you were okay.”

The drive to your apartment was quiet, your ankle propped up in the backseat, wrapped in an ace bandage, throbbing with every heartbeat, or sudden bump in the road. Harry had insisted on driving you home, waving off your suggestion for an Uber, and now here you were, trying not to think about how normal this all felt, him driving you home, eyes flicking to yours in the rearview mirror, every time you stared too long.

“Third floor,” you said when he pulled up to your building, and then realized what that meant. “Shit. I’m on the third floor. With no elevator.”

“We’ll manage,” Harry said, already getting out to help you.

‘Managing’ turned out to be a slow, painstaking process. Harry’s arm was around your waist, taking most of your weight, and you had never been more aware of your body—not in the usual self-conscious way, but in how it pressed against his, how his fingers splayed across your hip to hold you steady. He smelled good, inviting even. You liked this proximity, enjoyed the feel of the muscles in his shoulders working as he nearly carried you up each step.

Halfway up the second flight, his knee buckled slightly, and you both had to stop, pressed against the wall, breathing hard.

“Your knee,” you gasped, guilt flooding through you. “Harry, I’m too heavy—”

“Don’t,” he said sharply, his arm tightening around you. “Don’t do that. You’re not too anything. My knee’s just being a bastard today. We’re both a bit broken, remember? We’ll make it work.”

And you did, step by careful step, stopping when his knee was cranky, adjusting when your ankle screamed, a quiet give and take, you both seemed to be savoring, and by the time you reached your door, you were both sweating and trembling, but something about doing it together, about both of you pushing through your limitations, made it feel like a victory rather than the anguish of a struggle.

Harry helped you inside, getting you settled on the couch with your ankle elevated, and for a moment, you just looked at each other, both breathless from more than just exertion. The silence felt weighted, thick in the air, heavy with the words unspoken, and you found yourself saying, “Do you want to stay? Like hang out, I mean? I could order food or—”

“I should get back,” he said too quickly, but he looked reluctant. “I probably need to get back. Sort out the schedule for tomorrow, since I canceled on everyone today. Figure out how to rearrange things…”

That’s when reality crashed back in. Right. Of course. This was his job; you were just a client, and he had definitely already gone above and beyond. The disappointment must have shown on your face because then he quickly added, “But we’ll need to talk soon, yeah? Go over modifying your workouts for your current situation. Once you’re healed enough to come back, I mean.”

Situation…

The word like a fucking knife to your gut… “Your situation,” he said, like you were some kind of problem to be solved, a complication to work around. Just like always, too much, too difficult, too... everything, and all at once, you felt the warmth of the last few hours evaporate, leaving you exposed, foolish in the way you thought there could be more, but silly you.

“Right,” you said, your voice coming out flat. “My situation.”

Harry’s brow furrowed, clearly sensing the shift but not understanding it. “I just mean with your ankle—”

“No, I get it.” And you forced a smile that felt like plastic. “Thanks for everything today. Really. It was... above and beyond.”

He stood there for a moment, looking like he wanted to say something else. Then he reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone. “Here, let me... I don’t normally do this, but...” He seemed to be fighting with himself. “Can I give you my number? Just in case you need anything or have questions about the ankle?”

Your heart sank. He was giving you his number out of pity. Poor chubby girl who hurt herself, better make sure she doesn’t feel completely abandoned, god, it was so obvious—it was charity, wrapped up in the typical nice guy package.

“Sure,” you said, typing it into your phone with numb fingers. “Got it.”

“Text me so I have yours,” he said, and you did, sending a simple “Hi, it’s me” that felt like swallowing coals.

The awkwardness stretched between you like taffy, both of you unsure how to move the moment forward. Harry shifted his weight, favoring his good knee, clearly wanting to leave but not knowing how. “So... rest, ice, elevation. Doctor said a week minimum before trying any weight-bearing exercises. We can work with that when you’re ready.”

“Yeah, definitely.” You told him, trying to keep that plastic smile in place. “I’ll let you know.”

After he left, you sat in the growing darkness of your apartment, ankle throbbing, and did what you always did when things got too real—you retreated. But you did send him a text that night: 

Y/N: I appreciate you shifting your day around. It was really kind. I’ll reach back out when I’m ready to come back. Thanks for everything.

Professional. Distant. Safe.

And his response came quickly: 

H: Of course. Rest up and let me know if you need anything. We’ll get you back on track in no time. 

But you didn’t reach back out. Days turned into a week, then two. Your ankle had healed, but your mind had spiraled back to old patterns. Every time you thought about the gym, you remembered falling, remembered everyone staring, remembered Harry having to literally carry you because you were too much for your own body to handle. 

To your surprise, his texts came sporadically:

H: Hey, how’s the ankle?

H: Just checking in. Doctor cleared you yet?

H: We got some new equipment that I really think you’ll like. Excited to try it when you’re back.

H: Hope you’re okay. Miss having you in sessions.

That last one even made you cry, but you still didn’t respond. It was easier to ghost him than to face the humiliation of going back. Easier to order takeout and binge Netflix than to deal with the messy feelings he seemed to stir up. You had been down that road with guys like him; it never works. Always the friend but never the lover. You were stupid to think there was something there, stupid to believe you were anything more than a client he felt sorry for.

Two and a half weeks after the ankle incident, you were deep in the trenches of doubt, sucked in by yet another self-loathing pity party, when the doorbell rang, but you ignored it at first. Then it rang again, followed by a knock.

“If that’s Mrs. Gladys about the rent, it’s in the mail!” you called, not moving from your cocoon of isolation.

“It’s not Mrs. Gladys.” You froze. That accent, that voice, fuck, it was Harry at your door. 

“I know you’re in there,” he continued. “I can see the TV light under the door. And... I brought Chinese.” He spoke up again.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

You hauled yourself up, catching sight of yourself in the hall mirror, and immediately regretted it. But it was too late, he already heard you moving, and it would be worse to leave him standing there, so you opened the door just a crack, trying to hide your body behind it.

“Harry, what are you doing here?”

He looked good. Of course, he looked good, in jeans and a worn tee that clung to his chest in ways that should be illegal, especially on a Tuesday night. He was holding a massive bag of takeout in one hand, and wait… were those flowers?

“I’m sorry,” he said, and the genuine worry in his eyes made your chest tight. “I know this is weird, but I wasn’t sure what I should do. You hadn’t answered any of my texts, and I was worried about you…”

“I thought it was just protocol,” you answered, your voice tight.

He shifted, looking uncomfortable. “Well, I mean I was asking from a trainer’s point of view, yes, but I was hoping that it would come across as... I don’t know... more?”

“More? What do you mean?” You asked, cracking the door open a bit more.

“I thought when I gave you my number, you were catching the vibe that I was trying to put out...” He laughed, looking down at his feet, and the bashfulness was so startling on him that you almost forgot to breathe as a strand of hair fell loose. “What I’m saying is I thought there was a vibe between us?”

“Mmm,” was all you could manage, stunned. “A vibe?”

“Honestly, I thought you gave everyone your number?”

This made him laugh, looking back up at you with those heartwrenching green eyes, and fucking hell, those dimples. “No, trust me, I’ve learned my lesson with that one... Have you seen some of those ladies at the gym? A little persistent, yeah? Trust me, they’re not my type. I’m not interested.”

“I see...” You were mesmerized. This guy, this gorgeous, sweet, amazing guy, was standing at your door with flowers and food, talking about vibes.

“I can go, though... if this is too weird... but I’d hate to eat all this Chinese takeaway by myself,” he said, holding up the bag, and it did indeed look like enough to feed a small country, and it took everything in you not to make a fat joke, but something in his expression stopped you. 

He was nervous. Harry was nervous.

“No. Please... come in... I never pass up... what did you call it? Chinese takeaway...”

When he came in, you shut the door and immediately examined the bag. The smell was incredible, and your stomach reminded you that depression meals of cereal and toast weren’t actually sustaining.

“I do think you bought enough to feed a small army, though...”

“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I ordered a little of everything...”

This got a laugh out of you, the first real laugh in weeks. “Well, lucky you, I like everything... You don’t get curves like these being a picky eater...”

“I see...” He said with a sexy smirk, that had you giddy as his eyes roamed your body with the same heated look you had seen that day in the gym mirror. He wasn’t hiding it now, wasn’t trying to be professional. He was just a man, looking at you like you were something to devour, pajamas and all.

“Yeah... there was definitely a vibe...” You teased, narrowing your eyes at him while taking the flowers from his hands and bringing them to your nose. They were simple, but the gesture made your heart flip.

“I’ll put these in water...” And as you moved toward the kitchen, you felt his eyes following you, suddenly aware of how small your apartment felt with him in it. 

The energy you guys had been dulling in the past was present, making itself known as it filled the space. Now you had a new hunger growing in your belly that had nothing to do with Chinese food and everything to do with the way Harry was looking at you like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing.

Fuck it you thought, and you set the flowers down in the sink for later, “I’m not usually this forward… but I’ve been dying to kiss you?” you asked pressing your back against the sink, and you said the words with an air of confidence that seemed to flee the second your eyes found his. Sending you right back to that place of self-doubt.

Harry didn’t answer, and you watched as he silently pushed himself away from the counter and closed the small space between you.

 It felt like every movement slowed, every breath hollow, as if the sight of him before you was a figment of your imagination, and you couldn’t quite bring your eyes to meet his, not yet. You just stared at his broad chest, his strong stature like stone before your gaze, unmoving except for the slow rise and fall of his breath, like maybe he was waiting for you to make the move.

But it was something about the way he stood there, that same gentle patience he had exuded all along. It was devastating, the kindness now an ache that deepened inside you, the second you pressed your palm flat to the center of his chest. 

Yet his stillness remained as you felt the warmth of his body, the beating of his heart, but you still couldn’t look, because here was the fear telling you that you couldn’t have it, that you weren’t worthy, that this wasn’t real, but god he was real, and the breath that left his body was real.

And it hurt, and you were scared, and when his hand moved to yours, pressing your palm into his chest, you felt yourself breaking. Then you braved a look, your eyes finding his, and it was like something cracked within you, a well of every insecurity you had ever had, came spilling from your chest with a gasp, as a sob rose, and it wasn’t even him that you were crying about.

It was everything, all at once, it was you, it was him, it was the broken girl inside you, crying to be healed, to be wanted, to be needed, to be loved, because you wanted to be loved, you wanted to be seen, you wanted someone to love you the way you deserved. You had always had so much love to give, but no one who could reciprocate, the world always taking, but never giving back.

Then his hand was cupping your face, his eyes on your mouth, and the second his lips pressed to yours, delicate and soft, he drew in a deep breath, like you were the air he needed to fill his lungs with, like suddenly here you were, and as your mouths begin to move, the chatter in your head began to fade away.

As the kiss deepened, hands roaming, you felt yourself letting go, slipping to a place of peace, to a place you had only ever felt with him, to those times when he had you in a room full of people, yet the world always seemed to narrow to just the two of you. This was that moment, a universe that belonged to you and Harry.

And for the first time, maybe ever in your life, you allowed yourself to just exist.

When you pulled away, your eyes met, making a silent exchange, and you grabbed his hand with a slow nod, ready to make sacred what you felt in your heart, give him the pieces that he had made whole with the kindness of his spirit. You wanted to give yourself in the only way you knew how to convey what words couldn’t say.

And when he laid you down on the bed, he was gentle, hands moving over your curves like they were the most sacred gift you could give, and maybe they were in that moment, and when he kissed your lips, you felt the passion and the need in the delicate balance of his control. It felt safe. Harry was taking his time to explore the plains of your body, no rush, just a tender embrace that had tears streaming down your face.

“Is this okay?” he whispered against your skin, and the care in his voice made your chest tight. Always checking, always making sure, like you were the most beloved artifact, instead of too much.

You nodded, but your hands were already moving to guide his away from your stomach, that soft place you had spent years hating, years hiding. He noticed, you knew he would, and he paused, his green eyes searching yours in the dim light of your bedroom.

“Talk to me,” he said softly, his hand stilling on your hips. “What’s going through that beautiful mind?”

“I just...” You said, turning away, and the look in his eyes was too much for the shame pricking at your skin. It wasn’t like you hadn’t had sex before, but there had never been this level of positive vulnerability on both parts. The feeling reminded you of your first time, and maybe almost every time, actually.

The good times, few and far between.

Yes, the fear was there, and so was the desperation, but that was the part you didn’t want to be there. You didn’t want that desperate feeling of doing, just to feel wanted. You knew this wasn’t the case now, but it was hard to shake that pattern of thinking when this was the only relationship you had to sex. “You’ve probably been with so many girls who are... who look...” And the words stuck in your throat. 

Skinny. Fit. Perfect. Everything you weren’t.

“Hey.” His finger gently turned your chin back to him. “I’m here with you. Only you. And I’ve wanted to be here, exactly here, for weeks.”

But when his hand moved again, you caught it, redirecting it away from your middle, and this time he didn’t let you. Instead, he slowly lowered down your body, holding your eyes as he did, and before you could stop him, his lips were pressing against the soft flesh of your stomach, right where you were trying to hide.

“Harry—”

But he was already kissing every inch, every delicate place, every roll and curve you had spent years despising, and as he continued, your body trembled with sobs beneath his lips, overwhelmed by the adoration in his touch.

“God,” he breathed against your skin, “Every inch of you is beautiful. I can’t believe how lucky I am.”

And just when you thought you couldn’t break anymore, here was another wall crumbling, and when he moved back up to kiss you, you could taste the mingling of your tears on his lips now, salt and beauty, a messy mix of his devotion and time.

“Can we just...” you start, then stop, embarrassed by what you wanted to ask. This was the part you wanted to skip, the lead up, you didn’t think you were strong enough for it, not right now, not in this moment, not when you were barely hanging by a thread, your emotions everywhere.

“What do you need?” He pulled back slightly, studying your face. “Tell me.”

“Can we just... be together? I want to feel you, to kiss you. Is that okay? I don’t need...” You gestured vaguely over your body, unable to say the words.

Then you watched as understanding dawned in his eyes. “If that’s what you want,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “But… hopefully you’ll let me take care of you another time—”

“Another time?” You repeated, a little too excited, because god, the hope in your voice was already embarrassing.

He smiled, that dimpled smile that had you out of your mind from the beginning. “Yeah, love, there’s no way this is a one-time act. I’m already hooked. You have me completely. Trust me.”

That was all you needed, because then you were reaching with a shaky hand to your nightstand, pulling out the condom you had optimistically kept there. He took it from your trembling fingers, and the care he took with everything—with you—made fresh tears spring to your eyes.

And it was like a light switch flipping on in your brain when he pushed inside you, like something waking. At first, you weren’t sure what to do, whether you should just lie there, and let him lead like you had usually done in the past with others, or if you should use your words. But everything in you wanted to take some kind of control, to show him that you weren’t just passive, that you could give as good as you got.

The feeling built slowly, his hands mapping your body like he was trying to memorize every curve, every response. And just as you felt yourself getting close, that familiar tightening, a surge of confidence unlike anything you had ever felt before, flooded through you like a line of fire.

That’s when you pushed your hands into his shoulders, trying to be smooth about the move, hoping he would get the hint, but then he stopped without hesitation, concern flashing across his face. “Do you want me to—”

But you were already moving, pushing him onto his back and climbing on top, not giving a fuck that your stomach was visible, or that your boobs would bounce, that hell, maybe everything would jiggle, but for once, you didn’t care, because the way he was looking at you, like the fucking goddess you were and felt, was everything. It made you feel powerful, turning what was already pleasure into a feast that fed the famished hunger within.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his hands gripping at the flesh of your hips, as he bucked up to meet you, and the awe in his voice was already pushing you to the edge. It didn’t take long until you came hard, crumbling forward, and his arms wrapped around you immediately, holding you tight against his chest as he followed you over.

Even though you were aware of everything, all the flaws, all the thoughts, the way your body felt pressed against his, you stayed like that for a long moment, giving your body time to meld with his, no matter how uncomfortable it was or if you felt like your body would crush him. You wanted to be with this man in every way, maybe even savor the way his hands still moved up and down your body, caressing over every curve as both of you caught your breath. When you finally lifted your head, he was looking at you with such tenderness, such wonderment that it made your chest ache.

“You’re incredible,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Absolutely incredible.”

Later, after he had cleaned you both up with a warm washcloth, yes, you let him, because he insisted on taking care of you despite any objections, and damn he was a sweet talker, you knew you couldn’t resist the power of his words. Because you knew he meant them. Afterward, when you lay curled against his chest, his bad knee elevated on a pillow, and you with all your insecurities knocking at your mind’s door. You knew in that moment that you were two broken people, but even two broken halves can make something whole together, and that was the devastating truth you held onto.

And as you drifted off to sleep, his arms around you, his heartbeat steady under your ear, you thought maybe the universe was finally giving you something good, giving you someone who saw you, saw the real you, not just as a project to fix or some kind of problem to solve, but as someone worth loving, exactly as you were.

You knew the journey to confidence wasn’t over. You knew that you would still have your bad days, still struggle with mirrors and fitted clothes, and that fucking voice in your head that said you were never enough. But for now, you had someone who wanted to be there for those days, too, someone you knew would remind you of your worth when you forgot it yourself.

Someone who would love every inch of you, especially the parts you’ve allowed yourself to hate. Someone who made you believe that maybe, just maybe, you deserved to take up space in this world—and in his heart.

And that was worth more than any number on a scale could ever be.

Taglist: @mads3502 @matildasatellite @likea-silhouette @lizsogolden @manna86 @chelseatpwk @aileen1237 @aglimpseofharry @olvsbee @bibltch @xnthld @cherrycolas-things @avas-daniel @mellamolayla @caroll-94 @montse1608 @hellohowareyouearthlings @bentley-119 @harrymatcha @girlslovejahseh 

@peach-x-petals

Other One-Shots<-

[maudie-duan]

Well said!!!👏👏👏

🌷To the softest, sweetest people in the world🌷

Idk how to explain it but lately i’ve just been so soft about all the lovies on here, everyone. like?? you guys are so kind and gentle and funny and thoughtful and just full of love??

we’re literally just a bunch of strangers who all fell in love with the same boy (hi harry) and somehow ended up building this little world together?? like?? this is more than just a fandom it’s literally a virtual family at this point. It’s wild how i’ve never met any of you in real life but somehow this feels like home. it’s like we’ve all been floating around the internet trying to find places to belong, and somehow we ended up here, together. and now i get to exist in this little corner with you all and it’s just really special 🥺

thank you for making me feel seen, safe, and a little less alone. the way we collectively lose our minds over harry, the tags that feel like hugs, the shared delusions, the softness, the chaos, the everything.

if no one’s told you today: i love being here with you. i love you. you’re magic.

all my love, V 💌

(i’m not tagging anyone bc i will forget someone important and spiral about it at 3am �� but if you’re seeing this — yes, it’s about you. yes, i mean it. YES,YOU MATTER)

[maudie-duan]

In cased you missed it. Doing final edits now. Might be a long one guys!! 🫶🏾

To my anon that requested:

Plus-sized!reader x Trainerry I’m working on it now! I plan on having it either tomorrow or Tuesday! I might even skip my Monday Blurb for this bad boy. I’m really excited!!

The request <-

Also, I got a lot of likes on this request. So if you would like to be tagged for this one shot. Let me know by interacting with this post!! ⬇️⬇️⬇️

[maudie-duan]

This was so good! And the play on the lyrics was perfect! @hswritingficrec this is going to be my new fav by you! You did such a great job!

Peace

Masterlist

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6.1k words

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Is the life of a future popstar too much for Harry to handle? Memories flood back as this song comes into creation.

Our coming-of-age has come and gone. Suddenly the summer, it's clear, I never had the courage of my convictions. As long as danger is near, and it's just around the corner, darling, 'cause it lives in me. No, I could never give you peace

We have both grown up now since we saw each other last. We were only teenagers. I’ve liked him for all of these years, but we had our own lives. We ran in different circles. Different cities. Completely different lives. We spent that summer together, having the time of our lives. I almost told him then.

The day before my 18th birthday, we spent the day in his pool that sat in his backyard. His parents were almost never home. Always had somewhere to be, things to do, people to impress. Harry wasn’t like that.

He was a homebody. He didn’t do parties, or people, or drama. He kept to himself. He focused on school work and his music. So many nights I’d stay up and listen from my window, the soft guitar or piano that would come from the house next door. I would sometimes write lyrics to songs he played often. Other times I would duet songs when he had a hole in his lyrics. He doesn’t know that I could hear. That’s my secret to keep. Or so I thought.

We were sitting on the roof of his house, overlooking the neighborhood, the moon casting a soft glow on his skin. My parents went with his parents to a party, and we decided to stay behind. He stared up, watching the stars twinkle and fall across the sky.

“I don’t want my life to ever be like theirs. They spend so much time worrying about what people think of them, but it could be so easy.” He was talking, letting his feelings pour out of him to me, his best friend. “They dress up, they leave, they never get to relax. They never get to live. I can’t do it. I can’t be like them.”

“You don’t have to be you know. You can deviate from their life. We are almost adults now. We can do whatever we want. I want to show my music to the world, but that’s just because I’ve got a story to tell. You can do anything Harry.”

“I want to do my music, I just don’t think I can do it like you can. I’m not that lyrically talented. I don’t think I can perform.”

“That’s not true Harry.” I said before realizing what I’ve admitted.

“How would you know? I don’t share my music?” He plays dumb for a moment, already knowing the answer.

“I um…” I stutter. He chuckled at me, finally looking over at me, his green eyes sparkling in the light of the moon.

“I know you can hear me when I play. You’re the reason I play so loudly. I love to hear you sing to my music.” He said. Thank god it was dark so he couldn’t see how red my cheeks got. He chuckled again. “I can’t believe you thought this whole time I didn’t know.”

“I really didn’t think you did.” I admitted to him, my face blazing hot.

“You were born to perform. You have such a beautiful voice. I’m just not sure I’m meant for that life. That many people watching me. I can’t do it.”

“So what do you want to do then?”

“I don’t know. I want to do something with music. I could help you write. If you’d ever hire me when you make it big.”

“Of course I’ll hire you Harry. Why would I ever think of hiring someone else?” I tell him. He looks back up at the sky. He started to speak, but chose not to. The silence lingered over us like the darkness of the night. When he finally spoke up again, he said,

“I’m glad you’re my friend. I couldn’t imagine growing up with anyone else.” I loved the sentiment, but I wanted to be more than his friend. I wanted to be his girlfriend. I wanted to be more.

But I'm a fire, and I'll keep your brittle heart warm if your cascade ocean wave blues come. All these people think love's for show, but I would die for you in secret. The devil's in the details, but you got a friend in me. Would it be enough if I could never give you peace?

I never thought I’d see the day we separated. We were inseparable. We were a team and then Harry had decided that he wanted to expand his music skills by going to a music college.

Don’t get me wrong. I will always be super proud of him. I just couldn’t imagine my life without him. I didn’t want him to forget about me. To forget everything we had and everything we had done.

Harry puts the last bag of his belongings in his car and shuts the trunk. He walks over to me standing on the sidewalk in front of our houses.

“Don’t look so sad. I’m not going to be gone forever.” He told me as he wrapped his arms around me. He felt warm despite the autumn breeze blowing on our skin. Leaves danced on the sidewalk as they got blown around.

“I know, but we’ve never been apart for this long. I don’t want you to go.” I told him, my voice wavering.

“I’m going to school. I’ll be back for holidays and spring break. Just think of how good my music is going to be after this. I’ll have a degree to submit as my qualifications to help with your music.”

“The odds of me making it are slim to none Harry. I hope you have a backup plan.” I told him, not knowing how wrong I was. How I should have just asked him to stay.

“I don’t need a backup plan. You’ve got this. You’re fantastic. You’re going to make it there one day. I can feel it. Keep uploading your videos. Keep sending in demos. You’ve got this.” He assures me. He holds me tighter. It’s another one of those moments where I wanted to tell him then and there. Maybe if I told him that I loved him, he would have stayed, but that’s selfish. I couldn’t take this away from him. So I stayed silent.

“Do you promise you’re going to try and keep in contact with me?” I asked him pathetically.

“I’m going to do my best. The different time zones is going to make it so I’m up way earlier than you and going to bed earlier, but I’ll keep in contact the best that I can.” He promised. He held his pinkie out to me, something we had done forever.

He kissed me on the forehead before he climbed in his car and said goodbye to me, unknowingly for the final time.

That first week was hell. Harry wasn’t able to talk at all. He didn’t text. He didn’t call. Not even a letter. All I could think about was that forehead kiss and what it meant. He had never shown me that level of affection before. Of course we hugged and sometimes cuddled, but nothing more. Why would he give me that send off and then leave me stranded with nothing. Not a single crumb of anything to hold on to except for the memory of that kiss.

It sent me into a spiral. I wrote more songs in the following weeks than I had ever before. Our contact was very limited. He was always in class. When he got out of class I was in bed. I tried staying up late to catch even just a single text, but it was so few and far between that I really struggled. My chest ached with how much I missed him.

One song in particular stands out to me now that I’ve made singing a full time job. It was the song that went viral. The song that got me noticed. I wrote it during that period of silence from Harry. When the only messages I did receive after the silence was him saying how sorry he was and what he had been doing lately.

So I wrote a song because it was the only way I knew how to cope. It was all of my heartbreak. All of my loneliness. All of the feelings of losing somebody you love even though they’re alive. I felt our friendship slipping like water through my fingers and I tried desperately to cup my hands, but it leaked anyways.

When I finally got around to recording the song that I wrote, I posted it to my usual channels and that’s when my life changed. I woke up to thousands of notifications. My video, my song had went viral in a matter of hours. I had never imagined that my music would actually take off.

It was after that day that a record label had seen the video and wanted to sign me. I obviously took it, and that caused what was left of Harry and I’s communication to cease completely. We both were busy. We weren’t able to talk anymore. In the hardest time of my life I was blessed with my dream job. It was difficult for me to process. I was so upset that I lost Harry but I was getting everything I ever wanted. The one thing I wanted the most was to see Harry again and tell him I made it.

Your integrity makes me seem small. You paint dreamscapes on the wall. I talk shit with my friends. It's like I'm wasting your honor.

“Did you ever think you’d make it?” The interviewer asked me once. I was doing a lot of press before I went on my first tour. My first album had just been released and it was huge. I got number one on billboards. This was everything I dreamed of.

“I always wanted to make it, but I did have my doubts.”

“I’m sure. Did you expect ‘Mourning’ to go viral overnight?” She asked, mentioning my first song about Harry’s departure from my life.

“Absolutely not. I thought it was going to be like all of the others. Some views. A few likes. Not waking up to internet fame.”

“Well it seemed to have worked out for you! Now you’re about to start your world tour, you’ve already done a fair amount of traveling around. Is there anything you miss about home?” She asked me, making a stabbing pain form in my chest that radiated and transformed to nausea in my stomach.

“Of course. There’s a lot I miss about home. When I lived there, I just dreamed of getting out of that town. I hated living in such a small area where everyone knows everybody. But now I kind of feel bad for talking so much crap about it. Of course I love traveling and this is something I’ve always wanted to do, I miss being home. I miss how calm it was. I miss my friend.” I said, the last sentence slipping out unintentionally.

“Now is this the person ‘Mourning’ is about?” She immediately clocked me not wanting to mention him.

“It is.” I admitted to her. She already knew.

“Did you have to leave them behind to chase your career?”

“In a way, yes. But I’d rather not tell the tale. He would want his privacy. And he deserves that.” I told her.

The rest of the interview went smoothly, her not bringing Harry up again. After that interview, I needed some relief from the feelings that began to flood me again after thinking of Harry. I cancelled my next interview. I isolated for a week, just drinking and writing songs. Now the whole world knows about him, and I still feel immensely guilty for even slightly bringing him into the spotlight.

I know they don’t know who he is, or where he’s at now, but he always hated the attention. He hated the spotlight and everything associated with this job. That’s why he always talked of being one of my songwriters. He wanted to be in the shadows. And all I did was send people chasing after his scent, trying to figure out who he is like a pack of feral dogs.

I still feel guilty today for that interview.

And you know that I'd swing with you for the fences, sit with you in the trenches, give you my wild, give you a child, give you the silence that only comes when two people understand each other. Family that I chose, now that I see your brother as my brother. Is it enough?

I was halfway through the tour at this point, and I still think back to that interview. I think about Harry everyday, and how as much as I want him. I can’t give him what he wants. Not anymore. My life is too chaotic. More than it used to be.

Once upon a time he was able to calm the chaos in my head, before I let our friendship slip away. I sometimes think about trying to send him a text and tell him everything, but he probably doesn’t want to speak to me after everything. After I abandoned what was left of our friendship. Everything that I feel about Harry is my fault. He was trying and I ended up not being able to text back at all due to everything going on in my life.

Back a few years ago, I was having a terrible time. My mother had recently hurt me. She not only insulted me but crushed my dreams like a bug under the heel of her shoe.

She yelled at me when she found my YouTube channel. She went on and on about how dangerous it was for me to post videos of myself on the internet. She yelled that I was just looking for attention and that I’d never make it. I was wasting my time.

I went to my room to get away from it all. I sat on the bench by my window and just cried. I didn’t play music. I didn’t write. She made me feel so ashamed for what I love to do. I still have a hard time forgiving her for that.

Harry must have seen me or heard everything that happened because it wasn’t long before he was at him window, playing piano. It was my favorite song. He played it a few times. When the music stopped, my phone began to ring.

I picked it up, swallowing down the shakiness in my voice, but I can’t hide how hoarse it is.

“Hello?”

“Do you want to talk?”

“I can’t come over right now.” I told him sadly. He didn’t bring up that I’m an adult and I can leave when I want. He didn’t remind me that I wasn’t a child under them anymore. He knew I would protest. He knows how I get.

“I know. If you want, you can open your window and I’ll come in?” He asked, waiting patiently for my answer.

“Okay.” Is all I said. I opened the window all of the way and went back to my bed. The phone had hung up, but not long after that was Harry climbing through my window. He saw my tear stained face and climbed onto the bed with me. He put his arm around me as I began to cry again. He just held me as I laid against his chest and stained his shirt with my tears. My chest ached with so many emotions. It felt like a fire spreading through me. I was so angry. So disappointed. So ashamed.

I felt like after that, I would never write again. She made me feel horrible for making my music public and I had no idea why. I still don’t. I couldn’t even look at my guitar or piano. I couldn’t stand the sight of them.

He didn’t ask me any questions. He didn’t pressure me to tell him what was wrong. He sat there in silence, holding me, and helping keep the pieces of me together. It wasn’t a bad or awkward silence. He just understood that words wouldn’t help in the moment. He could talk to me when the tears were done. He just held me.

When I did finally calm down enough to be talked to, he was gentle with his words. He was soft. He was kind. He was perfect.

“She’s wrong, you know.” He tells me. “You’re a beautiful singer. You’re amazingly talented. You were born to do this. Don’t let her steal this from you.”

“She’s right. I’ll never make it.” I doubted myself. “I don’t even know why I try.”

“That’s her in your head talking. Don’t let this make you stop music. I’d be devastated if I never heard you sing again.” He looked upset at the thought. “If you can’t keep making music for yourself, at least keep singing by your window for me until you’re inspired to do it again.”

I fell more in love with him that night. I didn’t think I could love him more than I did. More than I do. I’d do anything for him. And if that meant singing silly little covers until I got out of this funk that my mom put me in, I’d do it just for him. Only for him.

The next day I didn’t speak to my mom. I stayed in my room at the window with my keyboard. I played some of Harry’s favorite songs. None of my own, but anything that I could remember that he loved, I played. I sang. I let my fingers hit the keys, the sounds louder the harder I struck them.

When he wasn’t busy, I saw him sitting in his window, just listening to me play. And that’s all I did that day. And the next day. It took me about a week before I began to play any original work, and another week before I began to write again.

But there's robbers to the east, clowns to the west. I'd give you my sunshine, give you my best. But the rain is always gonna come if you're standing with me.

The tour was almost over. I just finished a performance in New York City. A few more stops before I landed back in my hometown for the last one. I received some of the scariest news of my life.

I walk backstage to the room reserved for me. I flop down onto the couch and just take a moment to relax. The crowd was energetic, like they had all been struck with lightning before I got there. I had to give them a show to remember.

I’m exhausted physically, but my mind never stops racing. Every show makes me think of him. Every song about him makes me go back to those memories of us. How things used to be. I close my eyes and let the feelings float past me. I can’t drown in them. Not tonight.

My manager came in and told me to look at instagram. I sat up on the couch in surprise. She doesn’t normally burst in the room. I opened it and it was the first thing I saw. It was a picture of my house, the caption reading my name, street address, and details about where I live.

In that moment I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I had to drown. I was suffocating. Being buried alive. Someone found my home. The only place that was mine. The only place I had privacy. The only place I could escape all of the eyes watching me. It’s not longer mine. It is for the world to view.

“H-how did this happen?” I asked, shock ran through me. “I haven’t been home for months!”

“We’re not sure. We are working to get it removed.” She told me and my chest ached.

I wanted this career but I deserved to have a space of my own. I deserved my home to be one of those things that is private. I deserved to be able to have a life, but I’ll never have it. This life doesn’t allow for privacy. I knew then that Harry wouldn’t be able to have this life with me. He would hate the intrusion. He would hate me for putting him out there and at risk. Harry couldn’t do this. He doesn’t want this.

Instagram finally did remove it, but not before people would screenshot it. Not before the entire world had access to my life.

Most of my fanbase knew I wasn’t home. I’m in a whole different country. I’m worried about my belongings. Will they vandalize my home?

“Can you make arrangements to have someone protect my home? I don’t want-“

“It’s already done. And there will be an extra security presence after you’re done tour and can go home.” She told me and I took a deep breath.

“I’m going to have to move. I can’t have people waiting for me outside my house every time I need to go get groceries. Do they forget I’m a person too?”

“Sadly I think they do. We can look for something I bit more remote if you’d like.” She put her hand on my shoulder to show her support for me, but I wasn’t comforted. I’m still not. I’m afraid to go home after the final night of this tour.

But I'm a fire, and I'll keep your brittle heart warm if your cascade ocean wave blues come. All these people think love's for show, but I would die for you in secret. The devil's in the details, but you got a friend in me. Would it be enough if I could never give you peace?

How has everything gotten so crazy for me? It’s been a whirlwind since my video went viral and now I’m on a world tour. I don’t regret a single thing, except of course, losing Harry.

I sit on the couch of the backstage room with a pen in my hand, staring at my blank notebook. The cover open, the first page like a canvas waiting to be painted on.

One more stop, one more performance, and then I can go home. After that, it’s putting the next album together, recording, and touring again. I have to keep my momentum going.

I’m excited to be in my hometown. It’s small, and definitely not like where I live now in the city, but it’s bigger than some of the farm towns we have had to drive through to get from place to place. I can’t believe I ever called it a tiny town with nothing in it compared to the places I’ve seen now. My town is fairly large. The fact it has a venue for me to perform in says enough.

My pen begins to scratch ideas onto the page that will later be turned into lines of a future song.

I long to be home. I long for the peace. I long for the days where I didn’t have to face seeing fans at my house when I leave.

I’ll have to find a way to make that sound more elegant. Maybe make it rhyme.

I long to be held by you. No place will ever be home like your arms are. That’s where I want to be.

Am I really here again? Thinking about Harry. It’s been years. Two or so years since he left for school. Two or so years since I was discovered. Two or so years of the best and worst days of my life.

But you’ll never have me. It’s been too long. I’m too far gone.

I flip the page. I need to find a different vibe. I can’t get myself down before this performance. I only have a few minutes, maybe a half hour before I have to go get on stage.

I take a moment to think about my life. Every part has revolved around Harry. Being his best friend, wanting more, losing him, longing for him. Everything is about him if I want it to be or not.

So I start. I start writing whatever is on my mind, starting with that summer of my 18th birthday.

Our coming of age has come and gone. Suddenly the summer it’s clear.

Words flow out of me, just remembering back to everything. All of these parts of my life coming together to make these verses. I can see myself making a song out of this.

“Are you ready?” My manager asks and I nod at her. I stand up and walk to her. She hands me a microphone. I take a deep breath before switching it on. The lights shut off and the fans scream. I step out onto the stage and the bright lights come back on, all pointed at me. The fans scream wildly as I come into view.

Would it be enough if I could never give you peace? Would it be enough if I could never give you peace?

The beginning notes of the song come on and I begin to sing. My life’s dream. All of my hard work. All right here in this moment. Gratitude and adoration for all of this fills my chest. The words flow out of my mouth without a second thought. The words I’ve sung for years. The words that I wrote in my bedroom of my parent’s house. The words inspired by nights on the roof and days at the parks. The words when I was truly living and words when I thought I would die. It’s all here.

I move across the stage in the way that I have many times before. The same practiced dance moves. The same words and the same lights. Night after night.

I dance and sing my way to the front of the stage and that’s when my whole world stops. The words keep coming out of my mouth and my body keeps dancing but my eyes are trained on one thing.

He’s here, standing in the front row. It’s Harry.

When I make eye contact with him, he gives me the widest smile I’ve ever seen cross his face. He sings along to all of the words that I’m singing. He dances in place on his spot of the floor.

The song ends and the next begins, but I have a hard time shifting my focus. I have to pretend like he isn’t there. Like he isn’t changing my whole world. I have to perform. I have a job to do.

I sing all the words again, hitting every mark, completing every goal. I occasionally look at him, afraid that I hallucinated him standing there. Every time he’s still there. Still singing along. Still having that huge grin on his face. He’s here.

I can’t get off of this stage fast enough. I want to just jump into the crowd and wrap my arms around him. How am I going to find him after this is over? How will I let him know to come back stage. I can’t let him leave here without seeing me. I have to talk to him. I have to tell him how sorry I am for everything that has happened.

The song ends, and this is a part where I talk to the audience. I try to act normal. I try to control how fast my heart is pounding.

“How is everyone tonight?” I ask and it’s followed by screams, whistles, and clapping. “I love the energy here tonight! You guys are amazing!”

The next song begins soon after, not giving me enough time to find a way to address Harry without making it obvious.

The rest of the performance goes smoothly, I don’t mess up a single word. I do every move.

As the last song closes out and the stage gets dark, I make my way to the front where Harry is, my last chance to get to him.

I get there and I don’t see anyone. Harry is walking away. No. No. He can’t leave. I need to see him.

I run backstage and my manager slows me down by stopping me.

“Everything okay?”

“He’s here. Oh my god. He’s here.”

“Who?” She asks.

“Harry. He’s here. I need to find him.”

“You can’t go out there. Those people will trample you to death or kidnap you or something!”

“You don’t understand. I need to see him.”

“I’m sorry but the crowd is already gone.” She says. Tears begin to stream out of my eyes as I look back out at the stage and see that the room is empty.

I run past my manager back to my room and slam the door. I let him slip past me again and I’ll never be able to get this chance again. Sobs wrack my body, my chest on fire. There’s a knock on my door.

“Go away!”

“I don’t really think you want me to go away.” My manager says. “I have something for you.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Yes you do. Now open the door or I’m just coming in.”

“No.” I tell her, fed up with her even though this isn’t her fault. It’s mine. It’s all mine.

The door opens and she comes through. I expected something in her hands, but they are empty.

“What was so important?” I ask her, wiping the tears from my face, makeup coming off with it.

“Someone is here to see you.” She says. Before I am able to protest having visitors, my breath is taken away from me again. Harry walks through the door with a big bouquet of flowers in his hands, and a backstage pass around his neck.

“Oh my god!” I yell. I run up to him as he puts the flowers down. I jump into his arms and hold him. “You’re here. You’re actually here!” I say, my face buried into his neck.

“You did amazing! I’m so proud of you!” He tells me. I don’t even try to move from this hug. This is all that I’ve dreamed of since he left. I hear my manager walk out of the room and close the door. “Couldn’t even wait for me to get a degree before getting famous huh?”

“It’s been a bit out of my control. Harry I’m so sorry-“

“Nothing to be sorry for, love.” He says. He pulls me back and holds my shoulders, looking over my face.

“I do. I got this job and we lost contact and I’m so sorry. I’ve feel terrible for everything.” I admit to him, tears threatening to spill again.

“I would never have asked you to choose texting me over getting your dream. This is what you’ve worked so hard for. I couldn’t take that away from you.”

“I don’t ever want to lose you again.” I tell him softly as his eyes scan mine.

“I don’t plan on going anywhere. I’m finished my two year program. I’m ready to submit my qualifications to you.”

“It’s yours. I don’t want anyone else. I’ll tell my manager.” I say. I start to step away but he holds me in place.

“We can tell her later. I’d like to catch up.” He tells me and I nod, my thoughts racing. We walk to the couch and sit down.

“How was music school? How did you do?”

“I did well. I had fun, but I missed you. I hated not being able to talk to you and hang out with you.” He wraps his arm around me in the same way he did when he was comforting me that night my mom yelled at me. “I was really worried about you when I saw that someone leaked your address. I saw people commenting that you were safe because you were on tour. I bought tickets because I knew I needed to see you. It had been too long. And then one of my professors from school got me in contact with your manager and that’s how I got a backstage pass.”

“You were worried about me?” I ask, not expecting it.

“Of course. That’s scary having your home leaked onto the internet. I can’t even imagine how you must have felt. I didn’t know if your number still worked or if you had changed it, so I didn’t call.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I said you don’t have anything to be sorry for. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I wanted to see you because I missed you.”

“I missed you too Harry. So much.” I squeeze his hand for emphasis. All of this is because of you.”

“Nonsense. You’ve been working so hard-“ he starts but I interrupt. I can’t hold in my feelings any longer. I have to say it.

“A lot of my songs are about you, Harry. I- I don’t ever want to go that long without you again. The songs about you are what got me here. I owe it all to you. I love you Harry.”

“I love you too. But you got yourself here. I didn’t write those songs.”

“No Harry, you don’t understand. I love you. I want to date you. I want to be with you. But I know you don’t like this life. You told me this chaotic life wasn’t for you. I know that you can’t be with me and it was selfish of me to say anything. I can’t give you the peace you want.”

“Hey, hey. Don’t cry.” He tells me, his thumb wiping the tears that I didn’t even know were there off of my cheeks. “I want to be with you. I wanted to ask you tonight, but we just got so wrapped up in everything.” He tells me and I feel my body freeze from shock at his words.

“You- told me that night on the roof, you couldn’t be like your parents. You couldn’t do the dressing up, the parties, caring what people think. All of those things are part of my job. How-“

“You’re right. I did say those things, but I’d be willing to do them for you. Do I enjoy parties? Not really. But for you, I’d go to one every night if I could be by your side. I’d dress up in the most ridiculous clothes for it too. You’d laugh at me for sure. But this is your dream, and I want to spend the rest of my life looking into your eyes and seeing how they light up when you’re on stage and singing your music. I want to see how happy you get when your album launches. I want to celebrate your accomplishments with you. I want you.”

My arms fly around him again, more tears coming down my face. “You’d really do this for me? The photos and paparazzi and-“

“I love you. Let them say what they want. We can figure it all out. Just go on a date with me?”

“Of course. Oh my god.” His arms warp around me, and the lines I wrote earlier come to mind. His arms are home. He wants me as I am. He would sacrifice his peace for me. A line pops into my head.

Would it be enough if I could never give you peace?

“Shall we get you home?” Harry asks after we sit on the couch just holding each other for a moment.

“Will you stay? I don’t blame you if you don’t want to. There probably people outside of my house and-“

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Or you can stay at mine tonight and go to your home in the morning?”

“Where do you live now?”

“Just right in town.”

“Okay.” I tell him. We get up and go tell my manager everything. About me wanting to hire him on, about me staying at his place, and land to travel home in the morning. She said she would take care of the equipment and everything for me. Harry took my hand and we left in his car. His hand reaching across the center and resting on my thigh as I fall asleep in the passenger seat, glad to finally have him. To finally get to have him in my life again.

Maybe I can’t give him peace, but I can give him love. And maybe that’s enough.

- - -

Masterlist

Taglist: @maudie-duan

[maudie-duan]

To my anon that requested:

Plus-sized!reader x Trainerry I’m working on it now! I plan on having it either tomorrow or Tuesday! I might even skip my Monday Blurb for this bad boy. I’m really excited!!

The request <-

Also, I got a lot of likes on this request. So if you would like to be tagged for this one shot. Let me know by interacting with this post!! ⬇️⬇️⬇️

[maudie-duan]

To my anon that requested:

Plus-sized!reader x Trainerry I’m working on it now! I plan on having it either tomorrow or Tuesday! I might even skip my Monday Blurb for this bad boy. I’m really excited!!

The request <-

Also, I got a lot of likes on this request. So if you would like to be tagged for this one shot. Let me know by interacting with this post!! ⬇️⬇️⬇️

[maudie-duan]

My Reading List For The Week!

Read Part Two of @harrywavycurly Arranged Marriage Series

-> Fine Print

Also to pop on patron and start How Do You Plead by @gurugirl because I didn't know that was a collab with @monicaalexandraaa and I already like how both of their brains work so I knnnnnow that's going to be good!!

Late Night Talking by @musicforastylesrestaurant

Arranged to Be Yours by @hswritingficrec

And I also want to do a deep little dive on @heartateasee Jeeeez I wish I had more hours in the day guys. My list would be infinite!!

[maudie-duan]

god annie is so annoying does that bitch ever STFU🗣️🗣️

For real! she seriously needs to get over herself for a sec and just let Shiloh live!!! 😂

[maudie-duan]

Multi- Part Series

The Moment I Knew

Hard to Love

Inked Souls

Arranged to be Yours

[maudie-duan]

Girl! I'm obsessed with your reblogs and the energy that you put into them. If you like ever have a request. Hit me up! I'll drop everything to make your story come to life. You are so kind and so sweet, and I appreciate the support!💓💁🏽‍♀

TiO (Take It Off)

Summary: The second you slipped the hoodie over your head, you drew in a deep breath, inhaling the smell that clung to the fabric, inhaling him, his scent like a warm hug. It was intoxicating, made you dizzy with a want you could no longer hide.

A/N: I know it's Tuesday, but our little Monday Blurb got pushed due to life happening. This was a request from @lizsogolden. Based on the song TiO by Zane, and the LIDO Festival Pics.

Word Count: 2.6k

Warning: Freaky Smut, playing off the lyrics. (a quick moment of consensual head pushing.)

The first thing you wanted was your mouth on his skin, his shirt coming off, your tongue dragging over his flesh like a fucking animal, as you breathed him in—the sure scent of salt and earth—you wanted the taste of him to spread across your taste buds like a goddamn feast, like the last meal you would ever need.

And that’s exactly how it happened.

A shove through the door, you reaching for the hem of his shirt as he shimmied out of his jacket, your eyes narrowing at the task at hand, because there was only this. As soon as he yanked his shirt over his head, your mouth dove in. Moving straight for the peak of his nipple, and you pressed your tongue flat against the firm tip, warm and soft, as you pushed against him, pulling a low groan from Harry, who was watching you with wild eyes, pupils blown, a mirror to what you felt—to what you wanted.

You quickly dropped to your knees, hands falling to his waist, pulling him closer. Greedy, that’s what you felt, a greed rising, a need you had felt since the moment you saw him earlier that night—a frenzied need spurred on the moment he handed you his hoodie, your eyes catching on the exposed flesh of his tatted torso when he pulled the warm hoodie over his head, his shirt coming with it.

It was a glance, a fucking peek, but he caught you, and you couldn’t play it off.

But isn’t this how it all began? A peek, a glance, an action?

He was a friend of a friend. Someone you had met a handful of times, barely an exchange of words. At the time, it wasn’t really the setting, but neither was tonight, because there was no space to talk really, not over the noise and the crowd, you had only your awareness of his presence, only the passing seconds of a glance.

It was a last minute decision, you coming to the festival. You had made other plans, and when they fell through, you accepted the invite. These were your creative friends; there was never a dull night with them. You knew it would be interesting, a fun night out, a good distraction. You hadn’t expected to see him there.

Harry.

There he was, standing on the opposite side, your two friends a barrier between you. You had forgotten how tall he was, how captivating his features were in any light. He looked good, too good, fuck, in a pair of red shorts that hugged his muscular thighs, of course showcasing the bulge of his package, because you had to look, why not, his short, shorts were practically offering-up a perfect view.

You couldn’t help yourself, couldn’t help the way your eyes kept drifting to him throughout the night, stealing glances when you thought no one was looking.

But he noticed. Of course, he noticed.

Every time your gaze met his, he would smirk, a knowing smile that sent a tingle to the tips of your toes, as you bit back your smile. You saw it in the sparkle of his green eyes, the mischievous glint taunting you to play. It was like a game between the two of you, this secretive back and forth, filled with heated looks, this teasing presence that stole your focus entirely, because you couldn’t even remember any of the music that had come and went throughout the night.

He had your imagination running wild. Dirty thoughts stacking up like tokens you would save for later—needy thoughts of ripping off those tight shorts, you running your hands over his hard body, of tasting every inch of his skin.

You wanted it, and so you would have it.

He was a pro, but you made him work for it, putting him to the test as the night wore on. But the evening was in your favor as the temperature began to drop. You knew you could use this to your advantage, and you couldn’t help but shiver in your thin t-shirt. You hugging yourself every time you all leaned in to talk, or you blankly taking in the band on stage, in those moments, you were playing hard to get.

Dammit, the pull was there, the pull was evident, and you glimpsed it from the corner of your eye, Harry taking the bait because suddenly he was making his way towards you, trading places with your friend so he could stand by your side.

“Cold?” he asked, his deep voice sending shivers down your spine.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, and he smiled, eyes trained on you as he wriggled out of his jacket, and when he casually tossed it onto the barrier, your heart started to race.

You didn’t stand a chance, you standing there with hungry eyes trying to pretend like he had no effect on you, and as he pulled his hoodie over his head, it was almost too much, the motion causing his shirt to ride up and expose his toned abs—that fucking butterfly tattoo at the center of his chest on full display—and your breath seized in your throat as you caught a glimpse of his nipple, hard and pebbled as the night breeze picked up.

Fuck. That was it. Your breaking point. You knew right then that you would do anything, absolutely anything, to get him alone. To feel his hands on your body, his lips against your skin. You needed him, craved him with a fucking ferocity that was already chipping away at you—you knowing there would be no holding back once you got your hands on him.

Your eyes met as Harry’s arm reached out with the hoodie, that knowing grin ripping through you, and your gaze floated down his body, his fingers brushing against yours in the exchange, lingering just a second too long, long enough for you to watch him pull his t-shirt back down.

The second you slipped the hoodie over your head, you drew in a deep breath, inhaling the smell that clung to the fabric, inhaling him, his scent like a warm hug. It was intoxicating, made you dizzy with a want you could no longer hide. The rest of the night was a blur of stolen touches—a touch on the elbow to get your attention, innocent, but laced with a beckoning desire that never left his eyes.

Because every gesture was an invitation, every whisper a frenzied haze when his warm breath fanned past the shell of your ear, him getting as close as the public would allow, but that was okay, because it only made you want it more; only made the flame burn in the pit of your stomach as the anticipation pulsed between your thighs. By the time your friends were ready to leave, you were practically vibrating out of your skin, desperate to get him alone.

“My place?” you whispered as you hugged him goodbye, your lips grazing the lobe of his ear.

“Lead the way,” he rasped back, his large hand splayed possessively on your lower back.

And you knew this was it.

The drive to your apartment was an agonizing burn, both the longest and shortest ride of your life. Every red light felt like torture as adrenaline hummed over your skin at every stop, adding to the seconds, the minutes it would take to get him through your front door, and it all happened in a flash—a shove threw the door, your hands on his body as his clothes began to come off, and then you were on your knees, eyes level, the inked butterfly staring back at you.

There was no hesitation in the way you moved, licking and nipping at his heated flesh, relishing the salty tang on your tongue. “Fuck, you’re eager,” he huffed, already breathless, head thrown back as you scraped your teeth over his nipple again. “Greedy little thing, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you breathed against his skin. “Want you so bad. Couldn’t stop thinking about this—about having you…”

Then he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth when you bit down on the wing of the butterfly, making you laugh. Suddenly, his hands were in your hair, wrenching your head back to look into your eyes. “Show me how bad you want it—what you want to do to me.”

Without warning Harry shoves your face into the hard bulge of his shorts, both hands on your head now as he buried you in his groin, and for affect you struggle, letting out a muffled gasp, part real, part dramatic, but you wanted to lean into the bit, wanted this control over you.

You liked the surprise, so why not play?

You started mouthing at the fabric of his shorts, hands sliding to his hips, gripping as you dragged your tongue over the bulge straining against the red material. “Fuck, you’re so hot,” he groaned as you worked to free his cock, pulling down the waistband of his shorts and boxers in one swift motion.

His thick, hard length sprung free, slapping against his stomach before your eager hands wrapped around the base, and like the greedy beast you were becoming, you licked your lips, ready to devour him whole, but Harry had other plans, and when he stepped out of his shorts, he grabbed your arm, pulling you to your feet.

“Take it off,” he commanded, eyes dark with the lust you felt aching between your legs. “I want to watch you take it all off.”

And fuck, you didn’t need to be told twice, and in a frantic rush, you stripped off the borrowed hoodie and your own clothes until you were completely bare before him, your chest rising and falling with the effort as Harry drank in the sight of your naked body with the same hunger you felt.

“On the floor. Now,” he demanded, pushing you down onto the hardwood.

You landed with a thud, the pain only egging you on, and your legs splayed open, your pussy already ready for him, and God, as he dropped to his knees it was like the earth stood still, Harry becoming the center of your world for that moment in time—a complete universe pulsing between his legs as he nudged your thighs wider, hands grasping hold of your hips as he positioned his throbbing cock at your slick entrance.

“You’re a freak like me, aren’t you?” he told you with a wicked grin, barely a question. “I could taste it—the way you shoved your tongue into my mouth. You’re a dirty girl who needs to be fucked hard, huh?”

“God, yes,” you whimper, arching your back, desperate to be filled by him. “I need it, please Harry…”

And then he was giving it to you, the whole fucking universe with one brutal thrust as he slammed inside you completely, stretching and filling you so fucking full that stars bloomed behind your eyes, and it was everything all at once, you thought as a broken moan tore from your throat at the sudden intrusion— pleasure and pain—rocketing through your entire body as he began to set a relentless pace, pounding with no lack of resistance right there on the floor of your entryway.

It was glorious, savage even, but this was what you needed as you clung to his shoulders, nails digging into his flesh as he railed you into the ground, the floorboards creaking underneath you, echoing off the walls. It was unrestrained bliss, primitive fucking that had you holding on for dear life—no tenderness or foreplay, just pure carnal desire unleashed. You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into his firm ass, urging him deeper, harder, faster.

And just as you were about to come, you pushed a hand into his shoulder, urging him onto his back, and he silently followed your wordless command, ripping out of your body with a force that had a gush smearing between your thighs as you climbed on top.

Without wasting time, you straddled his hips, sinking down onto his cock with a guttural moan, your hands braced on his chest as you began to ride him. It didn’t take long before your hips were rolling and bucking, you were desperate to take him deep, find that same rhythm as your pussy clenched around his thick length with each bounce, and Harry’s hands found your waist, guiding your movements, urging you on as you chased your pleasure.

“Fuck, just like that,” he growled, his eyes focused on where your bodies met, watching as his cock disappeared inside you over and over. “Take what you need, my greedy little freak.”

And fuck if you didn’t almost come right then and there, and when you ground down onto him with that craze that was overtaking you, your breasts bounced with the exertion of each hopeless movement, because you were definitely greedy with it, lost in the sensation like you had no other sense of perception—lost in the way he stretched and filled you so perfectly, hitting that spot deep inside that had you spinning out of your mind, and your head fell back, eyes squeezed shut as you rode him harder, chasing that peak that was just at the tips of your fingers.

Harry’s hands moved to your ass, gripping the flesh hard enough to leave marks as he thrust up into you, meeting your downward movements with his own powerful snap of his hips. “Touch yourself,” he forced, his voice strained, and you could tell he was holding back his own release. “I want to watch you come all over my cock.”

You were ready, could feel the tension building, a knot tightening in your lower belly, and you slid your hand down your body. When your fingers found your clit, you started rubbing tight circles into the sensitive bud as you continued to ride him like a woman possessed—riding him like the fucking freak you were—not possessed, like a woman with need, and shit, the added stimulation was all it took, and with a few more thrusts, you were coming hard, your orgasm crashing over your vision as waves of ecstasy rippled through you.

“Fuck, Harry!” you cried out, your walls fluttering and clenching around him as you rode out your high, grinding down onto his cock to prolong the pleasure.

Harry pulled out then, bucking you up his body as a hand flew to his cock, and you forced your mouth to his, catching his moan of release. You felt his body twitch under yours, and you knew he was coming, knew you both got what you needed. When your eyes locked, something in his eyes had softened, gone new, and you realized you liked this part, too: the aftermath, the leftover heat that was settling over you both, that electric charge simmering to a low hum between you.

As you both lay there—exhausted in the entryway—Harry watched your shoulders tremble in the come-down, green eyes tracing the sweat on your sternum, the tremor in your thighs.

You had expected some awkwardness, a stagger up to the bathroom, maybe a quick goodbye, but Harry only reached for the balled-up hoodie and tucked it under your head as you adjusted your body next to his, completely spent, and he curled his arm beneath your neck, pulling you into him, your bodies melding together as his head fell back to the floor like this was exactly where he was meant to be.

And you nuzzled your cheek into his chest, breathing in the scent of him, already forming a list of all the places you wanted to fuck him in your apartment, because this was your platter and he was your feast, and somehow you were still hungry.

Taglist: @sassamanda77 @harryyloverrr @panini @unfuckwitablenarry @triski73 @haleyannaw @dipmeinhoneyh @lizsogolden @spinninc @iloveharrystyles04 @mema10 @avas-queen-black @starshollowgazette @practistyles

Other One-Shots<-

[maudie-duan]

Guys! I'm so freaking behind on this!! How are there already five chapters. Holy shit! @gurugirl you've been putting in work!!!

It's Good to Be King |Masterlist

MAIN MASTERLIST

Series Summary: Harry, a handsome, but ill-mannered new king, bound by tradition, must select a queen, and against all expectations, he chooses Y/n, a street beggar. Now, Y/n finds herself caught between the gilded cage of royalty and the cold, harsh simplicity of her past, navigating a court shocked by her presence and a king who revels in the scandal of it all.

Requested by @tobegoodisgood

Note: 18+ only!! Harry is mean/uncouth in this, though things do get better. He doesn't treat anyone around him with much respect at all. Expect to not like him much at first. Also, this is set in the 1800s England, and while not completely historically accurate, I did my best to keep it as accurate as possible. READ THE WARNINGS! SOME OF YOU WON'T LIKE THIS SERIES! YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONTENT YOU CONSUME. xoxo

Series Warnings: Smut, manipulation, coercion, corruption kink, humiliation, pregnancy, angst, health scare, aggressive behavior, jealousy, misogynistic views, class discrimination, descriptions of poverty, parental death. (may add more to this list as the story progresses)

✨series music inspo✨

🎧 Leonard Cohen | Avalanche

🎧 Tom Petty | It’s Good To be King

Chapter 1 (8.3k)

Chapter 2 (8.7k)

Chapter 3 (8.7k)

Chapter 4 (8.7k)

Chapter 5 (8.4k) [Wedding Chapter]

Chapter 6* (tbd) [Night of the Wedding]

>>> more to come >>>

mean king!harry tags: @matildasatellite @stylesftcher @hinnyrx @eversincehs1 @sunshinemoonsposts

@whoreonmondays @archerxnn @daphnesutton @spinninc @haliastyless

@multiplefandomstan @bruhk @sassamanda77 @cherryshouse @montgomery-929496

@cherriesncupcakes @practistyles @matildalittlefreak @imaginexxharry @oifukinloser

@hoolabalooba

(let me know if I forgot to add you!)

[maudie-duan]

Series Summary: Harry has been fighting to keep his relationship with Olivia afloat for nearly two years. At what point do you choose to either endure or let the strain of the world defeat his ambitious hopes of a lasting relationship? Or will a single night and a fleeting encounter be enough to change the projection of Harry’s path? Maybe our ‘Mystery Girl,’ Shiloh, will just happen to be in the right place at the right time. 

Word Count: 7.2K

Warning: SLOW-BURNER, Strong Language, Major Angst, Mentions of Pregnancy Emotional.

The kitchen feels wrong with Harry in it.

Not bad-wrong. Just…wrong, like the feel of a perfectly edited video when the audio lags just a half-second off, you know, when everything looks right, but something fundamental doesn’t sync, and in that moment you either reset everything, or continue watching the train wreck happen—except there is no reset, just the wreckage of our last conversation.

I watch him lean against my counter—our counter, my household shared counter, where we’ve planned a hundred videos and eaten a thousand rushed meals between shoots—and my brain can’t reconcile it—Harry—in my kitchen. After I just told him I would stay through his having a baby that isn’t mine.

What the fuck did I just agree to?

And the thought hits me like cold water—the pause, the shocking chill that steals your breath, the gasp for air—it’s all happening in my mind, and I have to turn away, and busy myself with the coffee maker. He’s having a baby with Olivia. Olivia fucking Wilde—and I think I hate it, or maybe I hate her I can’t tell. 

It fucking hurts, but I said I would stay.

“The coffee maker’s—” I start, then stop because the words get caught in my throat.

“Complicated?” Harry finishes, trying to lighten the mood already, but there’s tension in his shoulders, tension in the air between us, in the way he’s holding himself at a careful distance from me, like he’s afraid to make the wrong move.

“Touch screen,” I answer, taking a step closer to him, my mind aware of every step. “It does like twelve different things, but Annie only uses it for regular coffee, and Kevin wants his espresso at exactly—”

I know I’m on the verge of babbling. But if I stop talking, I’ll have to face the reality of what we’ve just agreed to. We did it so quick, the two of us agreeing to a secret relationship while he navigates having a baby with his very famous ex. The same ex who definitely hates me, and has already made it clear that she’s not afraid to be petty.

And now she’ll have this power, a fucking baby to hang over my head.

“Shiloh.” His voice is soft, still careful. “We don’t have to figure everything out this morning.”

But that’s the problem—I want to figure it out. I want a plan, a spreadsheet, a content calendar for our relationship that tells me exactly how we survive this. Instead, I have him barefoot and shirtless in my kitchen, still slightly puffy-eyed from crying, and no idea what happens when he leaves.

Because at some point, he’s going to leave today. Because our lives will still continue. Whether it’s for appointments or lawyers or the fucking reality of becoming a father with someone else, he’ll leave, and I’ll have to live in the silence of my thoughts when I’m only left guessing what happens next? 

The coffee maker beeps, loud and annoying—I’ve hit the wrong fucking button—again—and I want to throw it through the fucking window. This stupidly expensive machine that’s supposed to make life easier, but just makes me feel stupid in my own space.

“Here.” He says, reaching over my shoulder, his body only inches from mine, not touching but close enough that I can feel his warmth. “Which one do you usually press?”

“The—” And I blank completely. We’ve had this thing for months, and I can’t even remember which button makes coffee. “I don’t—”

“Hey,” he tries, hand hovering near my low back, not quite making contact, and the distance is suffocating, my need for his touch making me sick. I’m pathetic. I’m desperate. I want him.

“It’s okay. We can figure out the coffee together.”

But it’s not about the coffee, and how do I tell him that? Because I can feel it, and I know he can too. He won’t even touch me, and it all feels too safe. But I’m trying to be normal, and I let him guide me through the buttons as his voice drifts low and steady past my ear, and I try not to think about what normal could feel like. If we were just two people who met and fell into something without the weight of his past and future looming before us.

“There,” he says when the machine starts gurgling properly. “Teamwork.”

I turn to face him and immediately regret it, and the sight of him steals my breath. He’s too close, eyes too green, and internally, I’m falling apart, and all I want is his hands on my body to ground me. Because I miss who we were in my room, miss his hands inside me, when I felt like his. Because this feels too real, too distant already. 

“I don’t know how to do this,” I whisper.

“Me neither,” and his hand comes up like he wants to touch my face, then drops. “Shiloh, if this is too much—”

“Don’t.” I blurt, and it comes out sharp. “Don’t give me an out. I said I would stay.”

“But—Shi”

“Harry,” I say, our eyes meeting. “I need you to stop trying to protect me from your life. I said yes. I meant it. I just.. I just feel like I’m allowed to be scared about it for a minute, okay? Like what kind of person would I be if I wasn’t? You know?”

He nods slowly. “You’re right…Okay, I’m sorry.”

“Just give me a second... it will pass.” Then I turn back to the coffee maker, grateful for something to do with my hands. “And you know us keeping our relationship quiet. That’s the smart option. I really do think that’s the best move.”

“Is it?” He questions, and there’s something in his voice I can’t decipher —disappointment maybe, or relief. I can’t tell.

“Your team will think so. My team—Annie—will think so once she processes you being here at all.” I pull mugs from the cabinet, the nice ones we use for company. “It protects us both while you sort through the...” And I almost choke on the word ‘baby’, because I can’t say, baby. Not yet. “The situation.”

“Right. The situation,” and his tone takes on a bitter edge, and I hate it.

“That’s not—I didn’t mean—fuck, Harry I’m sorry—” I tell him, reaching out a hand.

“I know.” He says, but moves away, putting distance between us again. “You’re right. Keeping it quiet makes sense. I get it.”

The air feels like cement filling my lungs, and there’s too much uncertainty passing between us. Like we’re already failing at this thing that we’ve barely even started. I want to fix it, but I don’t know how. Don’t know if I’m allowed to touch him, to offer comfort when I’m part of what’s making this complicated.

“Oh my fucking god.”

Suddenly, we both freeze. Annie is standing in the doorway, eyes wide, looking between us like she’s seen a ghost, hair in its morning mess, wearing Kevin’s old UCLA shirt, in shorts that have seen better days, as her eyes fixate on Harry. 

“Morning,” Harry says weakly, unsure if he should be saying anything at all, and I watch as Annie’s brain begins to short-circuit.

“You’re—he’s—” She points between us, mouth opening and closing. “Harry Styles is in our kitchen.”

“Annie—”

“Shirtless. Harry Styles is shirtless in our kitchen.” Her voice is rising. “This early in the morning. After—oh my god, you guys must have—”

“Annie!” Kevin’s voice carries from their side of the house. “You okay?”

“No!” she shouts back, still staring, and I can tell she’s stuck between fangirl and manager. “I’m having a stroke!”

“Should I call 9-1-1?”

“No! Maybe! I don’t know!” and as the surprise mounts on her face, the energy in the room shifts, and every time she meets my eyes, I can’t tell if she’s pissed or excited, because we’ve never talked about this part, about what it would be like if I dated Harry.

Then, I hear Kevin’s footsteps, and then he’s rounding the corner in his pajamas, stopping dead in his tracks when he sees the scene. His expression goes from concerned to confused to what I can only describe as deeply amused because he knows his girlfriend and her fangirl obsession.

“Huh,” he says finally. “Good morning, Mr. ‘Shirtless’ Harry Styles in our kitchen…”

“Morning,” Harry responds, and the normalcy of it has Annie making a sound like a dying cat, and I know she hates me for not giving her a heads up.

“Shiloh.” and fuck, here we go, because her manager voice is fighting with her fangirl panic. “Can I talk to you?”

“Annie—”

“Now. Right now. Immediately.” 

She grabs my arm and drags me toward the hallway, and I catch Harry’s grimace as Kevin takes her place in the doorway, clearly planning to play guardian.

“What the actual fuck?” Annie hisses once we’re out of earshot. “A heads up would have been nice, Shiloh?”

“I know—”

“Do you? And also don’t you think you’re moving a little too fast, didn’t that man ghost you for like two weeks…and now he’s making himself at home in our kitchen looking like—like that!” 

“It’s complicated.”

“It seems like it’s always going to be complicated with him.” She runs her hands through her hair, making it worse. “Shi, I love you, but this is insane. He’s—he’s Harry fucking Styles.”

“I’m aware,” I tell her, getting annoyed because she’s only seeing this from a fangirl point of view, Harry Styles the persona, which I wasn’t expecting.

“Are you? Because he was just standing in our kitchen looking like a whole fucking thirst trap, and you’re acting like this is normal!”

“Can you lower your voice, please? Why are you acting like he’s not a person?”

“Because nothing about this is normal… I’m not going to lower my voice, let him hear… this is freaking crazy…” But she does, slightly. “Are we going to forget how he hurt you. How you cried for two freaking weeks. I’m sorry did his dick make you forget?? Do you not remember when you wanted me to delete his number from your phone, and now he’s here? Making coffee? In our beautiful kitchen that we bought with money from your career that you’ve worked so hard for?”

Fuck, the reminder stings. This house, this life we’ve built—it’s ours. We’ve earned it. And now I’m letting someone in who could easily destroy it all with one bad headline. Possibly betraying their trust, or at least that’s what Annie is making me feel like, like I need permission to fall in love…

“We didn’t have sex, okay… I know what I’m doing,” I lie, watching her brows shoot up.

“Do you?” Her eyes sweep over my face. “Because you look terrified.”

“I am terrified,” I admit, and it slips out. “But I... Annie, I love him.”

“You—” She said, then pauses, processing my words. “Oh, honey, no.”

“I do. I have for... awhile now… longer than you know. And he’s here, and he wants to try, and I can’t not try.”

“Even though he’s probably going to break your heart?”

“You know what, Annie, maybe he won’t.”

“Shiloh.” Her voice is gentle now. “Men like him always do. Not because they mean to, but because their lives are too big for people like us.”

“God, it’s not like we’re exactly nobody’s anymore,” I remind her. “Look around…”

“You know what I mean.” She sighs. “What about Olivia?”

And my stomach flips at the mention of her name. “What about her?” I snap. 

“They were together for like two years. That’s not nothing. What if he goes back?”

“He won’t,” I say it with more confidence than I feel.

“You sure about that?”

And she has me there, because no. I can’t promise anything, not even a little. But I can’t tell her about the details. The baby. That’s not my secret to share. 

“I need to do this,” I say instead. “I need to see where it goes. Because I can’t live my life without him any longer.”

She stares at me for a long moment. “Fuck, you’re so fucking stubborn. I know you’re going to do whatever you’re going to do, but can you at least see where I’m coming from?”

“Yeah… I guess.”

“Fuck.” She says in defeat and pulls me into a hug. “Okay. Okay, but we’re being smart about this. No public anything. No photos. You don’t exist in his world, and he doesn’t exist in yours. Not until we know what this is.”

“We’ve already agreed to that.”

“Good. Maybe it’s not all hormones.” She pulls back. “Because I’m not afraid to say it. You’ve both been acting like teenagers. If this is going to work for all of us. I need full communication. No games. This affects us all.”

“Annie—”

“No, I’m dead serious. We have a business to run. I can’t have you distracted by... whatever that is in there, and poor Kevin…I’m sure he’s distraught having a shirtless Harry Styles in our kitchen.”

“Annie, let’s not forget he’s a person first.”

“Yeah… a person—” She says, peeking over my shoulder. “He’s also a walking PR nightmare who’s already broken your heart once.” She straightens her shirt. “I’m going back in there. And for the love of god, please give me a heads up next time… look at me… and maybe you should put on some pants.”

And she shakes her head, marching past me toward the kitchen, and I follow, tugging my shirt down as far as it will go. Kevin’s leaning against the doorframe now, Harry still by the coffee maker, looking deeply uncomfortable.

“So,” Annie says brightly, full manager mode activated. “Harry. Welcome to our home. Next time, please put a shirt on before walking into our common area.”

“Annie!” I protest.

“What? It’s a reasonable request.” She moves past him to the coffee maker, hitting buttons with an aggressive precision. “I assume you and Shiloh are on the same page. Just know there will be no heartbreaking here?”

“Annie, stop.”

“What? I’m being friendly…enough.” She pulls out her favorite mug—the one no one else is allowed to use. “Harry, do you want coffee? Since you’re here? In our kitchen?”

“I’m good, thanks,” he says timidly.

“Great. Good. Wonderful.” The coffee maker beeps, and she pours it with shaky hands, the room dead silent. “So are we all going to pretend this is normal? Is everyone on board with this?”

“Babe,” Kevin says gently. “Take a breath.”

“I am breathing! I’m breathing so fucking normal right now!” She takes a sip of coffee and immediately makes a face. “Did someone change the settings?”

“We might have—” I start.

“Of course you did—” And she’s slipping back into pissed mode, and I can tell she’s still on the fence about this. “So you and Harry Styles broke our coffee maker. That’s a thing that’s happening in my life now.” 

And holy shit, she’s spiraling. “Kevin, are you seeing this?”

“I am,” he says calmly. “Harry, you want eggs or something?”

“Kevin!” Annie objects.

“What? The man’s gotta eat,” and he moves into the kitchen from the doorway. “You do breakfast burritos? I make incredible breakfast burritos.”

Harry looks between them, then at me, clearly out of his depth. “Should I go?”

“No—” I say quickly, at the same time that Annie says, “Maybe…”

Then we glare at each other.

“Or,” Kevin interrupts, “Harry could stay for breakfast like a normal person, because babe, this is in fact normal, because he’s a human being, and maybe we could all stop acting like this is the apocalypse.”

“I don’t know, guys… this is weird,” Annie insists. “This is some parallel universe kind of weird.”

“Annie, have you forgotten what life is like now? Wasn’t Billie Eilish just chilling with us for days?”

“That’s different!”

“Is it though?” He challenges. 

All of the sudden, they’re bickering like the old married couple they basically are, and I catch Harry’s eye. He looks miserable, and I hate it. This isn’t how I wanted this morning to go. I wanted... I don’t know. Peace. A chance to exist in this bubble before reality really crashed in.

But I guess reality lives here, too. In the form of my best friends who have built this life with me, and have just as much say. 

“I should probably go… I don’t mind, I get it.” Harry says again, quieter this time. “This is... a lot. For everyone. Maybe we all need more time to process.”

“Don’t—” I interject, and the word comes out a little too desperate. “Please. Just... let Kevin make you a burrito. We can all be adults about this.”

“Adults?” Annie laughs, high, slightly hysterical. “Shiloh, I’m having a fucking out-of-body experience. Harry Styles is in our kitchen, and you’re acting like this is sustainable.”

“Why isn’t it?” I demand.

“Because—because look at him!” She gestures wildly. “And look at us! We’re YouTube people! We create videos about mindfulness and real life. And I’m sorry, Harry, but you date supermodels and Oscar winners!”

“Annie,” Harry says, all eyes on him now, “I hear you, and I understand your protectiveness…but I’m just a person. Standing in your kitchen. Hoping you’ll let me stay for breakfast.”

“Did you just Notting Hill us?” Kevin asks, delighted.

“Maybe a little,” Harry says, with a small smile. 

“Oh my god,” Annie mutters. “I can’t. I actually cannot.”

But she’s fighting a smile now, and I know we’ve won. Of course, she’ll be difficult about it—she’ll make rules and set boundaries and probably threaten Harry within an inch of his life—but she’ll let this happen.

“Fine,” she says finally. “Fine. Breakfast. But we’re having a house meeting later, Shiloh. A long one. With PowerPoints.”

“Annie—”

“PowerPoints!” and then she grabs her coffee and storms toward her room. “And put on some fucking pants, Shiloh!”

The kitchen feels even quieter after she leaves, which, in a way, is a relief. Kevin starts pulling ingredients from the fridge, humming to himself like this is totally normal, and Harry hasn’t moved from his spot by the coffee maker.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “She’s just—”

“Protective,” he finishes. “I get it. I appreciate it, actually.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.” He finally meets my eyes. “You should have people who care about you like that. Who will fight for you? Even against me.”

“Especially against you,” Kevin adds cheerfully, cracking eggs into a bowl. “No offense, bro.”

“None taken.”

With a new sense of ease, I watch them navigate around each other, Kevin chopping vegetables while Harry follows instructions about where to find tortillas and cheese. It’s surreal. My two worlds finally colliding in the most mundane way possible.

And I’m still not wearing pants.

“I should—” I gesture vaguely toward my room.

“Yeah, definitely dude, I only want to see you in underwear when I’m getting paid to have to witness such a disturbing sight,” Kevin says. “Don’t worry, we’ll bond. I’ll tell him about the time you got stuck in that weird wellness retreat and had to escape through a bathroom window.”

“Kevin, you’re annoying!”

“What? It’s a good story.” He grins. “Shows character.”

And then I flee before he can embarrass me any further, but not before catching Harry’s soft smile. Like maybe this disaster of a morning isn’t so bad. Like maybe we can figure out how to exist in each other’s spaces without everything imploding.

In my room, I lean against the closed door and try to breathe, but the secret sits heavy in my chest—Olivia, the baby, the unimaginable future we’re stepping into. Annie doesn’t know. Kevin doesn’t know. And when they find out... god, it’s just another fucking layer. 

I push the thought away and find actual clothes, trying not to think about how Harry looked in my kitchen. How right and wrong it felt all at once. How I want him here every morning, even though I know that’s not possible. Not with what’s coming.

When I return—fully dressed—they’re laughing about something, Kevin showing Harry how to fold a burrito the right way, and the scene is so ordinary it makes my chest ache. This is what I want. This easy domesticity. This blending of my worlds.

But then Harry’s phone buzzes on the counter, and I see him tense. See him check the screen as a frown steals his features. Olivia, probably. Or his manager. Or any one of the dozen people who need him to be somewhere else, someone else.

I watch as he silences it without answering, but it breaks the spell, the calm facade that we were under, and it’s just another reminder that reality exists outside this kitchen, a reality that’s just waiting to devour us.

“These are actually incredible,” Harry tells Kevin, taking a bite of his burrito.

“Secret’s in the seasoning.” And Kevin winks over at me. “And the love. Lots of love.”

But I can’t eat, I’m just picking at my burrito, my appetite gone. Harry’s thigh presses against mine under the counter, a quiet reassurance, but I can feel the distance already building, feel the agony of the careful space we’ll have to maintain—the secrets we’ll have to keep.

“So,” Kevin says casually, “how long is this thing going to stay quiet?”

Harry and I exchange glances.

“Awhile,” I say with honesty.

“Months, I think?”

“Maybe…” Harry adds.

And Kevin nods slowly. “And you’re okay with that? Being a secret?”

The question feels heavier than intended. Am I okay with it? With hiding while he sorts through the wreckage of his last relationship? With pretending we’re nothing when everything in me wants to scream that he’s mine?

“It’s what’s best,” I say instead of answering.

“Best for who?” Kevin asks, and he’s not being cruel, just curious. But the question cuts anyway.

“Everyone,” Harry says quietly. “Trust me, the less public this is right now, the better.”

Kevin looks like he wants to push, but something in Harry’s tone stops him. Instead, he nods and changes the subject to safer ground—the new editing software he’s been testing, the brand deal Annie’s negotiating, everyday life things that feel incredibly far away now.

Harry’s phone buzzes again. And again. Then he flips it face down, but we all hear it.

“You can answer,” I say, even though I don’t want him to.

“It can wait.”

But we both know it can’t. Not really. His life doesn’t pause because he’s in my kitchen. The machine is constantly moving, demanding his attention, his time, his presence everywhere but here.

“I should probably head out soon,” he says finally, and my heart sinks even though I expected it. “I’ve got a thing at noon.”

And I search his face—A thing. A Doctor’s appointment, probably. Or lawyers. Or any number of obligations I can’t ask about because Kevin’s here, and this is a secret, and it’s a complicated matter that’s already exhausting.

“Sure,” I say, proud of how normal my voice sounds. “Of course.”

He stands, carrying his plate to the sink despite Kevin’s protests, and I watch him move through my space one more time, trying to memorize it, trying not to think about how long it might be before he’s here again.

“Thanks for breakfast,” he tells Kevin. “And for being cool about... this.”

“Just don’t hurt her,” Kevin says simply. “Or Annie really will find people who know people.”

And there’s something sad about Harry’s smile. “Noted.”

Then he excuses himself and disappears toward my room to get his things, and Kevin turns to me.

“You sure about this, Shi?”

“No,” I admit. “Not even a little.”

“But you’re doing it anyway.”

“Yeah.”

He nods slowly. “Okay. But we’re here, yeah? When it gets hard. Because it’s going to get hard.”

“I know—”

And before I can get another word in, Harry returns dressed in last night’s clothes, looking unfairly good for someone doing the walk of shame. Except it’s not shame on his face. It’s something softer, sadder.

“I’ll text you,” he says quietly.

“Okay.” I forced past the lump in my throat. 

For a long moment, we stand there awkwardly, unsure how to navigate goodbye with Kevin in the room. But finally, Harry steps forward and presses a delicate kiss to my forehead.

“Thank you,” he breathes as his lips linger, and I’m not sure what he’s thanking me for. For understanding? For trying? For keeping his secrets?

And when he pulls away, it feels like he’s taking my whole world, and then he’s gone, the front door closing with a quiet click that feels too final, and with the blink of an eye, the kitchen seems bigger without him, emptier.

“Well,” Kevin says finally. “That happened.”

I laugh, but it sounds hollow, even to me. “Yeah…that definitely happened.”

“You okay?”

“I don’t know… maybe ask me in a few months.”

Then he wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into a side hug. “For what it’s worth, he seems nice. Sad as fuck, but nice.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “He is.”

My phone buzzes, stealing my attention:

H: Thank you for this morning. For all of it. I know it’s not easy. x

I stare at the message, at that little 'x' that means so much and so little all at once. Kevin reads over my shoulder, humming thoughtfully.

“Secret relationships are hard,” he says. “But you know what’s harder? PowerPoint presentations. Annie’s probably already on slide twelve.”

And fuck, that gets a real laugh out of me. “Think I can hide in my room the rest of the day?”

“Not a chance. You know she’ll hunt you down.” He squeezes my shoulder. “Come on. Let’s clean up and face the music. Together. Because you know I’m on her shit list too, now.”

Together. That’s something, at least. Even if the person I want most next to me just walked out the door, pulled back into a life I can’t be part of. Not yet. Maybe not ever, if this goes badly.

But I agreed to try. To wait. To exist in the shadows while he figures out his shit. At the same time, he tries to untangle himself from Olivia, his impending fatherhood, and the weight of all the public expectations.

I just hope we’re both strong enough to survive it.

What next? That’s all I can think.

A question that feels ominous now, more real. But I push it down and help Kevin clean up, preparing for Annie’s interrogation and whatever comes after. We just have to take this one moment at a time. One day at a time.

It’s the only way any of this will work.

My car feels like a punishment, a luxurious reminder of who I am—the smell of leather and air freshener, but not like her, not Shiloh.

I’m still sitting outside her house—their house, Shiloh’s house, fuck, I don’t even know what to call it anymore—and I’m trying to remember how to breathe normally, and my fucking hands are shaking on the steering wheel, and god, when did that even start?

Two minutes. I’ve been gone two minutes and already feel like I’m missing a limb.

This is bad. This is really fucking bad.

And now, my phone won’t stop buzzing. Jeff. Olivia. Jeff again. My mum, probably wondering why I haven’t responded to her texts about her and Gemma’s upcoming visit. The real world, demanding attention I don’t have because all of it, every single bit, is back in that kitchen, back with a girl who deserves better than whatever this is I’m offering.

“I’ve got a thing at noon.”

Christ. I couldn’t even tell her the truth. Couldn’t say “I’m meeting Olivia and our lawyers to discuss future custody arrangements for that baby I just told you about.”

I just need to start the car and drive away, stop sitting outside her house like some creepy stalker. But I can’t. Not yet. Because once I drive away, I have to be that other version of myself. The one who meets with lawyers. Who discusses trust funds and NDAs, and how to minimize damage to everyone’s “brand.”

My brand. Like I’m a fucking cereal box.

The phone rings—actually rings—and Olivia’s name fills the screen, and I let it go to voicemail. Then listen to it immediately because I’m a masochist:

“Harry, we need to move the meeting to eleven. My morning sickness is bad today, and I need to—” Her voice cuts off, followed by sounds I don’t want to identify. Then she’s back. “Just be there at eleven. Don’t be late.”

Morning sickness. Right. Because she’s pregnant. With my baby.

Fuck.

When I finally start the car and pull away, I try not to look back. Annie’s probably giving her the full interrogation by now. Good. She needs people who will protect her, even from me. Especially from me, and they all seem to understand that.

The drive to Olivia’s lawyer’s office takes forty minutes. Forty minutes to transform from the me I could be with Shiloh... to whoever I need to be for this. The Harry who handles things. Who doesn’t panic about becoming a father with someone he doesn’t love? Who definitely doesn’t think about another girl the entire time.

Jeff calls while I’m stuck in traffic on Sunset, and of course, I answer because I’m weak.

“Where the hell have you been?” No hello. Straight to disappointed dad mode.

“Around.”

“Around? Harry, we have protocols. You can’t just disappear without telling anyone.”

“I’m thirty. I have a life.”

“Not when you’re—” He stops himself. Even he knows better than to finish that sentence. What he wants to say is: Not when you’re about to have a baby with your ex. Not when the press is watching your every move, just waiting to pounce. Not when you’re supposed to be managing this situation.

“I’ll be at the meeting,” I say instead.

“It’s been moved to eleven.”

“Yeah—I know.”

“How do you—never mind.” He sighs, and I can picture him rubbing his temples. “Just... be careful, Harry. Whatever you’re doing, whoever you’re with, be careful.”

“I am—”

“Are you?” His voice softens. “Because you sound like shit.”

I laugh, but the sound is empty. “Thanks, mate. Really, what I needed to hear.”

“I’m serious. Are you okay?”

Am I? I’m in love with a girl I can’t be with publicly. Having a baby with a woman I don’t love, and about to sit in a room full of lawyers, and pretend any of this is manageable.

“I’m brilliant,” I lie.

“Harry—”

“I’ll see you at eleven.”

And I hang up before he can push. Before I do something stupid like tell him about Shiloh. About how beautiful she was this morning, how she’s everything I could want and more. About how I wanted to cancel everything—every meeting, every obligation—and just stay in her kitchen forever.

Be normal, feel normal for once.

The lawyer’s office is in one of those buildings that screams money—all glass and marble and people in suits worth more than most cars. I park underground and take the private elevator. This whole building is designed for discretion. For people like me who need to handle their messy shit quietly.

I’m early—thank god—so I sit in my car and stare at my phone, wanting to text Shiloh but don’t know what to say. Instead, I scroll through my camera roll and find the photo. The one from her kitchen this morning that I took when she wasn’t looking. She was laughing at something Kevin said, head thrown back, her oversized t-shirt sliding off her shoulder. She looks happy. Free. Like maybe I haven’t completely fucked up her life yet.

Yet. Key words. Yet.

My phone buzzes. Jeff: 

J: They’re here. Conference room 3.

Alright, so now it’s off to face reality.

The elevator ride feels endless. My reflection in the mirrored walls looks like shit—rumpled clothes from yesterday, hair a mess despite my attempts to fix it in the car. Looks like exactly what I am, exactly how I feel: an irresponsible excuse for a human, who should have gone home to change.

Shit, when did I become this person?

Olivia’s already there when I walk in, looking perfectly put together despite her earlier voicemail—casual with money, her usual, masked with that same expression she gets when she’s trying to seem unbothered. Her lawyer sits beside her—Margaret something, an intimidating woman who handled her divorce.

“Harry.” Olivia’s voice is oddly neutral. “Thanks for coming.”

And I want to roll my eyes, because it’s not like it’s optional.

“Course,” I mutter, taking the seat across from her, trying not to think about how we used to sit side by side, how we used to be a team. How we used to think we were building something.

Jeff enters with my lawyer—Richard, a good bloke who’s gotten me out of worse—and suddenly the room feels too small. Too many people for what should be a conversation between two people who made a mistake.

Not a mistake. A baby. Can’t think of it as a mistake, even if...

“So,” Margaret says, jumping right in as she opens a folder that looks ominously thick. “Let’s discuss parameters.”

Parameters. Like we’re negotiating a business deal. Which I suppose we are, in a way, but Olivia’s obviously coming out on top with this one. 

“First, the matter of public announcement,” she continues. “Our client is willing to keep things private until after the birth, provided certain conditions are met.”

“Conditions?” And Richard’s voice is flat. He doesn’t like this any more than I do.

“Financial security, obviously. Medical care. And...” Margaret pauses, glancing at Olivia. “Discretion regarding any personal relationships during the pregnancy.”

My stomach drops. There it is.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” But I know. Of course I know.

“It means,” Olivia says, speaking for the first time since greeting me, “that I don’t want to see photos of you with other women while I’m carrying your child. It’s humiliating.”

Other women. Plural. Like I’m some kind of—

“I’m sorry, but are you not back together with your ex?” I question. I can’t exactly say that I’m seeing Shiloh yet, but I can’t have Olivia trying to control this aspect of my life, too, not when I can still smell Shiloh’s body wash on my skin, her presence not far from my mind.

“Yes, my client has reached a reconciliation with her family,” Margaret clarifies. “But her circumstances are secure. A functioning family unit. All we’re asking is simply for you to be discreet. No public relationships until after the situation is resolved.”

The situation. Everyone keeps calling it that. Like it’s not a human being we’re discussing.

“And if I agree to this… how long?” I ask as I try to tamp down my irritation.

“Six months after birth. Enough time for the media attention to die down.”

I let out a dry laugh, falling back into my seat, eyes fixed on Olivia. Six fucking months after. Plus nine months of pregnancy. So that’s over a year of hiding, Shiloh, keeping her a secret, asking her to wait in the shadows while I sort through this mess.

She deserves better. So much better.

“Harry?” Jeff nudges, and I realize they’re all staring at me.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t agree,” I tell them.

It’s fucking bullshit. The control. I’m not agreeing to hide the best thing in my life to protect... what? Olivia’s image? My own? The baby who didn’t ask for any of this?

Margaret looks to Olivia and gives her a nod, “Fine, we figured this would happen, and we’re willing to negotiate.” My eyes sweep to Olivia, who straightens in her chair. “If Harry finds a suitable partner and can hold a commitment of a year’s time, then Olivia is willing to change the terms when that time comes.”

“Six months,” I counter, without thought. This is my fucking life and I won’t let her have anymore than I already have to give. 

Olivia’s eyes dart to Margaret, who awaits Olivia’s answer, and the silence that settles over the room only adds to the growing tension. I swear Olivia is only pausing for dramatic effect, because she lives for this shit, I know she does. I’ve seen her in action on many occasions, all her petty arguments, and the rules Jason had to follow, even when they weren’t together. 

She lives for this kind of power.

“Fine, but I would like full communication when that time comes.” She finally speaks up.

I lean forward, smoothing my hands over the table, pretending that I’m going over the negotiation in my head, two can play this game, and I’m just as fucking petty when it comes to her. 

“Well, while we’re all in the room, let’s go ahead and mark this date down on our calendars, because I’m currently seeing someone, and I don’t see her going anywhere, anytime soon,” I tell everyone with a smug smile, because I couldn’t help myself.

Olivia’s face drops, her big green eyes darting to Jeff, who puts up his hands in mock surrender, while shaking his head. She can’t have this one. Not this time.

The rest of the meeting continues in a blur—things about future trust funds and schooling. Custody schedules that don’t even make sense since the baby isn’t even here, but I’m not really listening. I keep thinking about Shiloh’s face when I said I had to go. The way she tried to look understanding when I knew it hurt. The way Kevin warned me not to hurt her, like everyone can see it coming.

And fuck, Maybe they can. Maybe I’m only fooling myself thinking this can work. That I can balance these two worlds without destroying one or the other.

“Harry.” Olivia’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. “Are you even listening?”

“Sorry. What?”

She sighs, and for a moment, I can see past the artfully controlled facade. She looks tired. Scared, maybe. “I asked if you want to come to the twelve-week scan?”

“When?” I ask in a daze.

“Thursday. Two o’clock.”

Thursday. Three days away. Three days to figure out how to tell Shiloh I’m going to see my baby. Three days to pretend this is all manageable.

“I’ll be there.”

And something flickers across her face—relief? Disappointment? God, I can’t even tell anymore. “Good. That’s... good.”

The meeting finally wraps up with more papers to sign, more agreements about who pays for what, and when we tell whom. My signature somehow looks inadequate on every document. Shaky. Like, even my hand knows this isn’t right.

“Harry?” Olivia calls, catching me at the elevator. “Can we talk? Just for a minute?”

I want to say no. Want to run back to Shiloh and pretend this morning never ended. But I nod because I’m powerless in this situation, and I don’t know how to be rude to someone carrying my child.

“I know this is hard,” she says once we’re alone. “For both of us.”

“Liv—”

“I’m not trying to trap you.” Her words come out rushed, hitting me deep in my gut. “I know that’s what everyone thinks. What your team thinks. But I’m not. This just... happened.”

“I know—” I nearly snap.

“Do you?” And for the first time today, she really looks at me. “Because you’re looking at me like I’m the enemy. Like I did this on purpose.”

“I’m not—”

“But, you are—That’s what it feels like.” Her hand goes to her stomach, protective. “And maybe I deserve that. After everything. But this baby doesn’t.”

And I know she’s right, god, I know she’s right. But it doesn’t make this any easier.

“I’m trying,” I say finally. “I’ll be there Thursday. For all of it. I just...”

“Need time?” She finishes for me.

“Yeah. Time.”

She nods. “Me too.” The elevator dings, drawing our conversation to an end, and she steps in. “Oh, and Harry... I hope Shiloh’s worth it.” Olivia says with a menacing smile, and the words settle over me like ice, a haunting chill creeping down my spine. My eyes are trained on her face, watching as she disappears behind the doors, with it the words that are dying in my throat. 

I wanted to say yes, she is. Worth all of it. Worth more than I can give her right now, and then my phone vibrates in my hand:

Shiloh: Annie made a PowerPoint. Seventeen slides about why dating you could be a terrible idea. Slide 8 was just photos of your 2015 hair.

I laugh despite everything, and type back: 

H: In my defense, we all made questionable choices in 2015.

S: Honestly, I’m kind of vibing with LHH. I would say 2015 did you well.

H: LHH?

S: Long hair Harry…? gosh. Do you not know your own fandom? Wait, do I actually know something you don’t?

H: Ohhhhhh….the Harry Eras? Kill me now. Did you guys go through them?

S: Fuck yes we did. That was actually crazy, and I might have to readjust my mental state before I see you next.

H: Haha. Why is that? Were they bad? I can face the harsh truth. Just go easy on me.

S: No, actually, I think she made a fangirl out of me. Like I think I finally get her obsession. Now, you can kill me or never bring this back up again. 

S: Actually, I’m for real. Because now I don’t think I’ll be able to live down that confession. 

H: Idk. There’s so much to work with. That confession was gold. I can’t promise you anything.

Three dots appear and disappear several times before she responds again.

 S: Fine...

S: I miss you already. Is that stupid?

As soon as I get in the car, I read the text at least six times. No. How could it be stupid? I miss her too. I’ve only been gone two hours and miss her like I’ve lost something vital. But I can’t say that. Can’t make this harder than it already is.

H: Not stupid. I’ll see you soon, yeah?

S: Yeah. Go do your thing. I’ll be here. 

I’ll be here. Three words that feel like everything, another fucking promise I don’t deserve.

The drive home is miserable. I should feel better about the meeting, about the subtle win, about all of it. But all I can think about is getting back to her. About finding a way to make this work despite all the odds stacked against us.

My phone rings again—Mum this time—but I let it go to voicemail. I can’t handle her gentle questions right now. The attentive concern that will fill her voice. I know she knows something is up by the way I’ve been ignoring her, and right now, everything else will have to wait. 

I only have two concerns at this moment: Shiloh and the baby.

A/N: Sorry, for the late update!! Hope you all have a wonderful weekend. 🫶🏽

LET'S TALK ABOUT IT: Now the ball is rolling! What do you think will happen next guys??

->chat with me<-

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Chapter Seventeen (coming 6/272025)

All Chapters Here <-

[maudie-duan]

TiO (Take It Off)

Summary: The second you slipped the hoodie over your head, you drew in a deep breath, inhaling the smell that clung to the fabric, inhaling him, his scent like a warm hug. It was intoxicating, made you dizzy with a want you could no longer hide.

A/N: I know it's Tuesday, but our little Monday Blurb got pushed due to life happening. This was a request from @lizsogolden. Based on the song TiO by Zane, and the LIDO Festival Pics.

Word Count: 2.6k

Warning: Freaky Smut, playing off the lyrics. (a quick moment of consensual head pushing.)

The first thing you wanted was your mouth on his skin, his shirt coming off, your tongue dragging over his flesh like a fucking animal, as you breathed him in—the sure scent of salt and earth—you wanted the taste of him to spread across your taste buds like a goddamn feast, like the last meal you would ever need.

And that’s exactly how it happened.

A shove through the door, you reaching for the hem of his shirt as he shimmied out of his jacket, your eyes narrowing at the task at hand, because there was only this. As soon as he yanked his shirt over his head, your mouth dove in. Moving straight for the peak of his nipple, and you pressed your tongue flat against the firm tip, warm and soft, as you pushed against him, pulling a low groan from Harry, who was watching you with wild eyes, pupils blown, a mirror to what you felt—to what you wanted.

You quickly dropped to your knees, hands falling to his waist, pulling him closer. Greedy, that’s what you felt, a greed rising, a need you had felt since the moment you saw him earlier that night—a frenzied need spurred on the moment he handed you his hoodie, your eyes catching on the exposed flesh of his tatted torso when he pulled the warm hoodie over his head, his shirt coming with it.

It was a glance, a fucking peek, but he caught you, and you couldn’t play it off.

But isn’t this how it all began? A peek, a glance, an action?

He was a friend of a friend. Someone you had met a handful of times, barely an exchange of words. At the time, it wasn’t really the setting, but neither was tonight, because there was no space to talk really, not over the noise and the crowd, you had only your awareness of his presence, only the passing seconds of a glance.

It was a last minute decision, you coming to the festival. You had made other plans, and when they fell through, you accepted the invite. These were your creative friends; there was never a dull night with them. You knew it would be interesting, a fun night out, a good distraction. You hadn’t expected to see him there.

Harry.

There he was, standing on the opposite side, your two friends a barrier between you. You had forgotten how tall he was, how captivating his features were in any light. He looked good, too good, fuck, in a pair of red shorts that hugged his muscular thighs, of course showcasing the bulge of his package, because you had to look, why not, his short, shorts were practically offering-up a perfect view.

You couldn’t help yourself, couldn’t help the way your eyes kept drifting to him throughout the night, stealing glances when you thought no one was looking.

But he noticed. Of course, he noticed.

Every time your gaze met his, he would smirk, a knowing smile that sent a tingle to the tips of your toes, as you bit back your smile. You saw it in the sparkle of his green eyes, the mischievous glint taunting you to play. It was like a game between the two of you, this secretive back and forth, filled with heated looks, this teasing presence that stole your focus entirely, because you couldn’t even remember any of the music that had come and went throughout the night.

He had your imagination running wild. Dirty thoughts stacking up like tokens you would save for later—needy thoughts of ripping off those tight shorts, you running your hands over his hard body, of tasting every inch of his skin.

You wanted it, and so you would have it.

He was a pro, but you made him work for it, putting him to the test as the night wore on. But the evening was in your favor as the temperature began to drop. You knew you could use this to your advantage, and you couldn’t help but shiver in your thin t-shirt. You hugging yourself every time you all leaned in to talk, or you blankly taking in the band on stage, in those moments, you were playing hard to get.

Dammit, the pull was there, the pull was evident, and you glimpsed it from the corner of your eye, Harry taking the bait because suddenly he was making his way towards you, trading places with your friend so he could stand by your side.

“Cold?” he asked, his deep voice sending shivers down your spine.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, and he smiled, eyes trained on you as he wriggled out of his jacket, and when he casually tossed it onto the barrier, your heart started to race.

You didn’t stand a chance, you standing there with hungry eyes trying to pretend like he had no effect on you, and as he pulled his hoodie over his head, it was almost too much, the motion causing his shirt to ride up and expose his toned abs—that fucking butterfly tattoo at the center of his chest on full display—and your breath seized in your throat as you caught a glimpse of his nipple, hard and pebbled as the night breeze picked up.

Fuck. That was it. Your breaking point. You knew right then that you would do anything, absolutely anything, to get him alone. To feel his hands on your body, his lips against your skin. You needed him, craved him with a fucking ferocity that was already chipping away at you—you knowing there would be no holding back once you got your hands on him.

Your eyes met as Harry’s arm reached out with the hoodie, that knowing grin ripping through you, and your gaze floated down his body, his fingers brushing against yours in the exchange, lingering just a second too long, long enough for you to watch him pull his t-shirt back down.

The second you slipped the hoodie over your head, you drew in a deep breath, inhaling the smell that clung to the fabric, inhaling him, his scent like a warm hug. It was intoxicating, made you dizzy with a want you could no longer hide. The rest of the night was a blur of stolen touches—a touch on the elbow to get your attention, innocent, but laced with a beckoning desire that never left his eyes.

Because every gesture was an invitation, every whisper a frenzied haze when his warm breath fanned past the shell of your ear, him getting as close as the public would allow, but that was okay, because it only made you want it more; only made the flame burn in the pit of your stomach as the anticipation pulsed between your thighs. By the time your friends were ready to leave, you were practically vibrating out of your skin, desperate to get him alone.

“My place?” you whispered as you hugged him goodbye, your lips grazing the lobe of his ear.

“Lead the way,” he rasped back, his large hand splayed possessively on your lower back.

And you knew this was it.

The drive to your apartment was an agonizing burn, both the longest and shortest ride of your life. Every red light felt like torture as adrenaline hummed over your skin at every stop, adding to the seconds, the minutes it would take to get him through your front door, and it all happened in a flash—a shove threw the door, your hands on his body as his clothes began to come off, and then you were on your knees, eyes level, the inked butterfly staring back at you.

There was no hesitation in the way you moved, licking and nipping at his heated flesh, relishing the salty tang on your tongue. “Fuck, you’re eager,” he huffed, already breathless, head thrown back as you scraped your teeth over his nipple again. “Greedy little thing, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you breathed against his skin. “Want you so bad. Couldn’t stop thinking about this—about having you…”

Then he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth when you bit down on the wing of the butterfly, making you laugh. Suddenly, his hands were in your hair, wrenching your head back to look into your eyes. “Show me how bad you want it—what you want to do to me.”

Without warning Harry shoves your face into the hard bulge of his shorts, both hands on your head now as he buried you in his groin, and for affect you struggle, letting out a muffled gasp, part real, part dramatic, but you wanted to lean into the bit, wanted this control over you.

You liked the surprise, so why not play?

You started mouthing at the fabric of his shorts, hands sliding to his hips, gripping as you dragged your tongue over the bulge straining against the red material. “Fuck, you’re so hot,” he groaned as you worked to free his cock, pulling down the waistband of his shorts and boxers in one swift motion.

His thick, hard length sprung free, slapping against his stomach before your eager hands wrapped around the base, and like the greedy beast you were becoming, you licked your lips, ready to devour him whole, but Harry had other plans, and when he stepped out of his shorts, he grabbed your arm, pulling you to your feet.

“Take it off,” he commanded, eyes dark with the lust you felt aching between your legs. “I want to watch you take it all off.”

And fuck, you didn’t need to be told twice, and in a frantic rush, you stripped off the borrowed hoodie and your own clothes until you were completely bare before him, your chest rising and falling with the effort as Harry drank in the sight of your naked body with the same hunger you felt.

“On the floor. Now,” he demanded, pushing you down onto the hardwood.

You landed with a thud, the pain only egging you on, and your legs splayed open, your pussy already ready for him, and God, as he dropped to his knees it was like the earth stood still, Harry becoming the center of your world for that moment in time—a complete universe pulsing between his legs as he nudged your thighs wider, hands grasping hold of your hips as he positioned his throbbing cock at your slick entrance.

“You’re a freak like me, aren’t you?” he told you with a wicked grin, barely a question. “I could taste it—the way you shoved your tongue into my mouth. You’re a dirty girl who needs to be fucked hard, huh?”

“God, yes,” you whimper, arching your back, desperate to be filled by him. “I need it, please Harry…”

And then he was giving it to you, the whole fucking universe with one brutal thrust as he slammed inside you completely, stretching and filling you so fucking full that stars bloomed behind your eyes, and it was everything all at once, you thought as a broken moan tore from your throat at the sudden intrusion— pleasure and pain—rocketing through your entire body as he began to set a relentless pace, pounding with no lack of resistance right there on the floor of your entryway.

It was glorious, savage even, but this was what you needed as you clung to his shoulders, nails digging into his flesh as he railed you into the ground, the floorboards creaking underneath you, echoing off the walls. It was unrestrained bliss, primitive fucking that had you holding on for dear life—no tenderness or foreplay, just pure carnal desire unleashed. You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into his firm ass, urging him deeper, harder, faster.

And just as you were about to come, you pushed a hand into his shoulder, urging him onto his back, and he silently followed your wordless command, ripping out of your body with a force that had a gush smearing between your thighs as you climbed on top.

Without wasting time, you straddled his hips, sinking down onto his cock with a guttural moan, your hands braced on his chest as you began to ride him. It didn’t take long before your hips were rolling and bucking, you were desperate to take him deep, find that same rhythm as your pussy clenched around his thick length with each bounce, and Harry’s hands found your waist, guiding your movements, urging you on as you chased your pleasure.

“Fuck, just like that,” he growled, his eyes focused on where your bodies met, watching as his cock disappeared inside you over and over. “Take what you need, my greedy little freak.”

And fuck if you didn’t almost come right then and there, and when you ground down onto him with that craze that was overtaking you, your breasts bounced with the exertion of each hopeless movement, because you were definitely greedy with it, lost in the sensation like you had no other sense of perception—lost in the way he stretched and filled you so perfectly, hitting that spot deep inside that had you spinning out of your mind, and your head fell back, eyes squeezed shut as you rode him harder, chasing that peak that was just at the tips of your fingers.

Harry’s hands moved to your ass, gripping the flesh hard enough to leave marks as he thrust up into you, meeting your downward movements with his own powerful snap of his hips. “Touch yourself,” he forced, his voice strained, and you could tell he was holding back his own release. “I want to watch you come all over my cock.”

You were ready, could feel the tension building, a knot tightening in your lower belly, and you slid your hand down your body. When your fingers found your clit, you started rubbing tight circles into the sensitive bud as you continued to ride him like a woman possessed—riding him like the fucking freak you were—not possessed, like a woman with need, and shit, the added stimulation was all it took, and with a few more thrusts, you were coming hard, your orgasm crashing over your vision as waves of ecstasy rippled through you.

“Fuck, Harry!” you cried out, your walls fluttering and clenching around him as you rode out your high, grinding down onto his cock to prolong the pleasure.

Harry pulled out then, bucking you up his body as a hand flew to his cock, and you forced your mouth to his, catching his moan of release. You felt his body twitch under yours, and you knew he was coming, knew you both got what you needed. When your eyes locked, something in his eyes had softened, gone new, and you realized you liked this part, too: the aftermath, the leftover heat that was settling over you both, that electric charge simmering to a low hum between you.

As you both lay there—exhausted in the entryway—Harry watched your shoulders tremble in the come-down, green eyes tracing the sweat on your sternum, the tremor in your thighs.

You had expected some awkwardness, a stagger up to the bathroom, maybe a quick goodbye, but Harry only reached for the balled-up hoodie and tucked it under your head as you adjusted your body next to his, completely spent, and he curled his arm beneath your neck, pulling you into him, your bodies melding together as his head fell back to the floor like this was exactly where he was meant to be.

And you nuzzled your cheek into his chest, breathing in the scent of him, already forming a list of all the places you wanted to fuck him in your apartment, because this was your platter and he was your feast, and somehow you were still hungry.

Taglist: @sassamanda77 @harryyloverrr @panini @unfuckwitablenarry @triski73 @haleyannaw @dipmeinhoneyh @lizsogolden @spinninc @iloveharrystyles04 @mema10 @avas-queen-black @starshollowgazette @practistyles

Other One-Shots<-

[maudie-duan]

Worried for her safety!! 😂😂😅

People who make noise complaints have fomo!

I’m obsessed with how obsessed sugar daddy Harry is with his bestie turned gf😩 how he can’t keep his hands to himself with her. I bet they’ve gotten noise complaints from her neighbors😏💕💕

Hiii babes!! I’m also obsessed with how completely obsessed he is with his now gf and they’ve probably gotten a few noise complaints indeed😂 I had to write a little something inspired by this!💖

Find all things Delicate here🌟

CW: language, tiny bit of use of the nickname Muffin (y’all hate this I’m sorry), mentions of sugar daddy stuff, dirty talk (we all know Harry says freak shit to his bestie/gf), semi public sex (balcony) and smut.

Word Count: 3.8K

A/N: I’m combining this and a request for Harry to go all in on the sugar daddy role now that his bestie is his gf! Hope y’all enjoy this madly in love freaky deaky duo! Also sorry it’s not properly edited so if you see mistakes I’m sorry!

Tag List: @masochistfork @dipmeinhoneyh @sunshinemoonsposts @sweetmoonlove0214 @maudie-duan @umadirectioner @littlemomentsofbeauty @sunflower-tia @tulips4harry @gmikaelson @fangirl509east @howling-wolf97 @outofthisworl-d @namoreno @blckburd @triski73 @prettygurl-2009 @hopefullimaginer123 @somewiseguy @emmie2308 @delanie881dlover13 @frankyrose7 @matildasatellite @run-for-the-hills @mema10 @indierockgirrl @mads3502 @robinsue87 @finelineryy @spinninc @angeldavis777 @swiftmendeshoran

Summary: Harry takes you on vacation and things get a little loud🌟

“You know this is the exact kind of thing I was expecting when I went looking for a sugar daddy.” Harry lets out a laugh as his hands rub your feet that are in his lap on the outdoor sitting area of the hotel the two of you have been staying at the past several days.

“Oh yeah? You were expecting someone to fly you out to Italy and put you in a fancy hotel for two weeks?” He asks as you take a sip of your wine that you hadn’t finished during lunch.

“I mean obviously I wasn’t going to be picky on the destination but yes.” You say with a playful smile on your face. “I was expecting lavish trips and lots of gifts.” Harry turns his head and looks at you with a raised brow as his hands travel up to your ankles giving them soft squeezes.

“I’m calling bullshit.” You let out a dramatic scoff as you place your wine glass down on the floor next to the couch the two of you are lounging on. “You huffed and puffed over me paying your rent yet you were expecting lavish trips and gifts?”

“That’s different because it’s you.” Harry rolls his eyes as you sit up so you can reach over and run a hand through his hair. “If it was a stranger then I wouldn’t care as much about them spending money on me but you know how I am about friends spending money on me it makes me feel-weird.” You explain making Harry just nod because he’s heard this before and he understands, of course he understands he’s been your bestfriend for years and can remember the first time he paid the bar tab while out with a group of friends and you about threw a hissy fit and demanded he let you give him cash for your portion.

“That’s all fine and dandy Muffin but I don’t think you and I are exactly friends right?” He argues as his hands slide up your legs, wrapping around your calves.

“Are you saying you don’t want to be my friend anymore?” Your tone is filled with what Harry knows is your fake sad voice, you give him your best pout that makes him rub his lips together to hide his smile. “That’s rude.” Your words have Harry letting out a fake little whine as he sits up and moves so he is hovering over you, situated between your legs that were just in his lap.

“I really am so rude aren’t I?” He teases as you lean back and rest your head against a throw pillow while he brings a hand up to grip the armrest. “For wanting to be your boyfriend who spoils you all the time.” His eyes are swirling with something you’ve gotten used to seeing mixed in with his usual emerald green color over the last few months, a dark lust filled hunger that has your pulse racing and the butterflies going off in your tummy.

“Yes so-so rude.” Your voice is strained and Harry lets out a chuckle as his eyes travel down your body, his hand resting on your hip feeling the soft fabric of your shorts. You let out a soft gasp when you feel his hand slip down between your thighs, his thumb delicately rubbing right over your clothed covered clit.

“So rude for wanting to spend all my time loving on you.” His eyes don’t leave yours as he runs his index finger up and down the front of your shorts, teasing you with his thumb that’s working slow circles over your sensitive bundle. He smiles down at you when he can feel a wet spot forming making your hips roll into his hand seeking more, always wanting more of whatever it is Harry’s willing to give you.

He leans back letting you get a decent view of his tanned and well toned upper body, your eyes hungrily take in every dark swirl of ink on his chest all the way down to the butterfly on his well defined abs until they land on the ones right above his hips. Harry watches you with an amused look on his face as you lick your lips before your eyes bounce back up to his face. His hands grip the waistband of your shorts and you instantly lift your hips letting Harry work them down your thighs until he can toss them behind him without caring where they land. You bend your legs at the knee, placing your feet flat on the couch cushions and spread them open a little more letting him get a better view of your soaked core, he lets out a low hum of approval as he hovers over you, hands on either side of your head gripping the armrest.

“I’m so rude for always giving you what you want huh?” His lips are right next to your ear, his voice is husky as he gently rolls his hips letting you feel how hard he is through the thin material of his green swim shorts. He gives your earlobe a little nip making you let out a soft moan that has his hips rolling against you, the fabric of his shorts rubbing against your clit making your hands reach out and grab onto his back as a surge of pleasure rushes through you.

“You’re being mean.” You whine, Harry lets out a breathy chuckle causing goosebumps to form on the sensitive skin of your neck.

“Oh now I’m mean?” He teases with pout that you can feel against your neck. “Letting your soaked little cunt get a feel of my hard cock is mean?” He asks as his lips travel down the side of your neck, one of his hands comes down and pushes your shirt up over your breasts before resting on your hip. “I thought you loved my cock baby?” He rolls his hips harder this time letting the tip of his clothed cock poke at your entrance leaving a wet patch on his shorts.

“I do-love how big it is and how full it makes me.” You say with a moan as your hands slide down his back as his lips kiss down your chest, nipping lightly at a mark he gave you a few days ago that’s beginning to fade right next to your right nipple.

“I know you do muffin- you love how full my big cock makes you feel when it’s deep inside your tight little cunt.” You close your eyes as he flicks your pebbled nipple with the tip of his tongue, his hand moves from your hip to the waistband of his shorts pulling them down just enough to free his already leaking cock. “Always takes me so well like it was made just for me.” He gives himself a slow stroke before he lines himself up with your entrance.

“Just for you Har-oh god.” He pushes into you without warning making you let out a loud cry of pleasure at the delicious feeling of Harry stretching you out with every inch of his thick shaft that he pushes inside of you with a harsh thrust of his hips.

“Am I still being mean baby?” Your nails dig into his back as his hips find a steady rhythm that has you letting out soft gasps and moans with every deep hard thrust. “Is it rude of me to fuck my fat cock into this warm wet pussy?” He asks before taking your nipple into his mouth, giving it a few swirls with his tongue before moving over to your other one.

“N-no no you’re-you’re amazing.” Your words are jumbled and mixed with breathy moans as you feel a pressure building deep in your tummy. His tongue works your nipple in his mouth as his hips quicken their pace, you let out a harsh cry of his name when his hand slides between the two of you so he can press tight circles against your clit with his thumb.

“God I love the sounds you make for me baby-how loud you get when I hit that spot right there.” You feel your toes want to curl and a moan falls out of your mouth as the tip of Harry’s cock nudges that special spongy spot deep inside of you. “Need to feel you wrapped around me everyday-oh fuck I need to have my cock buried in this pussy every single day for the rest of my life.” He punctuates each word with a deep thrust of his hips, he pulls back to just the tip and slowly pushes back into you making your back arch as your hips work to match his pace. He lets out a groan as he sits up, his hand on the back of the couch and his eyes glued on where the two of you are connected.

“Don’t stop-oh please don’t stop Harry.” You beg as he pulls out to the tip again, his eyes darkening when he sees his shaft glistening with your arousal. He watches in awe as your tight hole opens up for him and takes him all the way with one solid thrust that earns him a deep moan from your parted lips.

“Don’t worry muffin-I’m gonna fuck this tight cunt over and over again until you’re a crying mess for me.”

“Fuck fuck-oh yes yes just like that.” Your hands grab at your chest as Harry’s thrusts get harder, causing the metal legs of the couch to make a slight screeching sound as they skid across the tile concrete floor.

“Can feel you squeezing me baby.” His voice is rough as his reaches down and places his thumb back over your sensitive clit. “Let go for me-come all over this big cock you love so much.” His words have you tipping over the edge and the pressure snapping in your lower tummy as your release has your toes curling and a mixture of his name and a few curse words tumbling from your mouth.

“Oh shit-oh oh fuck.” Harry pumps his hard length into you as he grabs one of your legs and props it over his shoulder letting him get even deeper with each thrust. “Har-Harry oh god.” Your head is spinning as he fucks you through your orgasm.

“Fuck baby you’re so messy I love it-love feeling you clenching all around me-shit I wanna fill you up I’m so-fuck I’m so close baby.”

“Yes yes want it so bad-give it to me please.”

“I’ll give you anything you want baby.” You let out a cry of his name as his thumb adds pressure to your clit. “Ohh fuck.” Harry’s eyes snap shut as his hips give you a few more harsh thrusts before he’s spilling into you, coating your walls with his warm load.

“I love you.” You say breathlessly as Harry slowly works himself through his release. His eyes go soft as he looks down at you with your hair a mess and your eyes glassy and cheeks flushed.

“Yeah? Love me so much you’ll let me spend some money on you today?” Your snarky response gets caught in your throat as Harry pulls out and lowers your leg from his shoulder, his thumb increasing its pressure on your sensitive bundle of nerves as he sinks his index and middle finger into your dripping pussy.

“H-Harry.” You whine his name, the squelching sound of his fingers pumping in and out of your drenched hole is music to Harry’s ears making him let out a deep moan as he leans over you.

“Answer the question baby-can I spend some money on you today? Spoil you just a bit?” You just nod your head as you feel him curve his fingers as the plunge deep inside you. “Can’t hear you muffin-use your words for me.” His lips are on the side of your neck, you feel yourself slipping off the edge into the deep end of a pool of blissful pleasure when he adds a third finger.

“Yes-yes buy me things-want it.” Harry smiles against your skin as he quickens the pace of his fingers, his thumb moving in tight circles until he feels your walls start to pulse around him.

“Doing so good baby-so pretty when you come for me.” His sweet words make you let out a moan of his name as his fingers fuck into you at a steady pace. “Love you so much sweetheart-just let go for me baby.” His lips find yours as you feel the tension in your lower tummy snap, your arousal mixed with his drips down Harry’s fingers and his wrist making a mess on the couch.

You wrap your arms around his neck as your hips work to meet his pace as you ride out the high of your release. Harry hums in delight as he pulls away from the kiss, a satisfied smile on his face as he looks at you. A blissful sigh leaves your lips as you drop your arm from around his neck and accidentally knock over your wine glass when you let your hand drop off the couch.

“Always making such a mess.” Harry teases making you let out a huff as you try to catch your breath while he slowly removes his fingers from being tucked up inside you, he laughs as he reaches down and picks up the empty glass. “Come on let’s take a shower then go see if that shop down the street still has that dress you liked the other day.” He gives you a look as he stands up, tucking himself back into his shorts and holds his hands up for you to take.

“Will you wash my hair for me?”

“Wash your hair? Are you that exhausted?”

“I’m not answering that because your ego doesn’t need to be anymore inflated.”

“True it’s pretty big enough already but really are you too tired to wash your own hair?”

“If I say yes does that mean you’ll do it?”

“Baby I’ll do it regardless I’m just wondering if I should carry you to the shower or not and let you have a little nap afterward before shopping.” You quirk a brow as you take his hands and let him help you up off the couch.

“Yes.” Harry lets out a laugh as you hold your arms up in the air waiting for him to attempt to pick you up. “You should carry me and yes to a nap.” You add and Harry just rolls his eyes as he quickly tosses you over his shoulder making you let out a squeal because you were expecting something a bit more romantic.

“Fuck you really did make a mess.” He says with a laugh as he looks down at the wet spot on the couch where your bottom was pressed into it. Before you can say anything he is turning around and heading into the room towards the walk in shower.

“Tell me baby who bought you this pretty little dress?” Harry’s deep voice has you letting out a moan as you turn your head so your cheek is pressed against the soft fabric of the sheets on the bed in your hotel room.

Your new dress pushed up over your hips and your ass in the air as he stands at the foot of the bed, his hands on your hips as he thrusts his hard cock into your tight cunt. Having not been able to control himself as soon as the two of you got back into the room from dinner he had you bent down on the bed and was pushing his painfully hard length into your warm wet hole before you could even fully get your shoes off.

“You-you did.” You answer with a moan as he gives you a harsh thrust that has you gripping the sheets.

“That’s right and why did I buy it for you?” His grip tightens on your hips and you know you’ll have little bruises there in the morning but you don’t mind, you like the little reminders of the times he can’t control himself because his need for you is too strong.

“Be-because you-ohhh god.” Your words get lost in a muffled cry as Harry’s thrusts get harder and faster, fucking you into the mattress with a determination to have you turn into a withering mess by the time he’s finished with you.

“Focus baby.” His lips are on your lower back as he moves a hand from your hip and slides it to your front so he can rub his middle finger against your puffy oversensitive clit. “Why’d I buy you the dress hmm? Why do I spend money on you sweetheart?” You let out a sharp cry as he begins to rub tight little circles over it sending shivers down your spine all the way to your toes.

“Because you-you lo-oh fuck-you love me.” You feel him place open mouth kisses to your lower back as you answer his question between soft moans.

“Exactly.” You feel your body start to get tingly as he pounds his big cock into you. “I love you so much-I buy you pretty things and take you out places- but then I get to watch you fall apart for me while I fuck this sweet little pussy of yours.” His words have you white knuckling the sheets as your walls begin to flutter around him. “But you love it don’t you baby? Love getting your pussy pounded by me and my big cock huh? Need it just as bad as I do.”

“Yes yes yes.” The words leave your mouth in a jumbled mess but Harry hears them loud and clear as you start to come undone.

“Love when I buy you pretty things and take you to fancy places? Love being my messy little muffin?”

“Love it-so so much.” Harry lets out a groan as your walls start to squeeze around him, he puts more pressure on your clit and that’s when you push your hips back to meet his thrusts and he feels your climax hit you. You let out a strained cry of his name as wave after wave of pleasure washes over you soaking his shaft in your arousal.

“There you go-that’s my good girl.” You let out a pitiful whine when he pulls out but he’s quick to help you roll over so you’re flat on your back with your head resting on your pillow. “Need to see that pretty face-fuck baby you’re so perfect.” His sweet words have you reaching your hands out for him, he gives you a smile as he hovers over you, his lips find yours in a heated kiss as he slides his hard shaft back into your warmth.

“Oh.” Your gasp has Harry grinning against your lips as he thrusts into you at a deliberately slow pace, trying to pull every ounce of pleasure from to that he can.

“Feels like heaven being tucked deep inside you like this.” His lips travel down your jaw as he keeps his slow pace, he lets out a deep moan when you wrap a leg around his hip pulling him closer. “Shit baby I’m so-fuck fuck I’m gonna come-where do you want it baby?”

“Wanna taste it.” Harry lifts his head and looks at you and when you nod and slide your leg from over his hip he quickly pulls out and leans back so he’s resting on his knees. He gives himself a few quick pumps as you sit up and bend over, your eyes meet his as your lips wrap around his tip, he lets out a loud moan of your name as you take him further into your mouth.

“Fuck yes baby-just oh god yes just like that.” He tilts his head up and closes his eyes as you gag around him when the tip of his long cock hits the back of your throat sending him over the edge. You feel him come in long spurts, swallowing it all down as he lets out a cry of your name as you bob your head and work him through his release. “That’s it baby-it’s all for you swallow it all down.” He brings a hand down and tangles it in your hair as you slowly pull off his spit slicked cock with a light pop. “Fuck I’m so obsessed with you.” He says with a breathy laugh that has you giggling as he gently tugs on your hair until your face is tilted up towards him.

“I love-” the sound of a piece of paper being slid under the door of your room has your words caught it your throat. Harry turns his head to face the door, his hand leaves your hair letting you sit back on the bed while he climbs off and normally you’d get a chuckle out of him walking around with nothing but his short sleeved dress shirt on but right now you’re more worried about if the person who slid the note under the door heard the two of you or not.

“Well this is a first.” His voice is laced with amusement as he reads over the note while walking back over to you on the bed. “It seems my love that someone was worried about your safety due to some unusual sounds coming from our room and-balcony today.” You feel your face get bright red as he tosses the note onto the nightstand before kneeing his way over to you on the bed.

“Oh my god.”

“So you’ll have to call the front desk and let them know you’re fine.”

“Me? I’m not-no fucking way am I calling them.” Harry lets out a laugh as he grabs your knees and spreads your legs over so he can situate himself between them.

“Fine we will just go have a drink at the bar downstairs and they’ll see just how perfectly fine you are.” He wiggles his eyebrows at you as he rests his chin on your lower tummy.

“Oh god this is so embarrassing.” You hide your face in your hands as Harry runs his hands up and down your sides. “And all your fault.” You tell him once you move your hands from your face so you can send him a glare.

“Yeah well I’m your boyfriend I’m supposed to make you scream my name that’s one of the perks of the gig.”

“You are so annoying.”

“And you apparently are so damn loud people think I’m murdering you.” You roll your eyes as he gives you a playful wink.

“Go get a cloth or whatever and clean me up so we can go let these lovely people know I’m alive and well.” Harry lets out a laugh as he moves so he’s hovering over you.

“Oh yeah I’d say you’re very well indeed- well fucked and fed all thanks to me and well dressed thanks to oh-yeah that’d also be me.” You give his chest a few swats but Harry catches the way your lips curve upward as you fight off a laugh. “I love you baby.”

“I love you too Harry.”

[maudie-duan]

[maudie-duan]

Baaaae is looking sooooo good!

13.6